Vixen

3

Brant went:

‘Ahh…’

The hooker finished up, wiped her mouth and got to her feet. Brant stretched, said:

‘There’s brewskis in the fridge, grab us two.’

She glared at him, wanted to shout:

‘Get them yourself, yer fucking pig!’

But she’d known him longer than she wanted to remember, went to the kitchen, rinsed her mouth, spat, said:

‘Good riddance.’

There was a small mirror over the sink and she checked her face. The reflection told the harsh truth: a tired hooker with way too much mileage, the lines of twenty years and all of them hard. Brant from the other room:

‘What, you brewing them? Get your tush in here.’

She grabbed the beers and headed back. He’d put on his trousers, which was a relief, and he tapped the coffee table, said:

‘Plant them here, babe.’

She stared at the table, apparently lost. He asked:

‘You deaf? Plonk them on here.’

‘You don’t have coasters?’

He leant over, grabbed a can, popped the tab, gulped half, belched, said:

‘If you’re not having that, slide it on over.’

She pulled the top, took a ladylike sip. This amused him and he asked:

‘Teach you that at finishing school?’

She looked at him, said:

‘Yeah, the Mile End Road. They’re real big on etiquette.’

He finished the beer, crushed the can and lobbed it over his shoulder, asked:

‘Got any smokes?’

She tried not to sigh, got her handbag, threw over a pack. He caught it, cursed.

‘Silk Cut? The fuck are those?’

‘’Cos of my chest.’

He tore off the filter, said:

‘You standing there? Light me up.’

The phone rang. Brant reached over, grabbed it, said:

‘Yo?’

‘Brant, it’s Roberts, we’ve got a situation.’

Brant winked at the hooker, said:

‘Just had me a situation, too.’

‘I don’t doubt it. Can you get down here?’

‘On my way.’

He stood up, stretched, and the hooker asked:

‘How long have we known each other?’

‘Whoa… who’s counting?’

‘So, did I ever ask you for anything? Not once, not even a few quid?’

He mimed horror, said:

‘You mean you were faking, it wasn’t love?’

‘There’s a guy, name of Millovitz, some European geezer, he’s been beating the girls at the Oval, says they’ll get hurt bad if they don’t pay him weekly. One of the girls, he broke her nose and in this game, that drives value way down.’

Brant selected a pair of tan cords and sparkling white shirt, pulled out a stolen police federation tie, did it up in a Windsor knot. He sat, pulled on heavy work boots then selected a short black raincoat. The wardrobe was open and she could see a ton of new clothes, still with tags on. She could see they were designer labels and what they said to her was money, lots of money. Brant smiled, said:

‘Fell off a lorry, know what I mean?’

She didn’t answer, Brant did a twirl, asked:

‘What do you think? See me on the street, would you get hot?’

She thought she’d get the hell away — everything about him screamed cop. She gave a weak smile, Brant reached down, touched his toes, said:

‘Listen.’

He rapped his knuckle and a dull zing sounded. Straightening, he said:

‘Steel caps. So what time does this shithead usually make an appearance?’