Authors: Ken Bruen
“Drink up.”
He did. Then gave me a long, analytical stare, asked,
“How can you be so calm . . . about your sister?”
He meant “cold.”
That’s OK—I can do manners. I said,
“Doc, I’ve been in prison. I didn’t like it at all. I have a strong instinct it’s going to require all my energies not to return. I have to play low-key just to survive. I start to burn and I’m a dead man.”
He was horrified.
“But it’s a terrible existence, such tight control.”
I drained my glass, said,
“Beats prison.”
After a bit, we had another round, and midway through, he asked,
“What am I to do?”
“Doc, I don’t give advice, and I certainly never take it, but lemme say this. Go for it, have a ball, live like fire, ’cause truth
is, she’ll leave you, she always does. Then she’ll resurrect Frank and go back to coke and guns and madness.”
“How will I live then?”
I touched his shoulder, said,
“Like the rest of us, pal—the best you can.”
T
HE NEXT TWO
weeks were calm. I did my work, read my books, serviced the actress.
I hoped when Gant came, I’d be ready. Else I was fucked.
Chris De Burgh song—“Waiting for the Hurricane.” The bridge night proved the dead do return. Three men and a woman. All mummified. You only guessed at them being alive by the cigarettes they smoked.
I didn’t play, and no one spoke to me. Except Lillian, who said two things repeatedly:
(1) Another highball, darling
(2) Clean the ashtrays, darling.
Oh yeah, she gave me a present. A silver cigarette case.
I gave it to a wino at Queensway who shouted,
“The fuck is this?”
Exactly.
The change began with a call from the doc, who said,
“She’s gone.”
“I’m sorry.”
“What will I do?”
“Go back to your life.”
“What life?”
Welcome to whine city.
END OF
two weeks, I was getting restless. That philosopher who said,
“All of man’s problems stem from his inability to sit in a room and do nothing.”
He was right.
I went down to Finch’s on the Brompton Road. On a whim. I had on the Gucci jacket, so I figure it wasn’t entirely haphazard. On the train was a discarded copy of the
South London Press
. I read through as the District Line had its usual trauma. I nearly missed it. A small item at the bottom of the page. A man had been found dead outside an apartment building in Clapham. The victim of a mugging. I recognized the man’s name and the address.
I was wearing his jacket, I had lived in his home.
In Finch’s, I ordered a pint of ordinary, took it to a quiet table. Did a roll-up and wondered was it time for whiskey.
After the
South London Press
, after so much, I was sinking into a nine-yard stare. Didn’t even realize, just slipped on back there. I learnt it in prison, or rather, it learnt me. Gradually, I realized someone was talking to me. I refocused, noticed I’d neither touched the drink nor lit the cigarette. A woman at the next table was saying,
“Thought we’d lost you there.”
I looked at her, like seriously. In her late thirties, she was
wearing a suede tan jacket, black T-shirt and faded-to-comfort jeans. Dark hair, pretty face and a heavy scar under her left eye. I said,
“I was thinking.”
“You were comatose.”
Irish accent. The soft vowels always distinguishable. Soothing. I took a hefty swallow of the beer, asked,
“Are you trying to chat me up?”
“I dunno. So far, you’ve had no chat at all.”
She was attractive, no doubt, but I hesitated. She said, “There’s a lovely word in Irish, it’s
brónach
. . . means sadness but a lot more. Anyway, that’s how you looked.”
And I still couldn’t get my mouth in gear. Here’s a fine woman, giving it large, and I’m locked in some awful lethargy.
She said, “Your face is a mess, you know. That broken nose, those bruises, is it sore?”
Finally, I said,
“Would you like a drink?”
“No, I’m grand, thanks.”
When in doubt, get ugly. It always worked in prison. I asked,
“How come you’re on your own in a shitty, pretentious pub north of the river?”
Got her like a slap in the face. She touched the scar, said, “It’s that noticeable?”
Relentless, I said,
“Why don’t you get it fixed?”
Further slap. She sat back, said,
“I’m sorry I bothered you.”
Now I could talk, said,
“I’m Mitch, how you doing? Bear with me, I’ve had a bad day.”
