knew how, sure, but I'd get along just fine on my own and not rely on anyone else.
And I did.
And people - even other cops, unless they were close to me - didn't mess with me. I had this reputation; I smoked too many cigarettes, and drank too much cheap whisky, maybe ... but I got the job done. Especially if it was a job no one else wanted. And I was hard, for despite all my bad habits I kept my body in good nick. It would have to be one rough son of a bitch who put me down. And it was ...
Normally I wouldn't have fallen for it, but these weren't normal times; I was feeling for Derek Stevens. I mean, one day there were two of us, and the next... he was gone! A lousy hit and run traffic accident, of all if only because He leaves no one to mourn after him when he's gone. I suppose I was bitter, you know? And no way I could tie Derek's or Jim Banks's deaths together, or connect them to Jim's work on the stolen car rackets.
But one thing for sure: warrant or no warrant, tomorrow I was into that East End garage. And nothing and no one was going to stop me! The trouble was, I thought these things while walking the street with my hands in my pockets and my fortieth cigarette sticking out of a corner of my mouth right there outside the garage, which I was looking at one last time before busting the place.
And of course he was listening to me! I knew he was there, in my head, but figured it was just another symptom of the blues.
Well, you live and you learn, and then you die ...
Before I left the place I saw a van rolling down the exit lane onto the road. There were two guys inside, and the van was giving out a blast of raw jungle-music, I mean like that calypso stuff that your namesake Harry Belafonte used to sing, but a hell of a lot wilder. Hey, I never got
past Bill Haley, Little Richard and Fats Domino, so don't ask me to be specific! But it was Caribbean Island stuff: Jamaica or somewhere like that, for sure. And so was the front seat passenger.
He was Rasta as they come, greasy dreadlocks and all, and his eyes were black as his plaited hair where they stared at me as the van shot by. Those dark eyes seemed to be saying, 'We'll be seein' ya 'gain, Honky!' And they sure enough did!
The guy driving was younger by three or four years; he was white - well, a dirty pale - pimply, sort of loose around the mouth like some kind of idiot, and wore a crewcut. Yeah, Harry, I know. What do you think, I've been lying here doing nothing? I've had a word or two with Jim Banks, sure, and this guy would have to be Skippy. But I didn't know that then. These guys were what? -Just a couple of yobs employed by the garage, as far as I was concerned. Yeah, a couple of yobs who were waiting for me in my flat when I got home.
Like I said, if I hadn't been so down I might have sensed it, I might have known something didn't smell right. But by the time I did smell it, it was too late.
My flat is on the ground floor and the other two tenants, upstairs, always work late. So the rest of the house was empty. It was -1 don't know - something-to-seven by the time I got home. Outside, the street lights were already on. But as I turned my key (which seemed to stick in the lock a little), opened the door, stepped inside and tried to switch on the lights ...
... Suddenly I knew! But it was already too late.
There was a little light from a street lamp right outside the main door of the house, which shone in through chinks in my curtained windows. But I hadn't been in there a minute before I knew they were there. Just a feeling, or a taste or smell; the fact that my lights were on the blink; and shadows where there shouldn't be any.
I don't know who or what hit me on the head. But the carpet was wet with my blood when I came to, and a spot behind my ear felt soft. I could