|
EXTRACT: A White Arrest by Ken Bruen
R&B
they were called. If Chief Inspector Roberts was like the Rhythm, then
Brant was the darkest Blues. Pig ignorant, more like, was also said.
On Robert’s desk was a phone, a family photo, a bronze and wood scroll,
which read:
On Easter Monday 1901, the Rev. James Charmers stepped ashore on Goaribari
Island, off the Southern Coast of New Guinea, intent on converting the
islanders. The Goas ran down to meet him, clubbed him senseless, then
they cut him into small pieces, boiled him and ate him that afternoon.
It was all you needed to know for police work, he said.
WPC Falls
contemplated the sugared doughnut. It sat like a fat reprimand next to
her coffee. Another WPC joined her, said: ‘Now. that’s temptation.’
‘Hiya, Rosie.’
‘Hiya-so, are you going to eat it?’
She didn’t know, said: ‘I dunno.’
Falls was the wet dream of the nick. Leastways, she hoped she was. A little
over 5' 6", she was the loaded side of plump, but it suited her.
Seeing her, the adjectives of ravishment sprang to mind: lush, ripe, buxom,
available. The last in hopeful neon.
She gave a low laugh, lewd and knowing.
Rosie said: ‘What?’
‘You know Andrews?’
‘From Brixton nick?’
‘Yeah. him. I gave him the old con last night-you know the shit men
believe.’
Rosie laughed, asked:
‘Not the “Sex has to be spiritual for a woman, she can’t
just fuck and fly?”’
Falls was laughing out loud, into it now, the story carrying her.
‘Yeah, I explained how we have to be emotionally involved. The dim
sod went for it completely.’
She took another wedge of the doughnut, let her eyes dance with sugared
delight and went for the kill:
‘Worse-he believed me when I said size doesn’t matter.’
Rosie was trying not to laugh too loud. In a canteen full of men, women’s
laughter was a downright threat. She held up her thumb and index finger,
measuring off a quarter inch, asked: ‘Look familiar?’
Falls shrieked.
‘You had him too, wanton cow.’
‘Well, he was quick, I’ll say that for him.’
Falls shoved the remains of the doughnut to her, said: ‘Seeing as
we’ve shared the little things...’
WPC Falls had curly hair, cut short in almost dyke style. It emphasised
her dark eyes. A snub nose gave her an appearance of eagerness and a thin
mouth saved her from outright prettiness. Her legs were her worst feature
and a constant bane. Suddenly serious, she said:
‘I was thirty-two years of age before I realised that when my dad
said, “I’ll kill myself and the girl with me”, that it
wasn’t love-just drink talk.’
‘Is he still alive, your dad?’
‘Some days, but never on weekends.’
‘Sounds like my Jack. Ever since he got laid off he’s been legless.’
‘The stronger sex, eh?’
‘So they think.’
Rosie had what’s termed grateful looks. She was grateful if anybody
looked. Few did, not even Jack.
Leroy
Baker was a poor example of strength. As he did the fifth line of coke
he roared: ‘Ar...gh...rr. Fuck!’
Then stomped his unlaced LA sneaker, adding: ‘That shit’s good.’
He surveyed his flat. Awash in everything that money could buy. Leroy
had a mountain of cash. The drug business was flourishing and he felt
a little tasting of the product couldn’t hurt, good for business
in fact. That he was now hopelessly addicted got away from him.
He’d say: ‘Keeps me sharp-a man in de biz gotta stay focused.’
A pounding on his door failed to register at first. The cocaine pounding
of his heart had deafened him. As the hinges gave way and the door moved,
he started to pay attention. Then the door came in and four men charged
into his domain. He had a vague impression of boiler suits and balaclavas
but fixed on the bats-baseball bats.
It was the last focus he had.
Twenty minutes later he was dangling from a lamppost, his neck broken.
A white placard round his neck proclaimed:
e is enough
Leroy was the first.
Down the street, a lone LA sneaker gave witness to the direction from
which he’d been dragged. As the ‘E’ story built, it would
be alleged one of the gang whistled as he worked. The tune suggested was
‘Leaning on a Lamppost at the Corner of the Street.’
Like so much to come it was shrouded in wish fulfilment and revulsion-the
two essentials for maximum publicity.
|
