Ammunition

21

Wallace was driving fast and with a fixed determination, Porter was shocked, sitting in the bucket seat, like he’d been hit by a truck… or a Magnum.

Wallace asked:

‘Where do you stand on pity fucks?’

Took Porter a moment to find his voice, then he said:

‘I pity the poor fuck you just murdered?’

Wallace looked at him in amazement, asked:

‘Hey, you’re not gonna wimp out on me, bud, I didn’t have you down for a pussy, is it some kind of gay thing? That what’s going on with you, you on the rag?’

If Porter had been carrying, he was fairly sure he’d have shot him, he said:

‘It’s gay if you count being horrified by cold-blooded execution, how the hell do you expect to get away with it?’

Wallace laughed, said:

‘You don’t get it, do you, you poor sap. It’s Homeland Security. I can do whatever the fuck I like, and what happened there, that was a message… They want to sip with virgins, be bathed in milk, or whatever crap they believe, we’re letting them know we’re more than happy to send them on their goddamn way.’

Porter reached for his cigarettes. He’d nearly quit… well, down to five a day… five-ish… Menthol Lights. He fired one up and Wallace snapped:

‘Yo, earth to pillow biter, did I say you could foul up my ride with that poison. It’s like fucking manners to ask, and the answer would have been no.’

Porter took a long deep drag, let out the smoke in Wallace’s direction, said:

‘What you going to do, shoot me?’

They’d got back to the station, and Wallace asked:

‘You gonna be pissed at me for long or you gonna lighten up, fellah?’

Porter tried to keep some trace of civility in his voice. He was British after all. Said:

‘I’m going to be get pissed… not gonna,… g-o-i-n-g… and then I’ll consider what action to take on your murderous act.’

He was out of the car and Wallace leaned out, near whispered:

‘Well howdy-doody, thanks y’all for the lesson in that there grammar, and I tell you, pilgrim, you drop a dime on me, you is, as us rednecks say,… deep crittered.’

Porter spun back, asked:

‘You threatening me, you…’

He couldn’t find a Brit-enough adjective to convey his rage and ended with ‘wanker.’

Wallace laughed, burned rubber off the pavement.

Porter resolved he was going to be laid, if he had to buy a frigging rent boy, but as them Yanks said, his ashes hauled, he was gonna get.

That evening, he dressed for sex, tight dark jeans, a pair of boots that cut slightly into his left foot but pain was okay, kept you focused, ask Wallace.

He wore a crisp white shirt, open neck, no bling… come on, keep it simple, let his body do the talking, an ultra soft leather jacket, cream colour, and a splash of Calvin Klein. Good to go.

He had a very dry martini to set himself up and smoked one menthol, everything in moderation.

He didn’t bring his car, let’s not play silly buggers.

‘Buggery’ yes, silly… no.

He went to a club in Balham named, wait for it… O-ZONE… and worse, it had the logo… HITS THE SPOT.

Yeah.

But he’d been there before and it was a damn certainty to get off. He wasn’t looking for a bloody relationship, he’d been there and had the scars to show. Nope, a few drinks, unwind, get fucked, go home. Two serious bouncers on the door, in the muscle T-shirts, looking like they’d escaped from Village People. He didn’t know them, these guys changed as often as his underwear. He could flash, so to speak, his warrant card, breeze in.

From their exchanged look, they knew he was the heat, nodded at him, let him pass. Inside, he gave them the twenty-quid admission, got a smile from the drag queen taking the cash, and went in to the main bar/dance floor.

The basement was for S and M, Porter got enough of that in his job, and upstairs, well, that was private rooms for shagging. Porter prayed they wouldn’t be playing Streisand, or worse, Garland.

Nope, some heavy hip-hop beat that wasn’t the worst. He stepped up to the bar and a gorgeous guy, like a young Red-ford, smiled:

‘And what would be your pleasure, sir.’

As Brant would say, thick as two short planks and stupid with it. Times were, he sure missed having that bigot around. He ordered a Campari and soda, stay mellow, and bought the guy a drink. The guy took a White Russian and when he got the look from Porter, lisped:

‘Jeff Bridges in The Big Lebowski.’

Porter took his drink and took off.

Four minutes later, he scored.