He sipped his tea, said,
‘Okay.’
Took her by surprise and she asked,
‘That’s it, you’re not going to argue?’
‘Nope.’
‘Oh.’
He let her digest that, until,
‘You might give Nelson a break.’
‘Fuck him.’
‘Did he help you out, when you went to him?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Then cut the crap, he’s a cop, get off your high horse.’
She eyeballed him, assessing how far he could be pushed, figured she’d had her limit, said,
‘I’ll think about it.’
‘Think all you want, I want him at the funeral with you.’
Then he stood, said,
‘You need to talk, you know where I am.’
‘Thanks, I think.’
He reached out, touched her shoulder. The gesture took them both by surprise. He said,
‘The hard-ass act, it works for Brant. Anyone else, it wipes out.’
For a moment her eyes clouded, then she got a grip, said,
‘It’s getting me through, isn’t that the point?’
Roberts considered, said,
‘I have no idea what the point is or even if there ever was one but I do know you can’t hack it alone.’
‘You seem to.’
‘And what did it get me? You found me wandering the supermarket like a wino. No, that maverick shit is overrated.’
Porter Nash had another frustrating day. A ton of leads had been followed up but nothing came of them. The Press were screaming about police incompetence and a prime time TV programme had lashed their failure. An atmosphere of depression had settled on the station. As Porter called it a day and headed out, not even the desk sergeant said goodnight. Bad sign. The desk was a thermometer of the force. No matter how bad things got, the duty sergeant would usually find a cliché to rally the troops. Not today. Brant was leaning against his car, smoking, asked,
‘Want to come for a brewski?’
‘Sure, why not?’
Brant drove, heading towards the Oval. His driving was a model of controlled ferocity. Porter asked,
‘Where are we headed?’
‘Lorn Road. Think forlorn.’
‘There’s a pub there?
‘Fuck no, it’s residential. I live there.’
‘We’re going to your place?’
Brant glanced at him, grinned, said,
‘Yeah, and don’t get any ideas.’
‘I’m surprised is all.’
‘I don’t get too many visitors, so excuse the mess. I figure, you let me in your gaff, I’ll return the compliment. You hungry? Want fish and chips?’
‘No thanks.’
As they parked, Porter swept his eyes across the street. Nothing untoward was happening. It was one of those rare pockets of quiet in the maelstrom that was the Oval. He asked,
‘How’d you wash up here?’
‘I leaned on a landlord, leaned hard.’
When they got to the front door, Porter looked back at the car, asked,
‘Is it safe there?’
And got the wolf smile with,
‘Mine is.’
The living room was crammed with books. Centrepiece was a large photo of what appeared to be some kind of docks. Brant said,
‘That’s the Claddagh in Galway. You know, where the rings originated?’
Porter stepped closer, could make out swans on the water, said,
‘Must be a peaceful place.’
Brant snorted, said,
‘Last time I was there, some nutter was beheading swans. There are no peaceful places, not any more. You want peace, carry a piece. Sit down.’
Brant disappeared into the kitchen, returned with a tray, a bottle of what appeared to be water and two heavy tumblers. He set them down, said,
‘That’s poteen, Irish moonshine.’
‘Isn’t it illegal?’
‘I fucking hope so.’
He poured substantial measures, said,
‘Slàinte.’
‘Okay.’
Porter was expecting a lethal kick, waited, no... said,
‘Goes down easy.’
‘Sneaks up on you, like the country itself. You wake in the morning, have a glass of water, you’re pissed again.’
He moved to the bookshelf then carefully edged a volume out, looked at it with reverence, handed it to Porter, said,
‘Get you started.’
It was one of the old Penguin editions, the green-and-white cover with:
Cop Hater by Ed McBain.
‘Thanks, I’ll take good care of it.’
Encouraged, Brant continued:
‘Published in 1956, it’s a winner. I’ve another fifty titles if you like that.’
Porter kept his appreciation low, the prospect of more was horrendous. He said,
‘I’d better make a move. You still on for the wedding?’
‘I’m on for anything.’
Part Two
I feel like I’m fighting a battle when I didn’t start a war
Radnor Bowen was in the dumps after his meeting with Brant. He’d been so hopeful about his role as a snitch, believing it to be lucrative and reasonably safe. His knee still hurt from where Brant had manipulated him. The hope of decent payoff had been blown.
Radnor knew — all his instincts said so — that the cop killer was the case to break. There had to be serious money in it. He’d felt so down he almost didn’t go to meet his contact: the guy from the gym he’d told Brant about, who knew a psycho who’d bragged about ‘dealing with the police’. Radnor went because he had nothing else going and because he couldn’t let go. There had to be an angle somewhere in this.
The guy, part-owner of the gym, was called Jimmy. He’d a bald patch, which he combed over, and a growing beer gut. Radnor thought he was a poor advertisement for his business. Not that he’d ever say so. Rule one of the ‘Snitch’s Handbook’ was be ingratiating. Jimmy must have read his mind. He patted the stomach, said,
‘Sign of prosperity, you know.’
Yeah, right.
They were in the Oval pub just after lunch, when trade hits a lull. So quiet that they could hear from the street:
‘Big Issue, get yer Big Issue, help the homeless.’
Jimmy smiled, said,
‘I’ll have a pint of bitter and a ploughman’s.’
Radnor got these, resenting the cost, cursing himself for this fool’s errand. He had half a shandy, Jimmy dug into his food, said,
‘So you want to know the head-case who near killed the gay guy?’
Radnor tried not to show too much interest lest money be mentioned. Jimmy was chewing with energy, said,
‘I told all this to the copper who came by.’
Radnor knew who that was, nodded and Jimmy continued,
‘A thick bastard, name of Brant. The fuck got a year’s membership and wanted a free tracksuit as well.’
‘What was the bloke’s name who beat up the gay?’
‘All in good time, Radnor. What’s your hurry?’
He had to endure a further half hour listening to the difficulties of running a gym until, finally, Jimmy said:
‘Barry Weiss. Here, I wrote down his address. I haven’t seen him since. Not that I want to, he was definitely off the wall. Gave me the creeps, if you want to know the truth. Always smiling and if I know one thing, it’s that nothing’s that amusing. Our female members were always complaining about him.’
Radnor put the address in his pocket, acting as if it were of no consequence. Jimmy gave him an elbow in the ribs, said,
‘So, you going to join the gym or what?’