Porter was silent then asked:
‘Could I get some tea, some herbal if you have it?’
Brant stood over him, asked:
‘Do I look like a guy who keeps herbal tea?’
He went and got a pot of coffee going, added a little speed to the mix, just a tiny hit, get Porter cranking. Whenever Brant busted a dope dealer, he kept a little of their stock, and now had every pharmaceutical known to man. He found that a hint of amphetemine juiced up coffee like nothing else. Made some toast, piled on the marmalade, put the lot on a tray bearing the wedding of Charles and Lady Diana, then carried it to the living room. Porter had dozed off, so Brant kicked his ankle, said;
‘Hoy, no sleeping on the job.’
Porter came to with a small scream, and Brant said:
‘Incoming?’
Porter shook himself, and at Brant’s insistence, drank the coffee. He said:
‘I’m not really a caffeine fiend.’
Brant leaned over, said:
‘Yo, buddy, you’re fucked. Get some stimulant in you, that’s why they say “Wake up and smell the coffee.”’
Brant refilled the cup, asked:
‘What the hell have you been doing, cottaging?’
Porter’s eyes flashed. The notion that he’d trawl public toilets, though it was a fine British tradition, appalled him. He said:
‘I’ve been sleeping in my car, outside Trevor’s home, lest the guy comes after him.’
Brant waved his hand, went:
‘You can pack that in, I’ve got it covered.’
Porter was surprised, asked:
You have someone watching Trevor’s. How come I didn’t make them?’
Brant laughed, as if from resignation, said:
‘Well fuck, if you could see them, they wouldn’t be a whole lot of bloody use, would they?’
Porter considered-the caffeine and speed were racing along his veins, heading for a blitz on the brain-he was already sitting up, said:
‘Thanks, I mean, god, for looking out for us… for Trevor…’
Brant knocked it off, said in a Brooklyn accent:
‘Ain’t no big thing.’
Porter spotted the computer and the screen with ‘Calibre’ in huge letters, asked:
‘What’s with that?’
Brant explained about the book and Porter asked for a notebook and pen and began to jot rapidly… filling pages like a crazed secretary, then stopped, said:
‘Here’s a synopsis.’
Brant was amazed, read it slowly, said:
‘This is fucking brilliant. Was this one of your cases?’
Porter didn’t quite know himself how he’d done it but felt it had to be done, the primal urge of the speedhead. He was standing now, the energy galvanizing him, said:
‘No, it just came to me, to have a vigilante cop, you get him acting inside and outside the law.’
Brant read it again, asked:
‘The name for the cop, Steiner, is that like Jewish?’
Porter didn’t know, said:
‘Why not, you have to have an angle, right, so the whole anti-Semitism will add tension to the narrative.’
Brant thought Porter was beginning to sound a little like the writing books he’d binned, but what the hell, he’d got the outline. Maybe get Porter over regularly, slip him some speed, and get a chapter a week.
Porter said:
‘I’m nowhere on the Manners deal.’
Brant reluctantly put the manuscript aside, said:
‘You’ve got to keep plugging away, check out every tip, talk to snitches, and you know what?’
Porter didn’t, all he knew was he could run a mile, wanted to begin right now, could feel his feet moving. He asked:
‘What?’
‘Luck, pure dumb luck will probably break the case.’
Porter figured this was right but not something he could bring to the Super. He said:
‘I’d better get going. Thanks for the coffee and it is probably the best I ever had.’
Brant smiled, said:
‘Don’t be a stranger, drop over more often, we can shoot the breeze.’
After Porter left, Brant typed up the synopsis, sent it off to his agent, could already see himself on chat shows, telling where he’d gotten the inspiration for his masterpiece. They’d ask if he was going to quit being a cop, and he’d get that humble look, say quietly:
‘You don’t ever quit being a cop.’
Maybe they could put it on the front of the book, put it on posters when they sold the movie rights. Brant was as happy as if he’d already sold the whole lot.
Henry said, ‘I’m awfully short for a person. But I’m fun.’
17
Falls was being reassigned. Brant had pulled her off the decoy gig, it wasn’t working. She was before the duty sergeant, who said:
‘I don’t know how you got out of that basement. Once they go down there they’re gone.’
She smiled, didn’t answer. The sergeant figured she’d slept with somebody with juice and that might account for the smirk she was wearing. But he intended wiping that off, said:
‘You’re being partnered with Lane.’
PC Lane had been with the force two years, and his claim to fame or infamy was he’d been photographed with Tony Blair. That had looked like it might help his career, but recently it was a huge liability. Unless the Tories came back soon, he was doomed to obscurity, a pariah of New Labour proportions. His appearance didn’t help. He was very tall and lanky, with an expression of friendliness, the very worst thing for a cop. The duty sergeant waited for a response from Falls, but she was too experienced to go down that road, she simply asked:
‘What’s the assignment?’
Disappointed, he said:
‘There’s a domestic in Meadow Road, the neighbours have been calling it in, get over there pronto.’
Falls wasn’t wild about that ‘pronto’ but bit her lip. Lane was waiting outside, an umbrella up against a faint mist. Falls said:
‘Lose that, you want to have some cred. At least look like you can tolerate a little rain.’
Lane folded the brolly and thought:
She’s the ball-buster I heard about.
