by Ken Bruen
Her eyes were deep blue and deeper stoned. If she’d recently touched planet earth, she hadn’t much liked it. Her expression moved to:
You know I’m lying.
I know you know I’m lying.
So whatcha gonna do about it, bitch?
Not a whole lot, save: ‘And you are …?’
‘Oprah Winfrey, can’t you tell?’
Falls shook her head. ‘Gee, that’s an amusing line. Well Oprah, I’ll be back. Often. See how that helps the ratings.’
The woman slammed the door and Falls figured that whatever else the woman was, intimidated wasn’t part of it.
She knew if Brant had been with her, the result would be completely different. Not legal, maybe not even satisfactory, but definitely radical. And thinking of results, she had an appointment in the morning with her GP. Find out if she was pregnant / with child / knocked up / in the family way. As the various expressions ran through her head, she felt both exhilarated and terrified.
Two feelings not unknown to the man across the street. Standing in a doorway, he watched her walk away. When he usually got these feelings, it was immediately after he’d tossed the match to his work.
Excitement gripped him now as he wondered how the black woman would burn.
Americana
The Alien was well pleased with his hotel. The El Drisco, on Pacific Avenue is one of those open secrets. Owned and operated by the same family since the twenties; Eisenhower and Truman had made visits. It sure looked presidential — deep pile carpets, green leather banquettes, crystal chandeliers … Like that. For a moderate arm and leg it’s worth getting the hillside view.
The receptionist had told Fenton the guest rooms were much more reasonable; but Fenton said, ‘I’m only doing it one time. Best to do it right, eh?’
The receptionist agreed that this was indeed a fine method of reasoning. Back in London a similar response would have been dangerously close to taking the piss. Here it was the American way.
In his room, Fenton stretched out on the bed, thought: One or two days to find Stell and kill her … and maybe grab a few days rest and recreation in Tijuana … ‘Yeah,’ he said aloud. ‘I like the sound of that R amp; R …
Fenton liked San Francisco. He was beginning to like it a whole lot. That it’s very much a walking city didn’t hurt, didn’t hurt at all. Twixt cabs, trolley and foot, he got to Fisherman’s Wharf.
The cabbie had said, ‘Yo buddy, a real native is a guy who’s never had eats at The Wharf. You hear what I’m saying?’
The Alien hadn’t quite got into the sheer in yer face dialogue, as if they’d known you always. He answered, ‘Course I hear you … I’m not deaf.’
The cabbie took a look back. ‘English, right?’
‘How perceptive.’
Unfazed. ‘I love the way you guys talk, like Masterpiece Theatre. Everyone talks like that in England, am I right?’
Jesus! ‘Yeah … except for the taxis — they shut it.’
‘That’s like the cabs, right?’
Getting out at the Wharf, Fenton paid, and sure enough the cabbie said, ‘You have a good day.’
‘Whatever.’
Fenton went straight for a bar. He was wearing thin on American goodwill. The barman welcomed him effusively.
Fenton said, ‘Give us a beer, OK?’
‘Domestic or imported?’
‘Fuck.’
Fenton was the other side of three bottles of Bud. Not outta it or even floating, but feeling them, a nice buzz building. He figured he’d do three more then go buy the baseball bat.
An exaggerated English accent cut through: ‘I say old chap, might I trouble you for a light?’
Fenton turned. On the stool beside him was a guy in his bad sixties. Liver spots on his hands and brown shorts, top to accessorise. He had eyes that Fenton could only think of as stupid, ie eager, friendly and open.
Fenton shrugged. He was definitely feeling those beers. ‘I don’t smoke.’
‘Actually, neither do I–I heard you order your drink and thought I’d give my skills a try. Was I convincing?’
‘As what?’
‘Oh yes, the English humour! I have all of Monty Python, would you like to see my Ministry of Funny Walks?’
‘You’re serious … Jesus!’
‘You might have caught me on Seinfeld, I was the English cab driver.’
Fenton was suddenly tired, the beers wilted, the show winding down. He asked, ‘You’re an actor … act scared.’
