Authors: Ken Bruen
“Tommy, can I have a word?”
“Sure, son.”
He was half my age. He said,
“You’re looking fit.”
“But for what, eh?”
We laughed politely at this. I asked,
“I need a favor, Tommy.”
He moved me to the end of the bar. Out of earshot if not out of reach. I took a deep breath, said,
“I need some gear.”
It was Tommy’s business not to show what he felt or thought.
He registered near amazement, said,
“I never had you down for the needle.”
“It’s a one-off, for a friend.”
“Jeez, Mitch, that’s the hook . . . just once.”
Next he’d be giving me a lecture. I cut to the chase, asked,
“Can you do it? I’d need the works too. A hypo . . . like that.”
“Sure, I’ll have it for you by close of business.”
He shook his head, then,
“I like you, Mitch, so all I’m gonna say is take it easy.”
“Iris DeMent has a song called ‘Easy.’ ”
“Who?”
B
RIONY ARRIVED LOOKING
like a radiant bag lady. She was dressed in some kind of designer trash bag. She gave me a huge hug, asked,
“Do you like my dress?”
“Ahm . . .”
“I stole it from Vivienne Westwood’s shop.”
Before I could reply, she asked,
“Mitch, would you like a Glock?”
“I’ve already turned down a Revolver.”
She looked disappointed, said,
“It’s a 9 mm.”
“Jesus, Bri, you’re serious.”
She reached in her handbag, saying,
“I’ll show you.”
I grabbed her hand, pleaded,
“Christsake, don’t pull a gun in this crowd . . . I’ll get it later, OK?”
“OK, Mitch.”
Norton shouted,
“Bri, whatcha drinking?”
“Harvey Wallbanger.”
A woman came into the pub. It was the Aston Martin lady. I said to Bri,
“Excuse me.”
“Frank will be here later, Mitch.”
The late Frank. I approached the woman, said,
“Hello again.” She nearly jumped, then got composure, said,
“I never got to thank you.”
“Glad to help . . . did you follow me in here?”
“What? Good Lord, no . . . I’m here on a story.”
My heart sank.
“You’re a journalist?”
“Yes, any gathering of southeast villains is news.”
She looked toward the bar. A group of grim men were deep in conversation. They exuded menace. She said,
“That looks like a nasty bunch.”
“You’re right. They’re the police.”
She laughed, asked,
“Are you serious?”
“Would you like a drink?”
“Some mineral water . . . I’m Sarah.”
“Mitch.”
I considered spiking the mineral water, loosen her up a bit. Then decided to just let it play. As she took a sip, she said,
“I believe the party’s for a villain who’s just out of prison.”
“That’s me.”
“Oh.”
I drank some beer, said,
“I’m not a criminal. I’m simply unemployed.”
She digested this, then,
“What type of work do you do besides rescuing women?”
“You name it, I can do it.”
“Handyman, are you?”
She considered, then asked,
“I’d have to check, do you you have a phone?”
I gave her the number and asked,
“Aren’t you wary of recommending an ex-con?”
“If you get the job, it’s you who’d need to be careful.”
I laughed, not taking her seriously.
The first in a line of very bad judgments.
SARAH MOVED
away, to do research I guess. Later, Tommy Logan approached, slipped me a package. I said,
“I owe you one, Tommy.”
Bri grabbed me, said,
“Mitch, I’ve just met a divine young man.”
“Uh-huh.”
She was holding the hand of a punk. Nineteen or twenty years old. He looked like a sick David Beckham, but he had the essential smirk of the wannabe gangster. He said,
“Yo, bro.”
Unless you’re black, there is truly no answer to this. Except a slap up the side of the head, but I wasn’t in the mood. Bri gushed,
“Mitch. I told him you’ll take him under your wing.”
“I don’t think so.”
She seemed genuinely surprised.
“You don’t like him?”
“Bri, I don’t know him and I don’t want to know him, now give it a rest.”
She disappeared into the crowd. I mingled for a while more, then figured I’d enough. Saw Norton and said,
“Billy, I’m gonna split.”
“What . . . already?”
“I’m used to early nights.”
“Oh right . . . listen, about the job . . .”
“The moneylending?”
“It’s not like you think. You’d only need to come with me once or twice a week.”
“Billy . . .”
“No, listen . . . the pad you’re in, the clothes—I don’t need to tell you there’s no free lunches.”
So much for any feeble principles. I wanted the apartment, the clothes, the life. I asked,
“When?”
“Is Wednesday good? I’ll collect you ’round noon.”
“Noon?”
“Yeah, our clients aren’t early risers. That’s why the dumb fucks are always broke.”
AS JACK
Nicholson said in
Terms of Endearment
,
“I was just inches from a clean getaway.”
I’d got to the door when Tommy Logan called me, said, “There’s a ruckus out back.”
“Like I give a shit.”
“You should. It’s your sister.”
I briefly thought of leaving her to it, then spat,
“Fuck.”
Headed back there. Past stacked beer crates, empty barrels, into the yard. The punk was against the wall, a deep gash down his cheek. Bri had the Glock in his face. I said,
“Bri . . . Bri, it’s Mitch.”
She didn’t move, said,
“He wanted to put his thing in my mouth.”
I moved closer, said,
“I thought the gun was my present.”
“It is.”
“Well, let’s have it, then, eh?”
She stared hard at the punk, then said,
“OK,” and handed it to me.
He appeared on the verge of passing out. Sank down to a sitting position, blood streaming from the gash. I bent to him, began to go through his pockets. Bri asked,
“You’re robbing him?”
Not that she cared, she was just curious. I said,
“I’m looking for his stash; he’s a cokehead, I saw his sniffles earlier.”
“You’re going to do a line?”
I found the packet, ripped it open. I spread the coke along the gash, and it stemmed the blood.
Bri asked,
“What are you doing?”
“It’s an anesthetic.”
“How do you know?”
“I celled with a doper.”
I stood up, took her arm, said,
“Let’s go.”
When I got her outside, she asked,
“Wanna go clubbing?”
I hailed a cab, got her in it, said,
“I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Mitch, I hope you don’t mind that Frank didn’t make it.”
“No no, I don’t mind.”
Heading for the subway, I had heroin, a gun and half a bag of coke. Jesus, what more could you ask of a night on London town?
BACK AT
the apartment, I kicked off my shoes, opened a beer and collapsed on the sofa. Sat up after a bit and laid down a line of coke, snorted it fast. In no time, I was numb.
Fucking A.
I’d told Bri the truth about celling with a doper. He’d told me about smack, about kissing God. To hit the very stars.
I’d resolved to try it one time on my first night of freedom.
Night after night, he’d relive his first spike. As if all your life you’re living in darkness and suddenly you step into the light. You laugh out loud. Your nerves feel like velvet, and your skin glows. And the energy, like you’re fucking bionic.
Too, he told me about the downside. I figured I could hack it.
But not tonight. It didn’t feel right. I went into the bedroom
and stashed the gear under the sweatshirts. I put the Glock under my mattress. With the coke, I was up, pacing. Went to the bookshelf and picked out James Sallis.
Poetry.
Loss.
Addiction.
Perfect.
ABOUT HALFWAY
through my stretch, I got a visit from the chaplain. I was lying on my bunk, reading. My cellmate was at an AA meeting. The chaplain had manners, asked,
“Might I come in?”
“Sure.”
Any diversion. He sat on the opposite bunk, scanned my line of books. There was
philosophy
literature
thrillers
poetry.
He said, “Your reading is eclectic.”
I thought he said electric, answered,
“Whatever gets you wired.”
He gave a religious smile, all front, no warmth, said, “No—
eclectic
, it means random.”
I liked it, said,
“I like it.”
He picked up a volume of poetry, said,
“Rilke, now that’s surprising.”
I tried to remember the line, tried,
“Everything terrible is something that needs our love.” It worked. He was stunned. I pushed, asked,
“The cons here, do you think they need love?”
He went evangelical, said,
“Most of the men here aren’t terrible, just . . .”
But he couldn’t find an appropriate adjective. I said, “You obviously haven’t chowed down with us. Yesterday a guy got knifed in the face for his crème caramel.”
“How unfortunate.”
“That’s one way of putting it.”
I sat up, rolled a cig, offered the chaplain.
“No, but thank you.”
I was half interested in him, asked,
“Do you drive?”
“Excuse me?”
“A car. I just like to hear about motors.”
“No, I ride a bike.”
Of course.
He folded his hands on his knees, adapted his face to empathy mode, asked,
“Is anything troubling you?”
I laughed out loud, indicated the world outside the cell, answered,
“Take a wild guess.”
“It’s good to share.”
“Keep your voice down, Padre. That talk could spark a riot.”
He stood up, his duty done, said,
“You’re an interesting man. Might I visit on another day?”
I lay back on the bunk, said,
“My door is always open.”
’Course, he never did visit again.
N
EXT MORNING
I was listening to the Capitol station when the phone went. Picked it up, said,
“Yeah.”
“Mitch? This is Sarah.”
“Right. Did you get a story?”
“No, but I might have got you a job.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me yet. I have an aunt in Holland Park. She lives in a huge house, and it’s in dire need of repairs. The snag is she’s a difficult woman and no other workmen will go there anymore. Believe me, she’s had an army of them.”
“Why will I be different?”
Long pause, then,
“Well, she’ll forgive a man anything if he’s handsome.”
“Oh.”
“Do you want to give it a whirl? She’ll pay awfully well.”
“Sure, why not.”
“She lives at the Elms; you can’t miss it, just after the beginning of Holland Park, it has an impressive driveway.”
“I’ll find it.”
“I’m sure you will. Do you know anything about the theater?”
“Not a thing.”
“You won’t have come across Lillian Palmer, then.”
“Never heard of her.”
“I don’t suppose it matters. Anyway, that’s her, my aunt.”
“I look forward to meeting her.”
“Don’t be so sure. Well, good luck.”
I decided to chance it, felt I might be on a roll, asked, “Listen, Sarah, do you fancy a drink sometime?”
“I don’t think so. I’m not part of the package.”
And she hung up.
So much for the roll.
I had no equipment for work but figured I’d make it up as I went along. I know enough cowboys to borrow almost anything.
First off, I’d go and see the place, see what I’d need. If I was to be a handyman, I thought casual clothes would be best. Sweatshirt and jeans should be fine.
As I headed for the subway, I thought, “I’ve a home, clothes, job offers, and I’ve only been out twenty-four hours.”
Those cons had got it wrong; life on the outside was a breeze.
IN ALCOHOLICS
Anonymous, they refer to HP. It means higher power. On the street they also refer to HP . . . for homeless person. The connection between both is booze. Alcoholics have to abstain to survive. The homeless depend on it to survive.
I dunno what set this off in my head. A legacy of jail is this traveling on a tangent of thought.
Whatever, by the time I snapped out of it, I was nearing Holland Park. I got off the train at Notting Hill and walked up. Found the Elms, no problem. Like Sarah said, there was a huge driveway. Strolled up, looking at the trees that lined the way.
Then the house and I muttered—“Wow.”
It was a mansion, no other description would apply.
It shouted,
WEALTH.
I moved to the door, made of solid oak. Up close the house looked run-down, shabby even. Lots of work here. I lifted the heavy knocker, gave it a wallop.
The door opened. A butler stood there in full regalia. I couldn’t believe it. I thought all the butlers had gone to California or sitcoms or both. He was small and sturdy. In truth, like Oddjob from the Bond movie. I was too taken aback to speak. He asked,
“Yes?”
I gave my name, mentioned Sarah and expected the bum’s rush.
He said, “Madam is expecting you. Come this way.”
I did.
Into a large hall. He’d have taken my coat if I had one. Led me to a drawing room and said,
“Madam will appear presently.”
Then he fucked off.
The room was vast, with Regency furniture. I know that ’cos it looked like no one ever sat on it. Hundreds of framed photographs with a blond woman in them all. She looked like a laid-back Lauren Bacall with the ferocity. A massive portrait above the fireplace. The blonde again. On the walls were framed posters with
LILLIAN PALMER IN STREETCAR, SWEET BIRD OF YOUTH, DESIRE UNDER THE ELMS