The Mammoth Book of Best British Mysteries 6

NORA B. by Ken Bruen

She had a mouth on her.

Jesus, like a fishwife.

And mean with it?

You fooking kiddin?

She’d slice your skin off with three words.

I was a cop, out of the Three Seven in those days.

Man, we’d do the night shift

Give me

Your scumbags

Your dopers

Your skels

Your preds

The zombies

Had ‘em all and twice over.

They came out of the fucking sewers, menacing, feral and lethal

And lemme tell you, we were ready for em…no fucking innocents there.

We had a stone simple rule.

Fuck ‘em first.

We did.

Always.

Our Sarge, half wop, half Mick and deadly, he’d go,

“Bring em down, fast, don’t let em ever…and I mean fucking ever, get up, got that?”

We did.

Did we fucking ever.

My wife had run off with some carpet salesman and if I’d had the energy, I might have cared.

Got a free carpet though.

Nice Persian job, I piss on it every chance I get, which is most mornings after the usual boilermakers with the guys.

First though, we clocked off, we went over to May’s, diner Eighth and 28th.

There is no May, it was owned by a Polack hardass who wouldn’t give you the time of day if you paid him.

Our kind of guy, he never charged us neither and we kept an eye on the joint. He was the cook too, did hash browns, eggs over easy and bacon like your mother might have, if she’d ever been sober.

How I met Nora, the guys had been yapping about this Irish broad who’d been working there a time, I missed her first two weeks as I caught a knife in the gut from a domestic. The guy, he caught the fucking hiding of his life, you gut a cop, better have more than a small blade.

But it put me in the hospital for four days and then I had some time coming so I went fishing.

Like fuck.

I went to the OTB and the track.

Lost me whatever savings I might have had.

You might say, I came back on the job, a wiser, more cautious guy.

You might say shite.

I was meaner, more violent, more intent than before and lemme tell you, I was no Mr Nice to start.

So, me and Richy, we’re heading for the diner and Richy says, “Wait till you get a load of Nora.”

“The fuck is Nora?”

Like I gave a flying fuck.

Richy, he was a small guy, but he had my back and he was real good in the close-up stuff, a guy got in his face, he lost his face. Think I’m kidding?

But here he was, sounding kinda…goddamit…shy?

He said, “Jeez, Joe, she’s like…I dunno, special, I’m thinking of you…know, mebbe asking her out, a drink or something?

I gave him the look, but the poor bastard, he was…what’s the word…smitten…or better, fucked.

I cuffed his ear and he didn’t even notice.

We went into the place, got our usual booth at the back, watch the exits, yeah, cop stuff.

And there she was.

I felt something move in my heart, like a melting. Ah Jesus, I’m not that kind of guy, but a jolt and I hadn’t even had me my caffeine yet.

She was small, red hair, green eyes, nice, nice figure, real built but not showy with it, she knew what she had, didn’t need to push, pretty face, not spectacular but there was an energy there, you found it hard to look away. She had her pad out, and of course, the coffee pot and without asking, filled our coffee mugs, cops, you gotta ask? She smiled at Richy, said,

“Tis himself.”

He smiled like a love-struck teenager, I wanted to throw up, then she leveled those eyes on me and here was the goddamn jolt again, asked.

“And who is Mr Silent here?”

Richy blurted out about me being his partner, how I’d been in the hospital and she cut him off, asked me,

“Cat got your tongue, fellah?”

Something had, I had a million put-downs, couldn’t bring one to mind, I put out my hand.

Jesus.

She looked at my hand, laughed, said,

“Tis shaking hands now is it, my my, aren’t you the polite devil.”

Fucking with me.

She said to Richy,

“Usual?”

He nodded like an idiot and to me,

“What about you, gorgeous, you able to eat?”

I mumbled something about having the same as Richy.

She gave that smile again, said, “Christ, what a surprise.”

And took off.

Richy was almost panting and I swear, he had a line of sweat above his eyes. He asked, “Isn’t she something?”

I wanted to bitch slap him, but I went with, “Got a mouth on her, I’ll give her that.”

He had his Luckies out, lit one with a shaking hand, hard to believe that back then you could smoke anywhere, he persisted, “But you like her, don’t you, I mean, she’s hot, isn’t she?”

Fuck yes, I felt the heat offa her the moment she rolled up to us and I knew I was in some sort of serious bind, had to bite down, keep my cool, said, “Whatever…so you going to the ball game Sunday?”

She was back, balancing the plates with easy grace, put them down, gave me a look, asked, “You have a touch of Irish in yah, haven’t yah?”

I wanted to put more than a touch of Irish in her, right there, right over the mess of eggs, bacon and linked sausages. I said, “Second generation.”

She blew that off like it was horseshit, said, “And a house full of harps and Irish music, fecking sad.”

Left us to our food.

Her voice, the real deal, the soft lilt, those gentle vowels, you could have her cuss at you all day and still want more of that sound.

I gulped some coffee, it was bitter, black burned my tongue, just the way I liked it, like my fucking life.

We don’t get a bill, we leave a fat tip on the table, that’s how it works, Richy left a twenty and seeing my look, he pleaded, “I’m gonna ask her out, can you give me a minute?”

