It was the younger policeman this time. He braved another step forward, but Nero continued to bar his path. “I didn’t say he was here.”
The first copper frowned, and Nero watched as bluster crept through him, enhancing his slight paunch and squaring his shoulders. “Is there a problem here, Mr. Fierro?”
“I never said I was him either, so sorry, lads, you ain’t coming in.”
Nero started to shut the door, closing his ears to the older PC’s indignant protests. Fuck ’em. If they wanted Lenny, they’d have to go through him—
“Nero.” Lenny caught the door and stepped in front of Nero. “Easy. It’s okay, Nero. Tom sent them.”
Tom. Again. Nero fought Lenny’s grip on the door as his phone rang in the bedroom, blaring out Cass’s ringtone. So what if Mr. Perfect had seen fit to send the old bill to Nero’s door? So what if they were all smiles and “Good morning, Mr. Mitchell . . .” right now? In Nero’s world, that didn’t mean shit.
“Nero, let go of the door.”
Nero blinked. Lenny was in his face, staring at him with a mixture of exasperation and concern, the door halfway closed, shielding them from the copper’s view. He pressed his forehead to Nero’s. “It’s okay, I promise. They just want to talk to me, and I want to talk to them. Let them in . . . please?”
“No.”
“Please. Don’t make me talk to them in the bloody bar.”
Nero released the door. His step back felt like a stumble as his legs wobbled, but the wall behind him kept him upright. He leaned heavily on it, watching through narrowed eyes as the two policemen walked into his home. Fuck this. He eyed the still-open front door, but with every nerve he had stretched to the breaking point, nothing could make him leave Lenny.
He slammed the front door and stormed to the fire escape, grabbing Lenny’s fags from the kitchen table. Outside he did a cursory scan for weed paraphernalia, but there was none, save a few dubious butts in the ashtray. Besides, if they searched the place, they’d only find a ten bag. What were they going to do? Lock him up for a couple of joints?
Belligerence surged through Nero, but faded as suddenly as it had arrived. His tiny weed habit was barely a criminal offence anymore, but it didn’t take a genius to know that Tom wouldn’t stand for shit like that going on at Pippa’s. You really wanna lose your job? Dude, it’s all you got.
Nero silenced the optimistic moral compass on his shoulder and lit a smoke, leaning on the railing and gazing, unseeing, out over the city. He was tired, damn it, despite sleeping better than he had in years, and he couldn’t shake the discomfort of knowing there were coppers at his back, sitting on his couch, making themselves at home in the only place his adult self had ever truly felt at home.
The urge to go inside and put himself between them and Lenny was strong—too strong. Nero lit another fag from the butt of the first and closed his eyes, hanging his head. His missing finger tingled. Lenny wanted to know who he was, but if he couldn’t figure it out by the different way those coppers looked at each of them, then what was the point? With some distance between them, Nero could see it now: those men had wanted to help Lenny, not fuck him over, because Lenny wasn’t a criminal, a known name from a place where only bad faces rose and knew no better.
They wanted to help Lenny, because Lenny was good, so why did Nero still feel like there was a mountain at the gates?
Monday. Midday. The coppers were finally gone. Nero had heard the front door close and watched as they appeared in the car park below, got into their car, and drove away. He waited for relief, and then Lenny, but neither was forthcoming, and it took four more cigarettes before he found the inclination to search either out.
Inside, Lenny was in the living room, folding up his bedding. “What did they want?”
“If you’d stuck around, you’d know.”
“Don’t fuck with me.”
Lenny flinched. “Don’t talk to me like that. If you want a conversation, go put the kettle on and come back with a cuppa and a face that doesn’t look like a serial killer’s.”
It was the second time Lenny had thrown that insult at Nero, and it didn’t sting any less. Nero turned on his heel and went back to the kitchen. Autopilot took him to the kettle and filled it with water, but he didn’t flick the switch. Instead, he braced himself on the counter and tried to get a hold on his speeding mind—it wouldn’t be long before he couldn’t, before he went into meltdown and there was no way back.
Lenny’s light touch startled him. “I don’t know what the fuck’s going on in that convoluted brain of yours, but if you’re worried about me, you can stop. It’s over. Everything’s okay.”
“What?”
“That’s why they came. Make the tea and I’ll tell you all about it.”
Lenny left the room as suddenly as he’d appeared, leaving Nero to boil the kettle and mechanically make tea. He threw some sugar in Lenny’s and carried them into the living room. “Tea. Now talk.”
“Sit, then.” Lenny accepted his mug and patted the sofa beside him. “And don’t go all ragey and silent on me. It scares me when you do that.”
“I scare myself.”
The words were out before Nero could stop them, but Lenny just smiled. “I’ll bet. We can talk about that after, if you want?”
Nero shook his head. “I’m here to listen.”
