He wasn’t and took the whole jam of the door in his onslaught.
Roberts gave a low whistle. ‘What are they feeding them?’ And followed in.
The police piled down a small corridor, which translates as Sweeney tactics. Roar like bulls, pound them boots, and put the shite crossways in all and sundry.
The suspect was crashed out on a double bed, entangled in a sheet. He was arse naked. A dense cloud of ‘hash-over’ near made him invisible. Despite the noise, he didn’t stir.
Roberts asked, ‘What is that smell?’
‘Dope, sir.’
‘And there’s the biggest dope of all. Go get a jug of cold water — very cold water.’
‘Yes, sir.’
McDonald returned with a large basin, it made a clinking sound. ‘On the rocks.’
‘Perfect, the Chief Constable will be looking over his shoulder.’
McDonald already knew that. ‘Shall I?’
‘Give it yer best, lad.’
McDonald swung the basin in a wide arc and on the upward tilt, he let the contents fly.
Whoosh!
A ferocious roar came from the bed and the suspect leapt up, crying, ‘What’s happening, man?’
Roberts said, ‘Wakey, wakey,’ and nodded to McDonald. He moved quickly and catching the sus by the hair, flipped him over and handcuffed him, hands behind the back. He considered, then open handed he gave the sus an almighty slap on the arse.
Roberts gave a low laugh and the sus tilted his head round. If he was cowed, he wasn’t showing it. ‘Hey, where’s the black cunt — ain’t she doing house calls no more?’
McDonald raised his hand but Roberts signalled no. Emboldened, the sus taunted, ‘What is this anyway? I haven’t got a TV licence … that it?’
Roberts glanced at the TV, then casually tipped it over. ‘No TV either. OK … let’s go.’
McDonald dragged the sus to his feet, wrapped a blanket round him and pushed him forward.
The sus shouted, ‘Ey! lemme get the Tamogotchi!’
Roberts was puzzled. ‘You want a takeaway now?’
McDonald stifled a laugh. ‘It’s a toy, sir, a cyber pet.’
The sus looked at McDonald almost warmly as if he’d found an ally, said, ‘Yeah mate, I’m going for the record. I’ve kept it alive for twenty days already.’
Roberts asked, ‘Where is it?’
The sus was animated now. ‘Under the pillow, man, you got to keep it near — it gets lonely.’
Roberts looked at McDonald, said, ‘Well, Constable, you know what to do.’
McDonald got the pet and glanced briefly at it. The sus said, ‘Give it here, dude.’
McDonald dropped it, then lifted his foot and crushed it with his heel.
A howl of anguish went up.
Roberts felt he might have found a replacement for Brant.
‘One of the most disturbing facts that came out in the Eichman trial was that a psychiatrist examined him and pronounced him perfectly sane. We equate sanity with a sense of justice, with humanness, with the capacity to love and understand people. We rely on the sane people of the world. And now it begins to dawn on us that it is precisely the sane one’s who are the most dangerous.’
— Thomas Merton
Fenton liked Mexico. Well, he liked Acapulco in so far as it was hot and sleazy. And boy was it hot, was it ever?
From early morning that heat just rolled up and smacked you in the face.
A sucker punch.
He was staying at El Acapulco and, wow, how did they come up with that? El?
Lounging by the pool, he signalled a waiter.
‘Si, Senor?’
This was great, like being in a John Wayne movie. Fenton had, like tops, ten Spanish words and decided to spend a few now. Tried: ‘Donde esta la Rio Grande?’
‘Senor?’
‘Just pulling yer chain mate.’ He held up two fingers and said, ‘Dos Don Equis.’
‘Si, Senor.’
Fenton stretched and then read what he’d so far composed.
SILHOUETTES
So Sharp the budding hope — a flicker
lone your face
this night a past remember
can you some the dread took on
this silhouetted
this justified alone …
That’s it. That’s what he had.
Once he’d heard David Bowie interviewed. What the spiderman did was, write all the lines down, then cut them up with a scissors and let ’em scatter on the floor. Then he’d pick them up haphazardly and that’d be the shape.
The beers came, silver tray ’n’ all. The waiter was about to pour when Fenton shouted, ‘Jeez, Jose, don’t do that! Yah friggin wet-back, don’t yah know shit, yah spic bastard?’
Fenton had seen the change from glasses to bottles. No one used a glass no more. Just took that beer by the neck, chugged it cool.
Posing.
Oh sure, but what the fuck — he could nod towards cool. Plus, he really liked the way the moisture drops slid down the bottle, like pity.
He looked at the waiter who was standing perplexed and said, ‘Yo, Jose, get with the game, vamoos caballero,’ and laughed. He was having a high old time. The waiter, whose name was Gomez, went back to the bar and said, ‘That animal needs taming.’
If you’d leant on the precise translation, you’d get the exact sense of ‘gringo’ to suggest ‘Alien’.
Hurricane Pauline was building, moving closer.
My kind of town
(Ol’ Blue Eyes)
Nancy d’Agostine had arranged accommodation in Kips Bay on East 33rd for Brant. He looked at her. ‘Run the name by me again.’
‘East 33rd?’
‘Jaysus … the other bit.’
‘Oh … Kips Bay.’
‘Screw that babe, I’m for The Village.’
‘But it’s been arranged by the Department.’
Brant gave her his full smile, said, ‘Fuck ’em, eh? I want to stay in a ‘Y’ in The Village.’
She looked for an exit on the ramp and thought, ‘Could be worse — he might have had a hard-on for The Bronx, and then what?’
Brant watched her drive and asked, ‘This is an automatic?’
‘Yes.’
‘Stick-shift?’
‘What?’
‘Four wheel drive?’
She glanced at him and he slapped her knee. ‘Just winding yah up, babe.’
Gritting her teeth, she said, ‘I’m a sergeant in Homicide … do you have any idea of what it takes to make detective, to get my shield?’
Brant said, ‘It takes a babe … am I right?’
The Band-Aider, Josie O’Brien as she was now officially identified, was being held in the psycho ward. ‘Why?’ asked Brant.
Nancy gave the department answer. ‘Suicide watch.’
Brant gave an ugly snort. ‘She kills other people — not a snowball’s chance of her hurting herself.’
Nancy agreed but continued, ‘She saw her boyfriend shot in the face and had to beg for her own life … she could slip into depression.’
Brant shook his head, then asked, ‘So … can I see her?’
Incarceration had suited Josie. Being off the streets, a bath, nutrition, had transformed her. Her dirty blond hair was now shining and looked high-lighted. The previously scabbed, worn face was now scrubbed clean and her eyes had a sparkle.
As Brant prepared to enter the room, he turned to Nancy. ‘Where are you going?’
‘I’m to be present. It’s …
‘Department Regulations. Christ, will yah learn a new tune? Look, I’ll buy yah dinner if yah fuck off for ten minutes.’
Nancy, who thought she’d gotten some sort of handle on Brant, asked, ‘Ever hear of Popeye Doyle?’
‘Nope.’
‘That figures. Get it straight, I’m with you all the way.’
Brant decided to roll with it, said, ‘Yah dirty article.’
When Brant walked into the room, Josie appeared almost shy. On their previous meeting, her partner had sunk a knife in Brant’s back. She said, ‘Hiya.’
He didn’t answer, took the chair on the other side of the table. The hospital guard gave Nancy an expectant look, like, what’s going down?