Кен Бруен - Blitz

She grasped at the word:

‘Assault? He’s not...?’

‘Dead? No, God knows how, they did a real number on him. When those skins start in with the steel-cap boots, it’s serious. The two we nabbed are singing like canaries, gave up the third guy without a second thought and he’s — let me see, I can hardly read my own writing — John Wales, known as “Metal”. This is the guy you wanted to discuss?’

‘Yes.’

‘What is he, a snitch?’

She couldn’t believe it: here was an explanation, a plausible one. Nodding furiously, she said,

‘If there’s any way you can cut him loose?’

Nelson put the notebook away, leant back in his chair, said,

‘Anything can be buried.’

‘Will you?’

‘Will I? What’s it worth?’

Falls sighed. Frigging cops, it always came down to barter, she answered:

‘A lot.’

‘Come for a drink tomorrow night.’

‘That’s all?’

Now she got that smile but it seemed to have lost some of its wattage, he said,

‘You’ve been around, you know it’s never “That’s all”.’

‘Okay.’

‘I’ll pick you up around eight.’

‘That’s fine, let me give you my address.’

‘I have it.’

‘You know where I live?’

‘Jeez, Falls, what a stupid question.’

Well, no one would ever accuse Frank of being too human. One thing was certain though, there wasn’t anyone else you’d want to be riding with when the death house was calling your name.

Barry pulled on a sweatshirt, track bottoms, opened the door. He recognised Brant but didn’t register the fact. Porter asked,

‘Mr Weiss, Barry Weiss?’

‘That’s me.’

‘Might we step in?’

And flashed their warrant cards. Barry decided to bust their balls, asked,

‘Got a warrant?’

Brant gave a tiny smile, pushed Barry in the chest, followed him in, said,

‘It’s in the post.’

Barry could see the other cop wasn’t happy with the Gestapo tactics so he’d work on him. Without a further word, Brant began a search. Barry looked at Porter, asked,

‘Get you anything? Coffee, nice drop of absinthe?’

‘Drop of what?’

‘Yeah, I won it. You want to get this month’s Bizarre, got my letter in there, won the prize.’

‘You write a lot of letters, Mr Weiss?’

Barry gave a resigned shrug, said,

‘Who’s got the time?’

Brant was back, said,

‘Nothing.’

Barry kept his eyes on Porter, asked,

‘What were you looking for, maybe I can help you?’

Brant caught him by the collar of his sweatshirt, pulled him into the chair, said,

‘You’re a real helpful guy.’

Porter moved over, asked,

‘What do you do, Mr Weiss?’

‘I’m between jobs.’

‘You like to beat up on people?’

‘What?’

‘At the gym, you clobbered a guy pretty good.’

‘Oh, that. Bloody fruit came on to me, I gave him a clip.’

He caught the look between the cops, quickly added,

‘Not that I’ve anything against homosexuals.’

Brant asked,

‘And policemen, how do you feel about them?’

‘Thank God, I say, thank God for the men in blue.’

Barry could feel the aggression from Brant, knew how badly the cop wanted to lash out. But the other guy, the fag, he was a restraining influence. Then something clicked in Brant’s eyes and he asked,

‘Do I know you?’

‘If we’d met, I’m sure I’d remember.’

Porter said,

‘Let’s go.’

At the door, Brant said,

‘You’re dirty, Barry. Of what I don’t know, but I’ll be keeping an eye on you.’

After they’d gone, Barry said:

‘Fucking amateurs.’

Outside, Porter asked,

‘What do you think?’

‘He’s a bad one but if he’s the one, I don’t know.’

They stood for a moment, then Brant said:

‘You’re thinking, if he is our guy, in the past three days he butchered Cross. If I’d gone to check him out, earlier...’

‘That’s pure speculation.’

‘Not for Cross it isn’t.’

Trailing that shadow, they went into a pub. Porter said,

‘I’m buying.’

‘Good, a pint and a chaser.’

The barman, recognising the heat, said,

‘On me, gents.’

Porter pushed the money across, asked,

‘Did I indicate we were free-loading?’

‘No... but.’

‘Then get my change.’

When they’d moved to a table, the barman muttered,

‘Like I’m supposed to be fucking impressed.’

Brant gulped his pint, belched, said,

‘Admirable as that was, you’ve only confused the poor bastard.’

‘I don’t do bribes.’

‘Leastways not yet.’

‘What’s that mean?’

‘That you’ve a lot to learn, give it time.’

When they got back to the station, Porter noticed the amused looks from the other cops, checked with the desk sergeant who said,

‘You better take a peek at the notice board.’

A large black-and-white photo of Brant and Porter, almost joined, was pinned there. A bold caption read:

Brant gave a thin smile, said,

‘Good likeness.’

Porter tore it down, swore,

‘Bloody morons.’

Barry Weiss was reflecting on the visit from the cops. The fascist one, Brant, would certainly call again. Barry couldn’t operate with the threat of that over him. He dressed in black levis, black T-shirt and the bomber jacket, headed out. Caught a bus that brought him right outside Waterloo Station. He headed upstairs to the main concourse, was happy to see the crowds of people. Moving at a brisk pace, he found the lockers and opened his. A smile lit his face as he surveyed the trophies. What the cops wouldn’t give to find these. He selected Cross’s wallet and address book, shut the locker, went to a designer coffee outlet. The assistant, a girl in her twenties, smiled and he said,

‘Tall latte.’

Pulled out the wallet and saw the girl’s eyes glance at the photo, the woman and three kids. He said,

‘My family.’

‘Lovely.’

As she handed across the coffee, he added,

‘All killed in a car accident.’

‘Oh my God.’

He sat in her line of vision, revelling in her shock. Opened the address book and began to flick through, mouthing, ‘Eeny, meeney miney, mo.’ The end coincided with Falls. He looked at her address, said,

‘Tonight, my sweet.’

Every romance that takes itself seriously must have a warp of fear and horror.

Falls tried to sort through her feelings. Sure, she was attracted to Nelson, no argument there. The guy had most of the moves and wasn’t afraid to use them. But, he’d coerced her into the date. The stupid bastard, she’d have gone willingly. She glanced at the clock: he was due in twenty minutes, time for some Jack. She poured a small measure, considered then poured again. What would Rosie have said?

‘Go for it, gal; use him up, throw him away.’

Yeah.

She’d dressed, not so much down as with indifference. A white T, extra large that hid her shape, black Farrah slacks and flat black heels. No sex in that arena. The Jack gave her a jolt and she moved up a level, feeling mellow. Had heard a young boy shout at his mother in the supermarket:

‘Mom, take a chill pill.’

That’s what she was doing, chilling out and it felt fine. As she smoothed the line on her pants, she remembered PC Tone. A fresh-faced newcomer, he’d tried to impress Brant. Went after a ruthless pair of Irish villains who’d killed him for his pants.

Crease that.