Ken Bruen - Calibre

Shit from Shinola. You have to hand it to the goddamn Yanks, they have great verbals, man. I love the way they cuss.

I killed my first last Tuesday, I cant believe it was so easy. Remorse? Not a fuckin trace. Only sorry I didnt do it sooner.

Im forty-four years old, and I guess Im what youd call a late starter. Or as them Yanks have it, a late bloomer. Thirty years I could have been mowing down the fucks and what was I doing?

Working.

A working stiff.

I think it was Bob Geldof who said work was the biggest con of all. I listen to The Rats with I Dont Like Mondays and Ive got my soundtrack down. They nailed it. The silicon chip inside my head just switched to overload.

Been a long time coming.

My old man, Anthony Crew, worked in an asbestos factory all his life. The last ten years he spent coughing up blood and gook till his eyes bulged. His employers, did they cover the hospital bills? They did fuck-all.

The National Health Service did the best they could but he was fucked and gone; he was dead and didnt know it, wouldnt lie down. The Mick in him, those Paddies, tough sons of bitches. Every Sunday I went round his gaff, a council flat on Railton Road, and listened to him cough. James Joyce is buried in Switzerland near a zoo, and his wife, Nora Barnacle, said:

He liked to listen to the lions roar. Brixton is as close to a zoo as it gets. My dad, his face contorted to grotesque degrees of agony, and I wanted to kill some fucker.

Now I have:

Willeford

Woolich

Thompson.

My heroes. Ive read crime fiction for over twenty years, cant get enough, black as its painted. The classic hard-boiled, though, these guys are the biz.

Noir and out.

Shit-kickers par excellence. My bookcase is an homage to pulp:

James M. Cain

Hammett

Chandler.

Heres a thing. I cant read Chandlers novels any more, but his letters, phew-oh, now youre cooking. Theyre on my bedside table, resting on my old mans Bible. His book passed down through generations of navvies to land here in Clapham. Could be worse, could be Kilburn.

Might be yet.

Used to be if you were in a hotel and wanted a hooker, open the Gideon Bible back page, bingo. Not any more. I blame the Internet, all that cybersex and chat rooms, theyve taken the zing out of dirt.

Im not going to get caught. Im due for another kill on Friday, a woman this time, keep the balance. The reason I wont get caught is not just cos Im smart but I have an edge.

I watch CSI.

STUDY IT.

So Im au fait With all the DNA fibres, signatures, trophies, crap. Two things in my corner, Im random and Im careful.

Hard to top.

They wont.

Ive read the true crime books, from Ann Rule through Joe McGinnis to Jack Olsen. Man I know my shit. Am I a psychopath? A sociopath? A paranoid schizophrenic? A narcissistic disorder? A blip on the human radar?

Who the fuck cares. What I am is good and angry, like Peter Finch in Network. You think you can label me, tame me?

Dream on, sucker.

Im the pale rider of Clapham.

But hey, lets get it down. Im not into weird shit. None of that cannibalism or jerking off on bodies. Jeez, I hate that stuff. Truth to tell, I cant even read about it. And child molesters? Dont get me started.

Kids? Would I kill a kid? No way, Jose. Not unless he was in a boy band.

This is my reality TV. Killing for prime time.

Heres another thing, hope youre taking notes cos, like, Ill be asking questions. Ever see that profiler shine they pedal? Me now, theyd typically pin as:

White (true)

Late twenties, early thirties (wrong)

Loner (mm mmm)

Isolated (nope)

Impotent (hey!)

Narcissistic (well okay, Ill give em that)

Low-paying job (nope)

No partner (wrong again)

Quiet (Im a party animal).

You want to know how they catch serials?

Luck, dumb friggin luck. Bundy got stopped for a busted tail-light. I dont have a damaged vehicle, no sirree. Ive got cash; and if I ever get stupid, Ill get a pick-up, a hound dog, and a shitpile of Hank Williams.

Music.

You ever hear of a killer into tunes? Apart from looney ones? I listen to music all the time.

But Time Out.

Not the mag, me. Im beat. This writing isnt as easy as the pulpists would lead you to think. Im learning the craft from Chandlers letters. All you ever need to know, he not only tells you how but why.

Oh and another reason the dumb fucks keep getting apprehended? Someone drops a dime. The Irish disease, like alcoholism, is ratting out. They invented Guinness but also the fink.

So dont talk. You dont talk, theres nothing to rat out. Loose lips sink ships.

Gotta get some zzzzs.

Sergeant Brant was in the canteen. Slung over the back of his chair was a Driza-Bone jacket. He was licking the chocolate off a Club Milk; the sounds he made were deliberately loud, exaggerated, and having the desired effect. Cops at nearby tables were aware of him, powerless to shout:

For fucksakes!

Brant was a pig, worked at it. He was heavily built with a black Irish face that wasnt so much lived in as squatted upon. He was wearing a very expensive suit that whispered:

Serious wedge.

He had numerous schemes running, all illegal, that kept him in a style ill-suited to a sergeant in the SE London Met. The brass knew he was dirty, he knew they knew, but proof remained elusive.

Superintendent Brown had tried for years to shaft him.

Unsuccessfully.

Brant was deeply tan. Another feature not common to cops. Hed wrangled his way onto a Police Exchange Scheme in Australia and spent two weeks sydney. To annoy his immediate superior, Chief Inspector Roberts, he now littered his speech with Strine, Oz slang. Roberts, seriously irritated by Brants chocola, moved his own tea aside, said:

We better get a move on.

Brant now wished hed dunked the last of his Club Milk in his tea, few things matched the melting chocolate rush. He reached in his jacket, took out a pack of Peter Jackson, a twenty-five box, as is the norm in Oz.

Plus a battered Zippo. All over the canteen were decals, roaring: SMOKING VERBOTEN.

Well, not in Kraut but with that tone. Roberts sighed as Brant cranked the lighter, an old inscription on the side, barely legible: 1968.

Brant smiled, not his usual wolverine but something near regret, shrugged it off, said:

I tell you, sir, the sheilas in Oz were seriously stacked.

The alliteration was no accident, hed worked on it, tuned to gain max vexation.

All in the timing. Whatever else, Brant knew the value of timing. Roberts sighed, went:

When are you going to get over Australia?

Brant feigned hurt then:

With all due respect, sir, you dont get over Oz. Ask Bill Bryson.

Roberts could give a toss who Bryson was, still it was a change if not an improvement that for once Brant wasnt pushing Ed McBain. The old Penguin editions, the Eighty-seventh Precinct mysteries, Brant had owned them all, every blessed one. Till The Umpire destroyed them. An old case, never closed. Lately, Brant was obsessed with writing, fancied himself an English Joseph Wambaugh, would go:

Money in crime

Pause.

Big delivery:

Writing.

Then the previous McBain, Fat Ollies Book, had accelerated Brants vision of the cop/author. Hed even bought The Writers and Artists Year Book, was trawling through agents and likely publishers.

Roberts asked:

Falls back yet?

A black WPC. The wet dream of the nick, her star had spectacularly dipped. Suspected of offing a cop killer, a spell in rehab, a near lethal coke habit, and a lesbian fling with a bomber. She was barely clinging to her job. If shed been white, shed been gone. Brant dropped his cig in the cup, heard the sizzle, said: