by Ken Bruen
I said, ‘Let’s take this outside.’
Before I could get into it, he said, ‘I hate to laugh and run but, it seems you’ll need a new partner, it being a two-man job.’
‘You want to explain that Quinn?’
‘Yer repos – I mean wot else are you two into?’
I’d clenched my fists, never had I wanted to take down a guy so bad, I could taste blood in my mouth, said, ‘You like to put it in people’s faces Quinn, get right in there and fuck. Keep it up.’
He gave a huge grin, ‘Oh, I intend to. Next time you have an away day, that you take a wee excursion, I’ll be there. You’re all mine Cooper.’
‘Good, I’ll be looking forward to it… you mangy piece of shit.’
Returning to Doc, I took it as a positive sign that he was drinking the tea. He said, ‘According to Freud, a man doesn’t become a man till his father dies, so I wonder what he reverts to when his partner goes.’
‘From the evidence, a babbling idiot.’
He turned to look right into my face, added, ‘She really didn’t like you.’
Jeez, thanks a bunch Doc, I needed to hear this now. I didn’t say anything. Gave one of them wise head-nodding gestures, reeking of understanding. But, he thought I wasn’t getting it, grabbed my arm tightly, ‘No, I’m serious Davey. She didn’t care for most people, but she fuckin’ loathed you.’
I tried to interpret this as grief but, if he kept it up, he’d really be in bloody shock. ‘She said you were a cold fish, that beneath your frosty exterior was more ice.’
I thought she’d had a rough deal. Doc’s years in prison, his uncertain future, her horrendous death… and then I thought… fuck her.
The funeral was huge, villains like the full show. Cops came too though not in a mourning capacity. What a display of cars! I once read Maurice Gibb describe success. Remember him, the Bee Gees. He said he was standing at his front door looking at a street packed with motors and knew, ‘They’re all mine.’ I looked at the line of vehicles and knew, they’re all repos.
Noble came, same lousy raincoat, said, ‘She was a good ’un.’
‘You knew her?’
‘Never laid an eye on her – or a finger – but what the hell else is there to say.’
Doc looked downright elegant. Black suit, tie, and the manic-shined black Martens. His daughter, Emma, was out from the boarding school. A flash little piece of jail-bait, she asked me, ‘Did you know my Mum?’
‘She was a good ’un.’
‘I don’t think she liked you.’
Great.
The reception was Irish, booze and food. Doc was in the middle of the crowd, stories chasin’ the whisky, or is that vice-versa. Anyway, like that. He was saying, ‘So this wanker takes a look at me, sees I’m a big ’un, says I used to be scared of a couple of blokes… I says yeah… and I’m the both of ’em.’
Maybe it was the wedding he’d never had. I strolled over to read the condolences. A mountain of them, you’d swear Laura had a lock on Mother Theresa. The tributes to a woman who never was. I felt if no one had showed, Laura would have respected that. One card I had to pick up, it read:
With gravest respects,
Louis MacNeice
‘What!’
Doc touched my arm, said, ‘Can I get you a bit o’ grub, a drink?’
‘No… no thanks, you don’t have to play host… OK’
‘Jaysus, don’t bite the face off me, I’m just trying to be hospitable.’
‘What? Oh right – look Doc, I’m sorry, it’s just there’s something weird going on.’
Doc pushed a drink into my hand, asked, ‘Are we still on?’
‘You mean next week. Jeez, I dunno – under the circumstances, shouldn’t we, you know.’
‘You think I’m not bloody up to it. Don’t worry about me fella, I’ll keep my end up.’
‘No, I mean, the cops are all over us.’
‘And, if we don’t go it’s as plain as a confession.’
‘But better than actually getting caught.’
Doc swallowed a huge drink. Didn’t knock a feather outa him, gave me the no shit stare, said, ‘Dave, I have to have this money, OK…’
‘We’re not hurting.’
He slapped his forehead with the heel of his hand, said, ‘Will yah listen to him! I’m up to me arse with school fees, the memorial to Laura…’
‘The what?’
‘In marble. I promised Father Cleary the new Church wing would be Laura’s wish.’
I couldn’t believe it, said, ‘I can’t believe it. Well be in the wing – on friggin’ Parkhurst.’
‘Are you with me or not Dave.’
What could I do. He was the only person ever to fight my corner.
‘OK… but.’
‘Good man, now drink up – you’d think it was your funeral.’
I went back later to get the condolence card but it was gone. A bad feeling like talking death was all over me, whisperin’ – ‘soon’.
Father Cleary was early sixties – I’m not referring to his age. He had that aura of optimism and stupidity. You just knew he hummed the Beatles. Couple that with the air of the professional beggar and you’d a near-lethal cocktail. He approached me with gusto and I thought, ‘Watch yer wallet.’
