dressed to impress. Mini-skirt and off-the-shoulder flimsy top, her hip cocked. Brant thought:
Man, this is one ugly cow.
In her late twenties, Mandy was showing a lot of mileage, the eyes verging on fifty years and up. Her skin was bad and her face was too long, she didn’t have a feature you could appreciate. She said:
‘You got ID?’
They showed the warrant cards, and she invited them in. The flat was neat if cheap, lots of very bad paintings on the walls and well-worn furniture. She asked:
‘Get you guys a drink?’
She was relaxed, either she was used to cops, which came with the territory, or she was on something. They sat and Brant said:
‘You have some information on the “Manners” guy’
She smiled, sat, letting her skirt hike up. Porter she pegged as gay, but the other, the brutish one, he took an eyeful. She’d address him:
‘So, you sure I can’t get you something?’
She wet her lower lip, this usually got the Johns hot. Brant was staring, thinking she really was one ugly broad and did he detect an Irish accent? Asked:
You Irish?’
This delighted her, and she knew she’d selected the right cop to focus on, answered:
‘Would you like me to be, you like the colleens?’
Porter felt his patience going, snapped:
‘You have some information or not?’
She glared at him then back to Brant, said:
‘This punter, I’ve been doing him for three years, twice a week. He thinks we’re dating. I read this journal he keeps, fancy leather book, it said in there that he killed people.’
Porter felt his spirits rise, wondered if they could be that lucky, prompted:
‘And?’
She looked at him as if he was dense, said:
‘ “And!” I got the fuck out of there. If he’s killing people, I’m not hanging around. Anyway, he woke up.’
Brant felt his excitement take a dive, asked:
‘He knows you read the journal?’
She looked nervous, as if she’d messed up, then:
‘I don’t know for sure, but I got out of there, and he’s been ringing me like all the time. So I told Caz. He said I might get a reward.’
Porter tried to curb his anxiety, said:
‘Tell us about him, anything odd?’
Now she laughed, said:
‘Other than killing people? He’s a businessman, does some kind of figures or shit. He’s got lots of money, I know that.’
Brant smiled at her, asked:
‘He like anything kinky, he into that?’
Now she was offended:
‘I don’t do weirdos, no golden showers or any of that, not even whips. Course, a girl can always be open to suggestions from the right man.’
Porter said:
‘Here’s a suggestion. Give us his name and address, how does that work for you?’
She opened her mouth, looked at Brant, and made a silent miaow, was well pleased with this. Brant gave a noncommittal nod.
She rose slowly, moved to the window, and Porter was hoping maybe she’d jump. She lifted the curtain, said:
‘Right over there, see the large posh building, he lives on the ground floor. His name is Thomas Crew. He likes to watch me receive my customers.’
Brant moved over, gave her ass a quick pinch, keep her stupid, and asked:
‘You think he’s home now?’
She sighed, whether with delight from the pinch or exasperation was open to doubt. Did the American accent and badly:
‘Like I’m supposed to know?’
Brant smiled, said:
‘You should be an actress, got a real talent there.’
She moved a little closer to him, cops were good friends to have and this one had an animal allure, said:
You think a working girl isn’t acting like all the time.’
Porter near shouted:
‘This Thomas, he ever mention the name “Ford.” It mean anything to you?’
She really was cross at him, interrupting her moment with the animal, and said:
‘Duh, did I say his name was “Crew,” did I?’
Porter moved towards the door and Brant said:
‘You go ahead. I’ll join you in a moment.’
Porter felt his sugar-level dropping way down, and with diabetes that was serious. Anger and
Man, this is one ugly cow.
In her late twenties, Mandy was showing a lot of mileage, the eyes verging on fifty years and up. Her skin was bad and her face was too long, she didn’t have a feature you could appreciate. She said:
‘You got ID?’
They showed the warrant cards, and she invited them in. The flat was neat if cheap, lots of very bad paintings on the walls and well-worn furniture. She asked:
‘Get you guys a drink?’
She was relaxed, either she was used to cops, which came with the territory, or she was on something. They sat and Brant said:
‘You have some information on the “Manners” guy’
She smiled, sat, letting her skirt hike up. Porter she pegged as gay, but the other, the brutish one, he took an eyeful. She’d address him:
‘So, you sure I can’t get you something?’
She wet her lower lip, this usually got the Johns hot. Brant was staring, thinking she really was one ugly broad and did he detect an Irish accent? Asked:
You Irish?’
This delighted her, and she knew she’d selected the right cop to focus on, answered:
‘Would you like me to be, you like the colleens?’
Porter felt his patience going, snapped:
‘You have some information or not?’
She glared at him then back to Brant, said:
‘This punter, I’ve been doing him for three years, twice a week. He thinks we’re dating. I read this journal he keeps, fancy leather book, it said in there that he killed people.’
Porter felt his spirits rise, wondered if they could be that lucky, prompted:
‘And?’
She looked at him as if he was dense, said:
‘ “And!” I got the fuck out of there. If he’s killing people, I’m not hanging around. Anyway, he woke up.’
Brant felt his excitement take a dive, asked:
‘He knows you read the journal?’
She looked nervous, as if she’d messed up, then:
‘I don’t know for sure, but I got out of there, and he’s been ringing me like all the time. So I told Caz. He said I might get a reward.’
Porter tried to curb his anxiety, said:
‘Tell us about him, anything odd?’
Now she laughed, said:
‘Other than killing people? He’s a businessman, does some kind of figures or shit. He’s got lots of money, I know that.’
Brant smiled at her, asked:
‘He like anything kinky, he into that?’
Now she was offended:
‘I don’t do weirdos, no golden showers or any of that, not even whips. Course, a girl can always be open to suggestions from the right man.’
Porter said:
‘Here’s a suggestion. Give us his name and address, how does that work for you?’
She opened her mouth, looked at Brant, and made a silent miaow, was well pleased with this. Brant gave a noncommittal nod.
She rose slowly, moved to the window, and Porter was hoping maybe she’d jump. She lifted the curtain, said:
‘Right over there, see the large posh building, he lives on the ground floor. His name is Thomas Crew. He likes to watch me receive my customers.’
Brant moved over, gave her ass a quick pinch, keep her stupid, and asked:
‘You think he’s home now?’
She sighed, whether with delight from the pinch or exasperation was open to doubt. Did the American accent and badly:
‘Like I’m supposed to know?’
Brant smiled, said:
‘You should be an actress, got a real talent there.’
She moved a little closer to him, cops were good friends to have and this one had an animal allure, said:
You think a working girl isn’t acting like all the time.’
Porter near shouted:
‘This Thomas, he ever mention the name “Ford.” It mean anything to you?’
She really was cross at him, interrupting her moment with the animal, and said:
‘Duh, did I say his name was “Crew,” did I?’
Porter moved towards the door and Brant said:
‘You go ahead. I’ll join you in a moment.’
Porter felt his sugar-level dropping way down, and with diabetes that was serious. Anger and
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