by Sam Millar
“You really shouldn’t be going to that place, Mister,” advised the little girl. “They’re always fighting in there, and beating people up.”
“Thanks. I’ll try and remember that.”
Outside Ramblers, Karl stepped over a rib-protruding, sleeping dog being used as a doorstop. The dog stirred and emitted a low growl before slumbering again. He wondered if the dog was an omen, if perhaps the little girl was right?
A skinny young man – mid-teens – stopped him as he was about to enter.
“Sorry, pops. Strictly members only during the afternoon. Come back on Sunday night. That’s when the other old age pensioners play bingo and knit jumpers.”
“That’s my boot wedged in the door. Either it continues its journey through the door or goes up your arse. The choice is yours, sonny.”
Sonny stared into Karl’s eyes before quickly looking away, mumbling, “I’m … I’m going to inform management on you.”
“I suspected as much.”
From the jukebox close to the bar, Boxcar Willie’s gentle voice, singing “Gypsy Lady and the Hobo”, greeted Karl.
For Karl, the first sign of trouble in the bar was just that – a sign: No Fighting With Full Bottles. Smash The TV And You Are Barred For Life. We Do Not Pay Your Hospital Bills. Beneath the official sign, some local wit had scrawled in blue marker: Nor funeral arrangements.
The place was done up like something from the cowboy shows Bonanza or The High Chaparral, with sawdusted floors, batwing salon doors and even a family of unhealthy-looking rusted spittoons under each table. Boxcar Willie faded out, replaced by the haunting achy-ness of Patsy Cline’s “I Fall To Pieces”.
As if to prove the authenticity of the bar’s theme, a deliberate, old-wild-west hush suddenly stalked the room as Karl faked a leisurely saunter up to the counter – a saunter John Wayne would have been proud of. But despite being a converted church, Karl didn’t think this particular congregation was inclined toward any religious persuasion – it was more like a lynch mob in badly faked designer denim.
Parking his arse at the end of the counter, he made a motion with his hand to the barman. “When you get a chance, partner.”
The barman fixed Karl with a brow-rippling scowl, before returning his eyes to the television.
“Any chance of a drink?” persisted Karl.
The barman did not answer, but a voice from behind spoke.
“I believe you were told it’s members only in the afternoon.”
Karl swivelled in the chair. A keg-barrel chest of a man smiled, a golden Celtic cross dangling from his generous muscular neck. His body wasted no space, all of it packed in under his skin like muscular rivets. To Karl, he looked like a wrestler about to go to town – a town called Karl.
“I’m looking to become a member,” said Karl.
“Memberships all booked up,” replied Mister Wrestler. “What’s your business here?”
“You the sheriff?”
“Sheriff’s out at the ranch,” smiled Mister Wrestler. “I’m the deputy.”
“What’s a man got to do to get a drink in this place?”
“You might find it difficult getting served.”
“Even for a wanna-be member?”
Smiling even broader, Mister Wrestler said, “What would you like?”
“For starters, a bottle of Harp would be nice. Chilled, if possible. I’ll even buy you one, because you’ve shown such kindness to a tenderfoot riding the open trail,” said Karl, returning the smile.
“Joe? A bottle of Harp – chilled for the cowboy.”
Joe dipped a massive arm into an ice case and produced the beer before handing it to Mister Wrestler, totally ignoring Karl’s outstretched hand.
Instantly, the bottle disappeared into Mister Wrestler’s ham-like fist. “Here,” said Mister Wrestler to Karl, twisting off the cap as if snapping the neck of a small animal. “Enjoy and leave.”
“I must warn you that I’m a very slow drinker.”
“You look like a fast learner. Drink it fast.”
Karl took a long sip of the beer. It was refreshing, hitting the back of his throat in just the right place. “That was good,” he said, placing the half-finished beer on the counter.
“What exactly is it you want here?” asked Mister Wrestler.
“I’m looking for a man,” said Karl, removing a business card from his pocket, reaching it out towards Mister Wrestler. “Brendan Burns.”
