After years of trauma, shitty luck, murderous experiences, here was the lottery all in one. He said:
‘I’ve an admission to make, Elizabeth.’
She prayed to every saint she’d ever heard of:
Don’t, for the love of all that’s holy, don’t let him be gay.
He said:
‘I don’t know any black people.’
And looked ashamed. She wanted to hug him, said:
‘I’ll be all the black you need.’
The restaurant was in Kennington, and the maitre’d greeted Don by name. When they were seated, he asked:
‘The usual dry martini?’
Don looked at Falls who nodded and another waiter brought massive menus. Falls asked:
‘Will you order for us?’
He did, a blaze of spaghetti alla chitarra, linguine, garganelli, taglierini, fusilli, and a whole pile of stuff she’d never heard of.
Don said:
‘The house wine is especially good, or do you want to see the wine list?’
She didn’t.
They ate like vultures, greasy, uncouth, and with passion. Half-way through, suffused with wine, he said:
‘You eat like an Italian.’
She shook her head, said:
‘No, like a person who’d been reared with hunger.’
It was the best night of her life. Don was a stockbroker and she asked:
‘You mean like rich.’
He nodded and asked:
‘And what about you, what do you do, Elizabeth?’
That moment.
Truth or dare?
Most times, she mentioned it, it distorted the balance, guys either got off on it, a weird gig about shagging a cop, a party dazzler, as:
‘This is my black girlfriend, she’s a cop.’
And the resultant queries, have you ever shot anyone or worse, the boy’s own:
‘Show me your truncheon.’
Or they got scared, took off. Mostly they took off. So she was silent for a second and he stared at her then she thought:
It’s a magical night, go for broke.
Levelled her gaze, said:
‘I’m a policewoman.’
He never faltered, straight out:
‘That’s wonderful, we need people like you.’
And so the evening of alchemy continued, she could do no wrong. Went back to his penthouse… yes, a penthouse on Mayfair, and fucked like demons. She had to put her hand on his chest, say:
‘Whoa, let me catch a breath here.’
Her pleasure was his primary concern, and when did that happen? In the morning he drove her home, said:
‘I might be falling in love with you, Elizabeth.’
She fell into her own bed, muttering:
‘God, I owe you. Like BIG TIME.’
She slept the sleep of the truly contented, smiled in her sleep and emitted little groans of pleasure.
Roberts hadn’t been down to East Lane Market for a long time and his first thought, was:
Where did all the English go?
The number of former Soviet nationals was staggering. It was packed and he recognized a pickpocket he’d arrested once. The guy named, originally enough, Dip, tried to pretend he didn’t see Roberts. He began to move quickly through the crowd but Roberts caught him up, asked:
‘Yo, what’s your hurry, buddy?’
Dip acted surprised, went:
‘Ah, Chief Inspector, good to see you.’
Roberts stared at him, the guy seemed down on his luck, shabby clothes and an air of desperation. The very last thing a guy in his line of work needed to look was desperate. Roberts said:
‘Come on, I’ll buy you a coffee.’
A stall was situated at the middle of the market, and Roberts got two roasting cups, said:
‘It’s hot, mind those fingers, eh.’
Dip took a sip, said:
‘It’s instant; I hate instant.’
Roberts laughed, he’d always had a soft spot for Dip, asked:
‘How’s business?’
Dip looked offended, tried for indignation, said:
‘I don’t do that no more.’
Roberts took a slug of the brew and burned his tongue, slung the thing away, said:
‘You’ve gone straight, that it?’
Dip looked downcast, said:
‘You can’t try your luck with those non-English, you never know what diseases they might have and if you were crazy enough to try, you’d end up like that guy last week. He dipped a Croatian, got caught, and they sliced off his fingers.’
Roberts was smiling, the careless bigotry, racism from a pickpocket, the British Empire might be fucked but the spirit lived on in its thieves. Roberts asked:
‘Do you know a guy called Fitz?’
Dip glanced around, as if they might be overheard, said:
You don’t want to fuck with him.’
Roberts realized this was the second time he’d been warned about the guy, said:
‘He’s a hard-ass, that it?’
Dip gave a grimace then:
‘He’s a bloody lunatic. You need that animal Brant with you if you’re going to see him.’
Roberts was slightly offended, his pride was on the line, said:
‘Where does this supercrook hang?’
Dip indicated the pub on the corner, gave a low whistle, said:
‘He’s always there but you’ve been fair with me, Mr Roberts, you cut me some slack before, so I’m telling you, call for back-up before you go after him.’
Roberts was moved, even if the remark came from a pickpocket. Dip made to go and Roberts asked:
‘How will I know him, in the pub I mean?’
Dip sighed, his expression saying:
I tried my best.
Said; ‘You can’t miss him, he’s the biggest fucker in there and I mean size, oh yeah.’
Roberts had been a cop a long time and over the years, he’d taken some beatings, given some too. None were in the league of the one he received in East Lane.
Went like this.
He went into the pub, full of piss and vinegar. Brimming with confidence at the successes he’d recently achieved and figuring he was about to notch up yet one more.
He was wrong.
The bar was smoky, with Johnny Cash playing loud, ‘Fol-som Prison.’ That should have alerted him. He misinterpreted it, thinking, ‘fucking shit-kickers, English rednecks.’ Men were in small packs all over the lounge and a hush descended as he entered. Not just because he was a stranger but these guys, dole scroungers, stall keepers, fugitives of all hues, smelt police. He spotted Fitz right away. He’d been told he was big, the man was huge, propping up the counter, midway through a dirty joke. He looked like a small mountain, a very mean one. Wild black hair, a grey beard, and and boiler suit. Not that he especially chose these outfits but little else fit his bulk. Like a Western, men began to move away from the encounter. Roberts, feeling powerful, asked:
‘Fitz?’
The guy turned slowly, he had large brown eyes, with a mark below the left, as if someone had tried to gouge it out. His voice was surprisingly gentle, he said:
‘Who’s asking?’
Roberts smiled, it was classic, like the old days, everyone knew their role. He was going to enjoy hustling this moron into the nick by the collar, to fit the image. He said:
‘Chief Inspector Roberts, I need a word.’
The barman poured a fresh pint of mild and placed it before Fitz, who went:
‘That don’t mean shit to me, pal.’
Loud nervous laughter from the hordes. This enraged Roberts, who’d been enjoying the whole scene, and worse, Fitz lifted the pint and downed it in one fluid swallow, paused, then belched. Mild is wildly misnamed. It’s usually the dregs of other beers, cheap and lethal. Roberts reckoned it was time to flex the blue muscle, said:
‘Get your arse outside, I’m taking you in.’
And got the most ferocious wallop of his life, up under the chin, from left field. It lifted him clear off the floor, dropped him on his ass. Then Fitz wiped the stout from his upper lip, said to the barman:
‘Have another pulled, I won’t be long.’
Without effort, he leaned down and picked Roberts up by his shirt, buttons flying in all directions, threw him over his shoulder and walked out to the back of the yard. He threw Roberts aside like a doll, said: