Smoking a chain of Dunhills, chugging Special Brews until he was demented. Time to time, he’d pick up the. 38, aim, shout obscenities. So it was when McDonald banged on the door. Ray, in a haze, opened and seeing the uniform, the gun was up and he was firing

What the fuck happened?

He stepped over the guy, ran for all he was worth.

21

Brant and Roberts hammered on Jimmy’s door and got the smell, nodded. Brant stepped back, raised his boot and gave a ferocious kick. The door came down without a whimper.

Roberts said:

‘Maybe we should have tooled up.’

Brant was on high alert, answered:

‘Too fucking late now.’

Went in low and fast, rolled on the floor and came up in a semi-crouch, said:

‘Police.’

Roberts was stunned, walked in, asked:

‘Where did you learn that shit?’

‘Saw it on NYPD Blue.’

Roberts could tell there was no one in the flat, no one alive anyway. The stench was a familiar one, was all over bar the tagging. Brant headed for the bathroom, entered slowly, said:

‘Oh fuck, I think I found Jimmy.’

Together, they stared at the burned hunk and Brant indicated the electric fire, said:

‘Gee, how careless.’

Roberts said:

‘They took him out.’

‘They?’

Roberts was on his cellphone, calling an ambulance, scene of crime guys, the whole outfit.

Brant said:

‘I’m impressed.’

Roberts said:

‘I want this place gone over with a fine comb: fingerprints, the empty bottles out there, the lot. And get a crew over to his brother’s place, tell them to arm up.’

Brant was on his phone and shaking his head, went:

‘Too late. You’re not going to like this. Fuck, you are going to hate this.’

‘What?’

Brant fumbled for his cigs and for the first time ever, Roberts noticed a tremor in his hand, knew it had to be bad. Nothing shook Brant, not since he was indirectly responsible for the death of a young cop some years back. Brant moved past him, grabbed a bottle, looked disinterestedly at the label, tequila, shrugged and drank deep. Shuddered, said:

‘That stupid prick McDonald, he must have been listening to us, he decided to check out Ray alone and he got shot.’

‘Dead?’

‘As good as, could be a headshot.’

They knew how that went, you were fucked either way; never came back from the head stuff, not in any way worthwhile. Brant took another slug, offered the bottle. Roberts shook his head, said:

‘This is getting seriously fucked.’

In a little while the place was swarming with technicians, all of whom had watched too much CSI: Crime Scene Investigation and acted accordingly. Roberts gave his instructions and moved outside with Brant, said:

‘Any word on Porter?’

‘Shit, I forgot all about the pooftah.’

Roberts gave him the look, said:

‘I thought you guys were friends.’

‘Yeah, so?’

‘So, how come you call him names?’

Brant, the tequila already showing in his eyes, said:

‘You should hear what I call you.’

22

Falls finally got to talk to Porter after the doctor had taken an inordinate amount of time with him. From the corridor, she could see them and, by Porter’s expression, it wasn’t good.

Porter’s father had completely ignored her. She wasn’t too pushed: bigotry was as familiar to Falls as egg and chips.

Then the doctor moved away and she approached. She hadn’t had time to bring anything and if she had, what could she have thought of to bring someone in Coronary Care? Porter looked awful, ashen… and all those tubes in his arms. She began:

‘You gave us some fright there.’

He sat up in the bed, stared at her, asked:

‘No grapes?’

‘Sour ones maybe?’

He smiled and she felt extraordinary relief. It was a long time since he’d done that, leastways for her. Not his fault, he’d tried everything to stay friends but with his promotion and the shit in her life, she had punished him. I mean, it’s what you do, you make the close ones pay for the grief you get, I mean… that’s how the world works, right?

She reached for his hand and asked:

‘How are you?’

‘Well, I was scared but that passed. I’m a cop, scared is what we know, so now it’s settled into serious anxiety.’

She knew that song, had tried to still it with buckets of coke and oceans of vodka. She squeezed his fingers and he gave a huge smile and, not for the first time, she wished he wasn’t gay. Then, with a rush, she recalled her night with Angie and thought, Maybe we’ve more in common now.

She moved her hand, fixed his hair and asked:

‘So, what’s the deal?’

He sighed and she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the reply but kept her face neutral and he said:

‘My heart is okay, thank God, but they were concerned about what caused the collapse. Asked a barrage of questions; worse than cops these guys and with the worst verdict in the wings, they have more juice than us. I said I’d been losing weight, had a constant dry mouth and seemed to spend my life going for a pee — it’s diabetes.’

‘What?’

‘Yeah, bummer, right? You can have it for ages and not know, then stress or some such will trigger it and I was going into insulin shock.’

Falls’ imagination conjured up needles and having to inject yourself daily, like some desperate junkie. He said:

‘It’s not so bad, eh? I mean, if my heart was fucked, I’d be, like, gone.’

She had to ask, so she did:

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