‘Scared?’
‘Yeah, as if I’m going to put this bottle up yer arse.’
The man looked full into Fenton’s face and got a hearty slap on the shoulder, with, ‘Hey, that’s not bad, you look like you could shit yerself … I’m impressed.’
After Fenton left the bar, he was entranced by the traffic lights, blinking:
WALK
DON’T WALK
No frills, yer straight command. He kinda appreciated it — reminded him of prison.
A black guy in a combat jacket was handing out pamphlets, shouting, ‘Yo’, homies, see what de fat cats be doin’ wit’ yo’ tax dollars!’
Fen took the booklet. ‘Ain’t my tax dollars, mate.’
‘Say what, homey?’
He was about to sling it as the guy shouted, ‘Yo’ all gots de right to know they be killin’ folk.’
Fenton looked at the pamphlet.
A Study of Assassination.
(A training manual written by the CIA
for distribution to agents and operatives)
He said aloud, ‘No shit!’
And as he flicked through it, he gave intermittent ‘Wow’s, ‘Jeez’, and an outright, ‘I’ll be fucked!’
Under the heading Justification was:
Murder is not morally justifiable. Assassination can seldom be employed with a clear conscience. Persons who are morally squeamish should not attempt it.
Fenton said: ‘You got that right, guys.’
More: It is desirable that the assassin be transient.
Then: Techniques.
A human being may be killed in many ways …
Fenton muttered, ‘Oh really?’
The assassin should always be cognisant of one point — ‘death’ must be absolutely certain.
Call it serendipity or chance, but when Fenton stopped to take his bearings he was outside a sporting goods shop.
Went in.
The music was deafening and he had to recheck it wasn’t a disco. No, a sports shop. He asked an assistant, ‘What’s that noise?’
‘It’s Heavy D.’
‘What?’
‘Waterbed Hev.’
‘I’m going to have to take yer word for that. Why is it so loud?’
‘Most of our clientele are Afro-Americans.’
‘You mean black.’
The assistant ignored this and asked what he could do to help. Fenton said, ‘I want an old style baseball bat. Not metal or some brilliant new plastic or low fat — the basic slugger. Can you do that?’
Four hundred bucks later, he could.
London
Roberts was determined to tell his wife about the skin cancer. At the very least he’d get laid. So … so it would be a sympathy fuck, but who was counting? All the other ails:
dead bank balance
burnt car
nervous job prospects
he’d leave a bit. No need to tip the balance. He was almost looking forward to dropping his health bombshell. Move him centre stage for a few days.
A Big Issue vendor was sporting a spotlessly white T-shirt which declared:
70 % of Prostitutes are Convent Educated.
Roberts said, ‘What about the other 30 %?’
The vendor smiled. ‘They’re the education.’ Argue that.
When he got home he checked quickly to see if his daughter was home.
Nope.
He muttered, ‘Thank Christ for that’. Recently she’d been treating him as if he
were invisible … no, scratch that — invisible and annoying.
His wife said, ‘You’re home.’
He was going to congratulate her powers of observation, but it wouldn’t be a loving start. Instead: ‘I have something to tell you.’
She hmphed and said, ‘Well, I certainly have something to tell you.’
Testily, he snapped, ‘Can’t it wait?’
‘Oh, if your daughter being pregnant isn’t a priority then of course it can wait.’
‘Jeez … what? I mean, how …?’
‘Well darling, I know it’s been a while, but if you can’t remember how it happens … And she shrugged her shoulders. He couldn’t believe it. Worse, she walked off.
He thought: ‘Skin cancer that.’
To roost
Stella Davis — Fenton’s ex-wife — was loading her washing machine. If she could have known it was the last day of her life, she might have done the wash regardless. It’s highly doubtful she’d have added fabric softener.
Her new husband was a teacher and the most stable person she’d ever met. Even his name — Jack Davis — rang of security. A no frills, no shit kinda guy. Jack was yer buddy, the sort of stand up guy who’d have a few beers and slip you a few bucks if you were hurting. When they devised the ‘Buddy’ system, it was the likes of Jack they envisaged.
