There was silence till Wallace asked:
‘Apart from his sergeant being shot, what’s the other bug up his ass?’
Seeing Porter smile, he realized what he’d said, went:
‘Sorry, buddy, I didn’t mean anything personal.’
Porter was used to the double entendres and let them slide, said:
‘The chief inspector lost his wife a time ago, then he hit a series of real success in his cases until he went after a villain alone.’
Wallace just loved the way the Brits talked… villains… back home they called them perps, skels but this, this was almost cosy. He asked:
‘You up for a nightcap, one for the road?’
Porter had already had way more than he should, with diabetes, he shouldn’t even be drinking but thought, what the hell, said:
‘Yeah, let’s go for it.’
Wallace went to the bar, came back with two shot glasses, full to the brim. Porter watched him carry the glasses in his huge fists, never spilling a drop, and saw the hard muscle beneath the bulk, and knew, despite Wallace’s affability, this was one hard case. Wallace put the shots on the table, said:
‘Buddy, I couldn’t believe it, they had Jim Beam. Down in one, you game?’
He was and they tossed them back, Porter waited a moment and then gave a shudder, the bourbon hit his stomach like a train, an express. His eyes watered, Wallace laughed, said:
‘Gets you where you live, am I right?’
Porter didn’t know was it the alcohol or exhaustion but he liked this guy, liked him a lot, asked:
‘So what exactly are you supposed to be doing here, besides getting the locals bombed on bourbon.’
He wished he hadn’t used the term bombed with an anti-terrorist expert but it was late. If Wallace had caught it, he let it slide, said:
‘Well, I’m supposed to get you guys up to speed on how to spot suspects, how to respond, and Jesus H. Christ, god forbid, we get a situation, what the emergency measures are.’
Porter considered this, then asked:
‘Off the top of your head, what’s the best advice you can give?’
Wallace didn’t hesitate, said:
‘Shoot the motherfuckers.’
Outside the pub, Wallace said:
‘Man, I could eat me a leg of steer, anyplace open?’
Porter suggested the fish and chipper, the Chinese, and then said:
‘ ’Course, the new tradition, after you sink a fair few, is to get a kebab and come tomorrow, you’ll wish you were dead.’
Wallace was delighted, offered to treat Porter to one, but Porter cried off, said:
‘I better get home. Thanks for the company, I enjoyed it.’
Wallace gave him an odd look, then:
‘I think you mean it, buddy. You’re okay, fellah. I heard you were a pillow biter, and I don’t have any beef with that, but I wasn’t planning on hooking up with you, so yeah, it was good. You take real good care now, we got us some bad hornbres to catch.’
As Porter walked home, the booze giving him a lift, he tried to remember if Wallace was from Texas or New York. He was certainly from another planet.
This is how we get in trouble, we talk.
9
For the next week, the cops did what they do best… knocked on doors, the old reliable, and checked out various tips that were phoned in. Brant had been moved out of Intensive Care and was now in a private room with two armed policemen outside. The doctors were stunned at his rate of recovery. He was on his feet by the second day but eerily silent. The Super had sent a flunkey to wish him a speedy recovery, Brant told him to get fucked. The flunkey didn’t report these exact words. He knew that in the Met, they did shoot the messenger, he simply said that Brant was healing rapidly.
The Super sighed.
Roberts, with WPC Andrews along, went to find Brant’s current snitch, a colourful individual named Caz, who wore garish shirts and, oddly enough, had never done any jail time. He was known to be a consummate dancer, though how this enriched his profession of snitching was up for debate. He carried a switchblade and was reputed to be very fast with said instrument.
Caz had met Roberts before, but was not happy to see yet another cop, especially a woman. They found him in The Warrington Arms, drinking a shandy. He looked at Roberts, ignoring Andrews, whined:
‘Who da bitch?’
He was from Croydon but affected to be from Salvador, Equador, Argentina, depending on the day of the week. Roberts sat in right beside Caz, Andrews opposite, and he stomped down hard on Caz’s right foot, saying:
‘She’s a police person. Don’t call her that again… claro, amigo? ’
Caz yelped, that was his best foot for the rumba. He said:
‘How I can operate as undercover for you, you keep exposing me to new coppers?’
The barman was heading their way but Roberts waved him off, said to Caz:
‘Drop the accent and the attitude. You fuck with that lady, you fuck with me, got it?’
Caz got it.
Andrews had never met a snitch before, and Roberts had told her that they were the poisoned life blood of policing, but you had to treat them with a delicate balance of intimidation and flattery. She had no idea of how this could work.
Mostly, it was the intimidation.
Roberts had added, when they least expect it, you bung them a few quid. Andrews was horrified, asked:
‘The Met pays them?’
Roberts let out a breath, said:
‘No, we pay them out of petty cash, off the books.’
Andrews was still of the belief that policing was a higher calling and that a certain code of morals should be followed. She said:
‘But isn’t that wrong?’
Roberts looked at her, wondering how long before she grew up, said:
‘It’s wrong if we don’t get the information.’
She watched Caz. He seemed like a totally unreliable sort. She wouldn’t believe a word he said and… him calling her a bitch, there was no cause for that. Roberts was asking:
‘So, my dancing ponce, who shot our sergeant?’
Saw Caz’s eyes shift and knew, bingo, the bastard knew. Roberts was astonished, he knew Caz had access to information that others could only dream of but this fast? He kept his face in neutral as Caz extended his sympathy, saying how much he respected the sergeant and Roberts let him ramble on for a few minutes, then snarled:
‘I asked you a question?’
