Authors: Ken Bruen
“Ah Mitch, glad you could join us.”
The black man’s eyes were huge in his head, locked on mine, they were pleading. Gant said,
“As I mentioned, I do appreciate your lone stand against the . . . protectors. So now, I give you one of them as a mark of my gratitude.”
I took a deep breath, said,
“He’s not one of them.”
Gant near exploded, looked to Norton, to the black man, then slowly back to me. His eyes were black stones. He asked,
“How can you tell? Surely they all look the same?”
“Mr. Gant, when they beat you with total precision, you remember.”
He lashed out with his foot and smashed the black man’s knee.
Turned to Norton, said,
“You moron, what did you do—grab the first nigger you saw?”
Norton said nothing.
Gant struggled for control, then shrugged, said,
“Oh well.”
And shot the black man in the head.
The shot reverberated in the warehouse, and I swear I heard pigeons in startled flight. Gant said,
“So sorry, Mitch, to have wasted your time.”
A thousand thoughts were driving in my skull, but I decided to play poker, said,
“All is not lost, Mr. Gant.”
He tried to rein in the sarcasm, said,
“Oh really?”
“How would this be? You leave the man in the chair, deliver him as is to the building in Brixton, put a sign on him, let it be.”
“A sign?”
“Sure . . . how about:
You borrowed . . .
You pay . . .
back.”
A slow smile began on Gant’s lips, building to an outright grin. He said,
“Brilliant, I love it. Norton, deliver the goods.”
Norton looked extremely pissed off, said,
“Mr. Gant, it could be tricky.”
And got the look from Gant.
Gant came over, put his arm round my shoulder, said, “Mr. Mitchell, I may have underestimated you.”
I gave my modest look. Then he stood back, said, “Good Lord, I love the tracksuit.”
THURSDAY MORNING
, I’m heading for work, my nose hurts like a dead horse. I bang refuse to analyze the events of last night.
John del Vecchio,
The 13th Valley
—“It don’t mean nothin’, drive on.”
Pretend as is.
Naturally, there’s a line, and everybody’s paying with check or card. I don’t have a weekly pass ’cos I’m getting a car soon and soonest.
There’s an elderly man in front of me, and he’s bewildered by the delay. Finally, we get our tickets and head for the turnstile. As we go through, the old man’s wallet slips from his pocket.
A fat wallet.
Seen by me and the ticket collector.
There’s the moment, hanging for one glorious suspended second as your instincts ride your beliefs. I bend, pick it up, say,
“Sir, I think you dropped this.”
The ticket collector and I lock eyes, then he tips his index finger to his cap. The old man is amazed and delighted.
I brush off his gratitude with a shrug. I know myself pretty good. You lie in a bunk bed, twelve hours of lockdown, you see the depths. If the ticket collector hadn’t seen it, I’d have kept it, no danger.
I get on the train, settle into a corner seat, am about to hit my
Walkman. I’ve got Leonard Cohen’s “Dance Me to the End of Love” and “Famous Blue Raincoat.” Ready to roll.
The old man sits beside me, says,
“I do so awfully hate to intrude, but I am so terribly grateful.”
His accent is even plummier than Margaret Thatcher’s when she imposed the poll tax. I nod. Encouraged, he says,
“I must tell you a most remarkable story. Apropos what just happened, it has a certain resonance.”
Every chancer in London has a story. I just wish they didn’t have to tell them on the train. But here he goes.
“I was required to give a urinary sample!”
Here he paused, to check I understood what urine was, then,
“As I had trouble producing at the hospital, they said I might bring it home.”
I tried to look like I was hanging on his every word.
“But dear boy, what does one bring it in?”
I could give a fuck, said,
“How complex.”
“So I used a naggin’ bottle of Johnnie Walker.”
If he was expecting praise, I hadn’t got it. He continued,
“En route I stopped at the PO to collect my pension.”
“Hmmmhh.”
“When I emerged, the bottle was gone. What a hoot, eh?”
We’d come to the Embankment, and I had to change for the Circle Line. I said,
“Keep it in your pants, eh?”
He gave a smile, if dubious in its downswing.
I
SPENT FRIDAY
on the roof; it needed major repair, and I decided to tell Jordan. He said,
“We trust it to see us through another winter.”
