Calibre (7 page)

‘What, all he could get was a hooker?’

I like her, simple as that. If she gets lippy and they all do, I flash the green, shuts her right down. Like marriage really. She wants a fridge, I get a blow job. Just barter, capitalism in action. Lately though, her manners are slipping.

AND YOU KNOW WHERE I AM ON THAT.

Started slow. We’d be in a pub and she’d give the staff an earful. I’d ask:

‘What’s with that?’

She seemed truly perplexed, her elfin face creased in confusion, went:

‘What’s with what?’

‘Giving the staff grief’

A huge smile and she has great teeth. I know as I paid for them. She answered:

‘Because I can.’

I still have all my hair. See the young studs losing it. What they do is, they shave it all off, like they’ve a choice. I want to shout:

‘Who you kidding, you’re fucking bald, get over it.’

I take real good care of mine. Palmolive, they have a conditioner, red in colour that gives a fine sheen. Reason I mention it is, it looks like dessert mousse, same colour, texture, even got them little bubbles.

Mandy has a passion for mousse, eats it by the bucketful, doesn’t seem to gain any weight. I guess full-time sex burns off them calories. So when she’s running at the mouth, I prepare a bowl of her favourite, lash in the mousse, strawberry of course, then deep-six the conditioner, stir to a frenzy. She puts it away in jig-time.

Who knows, might be even keeping her teeth white, it’s a guaranteed cleanser. What it does is lay her fucking flat, stops that nagging pronto. But lately, her moods are getting meaner, I said:

‘Jeez, you’re becoming evil.’

Got the look then:

‘It’s those morons, in shops, in pubs, doesn’t anyone take pride in their work?’

Rich, eh? From a hooker.

We were in a bistro at Waterloo and she sent back the zucchini three bloody times, gave the poor slob of a waiter a plate of verbals. I said:

‘You need to watch it, you know.’

Her mouth full of bread roll, she went:

‘Duh?’

‘There’s a guy out there killing people for exactly the type of behaviour, you’re exhibiting.’

She knocked back the chianti as if it was the house plonk, sneered:

‘That loser, he comes at me, I’m ready’

I was intrigued, asked:

‘Yeah, how’s that?’

Rooted in her Burberry bag, cost me a bundle in Self-ridges, produced a small canister, said:

‘Pepper spray.’

I smiled, said:

‘That’ll do it.’

The waiter was approaching, hoping to hell she’d like this effort. I thought:

Worst case, she can zap the help
.

LAST YEAR, SHE went to Dublin, stayed three months, made a packet along Leeson Street. Said: Catholics were always the best clients, paid double for the guilt factor, and that the club scene was seriously hot. Did I miss her? Some. She returned with, I kid you not, an Irish accent and a dose of the clap. Don’t know which was worse. To mark her return, we’d done the West End, some boring musical—one of Lloyd Webber’s inflictions—and then an overpriced supper at the Café Royal. I was locked into my American phase. You can imagine the horror, Mandy murdering the brogue and me doing a cracker from the woods of Tennessee. Add a batch of Tequila Slammers and you had medieval carnage.

I’VE ADDED TWO since my last entry. Drowned a guy in his bath, had heard him in a shop giving large to a child who was crying, and followed him home. Checked him out for a few days then simply called at his house. He’d appeared in his bathrobe, going:

‘What the hell do you want, I’m trying to have a bath here.’

I gave him a bath.

The next was a woman who worked the till in the garage on the Clapham Road, as ugly a person as you’d ever meet. Lashing out at customers like some dervish. Watched her for a while and she took her lunch the same time every day, so I borrowed a car from the lot, plowed her down. She turned at the last moment, saw my face… and from her expression, she’d no idea who I was and I’m sure my smile didn’t help.

After that, to tell the truth, I got tired.

I’d been reckless, beginning to believe I could do whatever I liked, the sure way to get caught. I’d been incredibly lucky several times, and the cops only had to be lucky once.

So I backed off, concentrated on my work. I’m an accountant, can you credit it? My old man used all his savings to send me to college, figured I’d be the success he wasn’t. I’m very very good, found a knack for creative accountancy, crooked in other words, but smart with it. You want to hide money, I’m your man, you want to avoid the Inland Revenue (who doesn’t?), then I’m your guy. Started out with a large firm but got so busy I had to set up private practice. You’d think it was boring, but hell, it’s so exciting. Making money disappear is the ultimate trick. I’m an alchemist of the first order.

I was reading an article by Colin Wilson, he says that serial killers have an overwhelming sense of their own importance… Whoops!

He adds that after studying them for forty years, they have one thing in common: a very high level of dominance. Oh dear, has old Colin nailed me there. I have to admit I was a little down after reading him. It’s galling to be herded in with a group, and anyway, I’m pretty successful in both my areas of activity. But hey, hang on a mo… Shit, I’m doing it, trying to justify myself, a sure signal you’re wrong.

This writing game has got me knackered. I thought it would be easy. One thing is certain, if Mandy keeps up her current level of irritation, she’s history. If that’s anger, fuck it.

‘The only interesting people in the world are the losers,’ she said. ‘Or rather, those we call losers. Every type of deviation contains an element of rebellion. And I’ve never been able to understand a lack of rebelliousness.’

—Karin Fossum,
He Who Fears the Wolf

Brant sat back in his swivel chair and admired the title of his proposed book. Good macho ring to it. It had taken him a week to get that far, but he figured the best writers took a time. Mind you, he wondered how the hell McBain had produced over eighty books. He’d reread the 87th Precinct ones and figured if he just copied that style, he’d have the book done in a week. It looked so simple, just fill the pages with dialogue. He had Irish blood, talk was as natural as breathing, but fuck, he couldn’t for the life of him get the shit down on paper.

