Calibre (6 page)

Without asking, she reached over, took one of his cigs, and to her amazement, he lit it for her. She said:

‘A decoy, that’s the deal, isn’t it?’

‘Exactly.’

She needed to chill and without a word got up, went to the bar, ordered a round of drinks. The barman tried to smile at her, let her know he was with her, but she blanked him and he thought, Fuck her. When she got back, Brant grabbed his drink, said:

‘Here’s to better days.’

She didn’t join the toast, simply downed the vodka and now she was chilled, said:

‘You’re in no doubt I’ll do it, despite the fact I’ve been down this road before and nearly gotten killed.’

He shrugged, said:

‘What? You’ve got a choice? You’re on the road to nowhere, I’m giving you a chance to get back in the game. And the last time, who saved your pretty ass?’

Last time had been the Clapham Rapist. McDonald was supposed to be back-up but didn’t follow through. Without Brant, she’d have been history. Brant said:

‘Get started right away’

‘What?’

‘When you’re paying for the drinks, give the barman a bollicking, get you in the mood, plus he needs a kick in the ass.’

Then he was gone.

Falls played it round and round in her head, trying to see a
way out. There wasn’t any unless she wanted to vegetate in that basement. As she paid for the drinks, the bar guy said, after he thought he saw a smile at the corner of her mouth:

‘That bloke is a pig.’

Falls fixed her eyes on him, said:

‘And a wanker like you would know? You aren’t fit to be in the same space as a real man.’

She thought outside:

Good start.

BRANT HAMMERED ON Porter’s door and it finally opened to reveal a sleepy Porter, going:

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing, I was in the neighbourhood, thought you’d give me coffee. Hey, you’ve got post.’

Brant bent down, picked up an envelope, handed it over. Porter took it, said:

‘Come in, I guess. I’ll brew some coffee.’

And juice, you got some OJ?’

Brant flopped on the couch, his feet up on the coffee table, and Porter said:

‘Please make yourself at home.’

Brant was already lighting a cig and Porter had to refrain from comment. He got the coffee and juice, said:

‘I’m going to have a shower, you okay for a minute.’

‘No toast?’

While Porter was in the shower, Brant examined his bookcase. No McBain, but lots of psychology, poetry, and history.

Brant muttered.

‘Heavy shit.’

He was on his second coffee when Porter emerged, smelling of aftershave and dressed in a dark, expensive suit. Brant whistled, said:

‘Nice duds, you got another one of those, you might lend it to Roberts.’

Porter picked up the envelope, noted the typed address, and opened it, read, went:

‘Oh, god.’

Brant was up, asked:

‘What?’

Porter handed him the sheet. He’d gone pale, a tremor in his hand.

Brant read:

To Porter Nash

You are no doubt aware of my mission to restore manners to our manor, excuse the pun. I did caution your chief that the police would not be exempt from my crusade. I’ve had a few drinks in your local watering hole and alas, have to report that the barman, Trevor, has been consistently rude, aggressive to all and sundry
.

I know you have a certain attachment, but I must play by the rules and I’m afraid I can’t make exceptions
.

Trusting this will not adversely affect our relationship
.

Yours regrettably
,

FORD
.

Porter croaked:

‘He’s going to kill Trevor.’

And stormed out the door. Brant caught him at his car, grabbed his arm, said:

‘I’ll drive.’

Trevor’s place was just off Clapham Common and Brant got there in record time. They didn’t speak. Porter gnawed at his thumb till he drew blood. When they got there, Porter was out of the car and inside the building, Brant behind him.

He began to pound on a door and Brant wanted to ask:

‘He didn’t give you a key?’

But maybe not the time to discuss the dynamics of their affair. No answer. Brant said:

‘Stand back.’

And launched himself, taking the door down in one. They piled into the tiny space, a bed in the corner. A figure rose up, going:

‘What the fuck?’

Porter went:

‘Trevor, are you okay?’

Before Trevor could answer, another head surfaced from the blankets and asked:

‘Are we in trouble?’

Without another word, Porter turned and walked out. Brant stared at the two, then said:

‘Nice morning for it.’

That’s the way I do business. I step on the gas and come straight at you. My late husband, Omer Plunkett? He used to say, ‘Sherri never puts no Vaseline on it.’

—Doug J. Swanson,
96 Tears

ANDREWS MARCHED RIGHT up to Falls, went:

‘Did you have anything to do with what happened to McDonald?’

Falls gave her the look, waited, then:

‘You get to ask this just one time.’

Andrews didn’t like the expression on Falls’s face, but she was committed now so went:

‘Did you?’

‘No.’

Andrews wasn’t sure how to proceed. Falls waited then began to turn, paused, moved right into Andrews’s face, asked:

‘And if I’d said yes, what were you going to do? If I’d helped you out, you were going to do what exactly?’

Then she moved away, heading for the door, when Brant caught her up, said:

‘Terrific, you’re doing exactly like I wanted, but one thing, could you keep it for civilians, you don’t need to intimidate the good guys.’

Falls laughed, said:

‘You’re the one who once said there are no good guys.’

He considered that, then:

‘You don’t want to put too much stock in what I say. Oh, and could you lighten up on Porter Nash. He’s had a rough day, might be nice if you cut him some slack.’

