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:
‘I’d better get going. Thanks for the coffee and it is probably the best I ever had.’
Brant smiled, said:
‘Don’t be a stranger, drop over more often, we can shoot the breeze.’
After Porter left, Brant typed up the synopsis, sent it off to his agent, could already see himself on chat shows, telling where he’d gotten the inspiration for his masterpiece. They’d ask if he was going to quit being a cop, and he’d get that humble look, say quietly:
‘You don’t ever quit being a cop.’
Maybe they could put it on the front of the book, put it on posters when they sold the movie rights. Brant was as happy as if he’d already sold the whole lot.
Henry said, ‘I’m awfully short for a person. But I’m fun.’
17
Falls was being reassigned. Brant had pulled her off the decoy gig, it wasn’t working. She was before the duty sergeant, who said:
‘I don’t know how you got out of that basement. Once they go down there they’re gone.’
She smiled, didn’t answer. The sergeant figured she’d slept with somebody with juice and that might account for the smirk she was wearing. But he intended wiping that off, said:
‘You’re being partnered with Lane.’
PC Lane had been with the force two years, and his claim to fame or infamy was he’d been photographed with Tony Blair. That had looked like it might help his career, but recently it was a huge liability. Unless the Tories came back soon, he was doomed to obscurity, a pariah of New Labour proportions. His appearance didn’t help. He was very tall and lanky, with an expression of friendliness, the very worst thing for a cop. The duty sergeant waited for a response from Falls, but she was too experienced to go down that road, she simply asked:
‘What’s the assignment?’
Disappointed, he said:
‘There’s a domestic in Meadow Road, the neighbours have been calling it in, get over there pronto.’
Falls wasn’t wild about that ‘pronto’ but bit her lip. Lane was waiting outside, an umbrella up against a faint mist. Falls said:
‘Lose that, you want to have some cred. At least look like you can tolerate a little rain.’
Lane folded the brolly and thought:
She’s the ball-buster I heard about.
They didn’t speak until they reached Meadow Road. A neighbour walking up and down, near spat:
‘What the hell kept you, interrupted your coffee break, did we?’
Lane asked:
‘Where is the disturbance, sir?’
The guy looked at Lane, thinking, What a nerd, said:
‘ “Disturbance,” murder more like, it’s on the first floor, apartment 1a.’
Lane looked at Falls, asked the question that nervous cops the world over ask:
‘How do you want to play this?’
She was already in the zone, said:
‘Carefully’
They rang the bell, the silence from inside was ominous.
The door opened and a woman in her late twenties stood there, asked:
‘Help you?’
Lane said:
‘We’ve had a report of a disturbance, may we come in?’
She shrugged, said:
‘The place is a bit of a mess.’
She turned and they followed her in. A small living room was strewn with broken plates, upturned furniture. The woman was dressed in a long, black chemise, Doc Martens, and had a bandana in her hair. Grunge by default. Falls looked down and saw a carving knife in the woman’s left hand, held loosely. She nodded to Lane, said:
‘Could I please have the knife?’
The woman lifted it, stared at it as if she’d never seen it, said:
‘Sure.’
Handed it over, it was still wet with blood. Lane asked:
‘Who else is here, ma’am?’ he was already moving towards the bedroom. The woman said:
‘Just me now. I don’t think Duncan is a tenant anymore.’
In the bedroom a man was lying on his side, wounds all over his body. Lane felt for a pulse, radioed for back-up, came out and raised his eyes to Falls, who asked the woman:
‘What’s your name?’
‘Trish, though Duncan calls me “hon.” ‘
Falls sat down near her, said:
‘Trish, do you know what happened here?’
‘Oh yeah, Duncan was taking my money. I hate when they do that, steal what’s freely offered. So I stuck him.’
The coroner would reveal that she’d ‘stuck’ him fifty-six times. Falls asked:
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
She said she’d kill for one, which caused Lane to give Falls a worried look. Falls stood up, moved to Lane, said:
‘Make the tea.’
He was shaking his head, said:
‘Are you mad, she’s a lunatic, she didn’t stab that guy, she eviscerated him.’
Trish turned, said:
‘Two sugars, please.’
Lane said:
‘I’m going to cuff her.’
Falls moved in front of him, said:
‘No you’re not, you’re making tea, got it?’
He’d heard the rumours about Falls and, with a sigh, began to search for the teapot.
Falls want back to Trish, and the woman asked her:
‘What will happen to me?’
Bad things is what Falls wanted to answer, but said:
‘Self-defence, you might get probation.’
Thinking pigs might fly. Trish yawned, said:
‘I’ll be glad to get a quiet night’s sleep. Duncan snores, it really gets on my wick.”
Lane brought the tea in a mug that had the logo
I’M A GAS.
After she took a sip, she asked Falls:
‘You have a fellah?’
Lane was making faces of disgust, and she answered:
‘No, not at the moment.’
Trish thought about that, then went:
‘Is it a black thing?’
Falls wanted to say, isn’t everything, but merely nodded. A few minutes later the heavy gang arrived and Trish was led away, calling:
‘Won’t you come and visit?’
Lane said:
‘You’ve made a friend.’
‘Fuck off’
Back at the station, they had to fill out the myriad of forms that a murder entailed. Lane finished first and asked her:
‘You want me to help you?’