by Ken Bruen
And wow, had their luck ever held out? First, they broke into Brant’s flat and though he’d found and threatened them, they got him first. Next, they murdered a young cop named Tone for his new pants — a pair of smart Farahs. Beaten him to death with a nine wood, not that they were golfers. Golf clubs had replaced baseball bats as the weapon of choice for a brief time in Brixton. Things had returned to normal, though, and bats had now reemerged for walloping the bejaysus outta punters.
That Brant would come a-hunting never occurred to them.
Josie had once been pretty, a colleen near most, blue eyes, pert nose and dirty blonde hair.
But that was well fucked now.
Brixton
squats
sheer viciousness
and of course, every chemical known to boogie had wrought havoc.
Her hair was now a peroxided yellow, as once touted by Robbie Williams. Her skin was a riot of spots and sores. Crack cocaine had given her the perpetual sniffles.
And if she was rough, Sean was gone entirely like Sid Vicious … two years after his death.
They’d got into America as part of a punk band entourage. They’d then ripped off the band and pawned the instruments. Now broke, they resorted to what they were — urban predators. Prey was best from gay bars.
But their amazing run of luck was about to dive.
From the shadows, they watched a group of men on the sidewalk. Obviously stewed, they were saying goodbyes with laughter and hugs.
Sean said, ‘I’d kill for a cuppa tea.’
‘Yeah, gis two sugars wif mine, yah cunt!’
They giggled.
Sean watched as one man broke away, and muttered, ‘I’ll give him a good kickin’, I will.’
‘Yeah, we’ll do the bollocks!’ Josie felt the rush of adrenalin, the juice kicking into override. She gasped, ‘Crank it up muttah-fuckah!’ Even the boys in the hood would have admired her accent, not to mention her sentiments.
As the man moved off alone, Sean said, ‘Show-time!’
Julian Asche was thirty-five years old. A successful architect, it had taken him a long time to accept his homosexuality. But New York is a good place to come out. To hear the women tell it, try finding a guy who wasn’t:
gay
married
lying
OR
all three.
As a seasoned Manhattanite, he’d paid his city dues. Found a way to cohabit with cockroaches, ignore the homeless and be mugged twice. He’d declared, ‘Enough already!’ and, ‘This shit ain’t happening to me again!’
Thus, he was left with two choices:
1. Leave
2. Get a gun
He got a gun. Finally, he was a fully fledged commuter. Right down to his Reeboks and war stories. To complete the picture he ate sushi and liked Ingmar Bergman.
The weapon was a Glock. It came to prominence as a terrorist accessory — made mostly of plastic, it got through metal detectors without a bleep. Lightweight, easy to carry and conceal; even the cops took to it. As their no-mention second gun, the true back-up.
Now Josie nudged Sean, said, ‘Rock ’n’ roll.’
He grunted, added, ‘Roadkill.’
They moved.
Their tried and tested method was for Josie to approach the vic and whine, ‘Gis a few quid, mate.’ Sean then did the biz from the rear. Simple, deadly, effective. It got them Brant, the young copper and one per cent of the Borough of Lambeth. Why change? Indeed.
But Sean did.
Perhaps it was the Rolex. Julian was wearing the Real McCoy. A present from his first lover. So genuine, it looked fake.
Josie did her part, only altering the currency to suit the geography. The song now coming from the bar was Lou Reed’s ‘Perfect Day’. If fate had a sense of the dramatic, ‘Walk On The Wild Side’ would have been apt; but it has an agenda, which rarely includes humour, and almost never timing.
The dance began as before. Josie strode up to Julian, whining, ‘Gis a few bucks, Mistah.’
Sean, if not exactly the pale rider, pulled rear. For one hilarious moment, Josie’s accent confused Julian. He thought she was saying, ‘Gis a few fucks Mistah.’ He was about to tell her that — ‘Gee sister, you sure dialled the wrong number,’ when Sean, breaking their routine, went for the Rolex like a magpie on speed. Grabbed for the wrist.