Falls got outside, she was feeling fine and wasn’t about to let anyone ruin it. The truth was, she was getting a kick out of Brant’s assignment, sticking it to people. It was a rush, behaving like you thought they were total crap. She might continue to do so even if they caught the psycho. Coming to work, she’d stopped in her local mini-mart for the paper and a guy was holding everybody up with a Lotto entry.

She’d gone:

‘Hey, moron, you want to show some thought for people who work for a bloody living?’

He was stunned. He’d moved right out of the way. Then, parking her car, a woman had tried to beat her to the place and she’d rolled down the window, shouted:

You want to mess with a policewoman?’

She didn’t.

Falls reckoned it called for a celebration. She’d go to some pub she hadn’t tried before and put the staff through their paces. She felt a pounding in her blood at the thought of it and wondered if aggression wasn’t as hot as a line of coke.

BRANT WAS ACTUALLY buying a drink for Roberts, put his hand in his pocket and laid out money. Roberts asked:

‘What’s the celebration?’

‘We’re going to be on the case, the Manners thing. Porter is going to ask the Super for us to be assigned.’

‘Why? Why on earth would he share it? It’s a trophy gig.’

Brant took a huge draw of his pint, gargled, then sat back, said:

‘It just got personal.’

Roberts figured Brant would explain in his own good time so simply waited and heard:

‘He got a letter threatening his current squeeze and I was there to hold his hand, so bingo, he wants us on board.’

Roberts digested this, then asked:

‘How did the psycho get his address, and why change his MO to write to Porter instead of the Super?’

Brant took another swig, wiped his mouth, said:

‘He didn’t.’

‘What?’

‘He didn’t.’

‘Didn’t what?’

‘Write the letter.’

‘How the hell do you know?’

Then he saw the smile and as realization dawned, he said:

‘Oh no, tell me you didn’t. Jeez, Brant, you wrote the letter.’

Brant had finished his pint, asked:

‘We having another or what?’

Falls had given the barman some serious grief and only stayed for one drink. As she left, she shot the guy a look of pure malice. She almost collided with Ford as she stormed out. He wasn’t a man you’d notice. Average height. Light brown hair cut short and tidy. He was wearing a sports jacket, and the shape hid his muscular build. Unlike most men of his generation, his hair wasn’t receding, and his face held no particular outstanding feature unless you got close and saw the eyes. They burned with a light that seemed almost welcoming until you realized that the welcome was drawing you into a place you never wanted to be. His age was late forties. He smiled at the barman and ordered a shandy, pint of, said:

‘Have one yourself’

The guy was still shaken from Falls, said:

‘Thanks a lot. You see that black woman who just left?’

‘No.’

‘You’re as well off’

‘Yeah? Why’s that?’

Ford’s tone was friendly, concerned without being nosey. He had perfected a way of not being remembered. The guy poured himself a small scotch, said:

‘Cheers. Man, I was real nice to her and she tore a strip offa me for no reason, then claimed I short-changed her. When I tried to make it up, you know, said to have the next drink on me, she lost it entirely. Called me a bastard. This job is hard enough, a person shouldn’t have to take abuse for no reason. You should have heard her.’

Ford gave a small smile, a hint of sadness in there, said:

‘Sorry I missed her.’

And he was.

I didn’t say anything for a minute. But I thought, “That’s what you think honey. I’m doing you a favour by not beating your head off.”

—Jim Thompson,
The Killer Inside Me

WHOO-EE, SORRY I took so long to get back to you. Killing people is so time-consuming. Man, I wouldn’t like to have to do it for a living, wouldn’t that be a pisser? I’m glad it’s purely recreational. I mentioned my girl earlier, so let me introduce her. Odd, I write that and in my head, the opening line of ‘Sympathy for the Devil’ begins to uncurl. Jagger said when they do that track, strange shit happens, like Hell’s Angels stomping a guy to death at Altamont.

He’s sixty now!

Fuck, how’d that happen? And still touring.

Might take my own show on the road, soon as I get my commitments squared away. I’ve been thinking of America. Get me a pick-up, rifle on the rack, dog in the front seat, a coonhound of course, Hank Williams on the speakers.

Americans appreciate a decent killer.

A whole industry devoted to murder. Grab me some of that. Chat with Larry King. I was watching CNN and an FBI profiler (yeah, them again) said they estimate that at any given time, there are four or five serials out there trawling the highways.
In England, we’re still caught up in the Ten Rillington Place, Nielsen, Brighton Rock drabness. Those guys convey:

Depression

Greyness

Rain

Dampness.

I mean face it, they’re so fucking boring, the very worst of the UK. We need to, in the words of the BBC:

… Sex it up.

You’re on to me, right? Asking:

‘What’s with the girl? Why aren’t we hearing about her?’

So I’m stalling, so shoot me. Thing is I’m a little bashful, cross my heart and hope to die. Cos, okay… okay, alright already, she’s a working girl… yeah, what you call a hooker. Her name is Mandy, and no mention of the horrendous Barry Manilow tune. We’ve been an item for three years. And yes, she still plies her trade, sees clients a few times a week.

I met her in a pub, thought I’d clicked till she mentioned the freight. Paid her and like most men, one way or another, I’ve been paying ever since. She was having a hassle where she lived so I let her stay with me. Then later, got her a small place of her own, and she services the johns there. I don’t ever go there, it’s her work zone, right? But I can see her, the place is right across the road. You’re thinking: