London Boulevard (17 page)

“So, we hit at breakfast.”

“After the girl goes to school.”

“As you wish.”

“How’s Briony?”

“She’s sleeping, I gave her a sedative.”

“What the fuck are you, a mobile pharmacy?”

He smiled. “Among other things.”

Jordan went out for about half an hour, returned with a carrier bag, said,

“To help us make it through the night.”

“Put a tune to that, you’re talking number one with a bullet.”

He grimaced. Took out a six-pack of Bud, French bread, ham, tomatoes, pickles, jar of mayo. I asked,

“Where’d you get that shit?”

“This is Peckham.”

Argue that.

A few brewskis later, I said,

“Lawrence Block’s Matt Scudder said:

Winter’s no big deal
,

dress warm
,

walk through it.”

Mid French roll, he asked,

“Which means what?”

“I dunno, seems appropriate.”

WE FORMED
a plan for hitting Gant’s. Rather, we tried various options.

Discarded

modified

arrived at.

Jordan said, “OK. That’s good. Now, let’s make it look like a drug deal gone sour.”

“How?”

He reached in the bag, tossed a

hypo

heroin

and

the works

on the table.

I said, “That’s my kit!”

“I know.”

I stood up, said,

“You search my room?”

“Daily.”

“You fuck, what are you playing at?”

He asked,

“Ever heard of Anthony de Mello? ’Course not. You’ve read a handful of mediocre crime books and believe you know life.”

He didn’t say—“You moron!”

But it hung there.

Oh yeah.

He continued,

“De Mello said ninety percent of people are asleep. They never wake up. When was the Hungarian Uprising?”

“What is this, a quiz? What do I give a fuck about the Hungarian Uprising?”

“
Voilà.
You don’t even know the basic premise of crime writing.
Cherchez la femme.
I grew up watching men who were decent, compassionate people. They had to hunt down and exterminate the child murderers. In so doing, they had to become the beast, turn to stone. They never smiled.”

I had no idea where this was going, said,

“I’ve no idea where this is going.”

He produced some pills from the bag, laid them on the arm of the chair, said,

“De Mello tells the story of the Spanish chicken. An eagle’s egg falls into a chicken coop. It hatches, and the chickens raise it as their own. The chick learns to pick at the ground, develops like them. One day, he sees a majestic bird fly over. He’s told it is
the most superb of all creatures. He returns to pecking at the ground, grows old and dies, believing he’s a chicken.”

I shrugged, said,

“Very deep.”

He didn’t answer, so I said,

“Lemme tell you about one of the mediocre crime books I’ve read. Harry Crews! He wrote ‘Comic Southern Gothic’—”

He held up his hand, said,

“You’ve evidently never heard of the pig.”

“What . . . what fuckin’ pig?”

“As in . . . don’t try to teach a pig to sing. It’s a waste of your time, and it only irritates the pig. I apologize for believing you might sing.”

Briony cried out, distracting us from where that story might have led us.

She was asleep, but whimpering. I cradled her in my arms and she quietened down. I dozed myself, dreaming of

headless pigs

flying chickens

and

wordless corpses.

Came to as Jordan touched my arm, saying,

“We better go.”

He handed me coffee and the pill. I took them. Briony was in a deep sleep, and I kissed her forehead. Jordan was watching us, his expression unreadable.

I said, “Only the dead know Brooklyn.”

It was a title by Thomas Boyle. Jordan may not have wanted
to know about crime novels, but it didn’t mean he wasn’t going to hear it.

We put on the rain slickers, talked quietly about our plan.

The tops of my toes and fingers were tingling. My adrenaline was cranking up a notch. I asked,

“What the fuck’s happening to me?”

“You’re about to fly.”

“What?”

“Let’s just say I’m bringing you up to speed.”

“Amphetamines?”

“Something like that.”

Dawn was breaking. Jordan said,

“I didn’t know your sister had a baby.”

“She doesn’t.”

“There’s a wardrobe full of baby clothes.”

“What? You tossed her room too?”

“Force of habit.”

The speed was nipping at my eyes, pushing them wide. Jordan checked his gun, the SIG SAUER. I said,

“You like that number?”

“Nine millimeter, what’s not to like?”

We got outside. A street cleaner was leaning against the wall.

Smoke break.

A radio was perched on his cart, ABBA doing “I Have a Dream.”

He said, “How-ye, men.” Irish.

I said, “Nice bit o’ weather.”

“Least Sky don’t own it yet.”

Jordan put the car in gear, and we were outta there. I thought about Harry Crews and an interview he’d done with Charlie Bronson. Bronson said,

There’s no reason not to ’ave friends.

Just the opposite is true. But I don’t think you ought to have friends unless you’re willing to give them time.

I give time to nobody.

Got to Gant’s home in under twenty minutes. Dare I say, I was speeding. It was just on eight. My system was moving into overdrive. Feet and hands twitching, a flood of fueled ideas toss-tumbling in my head. The street was lined with trees. Jordan said,

“It’s a boulevard.”

“London’s a fuckin’ boulevard.”

A school bus came slowly down the street. Jordan asked,

“Ever read
Meetings with Remarkable Men
?”

“Desperate men . . . yeah.”

He ignored this, eyeing the bus, continued,

“To devour the writings of

Gurdjieff

Ouspensky

Sivananda

Yogananda

Blavatsky

Bailey

. . . Ah . . . and then, to abandon enlightenment, to walk back into darkness.”

I was sore tempted to name the Liverpool squad but feared he might shoot me. Gant’s front door opened, and a woman emerged, holding a young girl’s hand. She fussed with the child’s schoolbag, fixed her coat, then gave her a hug. The child boarded the bus. The woman watched the bus leave with an expression of loss. Then she went back inside. Jordan said,

“Let’s go.”

As we walked, he asked,

“Front or back?” I gave a grim smile, bit down and swallowed hard.

W
HAT’S A SOUND TRACK
for murder? In my head was Leonard Cohen’s “Famous Blue Raincoat.” As I reached the front door, I muttered about music on Clinton Street. I love that line.

Rang the doorbell.

Chimes!

Worse, it played a tune . . . “Una Paloma Blanca”! I swear to God. Just how long had it been since they’d had a vacation?

She opened the door.

I punched her straight in the face. She went back like a sack of potatoes. I looked round. Half expecting the milkman who’d say—“She didn’t pay you either, eh?”

Took hold of her hair, dragged her inside, shut the door. She was out cold. A figure appeared in the hallway. Panicked, I fumbled for my gun. Jordan . . . he shook his head. Then, putting a finger to his lips, he pointed upstairs.

Gant was sitting up in bed, a breakfast tray on his lap. He looked stunned. I said,

“Mornin’, all.”

He had a coffee cup en route to his mouth. It was frozen midair. I walked over, slapped it away. Bounced off the wall.

Jordan was standing by the door. I backhanded Gant and said,

“You wanted to see me, eh? Well, here the fuck I am.”

He still hadn’t spoken. I grabbed him by the pajamas, pulled him from the bed. Jordan took a hammer from his coat and began to smash mirrors. Gant said,

“Aw, c’mon.”

I took the Glock out, held it loose, asked,

“When you beheaded the dog, did it make you hot?”

“What?”

I lost it and pistol-whipped him till Jordan caught my arm, said,

“He’ll lose consciousness.”

Coming out of the speed jag, I saw my arms were splattered in blood. Not mine.

Jordan said,

“Time to go.”

Gant managed to focus his good eye, said,

“Let’s talk a deal.”

I shot him in the mouth. Jordan dumped the drug paraphernalia on the bed, then put a bullet in Gant’s head. We did a ransack of the house, turned up

twenty grand

a horde of Krugerrands

three handguns

a stash of coke.

Took it all.

As we prepared to leave, the wife began to come round. Jordan kicked her in the head, asked,

“Want to torch it?”

“No, I hate fires.”

As we pulled into Peckham, I said,

“Drop me off here, I want to see a friend.”

“Are you sure? I mean, you’re flying.”

“It’s a dead friend.”

If he had a reply to this, he didn’t voice it. He said,

“All this paraphernalia . . .” He indicated the loot. “. . . is yours.”

“What?”

“It’s yours.”

“You’re kidding, shit . . . there’s the budget for a small country there.”

“I don’t need money.”

“If you insist.”

Blame the speed, but I blurted out,

“I think I’m going to get married.”

For the first time I saw Jordan give a look of joy. He took my hand, pumped it warmly, said,

“Wonderful, you’re thinking right . . . but I’m not sure if Lillian is actually single.”

It took me a moment, then I asked,

“Lillian! Who the fuck’s talking about Lillian?”

He dropped my hand, his face clouding, asked,

“Somebody else?”

“Sure.”

Then I laughed into a blitz of bullshit about Aisling.

Winding down, I said,

“I’ll want you at the wedding . . . OK?”

He opened the car door, said,

“Go see your dead friend.”

A
T A FLORIST
near the bus depot, I bought a shitpile of flowers. I so overdid that the florist began to get nervous. Till I flashed the cash. I was that demented I wanted to tip the guy. Spin a Kruger in the air, say,

“Have yourself a time.”

Having invaded a man’s house, punched out his wife, dragged him from his bed, then shot him in the mouth, how was I to set the limits?

Thus, I staggered down to the cemetery with the flowers. A guy leaning against the bingo hall said,

“Me oul’ flower.”

At the cemetery, the caretaker had placed a white cross on Joe’s grave. I said,

“Hey, Joe.”

Laid the flowers carefully down. I stood there, up to my eyes in death. I told Joe what had been happening. Then I said,

“I miss you, man.”

Back at Holland Park, the speed had evaporated, and I was having a killer downer. I sat on the bed, drank some
Scotch, tried to ease the blues. On the bed were the spoils. I said aloud,

“I’m rich, then . . . aren’t I . . . fuckin’ rich.”

The phone rang.

Lillian.

She purred, “How are you, darling?”

“I’m beat is what I am.”

“You rest, lover, we’ll love later.”

“Sure.”

“Everything’s taken care of now, darling.”

“Is it?”

“Oh yes, sleep, my sweet.”

I lay on the bed and thought—“What am I missing here?”

I RODE
the actress as if I meant it. She was surprised at my energy, said,

“Who’s been taking their vitamins?”

Sickening myself, I said,

“There’s more where that came from.”

She hugged me close. I felt postcoital repulsion. I’d made up my mind, one week and I’d walk. Set up home with Aisling and chill. Lillian said,

“Did you see a set of keys on the table?”

“No.”

“Go see.”

“Now?”

“Please, darling.”

I got up, walked naked to the table. A set of shiny keys, picked them up. I could feel Lillian’s eyes burn along my body. Went back to the bed, asked,

“These them?”

Her face was glowing, she said,

“They’re for a BMW.”

“Nice.”

“Your BMW.”

“What?”

“Took delivery today. I hope you like red.”

I hate fucking red, said,

“My favorite.”

“Oh darling, it’s just the beginning, I’m going to spoil you silly.”

“You don’t need to do that.”

“I want to.”

She lay back, and I knew I’d those keys to earn.

I was coming down the stairs as Jordan was coming up. He was holding a silver tray, piled high with letters. I said,

“Bills, eh?”

“Fan mail.”

“What?”

“Every day, she hears from her public.”

“What makes you so sure they’re fan letters?”

“I write them.”

The following evening, I was to call at Aisling’s place. She’d promised me “an Oirish night.”

“What’s that?”

“Well, you get to

drink Black Velvet

eat Irish stew

listen to Clannad

and

bed a colleen.”

“Sounds great.”

“It is.”

IN THE
afternoon, I went shopping. Time to burn some of the cash. First off to the city. There’s a jeweler’s tucked right in the center. Chris Brady, the proprietor, and I go way back. He has an Errol Flynn look. Buckets of charm and graceful movement. He recommends books I should read. When I was almost a citizen, Chris had helped my education. Then I got sidetracked. At first he didn’t recognize me, then,

“Mitch?”

“None other.”

He came round the counter, gave me a huge hug. Of all the things I am, huggable I ain’t. Where I grew up, you touch another man, you lose your arm. He said,

“I’m delighted to see you.”

I believed him.

Told him about Aisling and my wedding plan. He said,