Stella didn’t love him but, as they say at The Oval, she had a fondness for him. Plus, he was her Green Card, worth a whole shitpile of love and roses.
The love of her life had been The Alien. She came from a family of part time villains:
part of the time they were doing villainy
part of the time they were doing time.
So Fenton’s rep was known and admired in her street. It was a mystery to her why it was described as a working class neighbourhood, as few worked. Fenton appeared glamorous and dangerous and all that other good shit that causes fatal love. The biggest hook of all, he was gentle — to, with and about her.
When she got pregnant, he got three years and she woke up. That would be the pattern. He’d be banged up or killed and she decided to start over. Then she miscarried and the loss unhinged her. Near insane with grief and rage, she’d gone to the prison. As he walked into the visiting room, she saw the macho swagger, the hard-eyed hard man and she wanted to wound him.
So, she told him. ‘I aborted.’
And he’d gone berserk. Across the table at her and it took six guards to beat him into a stupor if not submission. Perhaps the worst horror was him never uttering a sound.
When Jack Davis showed up, she took him. She’d received one call before she left London from Bill who said, ‘Run … for all you’re worth.’
She did.
As the machine kicked into overdrive, Stella made some decaff. It was the state of low fat living. She’d been starting to talk American, eg ‘carbohydrated’.
The washing was in mega spin and she turned on the radio, it had Star Wars speakers and come-on hyper. It was nostalgia hour and she heard Steeler’s Wheel with ‘Stuck In The Middle With You’. Oh yeah. With Gerry Rafferty in the line up, they’d been touted as Scotland’s answer to Crosby, Stills and Nash, which was pushing the envelope; and then Vince Gill with ‘Go Rest High on that Mountain’ …
As she’d boarded the plane at Heathrow, a song was playing. Elton John’s homage to Princess Diana. Then and now, Stella felt the song that sang it best, that sang it heart-kicked was Vince Gill.
When she heard it, she saw the photo of Di that would wound the soul of the devil himself. It shows her running in a school race at her boys’ school. Her face is that of a young girl, trying and eager, and mischievous.
Full of fun.
This whole thing Stella had told to Jack and then played the Gill song.
In a rare moment of insight, he’d said, ‘Down those mean streets, a decent song must sometimes go.’
She’d said, ‘That’s beautiful Jack.’
‘No, it’s Chandler pastiche.’
‘Oh …
Which bridge to cross and which bridge to burn
(Vince Gill)
Brant had to change flights at Dublin. There are no direct flights to Galway in the West of Ireland. He had contacted a long neglected cousin who said he’d meet him on arrival.
Brant asked, ‘How will you know me?’
‘Aren’t you a police man?’
‘Ahm … yes.’
‘Then I’ll know you.’
Brant wanted this crypticism explained but thought it best to leave it alone. Instead, he said, ‘So, you’re Pat de Brun.’
‘Most of the time.’
Brant concluded he was headed for a meet with a comedian or a moron. Probably both.
Brant was already confused by Ireland. At Dublin Airport the first thing he saw was a billboard, proclaiming:
‘Costa l’amore per il caffe’
Unless he’d boarded the wrong flight and was now in Rome, it didn’t make sense. Shouldn’t they be touting tea, or jeez, at the very least, whisky?
His cousin, Pat de Brun, was smiling and Brant’s old responses kicked in. ‘What’s the joke, boyo?’
‘Tis that you look bewildered.’
And more bewildered he’d get. Pat said, ‘You’ll be wantin’ a drink, or, by the look of ye, the hair of the dog.’
Brant let it go and followed him to the bar. A middle aged woman was tending and declared, ‘Isn’t the weather fierce?’
Pat ignored the weather report and said, ‘Two large Paddies.’
Brant half expected two big navvies to hop on the counter. The drinks came and Pat said, ‘Slainte.’
‘Whatever.’
They took it neat, like men or idiots. It burned a hole in Brant’s guts and he went, ‘Jesus.’
