Authors: Ken Bruen
“What? It’s going good, ain’t it?”
He kept looking round, said,
“We’re not outta here yet.”
Coming out of a second-floor apartment, Norton in the lead, me walking rear. Standing outside were six black men, dressed in black suits, white shirts, spit-shine black shoes. One stood to the front, the others in military line to his rear.
Norton said,
“Fuck.”
I asked, “Not good?”
He shouted,
“Run.”
And took off like a bat outta hell. I didn’t move. Not from bravado but from the look of these guys, they’d have caught me easy.
I let the bat fall, said,
“I’m not going to need it, right, guys?” The leader gave a small smile. I asked,
“Who are you? Nation of Islam?”
I knew the Nation from prison and, more importantly, I knew don’t fuck with them.
My final question was,
“It’s gonna hurt, yeah?”
The first blow broke my nose. I could describe the beating as
vicious
thorough
brutal.
What it was, was silent. Not a word as they worked me over. Real pros. After they’d finished, they trooped off without a sound. I wanted to shout,
“Is that the best you got?”
But my mouth didn’t work. Two of them returned and picked me up, carried me out and threw me in the Dumpster. I lost consciousness for a time. Eventually, I managed to crawl out and fall to the ground. I limped as far as the police station and passed out again. Someone stole my watch before the ambulance came.
I CAME
to in St. Thomas’s with Dr. Patel standing over me.
Shaking his head, he said,
“What an exciting life you people lead.”
God, I felt rough. All my body ached. I asked,
“How bad is it?”
“Your nose is broken, but I think you know that.”
I nodded. Big mistake, it hurt like a bastard. He continued,
“Nothing else is broken, but you are covered in bruises. It’s almost like whoever did it knew what they were doing. Maximum hurt with minimum breakage.”
I asked him to go through my clothes, find the address for Joe’s grave. He did. I asked,
“Can you take care of it?”
“Yes, of course.”
“When can I get out?”
“You should rest up.”
We agreed I could leave in the morning; he’d fit me up with painkillers to get me through the next few days. As I lay there, I realized that Joe was probably still here. At least I was keeping him company. Though not in any fashion I’d have planned.
S
UNDAY MORNING
, on my way home, I had the cab swing by the liquor store. I asked,
“Could you get me a bottle of Irish whiskey?” I figured I could get out of the cab. I wasn’t sure I could get back in. He nodded. As I passed over the cash, he said,
“A bus hit you?”
“A black bus.”
“Worst kind. Any particular brand of whiskey?”
“Black Bush.”
“Good choice.”
He was back in jig time, handed over the bottle, said,
“Get some Epsom salts and a steaming bath.”
“I will, thanks.”
Back home, I moved like an invalid, dropped some painkillers.
Dr. Patel had warned, “Don’t take alcohol with these.”
Yeah, right. I unscrewed the bottle, chugged hard. Whoahey, it kicked like a mule. A very bad-tempered mule. I turned on the radio. Tracy Chapman with “Sorry.” Fitting. Ran the bath, got it scalding. Had some more Bush.
An hour later, glowing from the bath and drink, I wasn’t hurting at all. Found a wool bathrobe and wrapped up in that. It had a monogram, but I couldn’t focus. The doorbell went. I shuffled over to open it.
Norton, a sheepish face. He went,
“Jesus, what did they do to you?”
“Their worst.”
He looked at the bathrobe but didn’t comment, asked,
“Can I come in?”
“Why not.”
He glanced at the half-empty bottle, said,
“Partying?”
I ignored that, went in and flopped on the sofa. I said,
“There’s beer in the fridge.”
“Right, think I will.”
He popped a can, sat opposite me, said,
“I’m sorry, Mitch. I thought you were behind me.”
“I wasn’t.”
Now he tried indignation.
“What did I tell you? Didn’t I say . . . if it gets hairy, run?”
“I musta forgot.”
He drank long, said,
“Don’t worry, Mitch, we’ll get them, eh?”
I was too mellow to be angry. Leave it to a later date. He dropped a chunk of change on the table, said,
“Least you get paid, OK, buddy?”
“OK.”
Trying for friendly, he asked,
“So what’s this other job you’ve got?”
I told him the lot, even down to the fast moves of the butler. He said,
“The old dame, sounds like you got the hots for her.”
“Don’t be daft.”
“Tell me again about the Silver Ghost.”
Blame the booze, but I did, told him far too much. Should have seen the glint in his eyes. But like I said, my focus was shot to hell. He said,
“Sounds like loot.”
“What?”
“Be worth knocking over.”
“Hey.”
“No, c’mon, Mitch, like the old days. Bound to be a ton of cash
jewelry
paintings.”
I got to my feet. Not very imposing in the dressing gown, said,
“Billy, forget it. Who d’you think the cops’d pull first?”
“Just a thought. I better get going.”
At the door, I said,
“I meant what I said, Billy, stay away from it.”
“Sure, Mitch, cross my heart and hope to die.”
Back to the couch. I eyed the remainder of the Bush. Sleep took me before I reached for the bottle. I was glad of that when I woke on Monday morning. I felt battered and bedraggled but figured I’d at least show up for work.
The phone rang. Dr. Patel. He’d made the funeral arrangements
and wondered about a service. I said no. Joe would be buried on Tuesday evening. I thanked him, and he hung up.
WOULDN’T YOU
know, the subway’s on the blink, and eventually I had to take the bus. Yet again, Holland Park seemed another world.
As I got to the front door, Jordan opened it. He eyed me with disapproval, asked,
“Accident?”
“Strenuous workout.”
“You can’t come in here.”
“Excuse me?”
“Tradesman’s entrance is round the back.”
A look passed between us, we filed it for later.
I went round the back into a kitchen. It looked like the one from
The Servant
. I didn’t expect, alas, to find Sarah Miles on the kitchen table. Jordan came in, asked,
“Tea . . . coffee?”
“Coffee’s good.”
He started to arrange filters, and I asked,
“Like real coffee?”
He gave a tight smile, waved to the sideboard, said,
“There’s muesli, cornflakes, toast. As you wish.”
I nodded. He turned to face me, said,
“Or perhaps you are more accustomed to porridge.”
My turn with the tight smile. I asked,
“You’re all the staff, then?”
“Madam requires no one else.”
The coffee perked. Sure smelled good. One of the disappointments of life, that coffee never tasted as good as the aroma. Took the cup, tasted it, said,
“Shit, that is good.”
He held up a finger, said,
“Madam does not allow swearing in the house.”
“She can hear us, can she?”
No answer. I took out two painkillers, swallowed them with the coffee. He asked,
“Are you hurt?”
“Like you care.”
He left the kitchen. Returned with some packets, said,
“Dissolve one of these in water; they are quite miraculous.”
I had nothing to lose, got a glass, tore open one, added water.
The powder turned pink. I said,
“Pretty color.”
“Madam receives them from Switzerland.”
I drank it, tasted sweet but not unpleasant. I said,
“Much as I’d love to chat, I better go to work.”
He said, “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”
In the garage, I admired the Rolls-Royce again. I’d have given a lot for a spin. Took me awhile to put on the coveralls. My nose was aching like a bitch. I checked the work chart.
Monday—Painting
Okeydokey.
The front of the house, windows and shutters, sure could do with a coat. Got the ladders out and began mixing paint.
Half an hour in, I felt relief. The pain that had been continually battering my body ebbed away. I said aloud,
“God bless Switzerland.”
One of the most valuable items in prison is a Walkman. That and a bodyguard. You put those headphones on and slip away. It’s not a wise thing to do in the yard. You can’t afford to be less than a hundred percent vigilant.
As I leant the ladder against the wall, I put on the Walkman.
The tape was Mary Black. Kicked off with “Still Believing,” strange prayers in strange places.
Believe it.
Getting into a rhythm of work, I didn’t realize I was at a bedroom window. I could see a four-poster bed. Then she walked into view, wearing a silk dressing gown. I thought,
“Whoops, I better get outta here.”
I didn’t move. She was taking off the robe. Naked as a jay. Her body was in great shape. I was getting hard. Then she began to dress slowly. Black stockings and silk underwear. She looked up, a tiny smile at the corners of her mouth. I moved down the ladder, my mind on fire. Mary Black was doing “Bright Blue Rose,” but I couldn’t concentrate. Moved the ladder to another window, got going on that.
