Ammunition by Ken Bruen Page A

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 ashis 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.

Hey, you play, you gotta pay.
     
—Bonanno crime boss on hearing his wife had been murdered after she dropped the dime on him
     

22
     
    BRANT WAS SHAKING, not just his hands, his whole body. He was back in his home, a small house on the aptly named… Forl Road… as in forlorn. It had amused him once, not no more, he was dressed in a track suit, a navy blue London Met job. That normally tickled him as he’d nicked it from the Super. Sticking it to his boss had been among his favourite amusements
    The painkillers they’d given him at the hospital weren’t worth a shite, he said aloud:
    ‘These aren’t worth a shite.’
    To the empty house.
    The doctor had told him he was sure to experience posttraumatic stress disorder. Like it was fucking mandatory, and if he didn’t, he’d be letting the side down. Yeah, well, bloody newsflash, he was feeling it, okay, happy now, you gobshites. And the rage—he’d always operated on a blend of anger, agitation, and aggressiveness—it was who he was.
    Brant had been hurt before, knifed in the back by a couple of crazy kids who’d burned his dog… and what the fuck, ashe thought of that damn animal, the dog that is. He felt a tear welling in his eye. Now he was seriously angry, to ride with the fear. Crying like a damned bitch.
    Fuck no, no way.
    After the knifing, he’d gone right back on the streets, meaner than ever and those two, the stabbing duo, they were dirt, literally, buried years ago and good fucking riddance. But this, this gut-twisting feeling, the sweat popping out on his brow, the tremors, Jesus.
    Yeah, fine, he was of Irish descent, he knew the painkiller that never failed. Tore open his drinks cabinet, nigh splintering the wood, grabbed the bottle of Jameson, a twenty-five-year-old beauty he’d been saving, twisted the cap off as if he was twisting the neck of some bugger, got a lethal measure poured into a heavy Waterford tumbler, and drank deep, waited for the magic to light his belly.
    He held the glass up to the light, sighed as the sun caught the intricate pattern. The odd time Brant had guests