“Shall I not bother, then?”
He gave me a languid smile, said,
“Fix the most glaring damage, we don’t want Madam leaked upon.”
I figured I could take that any way I liked. After a day of cosmetic work, I was feeling vertigo. Decided to grab a shower and a brewski. There was no new tracksuit waiting. Thing is, I was a tiny bit disappointed.
My first full week of, if not honest, at least regular work.
Jordan appeared, handed me an envelope, said,
“We presumed you’d prefer cash.”
“Good move, Jord.”
He didn’t go, and I was tempted to say—“Dismissed.” What I said was,
“What?”
“Aren’t you going to count it?”
“I trust you, pal.”
He flicked at a hair on his lapel, said,
“Then you would be making a serious error.”
I counted it, went,
“Shit . . . is this for a week or a month?”
He smiled. I wasn’t exhilarated, but I was one contented excon, said,
“Whatcha say, Jordy, I buy you a large one down at your local.”
A beat, then, “I don’t fraternize with the help.”
I’D HOPED
for a glimpse of Lillian, but it wasn’t to be. On the train, I considered my plan for the weekend. Nice and simple, find the two fucks who’d kicked Joe to death. Eight that evening, I’d finished a curry and was working my way down a six-pack.
The phone rang.
“Yeah?”
“Mr. Mitchell . . . it’s R. Gant—not disturbing you, am I?”
“No, sir, just relaxing.
“Good man, Mitch . . . might I call you that?”
“Sure.”
“No ill feelings about last night?”
“No, sir.”
“Might I pose you a question?”
I wondered why he was talking like a shithead, but it was his dime. I said,
“Shoot.”
A pause, then,
“Jolly good, very timely. My question is this: What do you consider to be the most valuable asset?”
“Jeez, I dunno. Probably money . . . sex . . . digital TV.”
“It’s power, Mitch, and the most powerful tool is information.”
“You’re onto something, sir.”
Like boring the bejaysus outta me. He said,
“I’d like to share some information with you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Not over the phone. I’ve reserved a table for eight at Browns tomorrow evening.”
“Browns?”
“In Covent Garden.”
“OK.”
And he hung up. All the sir-ing had left a bitter taste in my mouth, and I went to rinse it out. For the life of me, I couldn’t think of a single thing he could tell me that I would have the slightest interest in.
S
ATURDAY MORNING, I
woke with a slight curried hangover. Nothing too serious, just hold the red peppers. I thought about Browns.
My kind of place.
Normally, they wouldn’t let me in, and I wouldn’t blame them. We understood our ratings. To them I was a bottom feeder. But it’s a rush sometimes, riding on the clout of a Gant, you get to stray.
Meanwhile, I had business. I knew Joe’s assailants were teenagers. One wore a Beckham shirt, one was black. So, Saturday afternoon, they’d be kicking ball.
Dress down.
I wore the faded jeans, unwashed sweatshirt—I was cooking. Got the Glock and dry-fired it. No problem. Loaded it fast. Caught a 36 all the way to the Oval subway station. If I had to describe how I felt, I’d say
certain
and
cold.
Checked out the Kennington projects, quiet yet. OK. I took a walk up to the Walworth Road and did high fives with a gang I once ran with. They lured me into the pub and asked what I’d fancy. I said,
“Bottle of Beck’s,”
and jig time, four or five bottles at my hand. They knew I was but recent out, asked,
“How was it—stir and all?”
“Better here.”
And got the laudatory salutations.
It was a safe pub. Meaning, the guv’nor had done hard time.
Like eighteen and no remission. So you could talk. Jeff, the organizer of the team, asked,
“Need any cash?”
“Naw, I’m in regular employment.”
Huge laugh and four more bottles of Beck’s. The team did post offices, usually west or north. They weren’t greedy and pulled down a nice earner. I’d served my time with them in my early twenties. Jeff asked,
“We’re up north next week, Mitch. Wanna tag along?”
I was tempted. It would be two large, no frills, but alas, I was on a different time frame, said,
“Maybe later.”
I hadn’t touched one beer. It was getting on to two thirty. I said I had to go, and we did the southeast London trip of truly not-felt good-byes. Outside, for a moment, I wished I could go back.
