Free Vixen (Inspector Brant) by Ken Bruen Page A

wards. He was wearing a Burberry raincoat, open to reveal a blue blazer, grey slacks. A silk cravat was carelessly tied around his neck. This was his father’s casual gear.
    He glared at Porter in the bed, near roared:
    ‘What’s all this nonsense?’
    ‘Hi, Dad.’
    ‘Is it one of them faggot diseases? I don’t want to catch anything.’
    ‘They think it’s my heart but they moved me out of Coronary Care, so that’s a good sign.’
    His father turned his head, searching for someone to order. Then said:
    ‘You always were an idiot; only you would think there’s some good sign in being hooked up to monitors.’
    Porter Nash was trying to remember the name of the new wife, but no, it wouldn’t yield. So he went with:
    ‘How’s the wife?’
    Not a tactical plus. His father’s face clouded and he said:
    ‘Women! She thinks a credit card means free money. Your mother wasn’t much better.’
    ‘It’s going well then?’
    His father raised his arm and Porter smiled. How would it look if his father beat him in the bed? Then his father changed tactics, smiled his evil smile, said:
    ‘Why am I talking to you about women? What would you know about them?’
    Before Porter could answer, the doctor came and said heneeded time with his patient. Falls was walking along the ward and Porter said:
    ‘Dad, there’s one of my colleagues, will you get her some coffee?’
    He stared at her then said:
    ‘She’s a nigger. I’ll come tomorrow and have you transferred to a private clinic.’
    Porter sighed, said:
    ‘Don’t bother.’
    ‘What? You don’t want the best care money can buy?’
    ‘No, I don’t want you to visit tomorrow or any other day.’

“At daylight I thumbed a ride with a gaunt gypsy
trucker with shoulder-length hair and a death’s head
earring. It was 6.30 and his eyes were wide open,
and he was listening to a metal band sing about the
highway to hell.
‘I know that highway pretty good,’ I told him.
He grinned and handed me some crystal.’
Fred Willard,
Down on Ponce.

17
    ROBERTS CAME TO with the highway to hell pounding in his head. He’d had hangovers, he’d had bad hangovers but this was the
motherfucker.
This was the reference point, the level by which all future pain could be measured. He was in a bed, sorta. Hanging over the side, bile dribbling from his mouth, vomit congealed on the floor. And he was naked. He dragged himself to a sitting position and saw a woman… also naked, in the bed. He thought:
    Oh God, did I?
    He did.
    She mumbled then suddenly sat up, opened her eyes, peered round then fixed her gaze on him, said (or rather, croaked):
    ‘Well hello, big boy.’
    Oh, Christ.
    She fumbled for her bag, got it opened, pulled out a pack of Superkings, said:
    ‘Where’s my fecking lighter?’
    Touch of an Irish lilt there. Found the lighter, fired up, dragged deep – one of those skull ones, where your cheekbones disappear – and then the coughing began, ratching death-knell variety.
    She said:
    ‘Shit, that tastes great.’
    One felt that irony was not her forte but if it had been…
    Roberts looked round for his clothes and the door crashed open. Brant appeared, dressed in an immaculate suit, his face shining, spit and polish oozing out of him. To coin a cliché, he looked like a million dollars…or Euros, if you wanted to lean on the Irish connection. He surveyed the damage, said:
    ‘Yah dirty dog, you sure went for it, me ol’ segotia.’
    Segotia?
    It’s an Irish word meaning… either mate or eejit.
    The hooker coughed some more, then eyed Roberts with something resembling affection, asked:
    ‘Hon’, you married?’
    Brant smiled, answered:
    ‘My guv’nor was recently widowed. Tragically, we lost her.’
    This was true in more senses than one. Mrs Roberts had been cremated and the two of them had gone on an almighty skite. Somewhere along the way the urn was stolen. Wherever she rested she was certainly, if not atpeace, then in pieces. Rumour had it that a