Now the Alien laughed out loud, asked, ‘Is that what they’re calling it? Dissin’. What will you guys think of next?’
Close call
The Super had summoned Roberts.
These meetings were never warm; it usually meant a bollocking. When Roberts came in the Super was dunking a biscuit in tea, said, ‘Hurry up, man, shut the door.’
He didn’t offer tea or a seat; got to it. ‘I’ve had a call from across the water.’
Roberts wondered — from Ireland? … Brant? … No. Even he couldn’t be that drunk — and said neutrally, ‘Yes, sir?’
‘From Noo Yawk.’
Pronounced it thus to demonstrate he could be a kidder or simply an asshole; continued: ‘There’s been a murder — two murders — in San Francisco.’
Roberts wanted to say, only two?
The Super brushed crumbs from his splendid uniform, noisily finished the tea. Can tea be chewed? He was giving it a good try.
‘Reason they called us is the woman is a Londoner.’ He consulted his notes. ‘A Stella Davis, but originally Stella Fenton. Ring any bells?’
‘Uh-oh.’
‘Is that an answer?’
‘Reg Fenton, “The Alien” … Did he use a bat?’
The Super was impressed, if a tiny bit miffed. Had to check the notes, then confirmed, ‘By Jove, you’re right. They expect he’ll head for home, so notify the airport chappies.’
‘Yes, sir … How did they know it was him … I mean … so quickly?’
‘He left the bat.’
Falls was a touch surprised that Leigh’s information was correct. She went to the snooker hall in the late afternoon. Round three, in there.
She’d been expecting a tide of looks and remarks.
Lone woman in the last male bastion.
Lone black woman.
But there wasn’t, as the place was empty.
It was situated above a tailors with the sign ‘ESPOKE’.
It puzzled her till she realised the ‘B’ had done a Burton, so to speak. Up two flights of badly lit stairs and she knew, in her condition, it wouldn’t be long till she wouldn’t be able to do that. The baby was beyond joy, it was up there in the realm of ecstasy.
A toilet flushed and out emerged the suspect. He didn’t seem surprised to see her, asked, ‘Fancy a quick game?’
‘Some other time.’
He was smiling. ‘On yer lonesome this trip?’
‘Am I going to need help?’ She kept it light — let’s all stay nice ’n’ loose — relaxed, even.
He spread both hands on the table, said, ‘No way, babe.’
Falls moved a little closer. ‘If you could spare me a short time to come to the station, clear up a small situation.’
He was running his hand idly over the snooker balls, exclaimed, ‘What? Now?’
‘If you wouldn’t mind, it would be a great help.’
Now he had the black ball in his right hand, fisting it. ‘You speak well for a nigger, almost like a white bitch. That what you want, to be white, eh?’
She took a deep breath.
He shouted, ‘Black in right centre pocket!’ and flung it in her face. Caught her full impact on the forehead and she staggered back, felt her knees buckle. Then he was dragging her by the hair, saying, ‘I keep telling them, put-out-the-trash.’
And he dragged her through the doors, paused, then slung her, roaring, ‘Black on the way out!’
‘Yada Yada’ or some such
(Melanie)
Brant was sitting in the GBC — a restaurant right in the centre of Galway. It had the mentality and kudos of a transport caff, ie lashings of food, good food, cheap and friendly. Brant liked it a lot.
A waitress asked, ‘By yourself, are you?’
‘What? … Oh yeah … No. My cousin’s coming.’
And caught himself, thought — ‘What am I doing? Jeez, I’ll be telling her the size of me socks next.’
He gave a mortified smile and she said, ‘T’will be nice for ye.’
Argue that.
Brant recalled the night before and Sheila. She had a small flat along the canal, and no sooner there, than she hopped on him. Gave him a ferocious ride. He’d lain back on the floor, exclaimed, ‘Wow, that was Trojan!’
‘You mean you’re done?’
‘Jeez, woman — one shag and I’m for a kip!’
She’d given him an elbow in the ribs, said, ‘Ary go on outta that! Two squirts and you’re calling it a night! I’ll get you roaring till the small hours.’
She did and did, till them small hours. Finally he cried, ‘I’ll give you serious money not to touch me dick again.’
She laughed out loud and climbed on. When finally she’d nodded off, he’d limped to his feet and hobbled outta there as fast as he could manage.
Pat arrived in. ‘There you are … Sheila’s looking for you.’
When he saw Brant’s alarm, he added, ‘Only coddin’ yah! Isn’t she a gas woman?’
‘Gas?’
‘She’s a widow, you know.’
‘Christ, I believe it! I’m only surprised she’s at large.’
Pat shouted across the tables, ‘Mary, bring us a nice cuppa tea and a currant bun, there’s a good girl.’ He sat down, said, ‘So you’ll be going now?’
‘Yeah, the local boyos are running me down to Shannon … see me off the premises, I suppose.’
Pat looked sad. ‘I’ll be sorry to see you go.’
Brant reached in his pocket, produced a fancy bag with ‘WILLIAM FALLER’ written in gold across it. ‘I didn’t know what else to get.’
Pat opened it fast and out fell a shining gold Zippo. He turned it over, the inscription: ‘PATEEN’. Pat said, ‘I’ll mind it like laughter.’
‘In south-east London we’re not big on hugs or that, so I’ll …
Pat got up and grabbed him in a hug that Sheila would have admired, said, ‘You be careful now, young Brant.’
On the way to Shannon, Brant reached for a cigarette and lit it carefully with a Zippo. His thumb near covered the ‘1968’.
Each angel is terrible
(Rilke)
Heading for Mexico and aiming specifically for Acapulco was a tropical depression. Very soon, as it gathered force, ferocity and momentum, it would be upgraded to hurricane status and, of course, named. As usual, despite the feminists, it would be called Pauline. They were sure going to remember her.
The Mexican President, Ernesto Zedillo, was assured it was not a serious storm and yes, go ahead with his trip to Germany. He did.
It would be a tragedy of huge human loss but also bring about a major political crisis.
Fenton boarded his plane and felt he should at the very least have one of those hats so beloved of British resorts, with the logo: ‘KISS ME QUICK’.
He remembered an awful Elvis movie with Ann-Margret or one of those Elvis-type movie women … lush bodied … Now what the hell is the name of it?
As the seat belt sign flashed in preparation for take off, it came to him and he muttered, ‘Yeah, Fun in Acapulco.’
Now try to get the damn tune out of his head as it lodged there like stale muesli.
Brown is the new Black
(London fashion guide)
Nancy d’Agostino didn’t want her assignment. Like sure, nurse-maiding some English bobby. He’d probably smoke a pipe and wear one of those London Fog godawful raincoats.
She looked like Nancy Allen. Remember her? A real cutesy who’d been married to John Carpenter before he lost the run of himself and donated his talent to Wes Craven. She’d been at her prettiest in Carrie and her slide began post Philadelphia Experience.
Nancy held a placard — ‘D S BRANT LONDON’ — and figured even an English cop could detect this.
As Brant emerged from Immigration, he spotted Nancy and saw her smile. He thought, ‘Jaysus, I’m going to get a jump on this side of the Atlantic too.’
He was wearing the Aran sweater and blue serge trousers. Nancy thought, Oh my God, one of the Clancy Brothers.’