Julian shrugged him off, crying, ‘What the …?’ Then reached for the Glock in the small of his back. He was a child of the movies, he knew you carried it above yer bum. Thus explaining perhaps ‘cover yer ass’. A homophobic would interpret it differently and more crudely. Whatever …
The gun was out, held two handed in Sean’s direction. Sean, who’d expected a drunken vic, was enraged, shouted, ‘Gimme the watch, yah bollocks!’
Julian shot him in the face. Then the Glock swivelled to Josie and she dropped to her knees, pleading, ‘Aw, don’t kill me mistah, he made me do it, I swear.’
The CIA responses are hard to beat, that is:
Catholic
Irish
Appalling.
Julian felt the power, the deer kicking the leopard in the nuts. Adrenalined to a new dimension, he asked, ‘Tell me, bitch. Tell me why I shouldn’t off you. You deserve to be wasted. Go on — beg me. Beg me not to squeeze the trigger.’
She begged.
Full frontal
When Brant came too, he’d no idea where he was. What he did know was he was in pain. Ferocious pain. He stirred and realised he was half on the floor, half on the sofa. Still half in the bag. Gradually, it came back:
Ireland
Pat’s house
Pub crawling
Quay Street
Dancing Irish jigs.
Dancing! He prayed — ‘Please Jesus let me be wrong about the dancing!’
He wasn’t.
He was clad in his grey Y-fronts. Not grey by choice but cos he’d washed them white with a blue shirt. Sweat cascaded off his face and he said, ‘I’m dying.’
The door opened and Pat breezed in bearing two steaming mugs of tea. ‘Howyah, you’re wanted on the phone.’
‘What?’
‘An English fella and by the sound of him a policeman. Likes giving orders.’
‘Roberts?’
‘That’s the lad.’
Lawrence Block in Even The Wicked:
‘It’s a terrible thing,’ he said, ‘when a man develops a taste for killing.’
‘You have a taste for it.’
‘I have found joy in it,’ he allowed. ‘It’s like the drink, you know. It stirs the blood and quickens the heart. Before you know it, you’re dancing.’
‘That’s an interesting way to put it.’
Brant gulped the tea and roared, ‘Jesus, I’m scalded.’
‘Aye, it’s hot as Protestants.’
But something else, something that kicked. Pat smiled, said, ‘That’ll be the hair of the dog.’
‘Bloody Rottweiler, was it?’
A moment, as the liquid fought his insides, near lost and Brant got ready to puke. Then lo, it crashed through and began to spread ease.
Pat said, ‘Yah better get to the phone.’
Brant said, ‘OK,’ and thought: ‘Ye Gods, I do feel better.’
Roberts said, ‘Got you outta bed, did I?’
‘Naw, I was playing golf, had to rush in from the ninth.’
‘Eh?’
Brant scratched his balls, couldn’t believe how better by the minute he was feeling. Maybe he’d never leave Ireland.
Roberts said, ‘I had a hell of a job to locate you.’
‘I’m undercover.’
‘Under the weather, it sounds like. You’re not pissed now are you? I mean it’s not even ten in the morning.’
‘Haven’t touched a drop.’
Roberts took a deep breath. He had startling news and he wanted to be startling with it. The plan was to meander, dawdle, and plain procrastinate.
Get to it e … v … e …
n … t … u … a … l … l … y.
Like that.
What he said was, ‘They’ve caught the Band-Aiders.’
‘Jesus!’
‘Yeah.’
Brant wanted to roar:
Where?
When?
Who?
Why?
But instead repeated, ‘Jesus!’
Roberts figured that counted as ‘startled’, so he said, ‘The deadly duo tried to mug a punter in New York, but guess what?’
Brant had no idea. ‘I’ve no idea.’
‘He was carrying a nine millimetre Glock. He must have been influenced by the subway vigilante … what’s his name?’
Brant didn’t know or care. The healer in the tea had done its job. In fact, he wanted more, more of everything, especially information. ‘He killed them?’
‘Naw, just the man — the girl begged for her life, and by the time the cops arrived she coughed up everything — stabbing you, killing young Tone … I think she even copped to Lord Lucan and Shergar.’