Mister Wrestler refused to take the card. “Put it back in your pocket. This isn’t the place to come looking for anybody. Now, finish your drink and saddle up. You’ve overstayed your visit.”
Karl placed the card on the counter alongside the unfinished beer.
“I take it that means you’ll not help?”
“Take it whatever way you want, but take yourself and leave – right now.”
“What about the job you promised?” said Karl.
“What job?”
“Why, the blowjob, of course.”
Mister Wrestler’s skin suddenly tightened. Karl could see veins as thick as shoelaces tunnelling along the skin.
“How do you know when a dying man is about to make his exit from this world?” asked Mister Wrestler, his face suddenly resembling that of a hangman who has just discovered the perfect knot.
Karl looked immediately troubled. “I’ve got a foul, sinking suspicion of where this is headed, but amuse me, anyway.”
That’s when all the lights went out in Karl’s head.
Karl groaned. His ribs hurt like hell, hands badly torn. He spat a blob of blood from his mouth. He was sure some of his teeth had migrated. Something burned in his throat, tasting like vomit. Each time he attempted to move, a surging pain went up along his spine, ringing a bell inside his head. Ding Fucking Dong! He was in an alleyway of some sort, flat on his back and wedged between overturned bins, their putrid contents spewed on top of him. An enormous dent in one of the bin lids gave him an indication of what he possibly had been hit with – as well as the ham sandwich from Mister Wrestler’s hammy hand, of course.
“I thought I heard you moving. I’ve never seen a man take a beating like that before and live. That was very rare,” claimed a voice, directly above Karl’s head. It was Mister Wrestler, calmly smoking a cigarette, the other hand behind his back. “What is the rarest thing you can think of, cowboy?”
Karl tried grinning, but it was too painful. His intestines felt like they were quickly unravelling. “A used condom from the Pope? Your wife cuming?”
“A dying man being given the chance to live. I’m offering that to you. Do you want it?” said Mister Wrestler, bringing his other hand suddenly into play.
His attention now riveted to the bulbous gun in the non-smoking hand of Mister Wrestler, Karl whispered, “I’m … I’m not leaving – not until I talk to Brendan Burns.”
“You are and you aren’t. We could have used someone like you, years ago,” said Mister Wrestler, shaking his head, as if with admiration for the tenacity of the tenderfoot. “A pity you have more balls than brains, though. All that testosterone can be bad for your health, if you don’t mix it with some good old common sense.” Mister Wrestler went down on one knee, placing the gun to Karl’s left eye. “Do you know anything about hollow point bullets? No? Well, allow me to educate you. When the bullet hits you, the splits along its filed grooves divide into fourths, each piece going in a separate direction. That’s why it leaves a hole the size of a grape in your stomach and a gap the size of a watermelon in your back.” Mister Wrestler cocked the gun. “Now, are you smart or just ballsy?”
Karl spat another blob of blood from his mouth. “I’m not fucking leaving until I meet Brendan Burns, you bastard.”
“Wrong answer.”
The lights went out again and Karl was suddenly in a freefall of dark nothingness.
You really are heebiefuckingjeebie out of your skull, Mister, said Bear.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
“Ma
dness need not be at all breakdown.
It may also be break-through.”
R.D. Laing, The Politics of Experience
“At your age, you really need to be catching yourself on, Mister Kane,” said Nurse Williams disapprovingly, all the while watching a young nurse finishing with stitches to the top of Karl’s head. “Trying to prove how macho you are? Is that what this is all about?”
Easing up from the hospital chair, Karl attempted a grin but grimaced instead before walking gingerly towards Nurse Williams. His face was partially bandaged, arms and hands covered in fat, skin-coloured plasters. “I know I look like a dog’s dinner, Nurse, but you want to see the other guy – looks like the place the dinner came out of.”
