Free Calibre by Ken Bruen Page B

flow:
    ‘A young lady, claims to be your… significant other, says she saw you mention an act of violence in your diary’
    Crew seemed astounded, said:
    ‘Mandy, the… working girl I’ve had… am… recourse to… once or twice. That’s why you’re here. Good lord, clues must be scarce. The Met running out of actual crimes?’
    Porter moved right up close to Crew, said:
    ‘Three years she says, and you move her in across the street, hardly a casual deal, is it, Mr Crew?’
    Crew laughed, a short bark, said:
    ‘The word of a hooker, that’s going to be solid.’
    Brant asked:
    ‘The diary?’
    Crew went to his desk, a fine oak affair, and picked a leather volume up, tossed it to Porter, said,
    ‘Enjoy.’
    Porter flicked through it, looked up, said:
    ‘This is your business diary; there’s nothing personal here.’
    Crew fixed another drink, less soda, said:
    ‘For me, business is personal.’
    Porter let that sit, then asked:
    ‘How do you feel about manners?’
    Crew looked puzzled, said:
    ‘What on earth does that mean?’
    Brant joined in, said:
    ‘It’s not a real difficult question, like, do you think they matter in the world, how we treat each other, is that a factor for you?’
    Then Crew put his hand in the air, went:
    ‘As Oprah says, “I’m having a light bulb moment.” This is about that Manners guy, is that it? You think I might be the guy?’
    Brant asked:
    ‘Are you?’
    Crew said:
    ‘I’d like you to leave now. See, I’m asking politely, lots of manners, which is more than I can say for either of you.’
    Porter moved towards the door, but Brant hadn’t moved. He stared at Crew, asked:
    ‘I can understand a guy using hookers, hell, it’s part of the whole consumer society. But what I don’t get is, you’ve got lots of cash. You look reasonably okay, yeah?’
    Crew waited then asked:
    ‘Is there a question there?’
    Brant now began to move towards Porter, nodding, said:
    ‘Well, it’s not really a question, but given all I’ve said, how the hell did you go and pick such an ugly cunt?’
    Then they were outside, and the door closed behind them. Brant lit a cig, said:
    ‘You think he really watches Oprah?’
    Porter was still looking at the door, said:
    ‘Lots of guys watch her.’
    ‘It’s a gay thing, right?’
    They’d got to Clapham Common. Brant put his hand in his pocket, took out a book, said:
    ‘Now let’s see what the deal with this is, why he was so keen for us not to see it.’
    He had The Killer Inside Me in his hand. Porter yet again was astonished, went:
    You nicked it, jeez. You think he won’t notice?’
    Brant was flicking through the book, said:
    ‘I want him to notice.’
    Porter said:
    ‘There’s a nice café down here, they do really good coffee, you coming?’
    He was.
    Porter ordered a decaff latte and looked to Brant, who ordered a double espresso. Said he’d have the caffeine that Porter was skipping, oh, and bring him some really disgusting sticky, creamy bun.
    Porter said:
    ‘Are you serious about the pastry? The waitress doesn’t know whether you’re kidding or not.’
    Brant, stuck in the book, said he was as serious as murder.

But little guys with wild hairs up their ass, there was no book on guys like that .
—Elmore Leonard, The Big Bounce
     

21
     
    THE COPS WERE here. I fucked up and big time. Worse, I had a couple of scotches while they were interviewing me. And that blew my focus to shit. I got complacent, figured I could handle them easy. Two of them, Porter, the senior officer, and a sergeant named Brant. Porter I pegged as a fag. He had all that fussy manner, nice politeness, and the body language so I figured to concentrate on him. I figured the sergeant was just dumb. Figured wrong. If anything, he was the sharpest. Cultivates the animal persona. You reckon he’s just pig-ignorant and brute force is the only game he’s got. I should have known when he zoned in on the books. But no, I was busy playing mind-fuck with