Roberts laughed, he’d always had a soft spot for Dip, asked:
‘How’s business?’
Dip looked offended, tried for indignation, said:
‘I don’t do that no more.’
Roberts took a slug of the brew and burned his tongue, slung the thing away, said:
‘You’ve gone straight, that it?’
Dip looked downcast, said:
‘You can’t try your luck with those non-English, you never know what diseases they might have and if you were crazy enough to try, you’d end up like that guy last week. He dipped a Croatian, got caught, and they sliced off his fingers.’
Roberts was smiling, the careless bigotry, racism from a pickpocket, the British Empire might be fucked but the spirit lived on in its thieves. Roberts asked:
‘Do you know a guy called Fitz?’
Dip glanced around, as if they might be overheard, said:
You don’t want to fuck with him.’
Roberts realized this was the second time he’d been warned about the guy, said:
‘He’s a hard-ass, that it?’
Dip gave a grimace then:
‘He’s a bloody lunatic. You need that animal Brant with you if you’re going to see him.’
Roberts was slightly offended, his pride was on the line, said:
‘Where does this supercrook hang?’
Dip indicated the pub on the corner, gave a low whistle, said:
‘He’s always there but you’ve been fair with me, Mr Roberts, you cut me some slack before, so I’m telling you, call for back-up before you go after him.’
Roberts was moved, even if the remark came from a pickpocket. Dip made to go and Roberts asked:
‘How will I know him, in the pub I mean?’
Dip sighed, his expression saying:
I tried my best.
Said; ‘You can’t miss him, he’s the biggest fucker in there and I mean size, oh yeah.’
Roberts had been a cop a long time and over the years, he’d taken some beatings, given some too. None were in the league of the one he received in East Lane.
Went like this.
He went into the pub, full of piss and vinegar. Brimming with confidence at the successes he’d recently achieved and figuring he was about to notch up yet one more.
He was wrong.
The bar was smoky, with Johnny Cash playing loud, ‘Fol-som Prison.’ That should have alerted him. He misinterpreted it, thinking, ‘fucking shit-kickers, English rednecks.’ Men were in small packs all over the lounge and a hush descended as he entered. Not just because he was a stranger but these guys, dole scroungers, stall keepers, fugitives of all hues, smelt police. He spotted Fitz right away. He’d been told he was big, the man was huge, propping up the counter, midway through a dirty joke. He looked like a small mountain, a very mean one. Wild black hair, a grey beard, and and boiler suit. Not that he especially chose these outfits but little else fit his bulk. Like a Western, men began to move away from the encounter. Roberts, feeling powerful, asked:
‘Fitz?’
The guy turned slowly, he had large brown eyes, with a mark below the left, as if someone had tried to gouge it out. His voice was surprisingly gentle, he said:
‘Who’s asking?’
Roberts smiled, it was classic, like the old days, everyone knew their role. He was going to enjoy hustling this moron into the nick by the collar, to fit the image. He said:
‘Chief Inspector Roberts, I need a word.’
The barman poured a fresh pint of mild and placed it before Fitz, who went:
‘That don’t mean shit to me, pal.’
Loud nervous laughter from the hordes. This enraged Roberts, who’d been enjoying the whole scene, and worse, Fitz lifted the pint and downed it in one fluid swallow, paused, then belched. Mild is wildly misnamed. It’s usually the dregs of other beers, cheap and lethal. Roberts reckoned it was time to flex the blue muscle, said:
‘Get your arse outside, I’m taking you in.’
And got the most ferocious wallop of his life, up under the chin, from left field. It lifted him clear off the floor, dropped him on his ass. Then Fitz wiped the stout from his upper lip, said to the barman:
‘Have another pulled, I won’t be long.’
Without effort, he leaned down and picked Roberts up by his shirt, buttons flying in all directions, threw him over his shoulder and walked out to the back of the yard. He threw Roberts aside like a doll, said:
‘This is going to hurt like fuck, but you won’t ever diss me again.’
Then he began to give Roberts the beating of his life. It didn’t take long but it was relentless. Before he blacked out, Roberts heard Johnny go:
‘ “I shot a man in Reno, just to watch him die…” ‘
28
Brant rolled over in his bed, stared at the tousled head of Linda Gillingham-Bowl, man she looked old. But what a ride, she’d fucked him every which way but loose. And came back for more. He’d finally roared:
‘Enough, I’ll sign with you.’
Now all he had to do was get Porter to the flat, lace his coffee with speed, and get some more chapters out of him. Piece of cake. The phone shrilled and Brant shook his head, he was feeling the blaze of a medieval hangover but he’d enough medication to kick its ass. He lifted the receiver, croaked;
‘Yeah?’
Heard Roberts was in the hospital and in bad shape. He jumped out of bed, got to the shower, and scalded the bejaysus out of his skin. Then to the medicine cabinet, got Solpadeine, a hint of speed, some Alka-Seltzer, and piled it in a glass with GALWAY BAY on the front. Added water and sunk it. His system fought like a demon to process the concoction. A moment between heaven and hell and then his stomach decided to go quietly and accept the verdict. He heard:
‘Darling, where are you, sweet pea?’
He strode into the bedroom and she stared at his naked body, whistled low, went, ‘You beast.’
He began to dress for combat. A battered leather jacket, faded jeans, and steel-toed boots. He said:
‘There’s coffee and shit in the kitchen, I gotta go.’
She reached out her withered arms and he suppressed a shudder, asked:
‘Come pleasure me, you animal.’
He was already heading for the door, said:
‘Keep it on max, babe.’
When Roberts opened his eyes, he felt an avalanche of hurt. Took a time to focus and then registered Brant and Porter Nash. Brant said:
‘You stupid fuck.’
Roberts felt agony all over, tried:
‘This is to console me?’
Porter looked angry, went:
‘How could you go without back-up?’
Roberts didn’t want to go there, said:
‘It’s a long story’
Brant leaned over, said:
