Authors: Ken Bruen
“He can help us dig.”
Heavy rain began and helped obscure the bundle on the front seat. Blood was leaking over my shoes and across the brake.
By the time we got to Holland Park, the rain was near torrential. I asked,
“What about the actress?”
“She’ll sleep till noon.”
“You sure?”
“I made sure. Drive up to the garage.”
I did.
We got out and inside. Jordan produced rain slickers and said,
“Get the wheelbarrow.”
Then we hauled Kerrkovian and the punk into the garage.
The punk was starting to come round. Jordan said,
“Remove everything from their pockets.”
From Kerrkovian, I took
a SIG SAUER .45
wallet
cigarettes
stiletto blade and
a piece of paper with a phone number.
It was Gant’s.
From the punk, I got
a Browning
thick wad of money
Polo mints
condoms
cocaine.
Jordan filled a bucket of water and threw it over the punk.
He spluttered, choked, then slowly opened his eyes. It must have been nightmarish. Two figures in long waxed coats, the storm and a corpse. He said,
“You broke me nose.”
Jordan said, “Stand up, you’ve work to do.”
He got shakily to his feet, whined,
“What’s going on?”
Jordan said, “Shut up and you might live.”
He shut up.
I asked, “Where are we going to put Kerrkovian?”
“The elm tree, where he placed your friend.”
Jordan reached onto a back shelf, produced a bottle of brandy, handed it to me. I drank deep and offered it to the punk.
He was shaking so bad he could hardly hold it. Brandy ran down his front. I said,
“Use both hands.”
It made him gag, but he got it down. I passed the bottle to Jordan, who took a small sip. The punk looked to me, said,
“Don’t let him kill me, Mr. Mitchell.”
Mister!
I said, “ ’Course not.”
Jordan said, “Help me get the wire out of his throat.”
We turned Kerrkovian over, his head was rolling, the teeth had bit clean through his lower lip. The punk went,
“Arg . . . h . . . h,”
and threw up.
The wire had two wooden handles. They looked well worn. I didn’t want to think about that. We took a handle each and pulled. It came clear but far from clean. Jordan cleaned it on the dead man’s suit. Then he straightened up, cleared his throat and spat on him. He said,
“Lift.”
And we threw the body in the barrow. Jordan took the SIG SAUER, hefted it. I said,
“That’s the closest thing to a nonjam automatic you’ll get.”
He pointed it loosely at the punk, said,
“Push that barrow.”
The storm had increased. I could feel the rain even through the slicker. The punk had a tough task pushing the barrow, but eventually we got to the elm tree. Jordan threw a shovel on the ground, said,
“Get digging.”
The punk was wiping blood and mucus from his ruined nose, asked,
“By myself?”
“Do it.”
The mud made his job a little easier, save he kept slipping.
Jordan handed me a flask, I drank like a demented thing.
Finally, the grave was dug. Jordan leant over the barrow, took a pair of pliers from his coat, cut off Kerrkovian’s little finger.
The punk whimpered, and I said,
“Jesus Christ!”
The crack of the bone was like a pistol shot. Then he tilted the barrow, and the body tumbled in. The sound of it hitting was like a splash in hell. Jordan handed me the SIG SAUER.
I said,
“What?”
Jordan looked right into my eyes, said,
“I’ve noticed your speech is polluted with Americanisms so . . . it’s your call.”
The punk realized what was going down, pleaded,
“Aw God, Mr. Mitchell, I won’t say nuffink.”
I shot him in the forehead. He wavered for a moment, then fell into the hole. Jordan picked up the shovel, began to fill the grave. I didn’t move, just stood there, rain teeming down, the SIG hanging loose at my side.
Jordan straightened up, said,
“Let’s get a cup of tea.”
AT THE
kitchen table, as Jordan made tea, I said,
“Mickey Spillane always had his characters drink whiskey as he couldn’t spell cognac.”
He didn’t answer.
I didn’t care.
He put two steaming mugs of tea down and asked,
“A coobie?”
“Are they Rich Tea?”
“Only Mikado.”
“I’ll pass, then.”
