Brant stared at him, said:
‘ ’Course not, but will I forget you arrested me? Like fuck.’
And he moved away, carried on a swirl of goodwill from his followers. Porter got a gin and tonic, slim-line tonic, sat in a corner, said he’d down that then get the hell out of there, heard:
‘Yo buddy, how’s it hanging?’
Wallace, looking more like a cowboy than ever, fringed buckskin jacket and, of course, the boots. He sat down beside Porter, took a large swig of his bourbon, said:
‘All’s well that ends well.’
Porter stared at him and Wallace laughed, said:
‘You really need to lighten up, bro.’
Before Porter could reply, Wallace said:
‘I told you before, you’ve a conscience and that’s a dangerous commodity in these dark times. If you’re thinking of, you know, blowing the whistle on our other… event, lemme just run something by you.’
Porter waited:
Wallace was studying his boots, as if they fascinated him. Said, in a stone voice:
‘Suppose the cops were to search another cop’s home and they found a Glock, a Glock with your prints on it and gee, guess what, it was the gun offed the Lewis dude. Would it be stretching it to believe you did the deed as a favour for your buddy Brant?’
Porter was stunned, asked:
‘You’re blackmailing me?’
Wallace stood up, punched Porter on the shoulder, said:
‘Just running a little scenario by you, bro. Y’all take care now, gonna see if I can score me a little Brit chick?’
And he was gone.
Porter swept the gin and tonic off the table, said, in a near perfect imitation of Brant:
‘Bollocks.’
36
Falls, in a feeble attempt to tidy up, had taken a brush to sweep the floor and found Angie’s handbag under the sofa. She opened it, found the usual stuff and a tiny automatic. She got a fresh bottle of vodka, seal intact, and sat it on the table. She eased herself down, the automatic in her hand, you racked it, and bingo, a round ready to go. She looked at the vodka, unopened, said:
‘Virgin like.’
And gave the tiny smile that had so entranced Roberts.
She held the tiny gun up to her mouth, tasted it, cold.
And wondered what McDonald had thought of in his last moments, she regretted not washing the Snoopy T- shirt. She’d have regretted all the rest, but it was too much… ammunition?
37
Crackof dawn in Croydon, a wino was rooting around in a Dumpster, the smell didn’t bother him, he out- odoured it easily.
He was reaching for what looked like a box of Kentucky Fried Chicken. He sure liked the Colonel’s recipe, and fried? Accessorised his brain.
A hand shot up, a voice going:
‘What’s a girl gotta do to get a drink round here?’
