Vixen

21

Brant and Roberts hammered on Jimmy’s door and got the smell, nodded. Brant stepped back, raised his boot and gave a ferocious kick. The door came down without a whimper.

Roberts said:

‘Maybe we should have tooled up.’

Brant was on high alert, answered:

‘Too fucking late now.’

Went in low and fast, rolled on the floor and came up in a semi-crouch, said:

‘Police.’

Roberts was stunned, walked in, asked:

‘Where did you learn that shit?’

‘Saw it on NYPD Blue.’

Roberts could tell there was no one in the flat, no one alive anyway. The stench was a familiar one, was all over bar the tagging. Brant headed for the bathroom, entered slowly, said:

‘Oh fuck, I think I found Jimmy.’

Together, they stared at the burned hunk and Brant indicated the electric fire, said:

‘Gee, how careless.’

Roberts said:

‘They took him out.’

‘They?’

Roberts was on his cellphone, calling an ambulance, scene of crime guys, the whole outfit.

Brant said:

‘I’m impressed.’

Roberts said:

‘I want this place gone over with a fine comb: fingerprints, the empty bottles out there, the lot. And get a crew over to his brother’s place, tell them to arm up.’

Brant was on his phone and shaking his head, went:

‘Too late. You’re not going to like this. Fuck, you are going to hate this.’

‘What?’

Brant fumbled for his cigs and for the first time ever, Roberts noticed a tremor in his hand, knew it had to be bad. Nothing shook Brant, not since he was indirectly responsible for the death of a young cop some years back. Brant moved past him, grabbed a bottle, looked disinterestedly at the label, tequila, shrugged and drank deep. Shuddered, said:

‘That stupid prick McDonald, he must have been listening to us, he decided to check out Ray alone and he got shot.’

‘Dead?’

‘As good as, could be a headshot.’

They knew how that went, you were fucked either way; never came back from the head stuff, not in any way worthwhile. Brant took another slug, offered the bottle. Roberts shook his head, said:

‘This is getting seriously fucked.’

In a little while the place was swarming with technicians, all of whom had watched too much CSI: Crime Scene Investigation and acted accordingly. Roberts gave his instructions and moved outside with Brant, said:

‘Any word on Porter?’

‘Shit, I forgot all about the pooftah.’

Roberts gave him the look, said:

‘I thought you guys were friends.’

‘Yeah, so?’

‘So, how come you call him names?’

Brant, the tequila already showing in his eyes, said:

‘You should hear what I call you.’