Karl’s face was a bloody scrambled mess. His collarbone jutted out of his neck at a strange angle, and all the swelling and bruising had distorted his face almost beyond recognition. Congealed blood and gravel formed a seal over the wide gash that could have been an eyebrow. His left eye was swollen shut; split lips jagged and caked with black blood. Underneath all the red and black and blue pain, his skin was white as a ghost.
“I really wish you would allow me to contact your family. You really are in a bad way – even with the painkillers you’ve just taken.”
“It’s nothing that a large Hennessy and a hot bath won’t sort. Thanks for patching me up once again, Nurse. Very much appreciated. You ever need anything, let me know.”
He handed her a business card.
It was over an hour later when Karl sank slowly into a bath of hot water and thick bubbles, balancing a large Hennessy. Naomi looked on from the door, her arms folded defensively.
“Ahhhhhhhhh. This is heaven. Almost worth the ticket to that boxing match.”
“When are you going to tell me where you went or who did this?”
“Somewhere I probably should never have been, and by someone I certainly should never have seen.” He sipped the brandy before continuing. “I thought I would find a man who could help me find Katie. All I found was more trouble, and discovered how totally useless a wanker I really am.”
Naomi walked to the bath, dipping into a half-kneel position. “Getting killed isn’t going to help Katie, Karl. The police are doing –”
“The police are doing sweet fuck all! They’ve given up the chase. They think she’s dead.”
Naomi blinked, as if slapped. “Don’t talk like that.”
“No? How should I talk? Polite bullshit or elegant lies? They know who has Katie. They’re too corrupt to do anything about it. Don’t you see? They claimed to have found nothing in any of Hannah’s properties. They’re all in on it. This is their payback time.” Karl quickly emptied the brandy down his throat and held out the empty glass. “Fill it to the brim this time. I need something to take this lovely pain away.”
Naomi stood and took the glass. “Are you sure you really need another –”
“For fuck sake, will you quit nagging, Naomi! If I wanted a nag, I’d buy a horse instead of betting on them.”
“Don’t you dare swear at me, Karl Kane!”
“Just give me back the glass and I’ll fill the damn thing myself!” said Karl, snapping the glass out of Naomi’s hand while stepping quickly out of the bath. Two seconds later, he went slipping on the wet floor, landing heavily on the tail of his spine, the back of his already wounded head doing a recoil off the floor.
“Fuck! Arghhhhh …”
“Karl!” screamed Naomi, dropping immediately beside him, her face going sick. “Are you okay? Karl, answer me.”
“Just get me a drink, damn it! I need a drink! I’m fucking useless without a drink, you annoying woman!”
She pulled him into her, tightly, her strength defeating his weakened shell. He trembled. She tightened her grip, and suddenly the room was filled with the tide of his breathing and the quiet breathing of her heart.
“It’s okay. It’s okay,” she soothed, combing back his hair with her fingers, her lips kissing his wounded face, gently. “Everything will be okay.”
“I’ve failed her, Naomi. I’ve failed my beautiful wee Katie. Don’t you understand? The cops are right. She’s dead.”
CHAPTER FORTY
“How kind the visit that ye pay,
Like strangers on a rainy day.”
Christopher Smart, “On a Bed of Guernsey Lilies”
Late afternoon, and everything around Karl in the bedroom looked dull; dull and not too clearly defined. Not enough contrast. The dim light from the window, though, was enough to expose the wreck of his face in the mirror hanging above the dresser. For an instant, the sight of another person in the room, even his own battered reflection, comforted him. He tried separating the intense pain from its reality through existential processes, telling himself that pain only existed in the mind, not the body.
Grimacing again through clenched teeth, he finally had to admit defeat: he was hurting like hell.
He had drifted through slivers of dreams about Katie last night; dreams of a half dozen events between father and daughter, in a room somewhere far away. He could still see her image branded beneath his eyelids each time he closed them. She had a face like an angel, without makeup, and without the angry lines young people had nowadays or the wrinkles from frowning. Everything about her was soft and smooth. She smiled at him, saying something to him as he was preparing to leave. But it never registered, like a vision you lose grasp of when you wake. What had she said? I’m okay, Dad. Was that it? Rest yourself. You’ll find me.
For hours after, her face was all he could see. Then her face disappeared, replaced with missing little girls with darkness and suffering in their eyes.
“Karl? Are you sleeping?” asked Naomi, softly.
“Huh?”
“There’s a very tall, well-dressed man downstairs in the office wanting to see you. He wouldn’t give his name, only that it’s very important. He says he’s FBI. Obviously, just a smart-arse, plainclothes cop who’s come about the assault. I told him I doubt very much that you could see him today. Perhaps tomorrow. But he was very insistent. Says it’s extremely important. I can tell him to come back some other time, if you want?”
“How long have I been sleeping?”
“Roughly ten hours.”
“Ten bloody hours! Why didn’t you waken me before this?” he moaned, easing his body off the edge of the bed. “I should be out there, looking for Katie. Tell the cop I’ll be down shortly. He might have some information for me.”
Naomi turned to leave.
“Naomi?”
“Yes?”
“Sorry … all that nastiness …”
“I wouldn’t have you any other way.”
“What would I do without you?”
“I’m sure you’d think of something, eventually. You always do.”
Less than a minute later, Karl stepped into the shower, the first hot sprays hitting him with the propulsive ferocity of porcupine quills. It felt good. It made him feel alive. What he would give for a shave, but the thought of negotiating the maze of cuts and bruises on his face held little appeal.
Five minutes later, he exited, dried and dressed, popping a duo of painkillers into his mouth before making his way slowly downstairs to the office.
“Show the man in, Naomi, please,” said Karl, sitting down, grimacing slightly.
A few seconds later, an extremely tall, well-built man entered. His hair was jet-black, greying slightly at the temples. He had a rugged handsomeness and tunnelling eyes as dark as figs. A deep river of a scar ran down his face, curving upstream on his chin, all the way to the edge of his mouth, as if his face had been carved in two. To Karl, the man had an unnerving mien, something tangible yet elusively impenetrable. He looked like a man not to be fucked with, filled with the self-assurance of an untouchable. Yet despite all this, all life looked deflated from him, like a flag without air.
“That looks pretty grim,” said the man.
“That’s an oxymoron if ever I heard on
e,” replied Karl. “Cut myself shaving, just a wee bit too close.”
“I can see that. Had a few close shaves in my time also.”
“Won’t you sit down?” offered Karl.
For such a large man, there was a tight economy of movement as he pulled out a chair opposite and sat.
“You said you’re from the FBI?” continued Karl.
“Fucking Big Irishman,” said the man, smiling a tight smile. “Sorry about that, but I didn’t want to scare you.”
“Scare me? How?”
“I believe this is yours?” he replied, removing a tiny card from his pocket before placing it on the table.
Karl picked it up. His business card.
“Guilty,” acknowledged Karl. “But I’m sure you didn’t come all the way here just to return a business card, Mister …?
“Burns. Brendan Burns.”
Suddenly, Karl’s heart began hammering like washers on a tin roof.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
“A pity beyond all telling Is hid in the heart of love.”
W.B. Yeats, The Pity of Love
First, allow me to apologise for Cormac’s over-protectiveness, three days ago,” said Brendan Burns. “He means well.”
“Cormac? You mean Mister Wrestler with the dum-dum bullets and sledgehammer hands? If that was his interpretation of meaning well, I’d hate to see him meaning ill to any unfortunate soul entering the Ponderosa.”
“I suppose you’re going to press charges against him?”
“Is that why you’re here, to return my business card and plead for your over-zealous friend not being arrested for attempted murder?”
“That, and to ask why exactly you were enquiring about me?”
Karl hesitated for a couple of seconds. “I need your help.”
“What kind of help?”
“To find my daughter.”
A puzzled look appeared on Burns’s face. “Your daughter? I don’t understand.”
“She was abducted, over a week ago. I suspect she is being held prisoner in Crumlin Road Jail.”