who’s in the frame. You keep your mouth shut, let me protect democracy, and hey, no problemo. You sure you don’t got any like, nuts or stuff, don’t faggots always have little dainty snacks and shit?’
Porter was on his feet, wondering if he could take him, get the Glock, and Wallace smiled, no warmth, the real hardarse showing, without moving a muscle, he said:
‘Forget it, bro, you wouldn’t get past the coffee table.’
Then he drained the beer, chucked the bottle on the carpet, said:
‘You pillow biters like to have crap to clean up, am I right?’
He flicked the stub of the cigar across the room, stood, said:
‘Hate to threaten and run but the enemy never sleeps. You free Friday night, I found me a club does line dancing, and serves ribs, have us a hoedown. Y’all take care now, hear.’ And he was gone.
He was right on one point, Porter was down on his knees, sweeping up the debris of the visit.
28
Brant had had him a fine ride, had rolled off Lynn, slapped ‘er on the arse, said:
‘You sure know what it’s for, girl.’
Lynn had made all the appropriate noises of delight as he’d gone at it, and she knew, Brant of all the men on the planet knew it was a crock but he didn’t, to coin a phase, give a fuck. He’d gone to the fridge, got some cold Heinkens, handed her one, and she chided:
‘No glass?’
He liked her, she had a lot of spunk, and it was one of the few qualities Brant appreciated, he said:
‘Fucksakes, you’ll want paying next?’
In all their time, he’d never actually given her cash for the deed, but in a hundred ways he’d paid her through other means. Having a lethal weapon like him in your corner… priceless.
Anxiety was still in his gut so he rifled through Lynn’s handbag, not even a moment’s hesitation. He wanted something, he went for it, and hookers, they always had some tranks.
Bingo, a sheet of Valium, he took two, 5mg, knocked them back with the beer. Would have killed for a pint of Guinness, he’d been to Galway once, and man, it was a work of art to watch them build a pint, get that creamy head, and all the time, giving you lots of friendly chat.
Way to live.
As he waited for the pills to crank, he knew, knew the only cure for the gut wrenching was to take out Rodney Lewis. The guy was definitely going to take another run at him, and if Brant wasn’t real careful, the bastard might get lucky. You didn’t get to be a rich bollix like him by being stupid. Thing was, he wasted the fucker now, they’d come right after him. Who else had motive.
He was letting the problem sit when the doorbell went. He had on a white robe he’d nicked from the hospital. It was warm and smelt of comfort, it had two big pockets, and he had the gun in the right one, gripped the butt, opened the door.
A seriously dishevelled Falls stood there, pleaded:
‘Could I get some coffee?’
Jesus, he’d seen her in some states, especially in the days when she’d been living on the nose candy but now, she looked like she’d been sleeping rough, he asked
‘What, you think this is bloody Starbucks?’
Then headed back inside, said:
‘Shut the door, there’s a draught.’
She did, came in, stood, looking like a lost cat. He made a cup of instant, added a generous dollop of his fine Jameson, handed it to her, lit a smoke, and gave her that too.
Her body was trembling, she gulped the coffee, asked:
‘Is there something in this?’
He smiled, said:
‘Yeah… hope.’
She began to feel a bit better, Brant was the most unpredictable person she’d ever met, and yet, you were knee-deep in shite, he was the guy who would find you a shovel. You’d probably have to do the digging, but he’d keep you company. She said:
‘I broke a wino’s nose.’
He laughed, said:
‘Jaysus girl, they have it bad enough, you have to go round kicking the fuck out of them as well?’
She drained the coffee, said:
‘God, that was good.’
And then… the silence, Brant would wait forever when he knew you wanted something, and she as sure as hell wanted something.
Help.
She tried to buy some time, said:
‘I feel so bad about McDonald.’
Brant sat opposite her, those stone eyes holding her, reading her, and he asked:
‘Why?’
Anyone else in the world, they’d go the pseudo-route, mutter sympathetic stuff, like:
‘There was nothing you could do, there was nothing anyone could do.’
But Brant, no bullshit, right to the core.
She faltered, then:
‘I feel I should have helped, you know…?’
And he smiled, that awful smile that said:
‘Sure.’
He stretched, and she wondered if he was hurting from the shooting but ask… ask Brant… sure.
He said:
‘He was a cowardly fuck, he took the easy way out, and how many times… did he fuck you over, or have you forgotten the Clapham Rapist, McDonald as yer backup?’
She was stunned. All those years he’d never once referred to how he’d saved her life. Before she could even think of a reply, he continued, he said:
‘Reason I mention our rapist mate is he has a brother and, guess what, he’s the fuck had me shot. Funny old world… isn’t it?’
She had to know, went:
‘What are you going to do?’
He stood, said:
‘I’m going to get you another of those kick-arse coffees, and then you’re going to tell me what you want?’
He did and she did.
Told it all, the set-up of the Happy Slapper, Lane selling her out, and the reappearance of Angie.
His face lit up at the mention of the Vixen and he interrupted:
‘Well fuck me sideways, that’s great, I always felt that was unfinished biz.’
Then Lynn strolled in, wearing one of Brant’s shirts, her ample bosom spilling out. She nodded at Falls, not in an unfriendly way but more a kind of total disinterest, and for some reason, that irritated the bejesus out of Falls, like… hooker, dissing her?
Brant turned to Lynn, said:
‘Take off, babe, this is work.’
Lynngave Falls another look, one that said:
‘I’ve had him… what’s your gig?’
Then, oh so casual, leaned over, kissed Brant on the lips, said:
