corner of London more civilized, more considerate? I’m afraid not. Too little time, too many assholes. That’s all.
Last page of The Killer Inside Me says: ‘Yeah, I reckon that’s all unless our kind gets another chance in the Next Place. Our kind. Us people.’
—Jim Thompson, The Killer Inside Me
25
WHEN CREW EMERGED from his office at the end of an exhausting day, Brant was leaning against a car, toothpick in his mouth. Crew didn’t know whether to ignore him but found himself drawn to approach. Brant didn’t move, simply adjusted the toothpick in his mouth. Crew asked:
‘Is this it, you’re going to harass me?’
‘Yup.’
Crew thought he detected a softening of Brant’s attitude, asked:
‘The other evening, what you said, you were messing with my head, yes?’
‘Nope.’
‘You can’t seriously think you’ll get away with that… that threat?’
‘Sure do.’
Then Brant’s phone rang and, almost lazily, without taking his eyes from Crew, he reached in his pocket, took it out, answered.
Crew took the moment to move away fast, looked back to see Brant listening intently. When he rounded a corner, he ran like hell.
Brant heard:
‘Sergeant Brant?’
‘Yeah?’
‘This is Linda Gillingham-Bowl, the agent, you sent me your opening chapter?’
‘Yeah, sure.’
‘I love it and would like to talk to you about the manuscript.’
Brant thought, There is no manuscript, you got all there is, said:
‘Terrific’
‘Would Browns in Covent Garden be suitable, say this evening at 6.30?’
‘Great.’
‘I’ll leave your name with the doorman.’
‘No need.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Lady there isn’t a club in London I can’t get into.’
She gave a laugh of delicious fright, said:
‘Oh you sound so like your writing, I’m very excited about this.’
Brant had to know, asked:
Your name, you made it up, am I right?’
She laughed again, said:
‘Oh you are a card.’
Card. He’d been called all sorts of names and few of them flattering but a ‘card,’ no this was a first, he said:
‘See you anon.’
Click.
Crew had disappeared and Brant had to make a decision, fame or villainy? He considered and went with fame, got in his car, checked his watch, figured he’d have time to get home, spruce up, hit Covent Garden.
Back at his place, he selected a bespoke suit (muted navy), white shirt (Armani), police federation tie (stolen), and brown shoes by Loake (impressive). Splashed on some cologne, Tommy Hilfiger, that he’d liberated from a pimp, and poured a small brandy, toasted himself in a full-length mirror.
‘You writers, you just kill me.’
Called a cab as he figured he’d be putting away a fair amount of booze and the driver said:
‘Nice suit.’
Brant agreed and said:
‘Out of your league, pal.’
The driver thought ‘cop’ and ‘pig’ and was silent for the rest of the trip.
At Browns, Brant smiled at the doorman, said:
‘I’m expected.’
The guy recognized the heat though not usually so well dressed, stood aside, said:
‘Have a pleasant evening, sir.’
Brant decided this writing lark was paying dividends already.The lobby was as he’d hoped, full of old furniture, and he moved to the lounge where old people sat in older chairs, the smell of money underwriting all. A woman came towards him, and his spirits sank, she was in her fifties and how the hell could that be. She’d had a young voice on the phone. What kind of shit was that to pull? Dressed in an expensive suit, permed hair, and fuck it, goddam pearls. She gave a glorious smile, asked:
‘Sergeant Brant?’
Her hand outstretched, he reluctantly took it, said:
‘Yeah.’
He sounded as pissed off as he was. In addition to selling the book, which he hadn’t written, he was also expecting to get a leg over. She was delighted with his surliness, said:
‘You’re even better than I’d hoped.’
And, still holding his hand, she led him to some leather armchairs, sat him down,
Last page of The Killer Inside Me says: ‘Yeah, I reckon that’s all unless our kind gets another chance in the Next Place. Our kind. Us people.’
—Jim Thompson, The Killer Inside Me
25
WHEN CREW EMERGED from his office at the end of an exhausting day, Brant was leaning against a car, toothpick in his mouth. Crew didn’t know whether to ignore him but found himself drawn to approach. Brant didn’t move, simply adjusted the toothpick in his mouth. Crew asked:
‘Is this it, you’re going to harass me?’
‘Yup.’
Crew thought he detected a softening of Brant’s attitude, asked:
‘The other evening, what you said, you were messing with my head, yes?’
‘Nope.’
‘You can’t seriously think you’ll get away with that… that threat?’
‘Sure do.’
Then Brant’s phone rang and, almost lazily, without taking his eyes from Crew, he reached in his pocket, took it out, answered.
Crew took the moment to move away fast, looked back to see Brant listening intently. When he rounded a corner, he ran like hell.
Brant heard:
‘Sergeant Brant?’
‘Yeah?’
‘This is Linda Gillingham-Bowl, the agent, you sent me your opening chapter?’
‘Yeah, sure.’
‘I love it and would like to talk to you about the manuscript.’
Brant thought, There is no manuscript, you got all there is, said:
‘Terrific’
‘Would Browns in Covent Garden be suitable, say this evening at 6.30?’
‘Great.’
‘I’ll leave your name with the doorman.’
‘No need.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Lady there isn’t a club in London I can’t get into.’
She gave a laugh of delicious fright, said:
‘Oh you sound so like your writing, I’m very excited about this.’
Brant had to know, asked:
Your name, you made it up, am I right?’
She laughed again, said:
‘Oh you are a card.’
Card. He’d been called all sorts of names and few of them flattering but a ‘card,’ no this was a first, he said:
‘See you anon.’
Click.
Crew had disappeared and Brant had to make a decision, fame or villainy? He considered and went with fame, got in his car, checked his watch, figured he’d have time to get home, spruce up, hit Covent Garden.
Back at his place, he selected a bespoke suit (muted navy), white shirt (Armani), police federation tie (stolen), and brown shoes by Loake (impressive). Splashed on some cologne, Tommy Hilfiger, that he’d liberated from a pimp, and poured a small brandy, toasted himself in a full-length mirror.
‘You writers, you just kill me.’
Called a cab as he figured he’d be putting away a fair amount of booze and the driver said:
‘Nice suit.’
Brant agreed and said:
‘Out of your league, pal.’
The driver thought ‘cop’ and ‘pig’ and was silent for the rest of the trip.
At Browns, Brant smiled at the doorman, said:
‘I’m expected.’
The guy recognized the heat though not usually so well dressed, stood aside, said:
‘Have a pleasant evening, sir.’
Brant decided this writing lark was paying dividends already.The lobby was as he’d hoped, full of old furniture, and he moved to the lounge where old people sat in older chairs, the smell of money underwriting all. A woman came towards him, and his spirits sank, she was in her fifties and how the hell could that be. She’d had a young voice on the phone. What kind of shit was that to pull? Dressed in an expensive suit, permed hair, and fuck it, goddam pearls. She gave a glorious smile, asked:
‘Sergeant Brant?’
Her hand outstretched, he reluctantly took it, said:
‘Yeah.’
He sounded as pissed off as he was. In addition to selling the book, which he hadn’t written, he was also expecting to get a leg over. She was delighted with his surliness, said:
‘You’re even better than I’d hoped.’
And, still holding his hand, she led him to some leather armchairs, sat him down,
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