Reaching in his pocket, he encountered a melted Club Milk latched to his keys. Finally, he located some coins and handed them over. One of them said
‘God bless you, Guv.’
Further along, a young woman pushed a collection box in his face, demanded, ‘Buy a flag.’
‘What’s it for?’
‘Racquet Club in Hampstead.’
‘Well that’s badly needed — another sports club in bleeding Hampstead.’ He gave her the remains of the Club Milk.
At the Oval, to complete his trilogy of street encounters, he bought a copy of The Big issue. The vendor said, ‘Fair cop,’ and Roberts wondered what it was that proclaimed him to the world as a copper. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.
Castro
The Castro in San Francisco has been called ‘The gayest place on earth’.
Fenton was headed there. He knew it would be the centre for activists. Now that Stell, his ex-wife was with a teacher, she’d be politically active. A dormant radical, she’d blossom in the Castro.
He had the cab cruise through Market and Castro Streets. It reminded him of Camden Lock on a pink Saturday. Same sex couples strolling openly. The cabbie turned and drove along Church, 22nd, and Duboce.
‘You figger on stayin’ here, buddy?’
‘Naw, I just wanted to see it.’
The driver checked him in the mirror, ventured, ‘You gotta get down here in the evenings, catch the action then.’ He let the question hang in the air — Are you gay or what?
Fenton didn’t help and kept staring out the window. He half believed he’d see her on the street. Just like that! After all the years, all the hate, there she’d be. She wasn’t. He got a mental grip and said, ‘I’ve seen enough, take me to the El Drisco.’
‘Say again?’
Fenton consulted his guide book, nodded and said, ‘It’s 2901 Pacific Avenue.’
‘Gonna cost you, buddy.’
‘Did I ask you for a financial opinion?’
The cabbie took another look and decided to let it slide. ‘You’re the man.’
‘So they tell me.’
The constables had organised a knees-up in The Greyhound for Brant’s departure. They had the back room and the booze was flowing. Word had got to Bill about the function so he’d relinquished his usual place. He could wait.
Sometimes, it was what he did best.
Brant was top of his shit list yet again but he wanted something major. For now, he simmered.
Brant was mid-pint and mid-story. ‘So, the guy had tried to pay the hooker with a stolen credit card. The pimp was kicking the bejaysus outta him and the guy’s shouting: “Be fair mate!”’
Falls arrived, and went, ‘Uh-oh, boys at play.’
Someone shoved a drink at her and a plate of cocktail sausages. That made her smile. Brant swaggered over, said, ‘Memories, eh?’
She put the plate aside, thinking: ‘They never rose to that length!’ She said, ‘I have a going away pressie for you.’
‘I’ll be back.’
‘Of that I’ve no doubt.’ She handed him an envelope. He shook it loose and found two photos. They were from those platform machines, the quick-snap jobs that ensure you look like Myra Hindley, regardless of sex. A sheet of paper was clipped to them.
‘What’s this?’
‘It’s the Band-Aiders, the two who stabbed you and maybe killed Tone. They’ve gone to America.’
‘Nice one, Falls.’
Her bleeper went and she headed for the phone. On her return, Brant hadn’t moved. She said, ‘A fire in East Lane … and deliberate. You think it’s our man?’
‘Want me to come visit him with you again?’
‘No Sarge, no need, you enjoy the party.’
She was wrong. There was ample need for Brant. Then and later. Especially later.
Roberts arrived late at the party. Brant, his face flushed from drink, said, ‘We started without you.’
‘Oh really?’ And got two mangled sausages handed to him, plus a pint of flat Guinness. ‘What a feast.’
‘Ah, we didn’t forget you Guv.’
Roberts let the sausages slip to the floor and said, ‘You’re off, then.’
‘Yeah, I’m going via Ireland from Shannon, so I’m going up to Galway for a night. I’ve a distant cousin there name of Paddy Joyce.’
‘Related to James, no doubt.’
Brant gave him a puzzled, befuddled look. ‘No … related to me, I said.’
‘Whatever. Here.’
And he too produced a slip of paper. Brant said, ‘Jaysus, I’ve more notes than Rymans.’
‘It’s the number of an American cop. He was over here on a course a few years back. He might be useful.’
Brant was slipping from the booze high to a mid-plateau of surliness, just before sentimentality. ‘Don’t need no Yank, I’ve got me hurley’
‘Yer what?’
But a sing-song had started and Brant was moving away. Roberts felt a bone exhaustion begin and a raging thirst. As he made his exit, he could hear Brant, loudest of all with ‘If you ever go across the sea to Ireland …
When Falls had applied to the police force, she’d had to wait six months. The Bill was hot then and they were flooded with applications, even wannabe actresses who believed they’d be doing the method.
During that period, Falls worked in a department store. She was assigned to Customer Services and dealt with returned items. It was the ideal training for police work. Here came the scum of the earth, the true dissatisfied. The more respectable the customer, the more brazen the lie. They’d bring back blouses, the collar soiled, lipstick on the front, creased to infinity, and claim: Never Worn!
Receipts years out of date and frequently from other stores were produced in apparent innocence. A week on this front made her a cynic for life. And of course she got the full dose of bigotry. Like, ‘I demand to see someone in authority. Someone white in authority.’
The up-side was Falls could spot a liar at close range. The downside, apart from insults, aggression and bile, was that she could never again return goods. No matter how pressing the urge. The girls thus employed went two ways — became immune or became traffic wardens, which amounted to the same thing.
Falls broke the cardinal rule of visiting a suspect alone. She hoped she might wrap the deal in one evening.
She was wrong.
Calling on the suspected arsonist, she was pumped with adrenalin.
For nowt.
A woman answered the door. In her early twenties, she was barefoot in shorts and Spice Girls top, said, ‘Yeah?’
‘I’m WPC Falls and …
The woman put up a hand, signalling don’t bother and said, ‘He’s not here. Dunno when he’ll be back. I’ve no idea where he is.’ Said this to the tune of ‘Mary had a little lamb’. Said it with world weariness. Like, how many times have I to repeat this shit?
Her eyes were deep blue and deeper stoned. If she’d recently touched planet earth, she hadn’t much liked it. Her expression moved to:
You know I’m lying.
I know you know I’m lying.
So whatcha gonna do about it, bitch?
Not a whole lot, save: ‘And you are …?’
‘Oprah Winfrey, can’t you tell?’
Falls shook her head. ‘Gee, that’s an amusing line. Well Oprah, I’ll be back. Often. See how that helps the ratings.’
The woman slammed the door and Falls figured that whatever else the woman was, intimidated wasn’t part of it.
She knew if Brant had been with her, the result would be completely different. Not legal, maybe not even satisfactory, but definitely radical. And thinking of results, she had an appointment in the morning with her GP. Find out if she was pregnant / with child / knocked up / in the family way. As the various expressions ran through her head, she felt both exhilarated and terrified.
Two feelings not unknown to the man across the street. Standing in a doorway, he watched her walk away. When he usually got these feelings, it was immediately after he’d tossed the match to his work.