The White Trilogy: A White Arrest, Taming the Alien, The McDead (21 page)

Brant was mid-pint and mid-story. ‘So, the guy had tried to pay the hooker with a stolen credit card. The pimp was kicking the bejaysus outta him and the guy’s shouting: “Be fair mate!”’

Falls arrived, and went, ‘Uh-oh, boys at play.’

Someone shoved a drink at her and a plate of cocktail sausages. That made her smile. Brant swaggered over, said, ‘Memories, eh?’

She put the plate aside, thinking: ‘They never rose to that length!’ She said, ‘I have a going away pressie for you.’

‘I’ll be back.’

‘Of that I’ve no doubt.’ She handed him an envelope. He shook it loose and found two photos. They were from those platform machines, the quick-snap jobs that ensure you look like Myra Hindley, regardless of sex. A sheet of paper was clipped to them.

‘What’s this?’

‘It’s the Band-Aiders, the two who stabbed you and maybe killed Tone. They’ve gone to America.’

‘Nice one, Falls.’

Her bleeper went and she headed for the phone. On her return, Brant hadn’t moved. She said, ‘A fire in East Lane ... and deliberate. You think it’s our man?’

‘Want me to come visit him with you again?’

‘No Sarge, no need, you enjoy the party.’

She was wrong. There was ample need for Brant. Then and later. Especially later.

Roberts arrived late at the party. Brant, his face flushed from drink, said, ‘We started without you.’

‘Oh really?’ And got two mangled sausages handed to him, plus a pint of flat Guinness. ‘What a feast.’

‘Ah, we didn’t forget you Guv.’

Roberts let the sausages slip to the floor and said, ‘You’re off, then.’

‘Yeah, I’m going via Ireland from Shannon, so I’m going up to Galway for a night. I’ve a distant cousin there name of Paddy Joyce.’

‘Related to James, no doubt.’

Brant gave him a puzzled, befuddled look. ‘No ... related to me, I said.’

‘Whatever. Here.’

And he too produced a slip of paper. Brant said, ‘Jaysus, I’ve more notes than Rymans.’

‘It’s the number of an American cop. He was over here on a course a few years back. He might be useful.’

Brant was slipping from the booze high to a mid-plateau of surliness, just before sentimentality. ‘Don’t need no Yank, I’ve got me hurley’

‘Yer what?’

But a sing-song had started and Brant was moving away. Roberts felt a bone exhaustion begin and a raging thirst. As he made his exit, he could hear Brant, loudest of all with ‘If you ever go across the sea to Ireland ...

•        •        •

When Falls had applied to the police force, she’d had to wait six months.
The Bill
was hot then and they were flooded with applications, even wannabe actresses who believed they’d be doing the method.

During that period, Falls worked in a department store. She was assigned to Customer Services and dealt with returned items. It was the ideal training for police work. Here came the scum of the earth, the true dissatisfied. The more respectable the customer, the more brazen the lie. They’d bring back blouses, the collar soiled, lipstick on the front, creased to infinity, and claim: Never Worn!

Receipts years out of date and frequently from other stores were produced in apparent innocence. A week on this front made her a cynic for life. And of course she got the full dose of bigotry. Like, ‘I demand to see someone in authority. Someone white in authority.’

The up-side was Falls could spot a liar at close range. The downside, apart from insults, aggression and bile, was that she could never again return goods. No matter how pressing the urge. The girls thus employed went two ways – became immune or became traffic wardens, which amounted to the same thing.

Falls broke the cardinal rule of visiting a suspect alone. She hoped she might wrap the deal in one evening.

She was wrong.

Calling on the suspected arsonist, she was pumped with adrenalin.

For nowt.

A woman answered the door. In her early twenties, she was barefoot in shorts and Spice Girls top, said, ‘Yeah?’

‘I’m WPC Falls and ...

The woman put up a hand, signalling
don’t bother
and said, ‘He’s not here. Dunno when he’ll be back. I’ve no idea where he is.’ Said this to the tune of ‘Mary had a little lamb’. Said it with world weariness. Like, how many times have I to repeat this shit?

Her eyes were deep blue and deeper stoned. If she’d recently touched planet earth, she hadn’t much liked it. Her expression moved to:

You know I’m lying.

I know you know I’m lying.

So whatcha gonna do about it, bitch?

Not a whole lot, save: ‘And you are ...?’

