‘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.”
13
"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:
‘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.
14
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 Cafe 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.