She smiled. God, a smile of such radiance even the scar folded its tent and went away. She said,
“Go on, then, I’ll have a half of Guinness.”
“Screw that, have a solid drink.”
“What’s wicked?”
“Whiskey is always wicked.”
I ordered two large. Hot so they’d seem tamer. She said,
“God, that’s a lovely drink.”
I looked at her, asked,
“Do you always say what you feel?”
“ ’Course, don’t you?”
“Practically never.”
HER NAME
was Aisling, and once I loosened up, we got on great. I couldn’t believe it, I was having me a time. We got out of there, and I had a taxi take us to a club where they play Cajun and serve barbecued ribs to die for. Big buckets of ’em and pitchers of beer. There’s no way you can eat them delicately. You get in there, get good and greasy.
She did.
God bless her.
There’s a tiny dance floor, and she dragged me on out. The band had a demonic fiddler, and we were possessed. Covered in sweat, we retreated to our table and consumed a pitcher, ate more ribs and were in hog heaven.
She grabbed my hand, said, “Kiss me.”
I did, and the menu was complete. Then a guest soloist came on and did a down-home slow rendition of “The Night They Drove Ol’ Dixie Down.” We danced slow to that, and I came so close to feeling happy.
I nearly got faint. She said,
“You know, Mitch, you’re a lovely kisser.”
Jesus wept.
She was brushing her hand along the back of my neck, singing along to the song, and my body was electric. She was feeding me the most treacherous poison of all: hope. She said,
“Tell me, Mitch, tell me this place never closes.”
“Would it were so.”
Then she opened her eyes, said,
“Tell me something lovely; it doesn’t have to be true, just some grand thing I’ll always remember.”
For then, for the moment, I felt she deserved it, I said,
“You’re the loveliest person I ever met.”
She hugged me real tight, said,
“That’s gorgeous and perfect.”
It was also true.
Sometimes the gods relent, even they think—“Enough already, let’s let the fucker see what it could have been like. As it is for the blessed.”
WHEN THE
band finished, she said,
“Come back, Mitch, to my awful room in southeast Kensington, and I’ll make you Irish coffee.”
I did.
We didn’t have the coffee, but we did have sweet, gentle love-making like I never believed existed. When I was leaving, she asked,
“Won’t I see you again?”
“I hope so, I truly do.”
Walked home on air. Cajun tunes, her lilting voice, the sheer softness of her body, bedazzling my mind. Walking up the drive on Holland Park, I muttered,
“Enough of this, I’m outta here.”
ON MY
pillow was what seemed to be a spider. Black and crushed. I approached slowly and then recognized it for what it was. The misshapen remains of the miniature Rolls-Royce I’d sent to Gant.
I
FINALLY BOUGHT
a car. Yup, it was time. An old Volvo, worth another six months and no warranty. It was beat up, but who wasn’t? Putting her in gear, I banished all thoughts of Royces from my mind.
Took me three nights of cruising to nail Norton. Eventually, outside Biddy Malone’s on the Harrow Road. Off his patch.
I waited, as I’d waited the previous nights. Come closing, out he came. High-fiving with the goodnighters.
All the lagered energy of pissed nothing. He was fumbling with the keys to his car, still laughing when I eased the Glock behind his ear, said,
“Who’s down in the zero now, shithead?”
Pushed him into the backseat, put the barrel between his eyebrows, said,
“Threaten me now, asshole.”
Took him awhile to recover, then,
“Mitch . . . we can work it out . . . yeah?”
“Leaving tokens on my pillow . . .”
“Look, Mitch, can I sit up, please, get us straight?”
I let him and asked,
“Why didn’t you toss the room? Among other goodies you’d have found this.”
I pushed the barrel against his nose, continued,
“And I’d now be holding my finger up my ass.”
Norton shook his head, said,
“He told me to go in quick, not to touch anything. Especially not to let that fuckin’ butler see me. He didn’t want the surprise ruined.”
“What happened to the previous tenant?”
Norton looked at me, asked,
“Heard about that, did ya?”
“
Read
about it.”
“Gant couldn’t believe you’d gone. We had the place staked, and then that stupid bastard tries to break in. So Gant lost it, you know what he’s like, how he did the nigger.”
“Then he’s still got a hard-on for me?”
Norton gave a harsh laugh, said,
“More than ever. He’s in business sometimes with the Colombians, and he’s in awe of their ruthlessness. They kill everybody that belongs to you.”
It took a moment to sink in, then I asked,
“My sister?”
He nodded, said,
“Don’t make any new friends.”
“What about you, Billy?”
“I’m outta it, soon as I can liquefy my assets, I’m gone.”
“Aren’t you overlooking your present predicament?”
He looked at the gun, at me, said,
“You’re not going to shoot me, Mitch.”
I considered it. The bastard of it all was I still kinda liked him. He was garbage, but we had a history, most of it bad but it was there. I said,
“You’re right, Billy.”
I put the gun away and got out of the car. It was just starting to rain. I turned up the collar of my jacket, and Norton got out of the car. We stood for a moment, then he put out his hand, said,
“Let’s shake on it, mate.”
“Don’t push it.”
And I walked away.
I
WAS READING
Fred Willard’s
Down on Ponce
. Right up my street, hard-boiled and hilarious. You’ve got, like, a guy who describes Atlanta, Georgia, as a city that may be too busy to hate but isn’t above taking a little time off to steal.
The phone went. Picked it up, said, “Yeah.”
“Mitch, it’s Briony.”
“Thank Christ, I need to see you.”
“I’d like that, Mitch.”
“Tomorrow evening, how about I buy you dinner, say that Italian place you like in Camberwell at eight?”
“I’ll be on my own, Mitch.”
“That’s fine.”
“I always end up on my own.”
“We’ll talk about that.”
“So you won’t bring the old actress.”
“No, just you and me.”
I hung up, said—“Jesus, she’s hard work.”
I didn’t think I’d be telling her I met someone new. I
certainly wouldn’t be telling “the old actress.” While I’d been reading, my mind was double-tracking. On the book but also on Gant.
I figured I’d try a temporary solution, rang his number. He answered, and I said,
“Rob, my man.”
Silence, then, “Mitchell.”
“None other, how are you, bro?”
“Well, Mitchell, I shall be coming to pay you a visit.”
“That’s why I called. I want to let you know how I’ve been spending my various salaries. It cost me a few grand, but I’ve ‘engaged’ a hitter.
“Here’s how it works: You harm me or my sister, he shoots your daughter—what is she now, eleven and doing well at that school in Dulwich, eh? No, there’s more. I still had some cash, I could only get a basement deal on your wife. I think it’s splendid, how she volunteers for Oxfam those three afternoons. What I got was the ‘acid sandwich’ for her. See, I took your advice, did my research, like you said . . . information is power.”
“You’re bluffing.”
“That’s the beauty of it, you have to decide whether I am or not. Our little variation on
Call My Bluff
. Whatcha think?”
“I think, Mitchell, you have no idea who you’re threatening.”
“All part of the rush.”
“Believe me, Mitchell, we’ll be meeting.”
“Gotta go . . . oh, one last item. The Nation of Islam is keen
to chat with you. About the chap you dropped in Brixton . . . in the chair . . .”
I rang off. It would buy me time. He’d check it out and, sooner or later, he’d come after me. By then, I hoped I’d have come up with a plan. Or at least some more ammunition.
D
RIVING TO MEET
Briony the next evening, I decided to park at the Oval. Did that and walked over to see how the new
Big Issue
vendor was doing. The kid was there all right and recognized me right off. I bought a copy and felt him eyeing me. I asked,
“How’s it going?”
“You did ’em, didn’t yah?”
“What?”
“Them young blokes that done Joe—you done ’em.”
“The soccer player?”
“Yeah, him who used to wear the Beckham shirt.”
“Was he any good?”
“Gifted.”
“Well, I’d better be off.”
I’d reached my car when the kid shouted,
“You know what I think?”
“Yeah?”
“Fuck ’em.”
“Will you keep an eye on the motor?”
“Guaranteed.”
I walked down Camberwell New Road. What a shithole. Bad pubs and worse vibes. Young guys in those hooded track-suits cruised continuously. The air was hopping with menace. Like the yard after twelve-hour lockup. Used to be a time, a homeless guy would ask you for a few bob. Now it’s demanded. Like this.