When he went to ask her, I switched the twenty for a five…no point in madness.

I waited in the prowl car, the radio squawking and my head full of her, she was dancing across my heart…fuck and fuck.

I lit a Lucky, tried to figure out what the hell had just happened to me.

Richy came back, shit-eating grin all over his dumb face, said, “She said yes, can you believe that?”

I said, as I put the car in drive, “Guess the twenty did the trick.”

I didn’t have to look to see the disappointment on his face, like his school project had been trampled on.

Tough.

The next couple of weeks, Richy was gone, signed sealed and fucked. He was taking Nora to fancy restaurants, clubs, buying her shitloads of jewelry, clothes, and crackin on about her, till I went, “Shaddthefuckup.”

He didn’t.

He couldn’t.

Where was the money coming from and it took a lot of moola.

Richy had grown up with wiseguys and now he was on the pad. He’d hinted I might like me some of the action till he saw my face and I could tell, deeper and deeper in the hole to these scum, he was going.

He was my partner, what could I do, watch the disaster take shape and get ready to annihilate him.

I watched.

One evening, I was sitting in the Mick bar, down a block from the precinct, fuming, the constant simmering rage in barely reined leash. I had me a Jameson rocks, Guinness back, and it wasn’t my first. Someone slipped onto the stool beside me and I got the whiff of that perfume, swoon stuff.

Heard,

“Tis himself.”

I turned to face her and my damn treacherous heart skipped some beats, those eyes and that Irish colouring and she had lips, you wanted to run your finger, gently across them and kiss them till they bled. She was wearing a tight dress that had to be against some law, least one that protected fools like me. She asked, “So will himself buy a girl a jar or have I to beg?”

She had a double Old Grandad, Bud back. I asked, “You’re not gonna drink an Irish brand?”

She gave me a look, her eyes half lidded, said, “Sure I’m in America, I can have the other stuff at home, wouldn’t I be stone mad not to try yer drink?”

She put a cigarette between those gorgeous lips, waited and said, “So Mr Grumpy, are yah going to light me up?”

Jesus.

I did and she held my hand as I did so, I swear, I had a tremor in me fingers and she said, “Christ fellah, calm down, I’m not going to bite yah…yet.”

An hour later, I was buried to the hilt in her, sweating and groaning and howling like a lunatic and she goaded, “Ride me like yah loved me.”

After, her head on my chest, I asked, “What about Richy?”

She was pulling at the hairs on my chest, said, “Tis a bit late to remember him now.”

I sat up, that hair-pulling, the sucker hurt, said, “So you’ll finish with him?”

She laughed, asked, “Are ye mad entirely, he’s loaded and I love money.”

I tried for some decency, not that I know much about it, said, “He’s my buddy.”

She began to massage my dick, asked, “And how do you treat yer enemies?”

Another month of me fucking her twice a week, Richy buying her more and more shit, getting deeper in the hole and one evening, over a few brews, his face a riot of agony, he said, “Joe, I’m in trouble.”

I thought, “You’ve no fucking idea, pal.”

I said, “Spill.”

Deep, huh?

He drained his fourth bottle, now, he hit the Jameson, hard, said,

“I owe some guys and I can’t meet the vig, never mind the freaking principal and Nora B, she’s wanting more and more.”

I echoed, “Nora B…what’s with the B?”

He was puzzled, said, “Jeez, I never asked…beautiful, I guess.”

Bitch, I thought

I said I’d see if I could maybe help him out.

Right.

The following Monday, Richy had his kids, and against my better judgment, I went back to Nora’s place, always, we’d used my pad, we were deep in it when the door opened and there was Richy, his face a mask of stunned bewilderment. Nora, cool as an Irish breeze, slipped out of bed, naked, said, “How ‘as your day dear?”

He was reaching for his piece when she shot him in the head, twice, said, “I just wouldn’t have been able for all that whining he’d have done…you?”

I was too shocked to speak and she said, “Let’s make it look like his shady friends got fed up with him, you can fix it to look like that, can you sweetheart?”

I could and I did.

And worse, I was part of the team that went after the wiseguys.

Nora disappeared, taking every cent Richy had stashed under the bed, she left me a note,

Joe a gra

I’m tired of policeman, ye are too serious.

I was thinking of getting some sunshine,

so if you’re ever in Florida, look me up.

Tons of kisses,

Nora B.

‘Course, she wasn’t in Florida or anywhere else I could find her.

She just seemed to vanish.

The years went by, and I managed to retire with most of my pension, and a cloud over my whole career.

Most nights, I sit and listen to that Irish wailing music, they give free razor blades with it, and I see Richy in my dreams, always with that lost look.

A few days ago, I heard from an old cop buddy, there was a hot joint up on the west side, run by a hot Irish broad, she had the most stunning red hair he said…and get this, green eyes.

I got the knife from a guy in a bar, and soon as I finish the next Jameson, I’m gonna take a stroll up there, after I chop off that red hair, and before I sever the jugular, she’s gonna tell me what the fucking B stands for

It’s like, been… bugging me.