drink, if not of choice, definitely of necessity. Usually pure methylated spirit, sometimes it’s spiked with cider. Get a blend of tastes going. Come night, the hookers set up shop and a steady stream of cars cruise the patch. Though not on the scale of King’s Cross, it’s a steady enterprise.
Brant clocked the makes of cars, almost all in good condition. Not hurting for cash but obviously lacking in balance. Few things as hazardous as street sex and not just the risk of diseases but, he supposed, it all added to the rush.
Around eleven, a van pulled up, parked on the kerb. A white van, not unlike the one every American law enforcement agency was looking for in the Washington sniper case a few years back. A tall blond guy wearing a cream leather jacket (to accessorise the van?) and black combat pants climbed out. His hair thick and long, poured over his upturned collar. Brant muttered:
‘General fucking Custer.’
The guy’s back was pumped, muscles showing through the leather: steroids and gym, the new addiction. He approached the hookers, said a few words then backhanded one. Another started to shout and he punched her in the stomach. Brant reached for a tyre iron, paused, saying, ‘Naw…’ and let it be. He got out and slammed his car door but if the guy heard, he didn’t care. Brant was delighted, he loved the stupid ones.
The guy was raising his hands again and Brant shouted:
‘Yo, Custer?’
The guy turned, in no hurry. Whatever was coming, he could deal with it. He looked at Brant, asked:
‘You calling me, prick-face?’
Brant smiled, this was better than he’d hoped. Moved to within a cigarette of the guy, said:
‘I’m Sergeant Brant. Due to recent public concern, we have to identify ourselves from the off. My name mean anything to you?’
The guy dredged up phlegm from deep in his chest, sampled it, then brought it up, letting his head back, he hawked the full load, then spat it to an inch of Brant’s left shoe, said:
‘That name don’t mean shit to me.’
Brant didn’t move, which set off an alarm in the guy’s confidence.
Brant said:
‘Oh, that’s not very nice. Watch out, she’s behind you.’
Almost never failed, the oldest ruse in the book and the shitheads went for it every time. The guy turned and Brant hit him with the low kidney shot, felling him like a sack of Galway potatoes. He moved round then with the steel caps, delivered a staccato of kicks to the body. A small cheer went up from the girls. Brant hunkered down, grabbed the blond hair with his left hand and dragged the guy’s face up, said:
‘You gotta be hurting, am I right?… No, no, don’t answer ‘cos I still have to break your nose… shshhhhhh, be done before you can shout “police intimidation”.’
And it was.
Brant straightened up, reached for his cigs, fired up, finally turned to the hookers who were gaping at him. No strangers to violence, they were stunned at the casual ferocity. Brant gave his wolf smile, said:
‘Nice evening for it.’
Then nudging the guy with the tip of his shoe, he said:
‘I see you again, you’re history.’
As he got back in the car, he enjoyed the sight of the women rolling the guy.
Falls wanted a drink; she wanted a lot of drinks. The Roebuck was usually quiet midweek and on her way to the bar she clocked a few lone drinkers. A surly barman slapped her drink on the counter. She was preparing to have his ass when a customer banged into her, said:
‘Sorry, lost my balance.’
And he veered away, heading for the door. A young woman rose from a table, grabbed him and got his arm midway on his back, put her hand in his pocket then shoved him away, snarling
‘Now, fuck off.’
He made for the door and was gone. The woman walked to Falls, held out a purse, said:
‘He dipped you.’
Falls stared at her purse in astonishment, thinking, I never felt him, then asked:
‘Can I buy you a drink? It’s the very least I can do.’
The woman, blonde, pretty, in expensive clothes gave a radiant smile, said:
‘Sure, large vodka, loads of ice.’
Falls signalled to the barman, asked her:
‘Justice?’
‘Yeah, why fuck it up?’
Falls liked her already. They moved to a table and Falls raised her glass, said:
‘Thanks so much.’
She said, ‘No big thing,’ and sank the double like a docker, raised her finger, said:
‘Yo, bar-person. Hit us again.’
Then she produced a pack of Rothmans, asked:
‘Hope you don’t mind?’
Falls couldn’t believe she’d found a kindred spirit, put out her hand, went:
‘I’m Elizabeth.’
And was amazed with herself as she never normally gave her first name.
The woman took her hand, said:
‘I’m happy to meet you.’
After another round, Falls was seriously wrecked, said:
‘I’m a cop.’
‘Yeah?’
Not interested, cool about it. Falls continued:
‘And I’ve got to say you handled that guy like you were a cop yourself.’
The woman flashed the smile, said:
‘I work the clubs. Bit of dancing, some hostessing, and a whole pile of assholes.’
Falls got out some paper, wrote her number down, said:
‘Listen, let’s get together again, my treat.’
The woman nodded and glanced at her watch, said:
‘Got to run.’
Falls went to stand, staggered, then:
‘I don’t even know your name.’
Over her shoulder, as she left, the woman said:
‘Angie.’
A car was parked up the street and Angie got in, the two brothers waiting. One asked:
‘How did it go?’
‘Piece of cake, she’s a lush.’
Ray, the smart one, asked:
‘Why did you have to be so rough when you grabbed me?’
‘Make it look real. She’s a cop, she’d smell a bogus stunt.’
Jimmy, the muscle, asked:
‘What do you want to meet a cop for?’
Angie tapped her forehead, said:
‘We want to know how the investigation is going, who better to tell us than a cop?’
Ray, negotiating traffic, was shaking his head, went:
‘Seems risky to me.’
“Course it’s risky, that’s the fucking rush.’