Brant laughed, this was great. He was truly delighted and thought: ‘I love Ireland!’ Which, if not logical, was definitely sincere.
Roberts said, ‘Now, here’s the thing. She’s waived extradition and wants to come back. There’s one condition though.’
‘What? She wants a seat on Concorde or to meet Michael Jackson?’
‘Worse. She wants you to bring her back.’
Brant couldn’t believe it, shouted, ‘No, Fuck that! I’ve plans … I’m going to San Francisco … that’s where Fenton is.’
Pat heard the shouting and did the Irish thing. He got Brant more tea and a cigarette. Roberts felt it was time to pull rank and kick some subordinate butt. ‘Sergeant, it’s not a request. Those on high aren’t asking you politely for a favour. It’s an order.’
‘Shite!’
‘That too, but look on the bright side — they’re springing for it, won’t cost you nowt.’
Brant took a hefty slug of the tea, better and bitter, but he wanted to sulk and as he crushed out the cigarette, he whined, ‘It’s not about the money.’
Roberts laughed out loud. ‘Gimme an Irish break. With you it’s always about the money.’
It was … always.
Brant could hear the shower running and … yes, the sound of Pat singing. Sure enough — ‘Search for the Hero Inside Yourself’.
Roberts said, ‘Go to the local Garda station in Galway and all the details will be faxed.’
‘Fucked, more like. They’ll welcome an English policeman, I suppose.’
Roberts was beginning to enjoy this. How often did you get to mess Brant about? His skin cancer was itching like a Hare Krishna and he felt the dehydration beginning. ‘Why were they called Band-Aiders? Musicians, were they?’
Brant snorted. ‘The only tune they played was from an Oliver Stone film. The guy had a cut on his face and said, “When I’m cut, she bleeds”. They both sported snazzy bandages. Cute, eh?’
Roberts couldn’t resist it. ‘They’ll need some bloody bandage to cover what’s left of his face.’ He wanted suddenly to share his pain about his illness. Brant was the nearest to a friend he had. He began, ‘I’ve been in some pain, Sergeant.’
‘Jaysus, who hasn’t boyo?’
And he hung up.
Trying to recapture the great moments of the past
Pat had prepared breakfast as if Man United were expected.
Two plates on the table with:
sausages (2)
eggs (2)
tomatoes (2.5)
fried bread (1)
black pudding (1)
The plates were ample enough for a labour party manifesto.
Brant said, ‘Holy shit!’
Pat was already tucking in. ‘Get that inside you, man, soak up the booze.’
Odd thing was, Brant was hungry. He sat down, lifted a fork and indicated the black pudding. ‘What kind of accident is that?’
‘Would you prefer white?’
‘White what … eh?’
‘It’s pudding, the Pope loves it.’
Brant pushed it aside, speared a sausage and said, ‘Which tells me what exactly? I mean, the Pope … is that a recommendation or a warning?’
Pat laughed, had a wedge of fried bread, said, ‘The Pope’s a grand maneen.’
‘A what?’
‘Man-een. In Ireland we put ‘een’ onto names to make them smaller. By diminishing, we make them accessible. It can be affectionate or mocking, sometimes both.’
Brant found the sausage was good, said, ‘This sausage is good … or rather, sausageen.’
‘Now you have it. Pour us a drop of tea like a good man.’
They demolished the food and sat back belching. Brant said, ‘Lemme get my cigarettes.’
‘Don’t stir … try an Irish lad.’
He shoved across a green packet with ‘MAJOR’ in white letters on the front. Brant had to ask. ‘Not connected to the bould John I suppose?’
It took a moment to register, then ‘Be-god no, these have balls.’
Pat produced a worn Zippo lighter and fired them up. Brant drew deep and near asphyxiated. ‘What the fuck?’
‘Mighty, eh?’
‘Jesus, now I know what they make that pudding from.’
Pat excused himself, saying, ‘Gum a less school.’ At least that’s how it sounded to Brant. It means simply, ‘Excuse me’.
Like that.
He came back with the inevitable tea pot and a large white sweater. ‘This ganzy is for you. It’s an Aran jumper and if you treat it right, it will outlive yer boss.’