‘Oprah Winfrey, can’t you tell?’

Falls shook her head. ‘Gee, that’s an amusing line. Well Oprah, I’ll be back. Often. See how that helps the ratings.’

The woman slammed the door and Falls figured that whatever else the woman was, intimidated wasn’t part of it.

She knew if Brant had been with her, the result would be completely different. Not legal, maybe not even satisfactory, but definitely radical. And thinking of results, she had an appointment in the morning with her GP. Find out if she was pregnant / with child / knocked up / in the family way. As the various expressions ran through her head, she felt both exhilarated and terrified.

Two feelings not unknown to the man across the street. Standing in a doorway, he watched her walk away. When he usually got these feelings, it was immediately after he’d tossed the match to his work.

Excitement gripped him now as he wondered how the black woman would burn.

T
HE ALIEN WAS WELL
pleased with his hotel. The El Drisco, on Pacific Avenue is one of those open secrets. Owned and operated by the same family since the twenties; Eisenhower and Truman had made visits. It sure looked presidential – deep pile carpets, green leather banquettes, crystal chandeliers ... Like that. For a moderate arm and leg it’s worth getting the hillside view.

T
HE
receptionist had told Fenton the guest rooms were much more reasonable; but Fenton said, ‘I’m only doing it one time. Best to do it right, eh?’

The receptionist agreed that this was indeed a fine method of reasoning. Back in London a similar response would have been dangerously close to taking the piss. Here it was the American way.

In his room, Fenton stretched out on the bed, thought:
One or two days to find Stell and kill her
...
and maybe grab a few days rest and recreation in Tijuana
... ‘Yeah,’ he said aloud. ‘I like the sound of that R & R ...

Fenton liked San Francisco. He was beginning to like it a whole lot. That it’s very much a walking city didn’t hurt, didn’t hurt at all. Twixt cabs, trolley and foot, he got to Fisherman’s Wharf.

The cabbie had said, ‘Yo buddy, a real native is a guy who’s never had eats at The Wharf. You hear what I’m saying?’

The Alien hadn’t quite got into the sheer
in yer face
dialogue, as if they’d known you always. He answered, ‘Course I hear you ... I’m not deaf.’

The cabbie took a look back. ‘English, right?’

‘How perceptive.’

Unfazed. ‘I love the way you guys talk, like Masterpiece Theatre. Everyone talks like that in England, am I right?’

Jesus! ‘Yeah ... except for the taxis – they shut it.’

‘That’s like the cabs, right?’

Getting out at the Wharf, Fenton paid, and sure enough the cabbie said, ‘You have a good day.’

‘Whatever.’

Fenton went straight for a bar. He was wearing thin on American goodwill. The barman welcomed him effusively.

Fenton said, ‘Give us a beer, OK?’

‘Domestic or imported?’

‘Fuck.’

Fenton was the other side of three bottles of Bud. Not outta it or even floating, but feeling them, a nice buzz building. He figured he’d do three more then go buy the baseball bat.

An exaggerated English accent cut through: ‘I say old chap, might I trouble you for a light?’

Fenton turned. On the stool beside him was a guy in his bad sixties. Liver spots on his hands and brown shorts, top to accessorise. He had eyes that Fenton could only think of as stupid, ie eager, friendly and open.

Fenton shrugged. He was definitely feeling those beers. ‘I don’t smoke.’

‘Actually, neither do I – I heard you order your drink and thought I’d give my skills a try. Was I convincing?’

‘As what?’

‘Oh yes, the English humour! I have all of Monty Python, would you like to see my Ministry of Funny Walks?’

‘You’re serious ... Jesus!’

‘You might have caught me on Seinfeld, I was the English cab driver.’

Fenton was suddenly tired, the beers wilted, the show winding down. He asked, ‘You’re an actor ... act scared.’

‘Scared?’

‘Yeah, as if I’m going to put this bottle up yer arse.’

The man looked full into Fenton’s face and got a hearty slap on the shoulder, with, ‘Hey, that’s not bad, you look like you could shit yerself ... I’m impressed.’

After Fenton left the bar, he was entranced by the traffic lights, blinking:

WALK

DON’T WALK

No frills, yer straight command. He kinda appreciated it – reminded him of prison.

A black guy in a combat jacket was handing out pamphlets, shouting, ‘Yo’, homies, see what de fat cats be doin’ wit’ yo’ tax dollars!’

