Ammunition

17

Andrews thought long and hard as to whether she should report Falls. She knew the code… never rat out another cop. You might not like your fellow officers and, right off the bat, she could bring to mind at least six she downright loathed but… you stuck by them. The enemy were civilians. On the other hand, Falls had treated her like shit, yeah, as if she couldn’t be trusted with seeing the photo of the rogue vigilante guy.

Fuck that!

And, if Falls were reported, she’d lose her stripes, that was for damn sure, be lucky to even stay on the force and that meant a vacancy. Andrews was still relatively new, but she knew one bloody thing, the powers that be would have a white face any day of the week.

Then she told herself, all of these considerations aside, morally she was obliged to do the right thing and that was shaft Falls.

Sorry, report the suppression of evidence.

Thus, ethically uplifted, she headed for the Super’s office and was dismayed to find he was golfing. She was moving away when she almost walked into Roberts. He asked:

‘What’s up?’

It was now or never, so she asked if she might have a word, a private one. He said sure and led her into his office, closed the door, indicated she should sit.

She did.

He sat on the edge of the desk, told her to fire away. She gave him the whole story. His expression remained neutral, and she was pretty sure he was. impressed. Such zeal as she was showing was out of the ordinary. She sat back, waiting for the heap of praise, perhaps even his backing for her nomination as acting sergeant.

He said,

‘You treacherous bitch.’

Forthe next ten minutes he lectured her about loyalty, snitch cops and what happened to them, and wound up with:

‘You want to stay being a policewoman?’

She assured him she did, and he snapped:

‘Then shut your fucking mouth. Now get out of my office.’

Crushed, she was in the corridor, Porter came by, asked:

‘You alright, love?’

She strode off without answering him. He knocked on Roberts door, heard:

‘Come in.’

Roberts was pouring a shot of whisky into a mug, asked:

‘Care to join me?’

Porter wanted to say it was a little early for him and certainly too early for a chief inspector, but the look on Robert’s face stopped that. He merely shook his head and Roberts asked:

‘You ever see Serpico? ’

Porter had, anything with Pacino, he’d seen a couple of times. He said he had and Roberts asked:

‘Did you agree with him, ratting out cops?’

Porter realized this was a loaded question, tried for:

‘We have to stick together.’

And got the look from Roberts, the one that said:

‘Are you shitting me?’

So he did the obvious, asked:

‘Were you thinking of giving someone up?’

Roberts gave him a glance of such withering contempt that he felt it all the way to his backbone. Roberts said:

‘I’d put a bullet in my head before I’d screw another cop.’

Porter hadn’t anything to reply to this. He felt as if Roberts was testing him, see if he was the type who, given the right circumstances, would fuck over another policeman. He settled his face in what he hoped was a look of… Me?… shit, I’d never give up one of our own.

Roberts said:

‘Andrews, she’s got a bee in her bonnet. She might be about to shop someone.’

Porter wanted to ask who but settled for:

‘She’s young, she’ll learn.’

Roberts face was a mask of restrained fury, he said:

‘She fucking better.’

There was an uneasy silence and Porter was unsure where to go. Roberts asked

‘What’s the story with Brant?’

So Porter filled him in, gave the breakdown on their encounter with Rodney Lewis.

Roberts was smiling, not a smile of warmth or humour but the one that said it was exactly what he expected from Brant. He said:

‘This Lewis, he has juice I’d say.’

Guys who worked in the city, they usually had an in with the Super: money, Freemasons, golf, all the usual old boys’ network. Porter said:

‘If he reports Brant and I’d imagine he will, Brant might be up the creek.’

Roberts mulled it over, said:

‘Brant is always up the creek.’

No argument there.

Roberts asked:

‘Your own instinct, is Lewis the guy, the one who contracted the shooting?’

Porter considered carefully. With Roberts, you committed yourself, he’d hold you to it. He said:

‘He sure has motive and certainly has the cash to hire a shooter.’

Roberts went through some files, said:

‘The dead shooter, Terry Dunne, he had a girlfriend. Go see her, find out what she knows, maybe she can shed some light on the deal.’

Porter thought it wasn’t a bad idea, and before he could say so, Roberts snapped:

‘You still here, she isn’t going to come and see you, get your arse in gear.’

Porter had a lot of responses to this but none that wouldn’t involve violence, he stood said:

‘Right away, sir.’

And he was at the door when Roberts added:

‘You see Andrews, you put her straight, got it.’

He did.

Outside, he muttered:

‘Fuck.’

The American cop, Wallace was striding down the corridor, a large Starbucks in his fist. He went:

‘Porter, what’s up?’

Porter looked at him and, on impulse, asked:

‘Want to see how we intimidate would be witnesses?’

Wallace lobbed his Styrofoam in a long wide arc and… slam dunk, it landed in the waste bin, he said:

‘What are we waiting for, intimidation is my speciality.’

They got a car from the pool, and to Porter’s disgust, only a Volvo was available. He said:

‘Might as well write Cops on the front.’

Wallace asked if he could drive.

He could.

He made a grinding mess of the gear shift, asked:

‘The fuck is the matter with you guys? Didn’t you ever hear of automatics?’

Porter was amused, said:

‘We heard of them, we just like to do things the hard way.’

Wallace finally got the swing of it, said:

‘Yeah, I’ve had piss you guys call beer.’

Wallace ’s bulk took up most of the front seats, and Porter had to squeeze himself against the window. He asked:

‘Shouldn’t you be doing counterintelligence stuff?’

Wallace gave him a look, impossible to read, asked:

‘What makes you think I amn’t?’