Brant never, like never got presents; thus he was confused, embarrassed and delighted. ‘That’s … Jesus … I mean … it’s so generous.’
‘Tis.’
After Brant had showered, he donned a pair of faded Levis and then the Aran. He loved it, the fit was like poetry. He said, ‘I’ll never take it off.’ Put on a pair of tested Reeboks and he was Action Man.
Pat eyed him carefully, then said, ‘Be-god, you’re like a Yank.’
‘Is that good?’
‘Mostly! Mind you, it can also mean, “Give us a tenner”.’
Pat volunteered to show him how to find the Gardai. Before leaving, he asked, ‘Who’s Mayor Mayor?’
Brant was stunned. ‘What?’
‘Mayor Mayor. You were roaring the name like a banshee last night.’
Brant sat down. ‘Gimme one of those coffin nails.’ He lit it and felt the tremor in his hand. ‘A time back, I had a dog named Mayor Mayor … after a character by Ed McBain.’
Pat didn’t have a clue as to who McBain was, but he was Irish and learnt from the cradle not to stop a story with minor quibbles, so said nowt.
Brant was into it, back there, his eyes holding the nine yard stare. ‘We had a psycho loose called The Umpire, he was killing the English Cricket Team.’
If Pat had a comment on this, he didn’t make it.
‘I called him names on TV and he burned my dog, just lit him all to blazes, the dirty bastard.’ Brant stopped, afraid his voice would crack.
Pat asked, ‘When you caught him, you beat the bejaysus outta him?’
‘No.’ Very quiet.
‘You didn’t?’ Puzzled.
‘We didn’t catch him.’
Pat was truly amazed, muttered, ‘I see’. But he didn’t.
Brant physically shook himself as if doing so would do the same to his mind. It didn’t. ‘I loved that dog — he was the mangiest thing you ever saw.’ Is it possible to have a smile in a voice? Brant had it now. ‘I used to take him for walks up Clapham Common, thought we’d score some women.’
‘Did ye?’
‘Naw, I was the ugly mutt.’ And they both laughed. The tension was easing down, beginning to leak away.
Pat, being Irish, was attuned to loss, pain and bittersweet melancholia. ‘Lemme tell you a story and then we’ll talk no more of sad things. Tell me, did you ever hear
of the word “bronach”?’
‘Bron … what?’
‘You didn’t. OK, it’s the Gaelic for sadness, but be-god, it’s more than that, it’s a wound in the very soul.’ Pat paused to light a cigarette and sip some tea. He knew all about timing. ‘Our eldest lad, Sean … a wild devil. He’d build a nest in yer ear and charge you rent. I loved him more than sunlight. When he was eight he caught a fever and died. There isn’t a day goes by I don’t talk to him. I miss him every minute I take breath. Worst, odd times I forget him, but I don’t beat myself up for that — it’s life … in all its granite hardness. The point I’m hoping to make — and eventually I’ll get there — is life is terrible, and the trick is not to let it make you a terror. Now, there’s an end to it. C’mon, I’ll bring you to the Garda.’
Brant couldn’t decide if it was the wisest thing he’d ever heard or just a crock. As he rose he decided he’d probably never be sure; said, ‘Pat, you’re a maneen.’
Cast(e)
Falls was in the canteen eating dry toast, no butter; drinking milk, no taste. Rosie, her friend, breezed in. As much as you can breeze if your arm’s in a sling and your face is bruised.
‘Hiya Rosie.’
‘Hiya hon.’
Like that.
Rosie said, ‘Yer wondering what happened to me, right?’
‘Ahm …
‘Falls — look at me! I’m a wreck.’
Falls put the toast down. ‘Oh my God! What have you been doing, girl?’
‘Didn’t you know I was on holiday? Jack and I’ve been saving to go to India, and we went.’
Falls couldn’t resist. ‘And they didn’t like you much.’
Rosie reached over, touched her friend’s arm. ‘Wake up and smell the coffee honey, OK? I’ve always wanted to go to Goa cos of the old hippy trail and those beaches … Her arms and face were tan; what’s known as a cowboy tan — the body stays soap-white.