Now that he was studying McBain, as opposed to just reading him, he noticed how very smart the man was. Brant had been raving for years about the books, but only now was he realizing how clever they were. The Q and A seemed to fill lots of pages in the book and didn’t take up much room, that’s what Brant liked best. He’d copied one of these, substituting Roberts and himself for Carella and Hawes, but it came off like a frigging kid’s essay. Brant was rarely disappointed with himself, self-belief was his strongest asset. He
knew his strengths and ignored his failings. Most things he shrugged away, muttered ‘Kiss it off.’ His history was littered with darkness, and the way he’d survived that was to keep it locked up tight. But if he was to write this goddam thing, he’d have to use the cases he knew. And they were beauties. He’d read up on ‘Noir’ and called it ‘Nora.’ He’d gone so far as to buy a book on ‘Creative Writing’ and after twenty pages of concentrated reading, slung it across the room, going:

‘You’re bloody joking.’

In the bookshop there were a heap of volumes with titles like How to Write a Bestseller, but he figured if they knew so much about it, how come they weren’t writing the winners. The authors who wrote them, he’d never heard of, and if he knew one thing, he knew a con. He’d gotten the name of an agent and sent her a letter, saying who he was and his proposal to be an English Wambaugh. He didn’t mention his real plan of wishing to be McBain. He knew most of these literary types were snobs; McBain wasn’t intellectual enough for them. He said aloud:

‘Gobshites.’

He’d had a reply and the agent said she was very excited about his project and could he send her a synopsis. What he wanted to reply was ‘lashings of violence, sex, and negroes.’

His doorbell went and he was relieved, anything to get away from the writing. Brant lived in Lorn Road, a quiet street,
just a mugging from the Oval. Most people on hearing the name wanted to add ‘For’ but didn’t. He opened the door and there was Porter, looking the worst for wear.

Wearing one of those wax jackets that seemed a hundred years old, much favoured by the Royals. His suit looked like it had been slept in. Porter looked like he’d been slept in.

Brant asked:

‘Got a warrant?’

No smile from Porter, so Brant said:

‘Come in.’

Porter sat on the sofa, near sank in the depth, and gazed at the bookshelves, amazed at the amount of books. Brant and books didn’t seem to go together. Brant said:

‘McBain… I rebuilt my whole stock, took awhile.’

Porter was silent then asked:

‘Could I get some tea, some herbal if you have it?’

Brant stood over him, asked:

‘Do I look like a guy who keeps herbal tea?’

He went and got a pot of coffee going, added a little speed to the mix, just a tiny hit, get Porter cranking. Whenever Brant busted a dope dealer, he kept a little of their stock, and now had every pharmaceutical known to man. He found that a hint of amphetemine juiced up coffee like nothing else. Made some toast, piled on the marmalade, put the lot on a tray bearing the wedding of Charles and Lady Diana, then carried it to the living room. Porter had dozed off, so Brant kicked his ankle, said;

‘Hoy, no sleeping on the job.’

Porter came to with a small scream, and Brant said:

‘Incoming?’

Porter shook himself, and at Brant’s insistence, drank the coffee. He said:

‘I’m not really a caffeine fiend.’

Brant leaned over, said:

‘Yo, buddy, you’re fucked. Get some stimulant in you, that’s why they say “Wake up and smell the coffee.”’

Brant refilled the cup, asked:

‘What the hell have you been doing, cottaging?’

Porter’s eyes flashed. The notion that he’d trawl public toilets, though it was a fine British tradition, appalled him. He said:

‘I’ve been sleeping in my car, outside Trevor’s home, lest the guy comes after him.’

Brant waved his hand, went:

‘You can pack that in, I’ve got it covered.’

Porter was surprised, asked:

You have someone watching Trevor’s. How come I didn’t make them?’

Brant laughed, as if from resignation, said:

‘Well fuck, if you could see them, they wouldn’t be a whole lot of bloody use, would they?’

Porter considered—the caffeine and speed were racing along his veins, heading for a blitz on the brain—he was already sitting up, said:

‘Thanks, I mean, god, for looking out for us… for Trevor…’

Brant knocked it off, said in a Brooklyn accent:

‘Ain’t no big thing.’

Porter spotted the computer and the screen with ‘Calibre’ in huge letters, asked:

‘What’s with that?’

Brant explained about the book and Porter asked for a notebook and pen and began to jot rapidly… filling pages like a crazed secretary, then stopped, said:

‘Here’s a synopsis.’

Brant was amazed, read it slowly, said:

‘This is fucking brilliant. Was this one of your cases?’

Porter didn’t quite know himself how he’d done it but felt it had to be done, the primal urge of the speedhead. He was standing now, the energy galvanizing him, said:

‘No, it just came to me, to have a vigilante cop, you get him acting inside and outside the law.’

Brant read it again, asked:

‘The name for the cop, Steiner, is that like Jewish?’

Porter didn’t know, said:

‘Why not, you have to have an angle, right, so the whole anti-Semitism will add tension to the narrative.’

Brant thought Porter was beginning to sound a little like the writing books he’d binned, but what the hell, he’d got the outline. Maybe get Porter over regularly, slip him some speed, and get a chapter a week.

Porter said:

‘I’m nowhere on the Manners deal.’

Brant reluctantly put the manuscript aside, said:

‘You’ve got to keep plugging away, check out every tip, talk to snitches, and you know what?’

Porter didn’t, all he knew was he could run a mile, wanted to begin right now, could feel his feet moving. He asked:

‘What?’

‘Luck, pure dumb luck will probably break the case.’

Porter figured this was right but not something he could bring to the Super. He said: