The White Trilogy: A White Arrest, Taming the Alien, The McDead (26 page)

F
ENTON LIKED MEXICO. WELL,
he liked Acapulco in so far as it was hot and sleazy. And boy was it hot, was it ever?

From early morning that heat just rolled up and smacked you in the face.

A sucker punch.

He was staying at El Acapulco and, wow, how did they come up with that? El?

Lounging by the pool, he signalled a waiter.

‘Si, Senor?’

This was great, like being in a John Wayne movie. Fenton had, like tops, ten Spanish words and decided to spend a few now. Tried: ‘Donde esta la Rio Grande?’

‘Senor?’

‘Just pulling yer chain mate.’ He held up two fingers and said, ‘Dos Don Equis.’

‘Si, Senor.’

Fenton stretched and then read what he’d so far composed.

SILHOUETTES

So Sharp the budding hope – a flicker

lone your face

this night a past remember

can you some the dread took on

this silhouetted

this justified alone ...

That’s it. That’s what he had.

Once he’d heard David Bowie interviewed. What the spiderman did was, write all the lines down, then cut them up with a scissors and let ’em scatter on the floor. Then he’d pick them up haphazardly and that’d be the shape.

The beers came, silver tray ’n’ all. The waiter was about to pour when Fenton shouted, ‘Jeez, Jose, don’t do that! Yah friggin wet-back, don’t yah know shit, yah spic bastard?’

Fenton had seen the change from glasses to bottles. No one used a glass no more. Just took that beer by the neck, chugged it cool.

Posing.

Oh sure, but what the fuck – he could nod towards cool. Plus, he really liked the way the moisture drops slid down the bottle, like pity.

He looked at the waiter who was standing perplexed and said, ‘Yo, Jose, get with the game, vamoos caballero,’ and laughed. He was having a high old time. The waiter, whose name was Gomez, went back to the bar and said, ‘That animal needs taming.’

If you’d leant on the precise translation, you’d get the exact sense of ‘gringo’ to suggest ‘Alien’.

Hurricane Pauline was building, moving closer.

N
ANCY D’AGOSTINE HAD ARRANGED
accommodation in Kips Bay on East 33rd for Brant. He looked at her. ‘Run the name by me again.’

‘East 33rd?’

‘Jaysus ... the other bit.’

‘Oh ... Kips Bay.’

‘Screw that babe, I’m for The Village.’

‘But it’s been arranged by the Department.’

Brant gave her his full smile, said, ‘Fuck ’em, eh? I want to stay in a ‘Y’ in The Village.’

She looked for an exit on the ramp and thought, ‘Could be worse – he might have had a hard-on for The Bronx, and then what?’

Brant watched her drive and asked, ‘This is an automatic?’

‘Yes.’

‘Stick-shift?’

‘What?’

‘Four wheel drive?’

She glanced at him and he slapped her knee. ‘Just winding yah up, babe.’

Gritting her teeth, she said, ‘I’m a sergeant in Homicide ... do you have any idea of what it takes to make detective, to get my shield?’

Brant said, ‘It takes a babe ... am I right?’

The Band-Aider, Josie O’Brien as she was now officially identified, was being held in the psycho ward. ‘Why?’ asked Brant.

Nancy gave the department answer. ‘Suicide watch.’

Brant gave an ugly snort. ‘She kills other people – not a snowball’s chance of her hurting herself.’

Nancy agreed but continued, ‘She saw her boyfriend shot in the face and had to beg for her own life ... she could slip into depression.’

Brant shook his head, then asked, ‘So ... can I see her?’

Incarceration had suited Josie. Being off the streets, a bath, nutrition, had transformed her. Her dirty blond hair was now shining and looked high-lighted. The previously scabbed, worn face was now scrubbed clean and her eyes had a sparkle.

As Brant prepared to enter the room, he turned to Nancy. ‘Where are you going?’

‘I’m to be present. It’s ...

‘Department Regulations. Christ, will yah learn a new tune? Look, I’ll buy yah dinner if yah fuck off for ten minutes.’

Nancy, who thought she’d gotten some sort of handle on Brant, asked, ‘Ever hear of Popeye Doyle?’

‘Nope.’

‘That figures. Get it straight, I’m with you all the way.’

Brant decided to roll with it, said, ‘Yah dirty article.’

When Brant walked into the room, Josie appeared almost shy. On their previous meeting, her partner had sunk a knife in Brant’s back. She said, ‘Hiya.’

He didn’t answer, took the chair on the other side of the table. The hospital guard gave Nancy an expectant look, like,
what’s going down?

She had no idea.

Brant reached in his pocket and everybody jumped. He took out his Weights and Zippo, placed them on the table.

The guard said, ‘This is a NO SMOKING ZONE,’ as if noticing him for the first time.

Brant gave him a brief glance. ‘Fuck off.’

Nancy signalled to the guard – ‘Cool it’. He tried.

Brant tapped the cigs. ‘Want one?’

‘Oh, yes please.’

He shook two free and Josie took one. As he cranked the Zippo, he seized her wrist, the flame in her face, asked, ‘Why’d ya kill the young copper?’

If Josie was spooked, she stifled it. ‘Gis a cup o’ tea, cunt.’

Brant let her go and asked, ‘What’s she on?’

Nancy looked to the guard, ‘The methadone program.’

Brant shrugged, asked Josie, ‘Why’d you want to go back?’

‘I’m homesick.’

He laughed out loud and she added, ‘I’m going to be in a mini-series, maybe Winona Ryder will play me. I’d let Brad Pitt play Sean.’

Brant played along, ‘Gonna be famous, that it?’

‘I’ve got an agent.’

‘You’ve got a hell of an imagination. You’re going to Holloway, not Hollywood. The only stars you’ll see are when the bull dykes ram yer head against the bars.’

Josie looked to Nancy, panic writ large. ‘Tell him to shut his mouth!’

Brant stood up. ‘When can I have her?’

Nancy consulted the paperwork. ‘She’s waived all extradition, so the day after tomorrow, I guess.’

Brant looked at Josie. ‘How’s that, eh? Wanna take a ride with me?’

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
sooo
English.

‘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, ‘
We
got him.’

‘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:
‘English
...
right!’
At least he hadn’t asked for tea.

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, ‘
Mmmmm
... I carry a 38.’

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
Rosemary’s Baby
?’

‘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
anything
you value?’ he nearly told her.

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
shit!
... Is he gone?’

Like that.

When he finally calmed, he shook his head, muttering, ‘Ed McBain ... Jesus!’

Nancy took a sip of her Tom Collins. ‘It was him or Elmore Leonard ... I always get them crime writers confused.’

Brant was beyond comment; took out his Weights, lit one and exhaled: ‘
Ah
...

Naturally, the Maitre d’ came scurrying over but Nancy flashed the tin. He wasn’t impressed. ‘There are rules.’

Brant smiled and said, ‘Hey pal, want to step outside and discuss procedure?’

He didn’t.

After, they stood outside and Nancy wondered
what now
? Brant flagged a cab and held the door for her. Yet again, he’d taken her off balance. Manners were the very last thing she’d anticipated. He said to the cabbie, ‘Take the lady home,’ and they were peeling rubber. She looked back through the window to wave, or ... But Brant was staring up at the World Trade.

B
ILL WAS INTERVIEWING KILLERS
. Well, would-be or wannabe ones. As usual, he held court in the end section of The Greyhound. Situated at The Oval, it’s a bar that restores pride in the business, and for as long as Bill had been kingpin in south-east London, he’d treated it as his office.

What to look for in a potential hit man.

1. Patience

2. Cool

3. Absolute ruthlessness

A hard man who’d never have to shout the odds. You didn’t ask about his rep, it had already reached you. Word was out that Fenton, The Alien, had lost it or gone to the US. Which amounted to the same thing if you clubbed in Clapham. (No, not night discos but crash-yer-skull clubs.)

Bill had already seen four guys. All young and all bananas. They wanted to be on the front page of the tabloids. Trainee psychos and apprentice sociopaths. They’d call attention. Sipping from a Ballygowan, Bill said to one of his minders, ‘I miss the old days.’

‘Guv?’

‘Get the motor, we’ll call it a day.’

‘Call it what, Guv?’

He sighed. With the Russian villains making in-roads, maybe it was time to head for the Costa and listen to Phil Collins albums. Or album. Seeing how he simply recorded the same one each time.

The minder said, ‘Guv, there’s one other bloke.’

‘Yeah?’

‘That’s him by the cider pump.’

Bill saw a guy in his early twenties, leather jacket, faded jeans, trainers. The urban uniform. There were half a million right outside the door. Nothing to distinguish him, which was a huge plus.