‘Not bad.’
The barman came over, went:
‘Hoy, you can’t bring food in here.’
Brant, midbite, said:
‘Piss off, oh, and bring a large vodka for this young fox.’
The barman was newish and not familiar with Brant, but something in the way he spoke told him to leave it be.
He did.
Brant levelled his gaze on Falls and she thought, despite how she didn’t want to think, He’s attractive in a mad dog fashion. Like a line of cocaine that is going to fuck you good, but the rush. He said:
‘McDonald had himself a traffic accident.’
She tread carefully, answered:
‘So I heard.’
Brant fingered his Zippo, got a cig out, flicked a light, drew deep, said:
‘Watch your back.’
She didn’t have a reply so said nothing. He shouted at the bar:
‘Yo, boy, let’s get some action here before Tuesday’
Then back to her, went:
You want to pay your chit?’
She was surprised it was so soon, usually Brant gave you, if not a time of grace, then a time to stew. She nodded and he gave the wolverine smile, said:
‘That’s a girl, best not to be in bondage. So you can be a cunt, am I right?’
The barman was placing the drinks before them as Brant uttered the obscenity and physically recoiled as if he’d been slapped but said nothing, moved away fast. Falls took a deep breath, went:
‘What did you say?’
‘Here’s the deal. For the next week or so, outside the station, I want you to behave like a total animal, treat people like dirt, insult them at every opportunity, be as bad-mannered as you can imagine, act like you’re PMT. Think you can do that?’
She reached for her drink, took it neat without a mixer, needed to taste the bitter wallop of raw alcohol.
She felt it.
Brant had sat back, downed his fresh pint in nearly one swallow, belched, said:
‘Ah.’
Falls had a moment of clarity, then a gallop of rage, and nearly spat:
‘It’s the Manners case, right? You want me to smoke him out?’
Brant was delighted, said:
‘See, I knew you’d get it.’
She wanted to reach in her bag, take out the knuckleduster, and let him ‘get it.’
Without asking, she reached over, took one of his cigs, and to her amazement, he lit it for her. She said:
‘A decoy, that’s the deal, isn’t it?’
‘Exactly.’
She needed to chill and without a word got up, went to the bar, ordered a round of drinks. The barman tried to smile at her, let her know he was with her, but she blanked him and he thought, Fuck her. When she got back, Brant grabbed his drink, said:
‘Here’s to better days.’
She didn’t join the toast, simply downed the vodka and now she was chilled, said:
‘You’re in no doubt I’ll do it, despite the fact I’ve been down this road before and nearly gotten killed.’
He shrugged, said:
‘What? You’ve got a choice? You’re on the road to nowhere, I’m giving you a chance to get back in the game. And the last time, who saved your pretty ass?’
Last time had been the Clapham Rapist. McDonald was supposed to be back-up but didn’t follow through. Without Brant, she’d have been history. Brant said:
‘Get started right away’
‘What?’
‘When you’re paying for the drinks, give the barman a bollicking, get you in the mood, plus he needs a kick in the ass.’
Then he was gone.
Falls played it round and round in her head, trying to see a way out. There wasn’t any unless she wanted to vegetate in that basement. As she paid for the drinks, the bar guy said, after he thought he saw a smile at the corner of her mouth:
‘That bloke is a pig.’
Falls fixed her eyes on him, said:
‘And a wanker like you would know? You aren’t fit to be in the same space as a real man.’
She thought outside:
Good start.
10
Brant hammered on Porter’s door and it finally opened to reveal a sleepy Porter, going:
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing, I was in the neighbourhood, thought you’d give me coffee. Hey, you’ve got post.’
Brant bent down, picked up an envelope, handed it over. Porter took it, said:
‘Come in, I guess. I’ll brew some coffee.’
And juice, you got some OJ?’
Brant flopped on the couch, his feet up on the coffee table, and Porter said:
‘Please make yourself at home.’
Brant was already lighting a cig and Porter had to refrain from comment. He got the coffee and juice, said:
‘I’m going to have a shower, you okay for a minute.’
‘No toast?’
While Porter was in the shower, Brant examined his bookcase. No McBain, but lots of psychology, poetry, and history.
Brant muttered.
‘Heavy shit.’
He was on his second coffee when Porter emerged, smelling of aftershave and dressed in a dark, expensive suit. Brant whistled, said:
‘Nice duds, you got another one of those, you might lend it to Roberts.’
Porter picked up the envelope, noted the typed address, and opened it, read, went:
‘Oh, god.’
Brant was up, asked:
‘What?’
Porter handed him the sheet. He’d gone pale, a tremor in his hand.
Brant read:
To Porter Nash
You are no doubt aware of my mission to restore manners to our manor, excuse the pun. I did caution your chief that the police would not be exempt from my crusade. I’ve had a few drinks in your local watering hole and alas, have to report that the barman, Trevor, has been consistently rude, aggressive to all and sundry.
I know you have a certain attachment, but I must play by the rules and I’m afraid I can’t make
