Ammunition by Bruen Ken

Author:Bruen, Ken [Bruen, Ken]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9780312341459
Amazon: 0312341458
Publisher: Amazon
Published: 2007-07-23T14:00:00+00:00

Friends say I’m putting a brave face on it—Bollocks—This is far and away the most stimulating, fascinating thing that’s ever happened to me.

—Jonathan King, songwriter, impresario, DJ,… jailed for buggery

15

THE BUILDING HOUSING Rodney Lewis’s office was impressive in that English mode. Let you know in an understated fashion that here be mega bucks and managed to convey that, unless you had lots of cash, you were way off track. Lewis’s office was spacious, bright, with a severe secretary sitting behind an impressive desk. Porter had asked a few moments before:

‘How’d you want to play this?’

Brant, not breaking stride, asked:

‘Play what? Talk right for fuck’s sake.’

Porter explained did they want to do the tried and familiar route of good cop/bad cop?

Brant said:

‘Only if I get to play the good cop, I’m tired of always being the hard arse.’

Porter wanted to shout:

‘How do you think we feel?’

He said:

‘Okay, make a nice change.’

The secretary was not pleased to see them, Porter asked if they might have a word with Mr Rodney Lewis? Her expression said that pigs might fly, she snapped:

‘Do you have an appointment? Mr Lewis is a very busy man.’

Porter was gearing up to be the hard arse when Brant said:

‘Tell him the cops are here, in connection with his shooting of a policeman.’

She was stunned and Porter stared, mouth open at Brant, Brant said to him:

‘Close your mouth, you look like a half-wit.’

The secretary went to the back of the office, disappeared behind an oak door, Brant said:

‘Probably grabbing a smoke.’

Porter was furious, accused:

‘What happened to our deal?’

Brant was pocketing some pens from the secretary’s desk, said:

‘You think that was bad? Man, that’s me real mellow side.’

The secretary was back, said:

‘Mr Lewis will see you now, he’s the last door on the right.’

Brant winked at her and they headed for the office. Porter was about to knock, but Brant just opened the door, strode in.

Rodney Lewis had one of those ear things that lets you talk on the mobile, hands free, he was in his late forties, dressed in pinstripe, with a full head of coiffed grey hair. He was carrying plenty of weight, the kind that came from good food, and he had sharp dark eyes that watched them with a vague disinterest. What he mostly conveyed was confidence and money, oodles of both. A slight smile played on his lower lip, he asked:

‘Gentlemen, to what do I owe the pleasure of the visit?’

Porter couldn’t swear but he sure sounded like the guy on the tape, the rich, posh accent, with arrogance riding point. Brant slumped into a chair, on Lewis’s right, Porter stayed standing. Brant asked:

‘Why’d you shoot me?’

Lewis sat stock still for a moment, then recovered, reached for his phone, said directly to Porter:

‘I think we better get my lawyer in on this.’

Porter looked at Brant, who, naturally, was lighting a cig, then he said:

‘There’s no need, sir. We were just wondering if you could perhaps help us with the shooting of a police officer?’

Lewis watched Brant

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