He got a bottle of Glenlivet from under the sink, and I asked,
“What, you have bottles stashed everywhere?”
“Not just bottles.”
“Oh.”
He unscrewed the cap and dolloped the booze into the tea.
I sipped mine. It tasted like tea with whiskey added.
I rolled a cig and offered it to him. He took it, and I got to work on another. Lit up and we’d a cloud of smoke in jig time. I said,
“Jordan, how’d you get the name? It’s not anything to do with basketball . . . is it?”
He sneered, said,
“My father was born on the bank of the Jordan.”
“I thought you were Hungarian.”
“We moved.”
“Did you ever hear the quotation
‘I am filled with coffins like
an old cemetery’?”
He stubbed out the butt, said,
“It’s not over yet.”
“I’m afraid you’re right.”
I stood up, said,
“I have to get some sleep.”
“You’ll need it.”
J
ORDAN SENT THE
severed finger to Gant.
Beautifully wrapped.
Gold box.
Brittle tissue paper.
Red velvet bow.
Said to me, “The moving finger having writ . . .”
I said, “You’re one sick fucker.”
I got back on track with Aisling. She demurred at first, made me sweat it, then agreed. We met at the Sun in Splendour on Portobello . . . I’d bought new shoes. JP Tod’s, the real thing. Those suckers are expensive, but wow, are your feet very grateful.
Tan color, I was wearing the Gap khakis with them, a cream sweatshirt and the Gucci jacket. Looked good enough to eat.
Aisling was wearing a killer black dress. I said,
“Killer dress.”
She smiled. Things were looking hopeful. She said,
“You’re not too bad yourself.”
“Do you like the shoes?”
“Bally?”
“No.”
“Imitation?”
“Hardly.”
“Oh sorry, I forgot you’re a man of discernment and taste.”
“Isn’t that from ‘Sympathy for the Devil?’ ”
“I dunno.”
“Before your time, I guess.”
She ignored that, asked,
“Where are we going?”
I said, “Fancy dinner?”
“I fancy you, more’s the Irish pity.”
The thing with the Irish is, they sure can talk, and boy, can they talk well. But what on earth are they talking about?
Fuck knows.
She said,
“Here’s a thought, let’s rent a vid, order pizza, and you can discover what’s under a killer dress.”
“Won’t it look odd here on the street?”
We went to her place. The minute we got in, she was on me.
Hips grinding, mouth fastened like hope. After we’d done, I gasped,
“What about the pizza?”
LATER WE
watched
Three Colors: Red
. I’m not sure I entirely got it. Aisling cried through most of it. I hate fuckin’ subtitles. She asked,
“Did you like it?”
“Loved it.”
“Truly, you can say, I won’t mind.”
In the afterglow, I went way over the top, said,
“I love French films, they have a certain . . .
je ne sais quoi
.”
She bought it
hook
line
. . . and frenched sinker.
Said, “Oh, I am so happy, Mitch, and you speak French.”
The one line I had was from the joint. A serial rapist used to scream it when the vigilantes came for him.
Which they did twice weekly. I said,
“Sure.”
She sat up, the sheet falling away from her breasts. I’d have spoken bloody Russian. She said,
“This is so cool, it’s part of a trilogy; we can watch
Blue
and
White
.”
I nodded, reached for my tobacco and began a roll-up. She watched in fascination. I asked,
“Want one?”
“You’re my drug.”
Uh . . . huh.
FINALLY GOT
to the pizza, blitzed in the microwave. As it dripped down my mouth, Aisling asked,
“All appetites satisfied?”
I nodded.
The radio was playing quietly. They’d been good.
Gram Parsons
Cowboy Junkies
till
Phil Collins began massacring “True Colors.”
Aisling asked,
“What are you thinking about?”
I know that answer, said,
“You, dear.”
She laughed, and I added,
“We don’t need a light, your eyes would brighten any room.”
“Shit talk.”
The radio kicked in with Iris DeMent—“My father died a year ago today . . .”
Aisling began to cry. I moved to hold her, and she waved me away. Was quiet as the song finished the last haunting melody. She said,
“My dad was an alcoholic. My brother said I lived my childhood like a deer in the headlights of a speeding car. For years the only way I could cope was to move him from the drama to the light entertainment department. When he died roaring from drink, I was glad. At the hospital, they gave me his effects . . . know what they were?”
