Philip Kerr - Gridiron

'You're right. This little lady is pure saccharine. Just like the real thing, eh?'

'Thank you for your patience, gentlemen. Please proceed through the glass doors behind me to the elevator and take a car to the basement, where someone will collect you.'

'One more thing, honey. My friend and I were wondering if you're the kind to fuck on a first date. Actually, we've got a little bet on about it. He says you are. I say you're not. So which is it?'

'Nat!' Curtis was already through the glass doors.

'Have a nice day,' said Kelly, still smiling like an air stewardess through a life-vest demonstration.

'Hey, you too, sweetheart. You too. Keep it warm for me, OK?'

'Jesus Christ, Nat. Isn't it just a little early in the day?' said Curtis as they stepped inside the elevator. 'You're a degenerate.'

'Right.'

Curtis was searching the wall of the elevator for a floor-selection panel.

'Remember?' said Coleman. 'The building's smart. None of that pushbutton shit here. That's why our voices were digitally encoded. So we can use the elevator.' He leaned towards a perforated panel next to which was an illustration of a man with his hand cupped beside his mouth.

'That's what this little icon means. Basement, please.'

Curtis inspected the sign. 'I thought that was about burping or something.'

'Don't bullshit me.'

'Why do you call it an icon? That's a holy object.'

'Because that's what these computer people call these little signs. Icons.'

Curtis snorted with disgust. 'Of course. What would those bastards know about holy objects?'

The doors closed silently. Curtis glanced up at the electroluminescent screen that was showing the floor they were headed for, the direction of travel and the time. He seemed impatient to begin work, although this was partly due to the slight feeling of claustrophobia that affected him in elevators.

In contrast to the atrium, the basement was busy with police officers and forensic experts. The OIC, a three-hundred-pounder called Wallace lumbered towards Curtis with a notebook open in his saddle-sized hands. At New Parker Center he was known as Foghorn because with his deep southern accent and hesitant way of speaking he sounded exactly like the cartoon rooster of the same name.

Curtis flicked his notebook with apparent disapproval.

'Hey, put that away, will you, Foghorn? This is a paper-free office. You'll get us into trouble with the lady upstairs.'

'What about that thing? Me, I'm a Roman Catholic and I tell you, I didn't — I say I didn't know whether to pray to her for forgiveness or just go ahead and fuck her.'

'Nat got her telephone number. Didn't you, Nat?'

'Yeah,' said Coleman. 'She gives great head on AT&T.'

Foghorn combed his hair with his fingers, tried to read his own handwriting and shook his head. 'Fuck it. There's nothing much yet anyway.' He put the notebook away and hitched up his pants.

'Guy found — I say guy found dead with blunt head injuries. Reported in by — I say you're goin' to love this one Frank — reported in by the fuckin' computer. Can you believe it? I mean, there's neighbourhood watch and there's Bladerunner , right? The call was taken by the central dispatch computer at 1.57 a.m.'

'One computer talking to another,' said Coleman. 'That's the way it's going to be, y'know. The future.'

'Your future — I say your future, not mine, son.'

'Still, it was nice of them both to cut us in on it,' said Curtis. 'When did you get here, Fog?'

' 'Bout three o'clock,' he yawned. 'Excuse me.'

'Not yet I don't.' Curtis glanced at his watch. It was still only seventhirty.

'So who's the vic?'

Foghorn pointed between the two Homicide detectives.

Curtis and Coleman turned to see the body of a tall black man lying on the floor of one of the elevator cars, his blue uniform spattered with blood.

'Sam Gleig. Night-time security guard. But not so as you'd notice.'

Noticing the incomprehension in Curtis's eyes, he added: 'Got himself-

I say he got himself fuckin' killed, didn't he?'

The police photographer was already folding his camera tripod away. Curtis recognized him and vaguely remembered that the man's name was Phil something.

'Hey, Phil. You done?' asked Curtis looking around the interior of the car.

'I'm sure I covered everything,' said the photographer, and showed him a list of the shots he had taken.

Curtis smiled affably. 'I think you got the whole album there.'

'I'll have them processed and printed before lunch.'

Curtis felt in his coat pocket and produced a roll of 35-millimetre film.

'Do me a favour,' he said, 'see if there's anything on this, will you? It's been in my pocket so long I can't remember what it is. I keep meaning to take it in but — well, you know how it is.'

'Sure. No problem.'

'Thanks a lot. I really appreciate it. Only don't get them mixed up.'

Sam Gleig lay with his hands resting on his stomach, his knees bent and his big feet still on the floor of the car. But for the blood, he looked like a drunk in a doorway. Curtis stepped over the blood that surrounded his head and shoulders like a Buddha's halo and crowded down to take a closer look.

'Anyone from the coroner's office seen him yet?'

'Charlie Seidler,' said Foghorn. 'He's in the-I say he's in the can, I think. You want to take a look at the Johns in this fuckin' place, Frank. They've got — I say they've got Johns that tell the time and brush your fuckin' teeth. Took me ten minutes just to figure out how to take a leak in the damn thing.'

'Thanks, Foghorn. I'll bear it in mind.' Curtis nodded. 'Looks like someone hit this guy pretty hard.'

'And then some,' added Coleman. 'His head looks like Hermann

Munster's.'

'Big guy, too,' said Foghorn. 'Six two, six three?'

'Big enough to take care of himself, anyway,' said Curtis.

He waved his fingers at the 9 millimetre Sig that was still bolstered on Gleig's waistband.

'Look at this.' He tore away the Velcro retention strap that secured the automatic in the holster. 'Still fastened. Doesn't look like he was afraid of whoever attacked him.'

'Maybe someone he knew,' offered Coleman. 'Someone he trusted.'

'When you're six feet three with a Sig automatic on your hip, trust doesn't come into it,' said Curtis, straightening up again. 'There's not much that scares you that doesn't have a gun its hand.'

Curtis stepped out of the car and leaned towards his partner.

'Recognize him?'

'Who? The vic?'

'This is the guy who found the Chinaman. We questioned him,

remember?'

'If you say so, Frank. Only it's a little hard to place the face on account of it's being covered in blood and all.'

'The name on his badge?'

'Yeah. Yeah, you're right. I'm sorry, Frank.'

'Of course I'm right. For Chrissakes, Nat, that's less than seventy hours ago.' Curtis shook his head and grinned good-naturedly. 'Where've you been?'

'Seventy-two hours,' sighed Coleman. 'Just an ordinary working day on Homicide.'

'Stop it,' said Foghorn. 'You're making me cry.'

'Who was first on the scene, Foghorn?'

'Officer Hernandez!'

A uniformed patrolman with a broken nose and a Zapata moustache stepped out of the crowd and placed himself in front of the three plainclothes.

'I'm Sergeant Curtis. This is Detective Coleman.'

Hernandez nodded silently. He had a sullen, Brando-ish look.

Curtis leaned towards him and sniffed the air. 'What is that smell you're wearing, Hernandez?'

'Aftershave, Sergeant.'

'Aftershave? What kind of aftershave, Mister?'

'Obsession. By Calvin Klein.'

'Calvin Klein. Is that a fact? You smell that, Nat?'

'I sure do, sir.'

'Mmm. A cop that smells nice. It's a little Beverly Hills, don't you think, son?'