Brant had to get a new snitch. Despite the new technology — DNA testing, computer databases, profiling, door-to-door enquiries — nothing could touch the informer for results. It was the very lifeblood of the deal. Brant had a shocking record with them. Not that they didn’t pay dividends; on the contrary, they had helped break many a case but the fatalities were massive.
His last two had, respectively, been kebabed and drowned in a toilet. Word was out that if you talked to him, you ended up dead and in horrible fashion. Plus, the villains were an added peril; they heard you were talking to him, sayonara sucker.
Alcazar was a well-known character around the watering holes of south-east London. Known as Caz, he had a history of hanging paper, dealing in dodgy traveller’s cheques and his latest venture — the cyber-cafe racket — had done very nicely for a brief time. But that had gone belly up and a stint with hot cellphones hadn’t lasted.
His history was the stuff of legend. Various times, he was from Puerto Rico, South America, Honduras, Nicaragua. What made him stand out from the herd was that he’d never done time. Brushing as close to the line as he did, it was a bloody miracle he’d never been sent down. And people liked him, he had a way of ingratiating himself to everybody. He was short, with coal-black hair, pitted skin and the body of a dancer. Hooded eyes that some hooker, in a bout of absinthe, termed ‘smouldering’.
The boy could dance, no argument. A woman will forgive a rogue for most things if he can do that. Flamenco, Salsa, the Margarena, he had all the moves. Jiving, that old neglected classic, he could do to perfection. You want to make a woman laugh with delight, get her to jive, and if she’s delighted, bed is already made. He could swing a woman halfway round the floor, with a perilous edge of almost losing her and therein is the art, to bring it right to the precipice and hold on. A joy to behold, it was most fascinating to observe men as he did his thing. They sneered and muttered ‘faggot’, wishing with every fibre of their being that they could have the balls to dance like that.
The streets being the danger they were, Caz had to have some protection. A lot of irate husbands eyed him. His weapon of choice was the stiletto, much forgotten since the appearance of the Stanley knife and, of course, the obsequious baseball bat. In the heyday of the Teddy Boys — was there ever a more fun time? — you packed a flick-knife along with the Brylcream. A cold fascination in the way you hit that little button and the blade snapped out like the worst kind of lethal news.
Caz had the sex and danger to a fine craft. Got the woman to the bed, slipped out the stiletto and snapped the bra-strap with the steel, then said:
‘You want me to hit another button?’
Did they ever — and often.
Caz could move with ease in almost any company, which made him an ideal snitch; it would have also helped in an Inland Revenue career. Brant found him in a Mexican place, late in the afternoon, asked:
‘You know me?’
Caz tried to raise his famous smile, failed, said:
‘Senor Brant, of course. You are legend, is not so, amigo?’
Brant signalled to the waitress who was dressed in flamenco gear, with the name tag, ‘Rosalita’. She sashayed over, lisped:
‘Si, senor?’
She was from Peckham.
Brant looked at Caz, asked:
‘What’s good?’
‘San Miguel and the enchilada is muy bueno.’
Brant sighed, ordered:
‘Two of them Miguels and before Tuesday.’
Brant reached over to Caz’s cigs, read the packet — Ducados — took one, fired it up, coughed, said:
‘Jeez, what a piece of shit.’
He didn’t stub it out, said:
‘First off, I’m not your amigo, got it? You ever call me that, I’ll break your nose. Second, you are now working for me and I need information. Everything on Ray Cross and the blonde chick he ran with, I need this like yesterday.’
Before Caz could reply, Brant held up his hand, said:
‘This is not negotiable. I don’t want to hear dick about how hazardous it might be, ‘cos I’m the most dangerous item that can fall on you. Now, are we clear, amigo?’
They were.