I had no idea, said,
“I’ve no idea.”
“A Boy Scout belt and rosary beads.”
She toyed with a pizza crust, then,
“I threw the beads in the river.”
“You kept the belt?”
“It was his estate.”
“Jeez, you have a mouth on you, know that?”
She smiled, said,
“You want to hear a crock?”
“A what?”
“A crock of shit.”
“Well . . .”
“All you hear nowadays is the New Woman. Doesn’t want the traditional things. This woman wants a husband, a home and children.”
I kept quiet. Reached for a drink. She said,
“I want you.”
Then she leant over, straddled me and began to make love.
I didn’t resist. After, she asked,
“Wouldn’t I be crazy not to?”
“You would.”
I didn’t feel crazy. I spent all of the next day with her. Went to Portobello Market, laughed at the junk they were peddling. Drove to the West End and got our photo taken at the Trocadero. Oddly enough, it wasn’t a bad snap. Aisling looks young and shining, and me . . . I look like I’m glad she looks like that. I was.
WHEN I
got back to Holland Park, it was clocking midnight. The house was dark. I checked on the actress, touched her cheek, she muttered,
“M . . . m . . .”
and continued sleeping.
No sign of Jordan.
Went to my room and cracked a brewski. I had that bone weariness that comes from feeling good. Didn’t analyze too closely lest I lose it. Did I love Aisling? Sure as shooting, she made me feel like a person I might once have hoped to be.
Drank the brew, it was cold and satisfying. Got my clothes off and climbed into bed. Jesus, I was beat. Stretched my legs. My toes touched something wet and instantly recoiled. Jumped out of the bed, horror building. Tore back the bedclothes. A ball of blood and gore lay there. My eyes could focus, but the mind wouldn’t kick. Had to look closer—it was a dog’s head. Briony’s dog . . . what the fuck was his name . . . Bartley? Bartley-Jack.
Ever hear Dolores Keane sing “Caledonia?”
I did then.
I dunno why.
As I recoiled from the bed of horror, the song pounded in my head.
Madness, I guess.
Then I felt my shoulders gripped and next a hard slap to my face. I said,
“Hey, easy on the slapping.”
Jordan said,
“You were shouting, we don’t want to wake Madam.”
“God forbid that should happen.”
He stepped over to the bed, muttered something in Hungarian.
Something the equivalent of “fuck me.” I said,
“It’s my sister’s dog.”
“Why are we still here? Let’s go.”
We got the rain slickers and the guns, took my car. Traffic was light, and we got across town in about thirty minutes.
Briony lived in a house on the Peckham Road. On a quiet street, just a riot away from the lights.
The house was ablaze with lights. Jordan asked,
“You want front or back?”
“Front.”
I kept the Glock in my right-hand pocket. The door was ajar.
I pushed it slowly back. Tiptoed down the hall. Briony was sitting in an armchair, covered in blood. I gasped till I realized it was from the dog, whom she was holding in her lap.
Her eyes were staring, I said,
“Bri?”
“Oh, hello.”
I moved into the room, moved near her, asked,
“You OK, hon?”
“Look what they did to my baby.”
“Who did?”
“I don’t know. When I came home, I found him in my bed. Where is his head, Mitch?”
Jordan stepped into the room. I said,
“Bri, this is my friend Jordan.”
“Oh . . . hello, Jordan, would you like tea?”
He shook his head. I said,
“Bri, will you let me hold Bartley-Jack?”
“OK.”
I took the mess from her lap. The little dog’s body was still warm. That freaked the fuck outta me. Jordan said,
“I’ll clean up your sister.”
He helped her from the chair and took her by the hand. The phone rang. I picked it up and heard a high-pitched giggle.
I started for the door, and Jordan caught me up, asked,
“Where are you going?”
“It’s Gant.”
“And?”
“I’m going to kill the fucker.”
He turned me round, said,
“Think it through; you want to catch him at a vulnerable time. Has he family?”
“A daughter, school age.”