Josie was pulling it back, spat, ‘I’ve ridden worse.’
He was delighted. ‘I believe you … do I ever!’
Back in the squad room, Nancy checked her desk for messages. Brant asked, ‘Can I use the phone?’
‘Sure.’
It took a time but eventually he was connected to Roberts. The squad room fell silent as Brant’s London accent rang loud and entrancing. To them, he sounded
‘Guv, that you?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s Brant, I’m in New York.’
‘And like it, do you?’
‘I met with the Band-Aider, she’s a piece of work.’
‘Any problems?’
‘Naw. What news of The Alien?’
Roberts knew he had to proceed carefully. He hedged, and as he did, a radio kicked into loud, sudden life with ‘Don’t Blame It On Me’ by Stevie Nicks. Nancy went to turn it down.
Roberts said, ‘Fenton’s ex-wife has been murdered.’
Deep intake of breath, then Brant said, ‘He bloody dun it … jeez!’
‘Well, he’s long gone, vanished without trace.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Falls went after that arsonist.’
‘On her lonesome?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Is she OK?’
Time to lie … ‘Yes.’
A moment as Brant tasted the answer, decided it could suffice, then asked, ‘Did you get the fuck?’
To the assembled detectives it sounded like — ‘Did yah get the fok?’ — and they loved it. In cop bars all over Manhattan, it had a brief shelf-life as the catch-phrase of the moment.
Roberts decided to play it a little humble and answered, ‘
‘Who, exactly?’
‘Ahm … McDonald.’
Brant gave a bitter laugh. ‘You’ll get the credit, I suppose?’
Refute that.
Before Roberts knew how to answer, Brant said, ‘Well, some of us have a job to do.’
And rang off.
Nancy took Brant to Choc Full O’ Nuts. She asked for: ‘Double decaffeinated latte,’ and looked to Brant. He said, ‘Jaysus, I’d settle for a coffee.’
The waitress and Nancy exchanged a look that read:
Brant reached for his best Hollywood accent, said, ‘I’ll need your shield and weapon.’
‘What?’
‘Gis a look.’
Suspicious, she took out the blue and gold shield.
He said, ‘It looks like tin.’
‘It is tin.’
‘All we have is a warrant card … it doesn’t quite have the same effect. Show me your weapon.’ This with a leer.
She exclaimed, ‘I can’t figure you!’
‘Don’t bother. So, what are you carrying? Some dinky 22 with a mother of pearl handle?’ The coffee came and Brant stared at the double latte. ‘Looks like cappuccino with an inflated ego.’
She took a sip, went, ‘
Brant had moved on, asked, ‘What’s yer full name?’
‘Jesus H Christ, you jump all over the place. It’s D’Agostino.’
He tasted the word then asked, ‘Are you connected?’
‘You’re kidding.’
‘What are ye calling it now … mob … family … crime syndicate?’
Nancy shook her head. The man was beyond help. She tried for a total shift, said, ‘I have a list here, look … it’s the places you’ll probably want to see.’
The list:
Empire State
UN Building
Chrysler Building
Statue of Liberty
Macys.
He looked at it. ‘What’s this shit?’
‘It’s the sights.’
‘Spare me the tourist crap. I want to see the Dakota building and the Chelsea Hotel.’
‘Why?’
‘Where John Lennon lived and then where Sid and Nancy crashed. Plus, Bob Dylan wrote ‘Sad-Eyed of the Lowlands’ in the Chelsea.’
Nancy was intrigued. ‘Did you know they used the Dakota in
‘Who gives a fuck?’
Nancy followed after him trying not to feel crushed, when he suddenly turned. ‘You know what the best sight would be?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘You … without a stitch on.’
Nancy D’Agostino’s husband had been killed in an auto smash.
His bad luck.
Nancy had survived. She called that her bad luck.
The sole passion of Brant’s life had been his Ed McBain collection. He’d had the early green Penguin editions at 2/6 a throw. On through the author’s outings as Evan Hunter and the Matthew Hope series. Of the nigh eighty titles produced by McBain, he had close to the full collection.
For some reason, the police procedures struck a chord with Brant. As if the boys of the 87th came closest to what in his heart he believed a cop should be. When Nancy asked him, ‘Is there
But the Band-Aiders — Josie and Sean O’Brien — had broken into Brant’s flat, trashed it and his book collection. Thus had begun his pursuit of them which ended in the death of a young policeman and Brant’s own narrow escape.
It crossed Brant’s mind that the whole story might get him a sympathetic fuck, but he decided to forego the telling.
For his last night in New York, Nancy had taken him to the restaurant on top of the World Trade Centre. On the elevator up, he’d bitched about the SMOKE FREE ZONE. As they were seated, Nancy said, ‘Some view, huh?’
‘Better through a nicotine haze.’
Nancy ordered seafood chowder and Brant ordered steak. Rare and bleeding.
Nancy said, ‘That man you bumped into on the way in … it was Ed McBain.’
She couldn’t believe his reaction, as if he’d had a prod in the ass. ‘What? Are you serious? … Oh
Like that.