I DIDN’T
see her for the rest of the day, but she was lodged in my mind like a burning coal. Come lunchtime, I headed for the kitchen. Sandwiches were neatly laid on the table. A bowl of fruit left beside them. There wasn’t a sound in the house. So I ate silently and then went outside for a smoke.
Jordan appeared from the front of the house. I said,
“You don’t make a lot of noise.”
“No, it’s not necessary.”
Argue that. I didn’t.
I thought, “Fuck him,” and concentrated on my cig. He was standing watching me. Then,
“You do good work.”
“Glad you’re pleased.”
More silence. I figured I’d let him do the digging. He asked,
“Do you like it here?”
“What? . . . Oh . . . it’s different.”
“Would you like to move in?”
“Come again?”
“Not in the main house, but there’s a room above the garage, a little Spartan but comfortable. TV and shower, of course.”
I stood up, asked,
“Are you serious?”
“It would save you commuting.”
I didn’t want to close any doors. If the Clapham deal went sour, I’d be glad of an alternative. I said,
“Lemme think about it.”
As if he read my mind, he said,
“Perhaps, too, you might get to drive the Silver Ghost.”
WHEN I
got back to Clapham, the Swiss effect had worn off, and I was beat. A BMW was parked outside my place. Tinted windows. The door opened, and Norton got out, said,
“Somebody to meet you.”
“Now?”
I couldn’t keep the irritation outta my voice. Norton hushed me. I fuckin’ love being hushed. He said,
“It’s the boss, come to meet you in person.”
“Gee whiz.”
A large man got out. Wearing a cashmere coat, he had jet black hair, and a pockmarked face and was in his late sixties. An air of casual power. An even larger man got out from the driver’s side. Muscle.
Norton said, “Mr. Gant, this is Mitch.”
He put out his hand, we shook. He said,
“I’ve heard a lot about you . . . Mitch.”
“Mr. Gant . . . I’ve heard absolutely nothing about you.”
He looked at Norton, then gave a huge laugh. One of those throw-your-head-back efforts, putting lots of teeth in it. Norton said,
“Shall we go inside?”
I opened my door, led them in. Gant took a measured look round, then said,
“You have no answering machine.”
“No.”
Gant clicked his fingers at Norton, said,
“Take care of it.”
I said, “I’m gonna have a brewski. Get you anything?”
Norton and the minder declined. Gant said he’d join me in a beer. I went and got those, took some painkillers. Gant asked,
“May I sit down?”
“Sure.”
He took off his coat, rolled up his sleeves. Royal Navy tattoo. Drank the beer from the bottle. Just a working stiff.
I started to roll a cig. He asked,
“Could I have one of those?”
I handed him a rolled one, lit him up. He pulled hard on it, said,
“I don’t smoke much, but I tell you, that’s the biz.”
I nodded, figuring we’d get to the point soon. He asked,
“What tobacco you got there?”
“Golden Virginia, what else?”
Again the fingers snapped at Norton.
“Order up a batch for Mitch.”
I realized who Gant reminded me of. In Lawrence Block’s Matt Scudder series, there’s a character called Mick Ballou. A butcher, he disposes of his enemies without mercy. At the same time, he’s a working man who likes nothing better than a drink with the boys.
The mistake is to think he’s ever one of them.
Gant leant forward, man-to-man stuff, said,
“You did magnificent at Brixton.”
I resisted the impulse to touch my broken nose. He continued,
“It takes some balls to stand up to half a dozen guys.”
I tried to look modest. Which is difficult with a beat-up face. He said,
“A man like you sends a message. So I’m going to put a high-rise in Peckham under your control.”
I looked at Norton, he was impassive. I said,
“I’m very honored, but I’m still learning the ropes. I’d like to tag along with Billy for a bit, learn some more.”
He gave a huge smile, said,
“Capital. But I do like to reward industry. I have a special surprise lined up for you, my boy.”
“Oh?”
“Free on Wednesday?”
“Sure.”
“Splendid. Billy will pick you up around seven. You won’t be disappointed.”