Free Ammunition by Ken Bruen

Porter’s eardrum, then:
    ‘Oh, it’s a task is it?’
    Porter closed the files, tried:
    ‘I didn’t mean that, I’m on my way.’
    If Brant was grateful, he wasn’t expressing it, said:
    ‘Get some coffee en route. The shite they serve here isn’t fit for Pakis.’
    Porter sighed, he never got used to the casual racialism of his fellow officers. He asked:
    ‘Anything else?’
    Letting the sarcasm leak all over the question, Brant said:
    ‘A slice of Danish and, mind, real coffee, none of that designer crap you pofftahs drink.’
    Click.
    Porter wondered for the hundredth time how on earth he managed to sustain his friendship with this… pig?
    He ran into Roberts on his way out, said he was en route to collect Brant. Roberts gave a grim, knowing smile, asked:
    ‘And how is he?’
    ‘Rude as hell.’
    ‘Ah, he’s recovered then.’
    When Porter arrived at the hospital, he was in a foul mood, a git had cut him in traffic and worse, given him the finger. Jesus, if he’d had time, he’d have gone after the prick, done him for every traffic violation in the manual.
    His diabetes was really acting up something fierce, he was way past his check-up time, his glucose levels were through the fucking roof.
    Stress, the number one enemy of insulin protection and he was under more stress than Tony Blair. Then he parked in the hospital, conscious he was way late for Brant, and a parking guy came running over, shouting:
    ‘Hoy, you… the fuck do you think you’re playing at?’
    Porter swirled on him, the guy was small but built, and hiswhole body language suggested he’d had one shit life and everybody was going to pay the freight, Porter whipped out his warrant card, said:
    ‘You talking to me?’
    The guy backed off a bit, not too much but sufficient, said:
    ‘That space is for hospital staff, not even cops are supposed to use it.’
    He had a voice that was made to whine, Porter reined in a little, asked:
    ‘You get mugged, who you gonna call?’
    The guy wasn’t buying it, sneered:
    ‘Well, not the boys in blue, that’s for sure, they only look out for the rich.’
    Porter nearly laughed, a damn socialist to boot, he said:
    ‘Do yourself a favour fellah, piss off.’
    The guy had more to say but decided to let it slide, went with:
    ‘I’ll let it go this time.… ’
    Porter shook his head, walked away.
    He wasn’t sure but the guy might have shouted:
    ‘Arse bandit.’
    Brant was resplendent in a new suit, a very expensive one, blue shirt, and the police federation tie, heavy brogue shoes, hand-made, you could tell from the stitching, but his face looked waxen, he was chatting to a nurse, scoring heavily from the look on her face. He turned to Porter, said:
    ‘This is Mary, an Irish girl, gave me a sponge bath.’
    Is there an answer to this, any reply that doesn’t sound bitter? Porter asked:
    ‘You good to go?’
    Brant stood up, and Mary said:
    ‘I’ll get the wheelchair.’
    Brant looked at Porter, said:
    ‘Regulations. They have to wheel you off the premises.’
    He lowered himself into the chair and when Mary went to push it, he waved her off, said:
    ‘My officer will do it, he’s built for speed.’
    A not so funny joke between them. Brant had persuaded an agent to buy a book from him, the problem being, he hadn’t written anything, had lured Porter to his home, spiked his coffee with speed, and jotted down Porter’s war stories. The book titled Calibre was due for publication soon. When Porter had finally confronted Brant about literally stealing his material, Brant had shrugged:
    ‘It’s a novel, who gives a fuck.’
    Porter still hadn’t quite decided what he was going to do about it. He knew from bitter experience, you never won against Brant, one way or another, he’d fuck you over and sometimes, it was simply best to just bend over.
    He wheeled Brant slowly till Brant snapped:
    ‘The fuck is the matter with you, mate, push the frigging thing, stop behaving like an old