His greeting, ‘Ah, Mr Collins I do declare.’
‘It’s Cooper.’
‘Really?’
He sounded as if he’d never quite reconciled himself to liars, then, ‘Are you sure. Ho ho, listen to me, course you’re sure. I wanted to thank you for the generosity of your donation from the firm.’
‘It’s nothing.’
‘Too modest Mr C. You’re not of our persuasion, I take it, which makes it even more magnificent.’
‘That’s one word for it.’
‘You’re not an atheist I trust.’
‘Presbyterian.’
‘Same thing.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Just joking, some ecclesiastical humour.’
‘Is that what it is. My father was a God-fearing man.’
‘And passed over has he – the poor creature.’
‘Took off actually.’
He gave a look round, time up for me but I figured I’d hold him a bit as he gave his exit line.
‘Laura had a grand send off.’
‘I thought you guys, the R.C.’s, frowned on suicide.’
He prepared his smile, more of the e-humour: ‘Naturally we don’t encourage it but an air of leniency exists nowadays. For example, we don’t insist on ceremony or titles so much. You needn’t call me Father, you can call me Pat.’
‘Why on earth would I wanna do that?’
And he hadn’t a reply. His smile dissolved, so I gave him a playful push, a forceful one, added, ‘Hey, lighten up Padre, that’s a little repo humour. Isn’t God after all, the ultimate repo man.’
And left him to it.
No doubt he could work it into a sermon. Very little got by him save the invention of dry cleaning. He’d had the shiniest black pants I’d ever seen, from pure wear. Made of Terylene, remember that. The sheen accessorised the spit in his soul.
GUNS
As I left the funeral, I near said festivities and maybe that was more accurate. Doc grabbed my arm, ‘You’re leggin’ it already.’
‘Yeah, I’m funned out.’
‘Oh, that’s rich Cooper.’
‘Was there something?’
‘Hardware. We’re gonna need some shooters right – the guy fell thru but I got another address. Here, you go arm us.’
‘But this is in Islington.’
‘What, you think they only sell guns in Kilburn?’
‘Bad fuck to this – I dunno this guy.’
‘He’s expecting you.’
‘Wonderful, thing is what’s he expecting from me?’
‘Cash, lotsa cash.’
‘How novel.’
But Doc had already turned away. Father Cleary was calling.
I wanted to go to Islington about as much as I’d want an evening with Quinn. Traffic was light and I got over there in jig time. The day’s repo was the Renault Espace Turbo Diesel. A sort of double retake as the company was recalling them, to install a fuse in the engine’s diesel pre-heating system. Heat sometimes damaged the wiring harness. What I did was be careful. Enough heat going down already. Couldn’t find the house for ages. Saw a size nine and toyed with asking, ‘Know where the gun dealer hangs his shingle?’
Then bingo! Got outa the door and locked it by remote from the pavement. It gives that ‘ping’ so beloved by yuppies everywhere. Shit, all I needed was the cellular and I’d be the total asshole. Rang the doorbell – the door opened a crack.
‘Yes.’
‘Are you Joseph?’
‘Who wants to know?’
‘Look, I feel ridiculous saying this but Doc sent me. He forgot to give me a password, his secret service training ain’t what it used to be.’
‘Come in.’
Nice clean house, not a gun in sight. Nice clean gun dealer too. Joseph was in his mid-twenties, crew cut and Miami Vice casuals. Loose shirt, pants and, we hoped not loose-tongued. He had a corduroy face as if someone sat on it and it didn’t bounce back. Dark eyes with fire. Doc hadn’t mentioned the guy was a dance short on his card, light on the feet. Not yer screaming queen but it was there. He gave me the smile, puts lots of teeth in it, asked, ‘See something you like?’
The accent was Kensington muted. Let you know he had class but not pushing it. I said, ‘You’re a bit young.’
‘How many gun dealers have you met?’
‘Son… how many would I want to?’
He let it settle, then decided to take it lightly. Or else… shoot me?
‘And how is the good doctor?’
‘Keeping well. Keeping stum more like.’
‘Some refreshments?’
‘Whatever.’
‘Let us then to the penthouse.’
He wasn’t kidding. Upstairs was the Heal’s catalogue come to life. I liked it a lot, said, ‘I like this a lot.’
He locked eyes, weighed the consequences then went for it, ‘Killer.’
I settled in a couch that had the personality of a hypnotist, whisperin’, ‘Sleep, you’re getting drowsier and drowsier.’ Joseph said, ‘I have some vodka here, has the personal approval of Yeltsin, thus quality.’