At the Kennington projects, a furious soccer game was in progress. I sat on the wall, bided my time. Five-a-side, it was
deadly serious. I spotted the black kid right off . . . he was a substitute.
A couple of local residents sat alongside me. I passed along cans of lager, get them talking.
Then I saw him, the Beckham shirt and wild, ferocious talent.
Scored a goal from midfield that was beyond description.
Beside me, a man said,
“Aye, he’s been scouted.”
“Excuse me?”
“Yon kid, he goes up to Middloborough at the beginning of the season.”
I said with absolute belief,
“He’s very talented.”
“Aye, lives to play, take away his soccer ball and he’s nowt.”
The game wound down after that. I waited. Eventually, the spectators drifted away. But not Beckham. He continued to play, dribble, drive, locked in his soccer dream. The black kid waited, boredom sat large.
Time to rock ’n’ roll.
I stood up, stretched, looked round. Deserted. Walking slowly, I approached the Beckham wannabe. He never even saw me. I had the Glock out and pumped both his knees from behind.
Four shots.
Moved straight over to the black kid, whose jaw had literally dropped, stuck the barrel in his mouth, said,
“Not this time, but soon.”
Then I walked away. Caught a 3 bus at the ass end of Kennington Park and was over Lambeth Bridge in two minutes.
As we came up to the Embankment, up into Westminster, I let the Hendrix song play in my head, my body drenched in sweat.
“Hey Joe.”
I GOT
home. I was adrenaline city. Alternating ’twixt a high and cold sweats. Kept thinking—“So, to kill someone, you just aim higher.”
Jesus. The rush as I replayed shooting Beckham. So fuckin’ easy.
The struggle it had been to stop at four shots. I was only gettin’ started. Man, I began to understand the seduction of guns.
Talk about pump city.
Checked my watch, two hours to meeting Gant. I’d have to get a grip, mellow down. Rolled a joint, a big one, muttering, “Camberwell carrot.” Cracked a beer and slowed the whole show.
Couple of deep blows, I was chilling.
Went in the shower and took it as cold as I could, shouted,
“Fuck . . . I’m deep frozen here!”
Remembered the first week in prison, when I got the “train,” Eight or nine guys putting it in you, blood everywhere and thinking . . . “I’ll learn.”
As I did.
Came out of the shower, shaking water, shaking memories.
Dress to impress. Yeah.
Put on the Gap khakis, a Boss navy sweater and that blazer.
Thought—“Phil Collins lives.”
Ready to roll, I’d just finished the joint when the phone went. Picked it up, said,
“Yeah?”
“Mitch, it’s Briony.”
“Hi, sis.”
“Are you OK?”
“What?”
“You sound odd.”
Shit, you spent your day shooting young soccer players, you get to sound odd. I said,
“Was there something?”
I couldn’t keep the testiness at bay.
“I’m in love, Mitch.”
“Good for you.”
“You sound angry, Mitch.”
“I’m happy for you, Bri, OK?”
“He gave me three orgasms.”
Which was triple the information I needed. I said,
“Oh.”
“Are you angry, Mitch? Angry I’ve betrayed our race?”
“What?”
“I’d have preferred a Caucasian, but it’s karma.”
I thought of a thousand put-downs but settled for
“Be happy, Bri.”
“We’ll name our first boy after you.”
“Thanks, Bri.”
“Love yah.”
“Like that.”
And she hung up.
In all seriousness, after a call like that, how can you possibly believe life has a purpose?
GOT TO
Covent Garden for eight. Browns had a doorman. Before he could start the Nazi spiel, I said,
“Mr. Gant is expecting me.”
“Go right in, sir.”
Inside, it was plush and Regency. At reception, I did the Gant bit again and was told to proceed to the dining room.
Only a few guests and at the window table the man himself.
He stood up to greet me. Dressed in a gray wool suit, he looked like success. Shook my hand warmly, said,
“Glad you could make it. Tell me, there are two Browns in Covent Garden, how did you know which one?”
“The other has no bouncer.”
He gave a quiet laugh, asked,
“A drink before dinner?”
Dennis Lehane has a novel titled
A Drink Before the War.
I said, “Vodka martini.”