‘Good man, there’s a drop of Irish in yah after all.’
‘There is now.’
Brant’s travel plans were:
1. London to Dublin
2. Dublin to Galway
3. Overnight stay
4. Shannon to America
So far so something.
A tape deck was playing ‘Search for the Hero Inside Yourself’. Both men were quietly humming. Brant said, ‘Not very Irish is it?’
Pat finished his drink and answered, ‘Nothing is anymore. My name is Padraig but there’s no way a Brit like yourself could pronounce it.’
The drink was sufficiently potent for Brant to try. He said, ‘Pawdrag.’
‘Good on yah, that’s not bad; but lest I be living on me nerves, let’s stick to Pat.’
Brant swallowed. ‘Or Paddy.’
Pat de Brun was a distant cousin of Brant. Migration, emigration and sheer poor pronunciation had mutated de Brun to Brant.
Go figure.
Brant was to find Pat a mix of pig ignorance, slyness and humour. If he’d been English, he’d be credited with irony. Apart from sporadic Christmas cards, they were strangers but neither seemed uncomfortable. Course, being half-pissed helped. Brant took out his Weights and offered. It was taken and the bar woman said, ‘I could do with a fag myself.’
They ignored her. As Pat blew out his first smoke, he coughed and said, ‘Jaysus … coffin nails.’
‘Like ’em?’
‘I do.’
‘Good.’
Envious glances from the woman. But she didn’t mind. Men and manners rarely met.
Brant said, ‘I better get a move on.’
Pat was truly surprised, asked, ‘What’s your hurry, where are you going?’
‘Well … America … but I better check into a hotel.’
Pat got red in the face … or redder; near shouted, ‘There’ll be no hotels for the de Bruns! The missus is in Dublin for a few days so you’ll be stoppin’ with me.’
Brant was tempted, answered, ‘If it’s no trouble.’
‘But of course it’s trouble, what’s that ever had to do with anything?’
A point Brant felt couldn’t be bettered. When the bar woman put
them out, she pocketed the cigarettes.
Felicitations
Falls held her breath as the Doctor began to speak. ‘Well, Miz … or Miss — I never know the PC term.’ And he looked at her. The expression of the misunderstood male run ragged by women’s demands.
She wanted to shout, ‘Get on with it you moron,’ but said tightly, ‘Miz is fine.’
‘All right, Miz … And he looked at his notes.
She supplied: ‘Falls.’
‘Quite so. Well, Miz Falls, you are pregnant. Three months, in fact.’
She was speechless. Now that it was confirmed she felt a burst of happiness and finally said, ‘Good!’
If the doctor was expecting this response, he hid it well. ‘Ah … when there’s, ahm … no Mr Falls, one isn’t always … pleased.’
‘I’m delighted.’
‘So I see. Of course, there are alternatives, once the initial euphoria has abated, one might wish for … other options.’
She wanted to smack him in the mouth but said, ‘I’m keeping my baby. I am not euphoric, I am, as I said, delighted.’
He waved his hand dismissively like he’d heard this nonsense a hundred times, and said, ‘My secretary will advise you of all the details. Good day Miz Falls.’ As she was leaving, he said, ‘I suppose one ought to say felicitations!’
‘You what?’
‘It’s French for congratulations.’
‘Oh, I know what it means, doctor, but I doubt that you do … in any language.’
The secretary typed out all the data and as she handed it over, said, ‘Pay no heed to him, he’s a toss-pot.’
‘Aren’t they all?’
A mugging we will go
‘Wild, wild angels’ by Smoky was pouring from a gay bar in the lower reaches of the East Village. A near perfect pop song, it contains all the torch a fading queen could ask for.
The Band-Aiders wanted out of New York and they wanted out now. Josie and Sean O’ Brien were the names they were currently using. Their brains were so fucked from chemicals, they weren’t sure of anything save their Irish nationality, but years of squatting in south-east London had added a Brixton patois to their accents. Their one surety was they wanted to hit California, and hopefully hit it fucking hard. Sunshine and cults — what could be better?