it?’
Wallace laughed, said:
‘You don’t get it, do you, you poor sap. It’s Homeland Security. I can do whatever the fuck I like, and what happened there, that was a message… They want to sip with virgins, be bathed in milk, or whatever crap they believe, we’re letting them know we’re more than happy to send them on their goddamn way.’
Porter reached for his cigarettes. He’d nearly quit… well, down to five a day… five-ish… Menthol Lights. He fired one up and Wallace snapped:
‘Yo, earth to pillow biter, did I say you could foul up my ride with that poison. It’s like fucking manners to ask, and the answer would have been no.’
Porter took a long deep drag, let out the smoke in Wallace’s direction, said:
‘What you going to do, shoot me?’
They’d got back to the station, and Wallace asked:
‘You gonna be pissed at me for long or you gonna lighten up, fellah?’
Porter tried to keep some trace of civility in his voice. He was British after all. Said:
‘I’m going to be get pissed… not gonna,… g-o-i-n-g… and then I’ll consider what action to take on your murderous act.’
He was out of the car and Wallace leaned out, near whispered:
‘Well howdy-doody, thanks y’all for the lesson in that there grammar, and I tell you, pilgrim, you drop a dime on me, you is, as us rednecks say,… deep crittered.’
Porter spun back, asked:
‘You threatening me, you…’
He couldn’t find a Brit-enough adjective to convey his rage and ended with ‘wanker.’
Wallace laughed, burned rubber off the pavement.
Porter resolved he was going to be laid, if he had to buy a frigging rent boy, but as them Yanks said, his ashes hauled, he was gonna get.
That evening, he dressed for sex, tight dark jeans, a pair of boots that cut slightly into his left foot but pain was okay, kept you focused, ask Wallace.
He wore a crisp white shirt, open neck, no bling… come on, keep it simple, let his body do the talking, an ultra soft leather jacket, cream colour, and a splash of Calvin Klein. Good to go.
He had a very dry martini to set himself up and smoked one menthol, everything in moderation.
He didn’t bring his car, let’s not play silly buggers.
‘Buggery’ yes, silly… no.
He went to a club in Balham named, wait for it… O-ZONE… and worse, it had the logo… HITS THE SPOT.
Yeah.
But he’d been there before and it was a damn certainty to get off. He wasn’t looking for a bloody relationship, he’d been there and had the scars to show. Nope, a few drinks, unwind, get fucked, go home. Two serious bouncers on the door, in the muscle T-shirts, looking like they’d escaped from Village People. He didn’t know them, these guys changed as often as his underwear. He could flash, so to speak, his warrant card, breeze in.
From their exchanged look, they knew he was the heat, nodded at him, let him pass. Inside, he gave them the twenty-quid admission, got a smile from the drag queen taking the cash, and went in to the main bar/dance floor.
The basement was for S and M, Porter got enough of that in his job, and upstairs, well, that was private rooms for shagging. Porter prayed they wouldn’t be playing Streisand, or worse, Garland.
Nope, some heavy hip-hop beat that wasn’t the worst. He stepped up to the bar and a gorgeous guy, like a young Red-ford, smiled:
‘And what would be your pleasure, sir.’
As Brant would say, thick as two short planks and stupid with it. Times were, he sure missed having that bigot around. He ordered a Campari and soda, stay mellow, and bought the guy a drink. The guy took a White Russian and when he got the look from Porter, lisped:
‘Jeff Bridges in The Big Lebowski.’
Porter took his drink and took off.
Four minutes later, he scored.
Hey, you play, you gotta pay.
22
Brant was shaking, not just his hands, his whole body. He was back in his home, a small house on the aptly named… Forl Road… as in forlorn. It had amused him once, not no more, he was dressed in a track suit, a navy blue London Met job. That normally tickled him as he’d nicked it from the Super. Sticking it to his boss had been among his favourite amusements
The painkillers they’d given him at the hospital weren’t worth a shite, he said aloud:
‘These aren’t worth a shite.’
To the empty house.
The doctor had told him he was sure to experience posttraumatic stress disorder. Like it was fucking mandatory, and if he didn’t, he’d be letting the side down. Yeah, well, bloody newsflash, he was feeling it, okay, happy now, you gobshites. And the rage-he’d always operated on a blend of anger, agitation, and aggressiveness-it was who he was.
Brant had been hurt before, knifed in the back by a couple of crazy kids who’d burned his dog… and what the fuck, as he thought of that damn animal, the dog that is. He felt a tear welling in his eye. Now he was seriously angry, to ride with the fear. Crying like a damned bitch.
Fuck no, no way.
After the knifing, he’d gone right back on the streets, meaner than ever and those two, the stabbing duo, they were dirt, literally, buried years ago and good fucking riddance. But this, this gut-twisting feeling, the sweat popping out on his brow, the tremors, Jesus.
Yeah, fine, he was of Irish descent, he knew the painkiller that never failed. Tore open his drinks cabinet, nigh splintering the wood, grabbed the bottle of Jameson, a twenty-five-year-old beauty he’d been saving, twisted the cap off as if he was twisting the neck of some bugger, got a lethal measure poured into a heavy Waterford tumbler, and drank deep, waited for the magic to light his belly.
He held the glass up to the light, sighed as the sun caught the intricate pattern. The odd time Brant had guests and, let’s face it, not many called on Brant, unless to do serious damage. Porter, when he’d been unknowingly writing Brant’s book. Brant had literally nicked the yarns and sold them as a book to a high-speed agent, and the damn thing was good to go, near ready to be published.
Fuck.
Porter had marvelled at the glass, commented:
‘What a beautiful piece of real craft.’
Fags, they were into that fancy shite.
Brant, looking away, as if he were welling up, a near choke in his voice had said:
‘Me old mum brought them over from the old country, t’was all the poor creature had to leave me when she passed.’