Fen took the booklet. ‘Ain’t my tax dollars, mate.’

‘Say what, homey?’

He was about to sling it as the guy shouted, ‘Yo’ all gots de right to know they be killin’ folk.’

Fenton looked at the pamphlet.

A Study of Assassination.

(A training manual written by the CIA

for distribution to agents and operatives)

He said aloud, ‘No shit!’

And as he flicked through it, he gave intermittent ‘Wow’s, ‘Jeez’, and an outright, ‘I’ll be fucked!’

Under the heading
Justification
was:

Murder is not morally justifiable. Assassination can seldom be employed with a clear conscience. Persons who are morally squeamish should not attempt it.

Fenton said: ‘You got that right, guys.’

More:
It is desirable that the assassin be transient.

Then:
Techniques.

A human being may be killed in many ways
...

Fenton muttered, ‘Oh really?’

The assassin should always be cognisant of one point
–
‘death’ must be absolutely certain.

Call it serendipity or chance, but when Fenton stopped to take his bearings he was outside a sporting goods shop.

Went in.

The music was deafening and he had to recheck it wasn’t a disco. No, a sports shop. He asked an assistant, ‘What’s that noise?’

‘It’s Heavy D.’

‘What?’

‘Waterbed Hev.’

‘I’m going to have to take yer word for that. Why is it so loud?’

‘Most of our clientele are Afro-Americans.’

‘You mean black.’

The assistant ignored this and asked what he could do to help. Fenton said, ‘I want an old style baseball bat. Not metal or some brilliant new plastic or low fat – the basic slugger. Can you do that?’

Four hundred bucks later, he could.

R
OBERTS WAS DETERMINED TO
tell his wife about the skin cancer. At the very least he’d get laid. So ... so it would be a sympathy fuck, but who was counting? All the other ails:

dead bank balance

burnt car

nervous job prospects

he’d leave a bit. No need to tip the balance. He was almost looking forward to dropping his health bombshell. Move him centre stage for a few days.

A
Big Issue
vendor was sporting a spotlessly white T-shirt which declared:

70% of Prostitutes are Convent Educated.

Roberts said, ‘What about the other 30%?’

The vendor smiled. ‘They’re the education.’ Argue that.

When he got home he checked quickly to see if his daughter was home.

Nope.

He muttered, ‘Thank Christ for that’. Recently she’d been treating him as if he were invisible ... no, scratch that – invisible
and
annoying.

His wife said, ‘You’re home.’

He was going to congratulate her powers of observation, but it wouldn’t be a loving start. Instead: ‘I have something to tell you.’

She hmphed and said, ‘Well, I certainly have something to tell
you
.’

Testily, he snapped, ‘Can’t it wait?’

‘Oh, if your daughter being pregnant isn’t a priority then of course it can wait.’

‘Jeez ... what? I mean, how ...?’

‘Well darling, I know it’s been a while, but if you can’t remember how it happens ... And she shrugged her shoulders. He couldn’t believe it. Worse, she walked off.

He thought: ‘Skin cancer
that
.’

S
TELLA DAVIS – FENTON’S EX-WIFE
– was loading her washing machine. If she could have known it was the last day of her life, she might have done the wash regardless. It’s highly doubtful she’d have added fabric softener.

Her new husband was a teacher and the most stable person she’d ever met. Even his name – Jack Davis – rang of security. A no frills, no shit kinda guy. Jack was yer buddy, the sort of stand up guy who’d have a few beers and slip you a few bucks if you were hurting. When they devised the ‘Buddy’ system, it was the likes of Jack they envisaged.

Stella didn’t love him but, as they say at The Oval, she had a fondness for him. Plus, he was her Green Card, worth a whole shitpile of love and roses.

The love of her life had been The Alien. She came from a family of part time villains:

part of the time they were doing villainy

part of the time they were doing time.

So Fenton’s rep was known and admired in her street. It was a mystery to her why it was described as a working class neighbourhood, as few worked. Fenton appeared glamorous and dangerous and all that other good shit that causes fatal love. The biggest hook of all, he was gentle – to, with and about her.

When she got pregnant, he got three years and she woke up. That would be the pattern. He’d be banged up or killed and she decided to start over. Then she miscarried and the loss unhinged her. Near insane with grief and rage, she’d gone to the prison. As he walked into the visiting room, she saw the macho swagger, the hard-eyed hard man and she wanted to wound him.