‘I thought he went for quantity but yeah, give us a belt of that.’
He did, then, ‘Yasseu.’
‘Only yesterday I despatched a beautiful Ruger SP-101, a true work of art.’
I didn’t know if regret or admiration was expected so I gave neither. Concentrated on the drink, it tasted cool and cold, a gentle kick that promised endurance. Mostly what it was like was more – lots and lots.
Joseph asked, ‘Are you familiar with,
“if I have seen further than other men
it is because I have stood on
the shoulders of giants”
– know it?’
‘Ran it by a mate only the other Tuesday.’
‘Like some of my merchandise, I have modified it, thus:
“it’s because I have sold to
the baseness of greed.”’
I drained the vodka, got down the last tinkle and said, ‘Fascinating and I’m sure you have a whole bunch of other quotes but, hey, let’s get to the guns – OK, how would that be.’
He stood and I don’t think he was well pleased.
‘I thought perhaps you were a fellow traveller, that through the instruments of destruction we could comprehend transcendence.’
‘Shit Joe, I have problems on the Northern Line – transcend that.’
So we weren’t going to be buddies, especially not asshole ones. He left the room and didn’t return for about twenty minutes. I nearly had a nap. Carrying two large flat cases, he opened them on the floor, began to pile out weapons, reciting, ‘You’ve got your Glock, lightweight, plastic, undetectable by airport technology, a Baretta nine millimetre Parabellum, small wars model, a Colt, the basic western gun, looks serious. The Detective Special, beloved of Special Branch, makes them feel like movie stars.
‘This big chappie is a Mark V1 Enfield. Yes, your assumption’s correct, from those good folk who brought us the Lee Enfield and World War One. A variety of Mausers, very efficient. Uzis of course and, I have stocks of CS Gas, so popular lately.’
He had a light perspiration on his forehead and I realised – ‘Jeez, this guy’s hot for them’. He said, ‘No need to rush. I’ll leave you alone and let you get acquainted. Standard items such as 12-gauge and Brownings I keep downstairs. Enjoy!’
I fiddled about with them, did a few movie poses, dropped to combat position and generally clowned around. I gathered he’d be watching so, wot the hell, give ’em a show. When he came back, I was seated quietly and I said, ‘The stage is BUR.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘El has left the building? No sweat, forget it.’
‘You’ve made your selection.’
‘Indeed I have. Have you got a pump shotgun, double loader.’
He was dismayed, spread his arms out, said, ‘You don’t wish any of these pieces?’
‘Naw.’
Jeez, was he pleased, bundled up the gear with sighs and tut-tutting. I could give a fuck. Went and got me the pump and two dozen shells. Said in a sarcastic tone, ‘I trust this is sufficient.’
‘Yo Joseph, don’t trust so easily eh. Tell you what though, if I run out, I’ll give you a bell.’
I was handing over the wad of money as I said this. He paused mid-note, said, ‘Oh, I don’t think so. One feels a car boot sale would answer your requirements.’
I wasn’t offended, offered, ‘You ever in the market for a car yerself, give me a shout.’
‘I very much doubt that Sir. I can’t ever picture myself in the market for whatever it is you hustle.’
As he let me out, I tapped his arm, said, ‘If I’m ever throwing a party, a wild one, you’re top of my A-list pal cos fuckit, you’re just a fun fella.’
He shut the door.
MOROCCO AND POINTS SOUTH
Got home and shit, I was tired. Weapons and funerals, they’ll do for you every time. Out of the car, gave the yuppie ‘ping’ and turned to my door.
Cassie literally materialised before me, staggered and I barely caught her before she hit the ground. She was out cold. Carried her over the threshold – yeah, I bet she enjoyed that – and laid her on the settee. Doused a cloth with ice water and mopped her brow. She was wearing late-evening hooker ensemble. Black bomber jacket, white and tight T-shirt, short black skirt, black stockings. Sure, the obvious crossed my mind but I tried to ignore it. She came round with little groans and whimpers, not unlike the sounds she’d made when we had sex. I asked, ‘Are you OK?’
‘Osteoporosis.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Brittle bone disease, ain’t it a bitch. Usually connected to the menopause but I had to get it early. I’ll be literally cracking up – they’ll hear me coming, and going.’
I didn’t know what to make of this. More lies? So I asked, ‘Can I get you something?’
‘Say what?’
‘Tea – a drink.’
‘Coffee’d be good. I had a little girl, back when I lived in New York City. Her name was Ariana. I loved her more than I thought I could bear. She filled me with joy and wonder and pain and oh God, with yearning. I had to leave her alone for a few hours one evening – it’s a long story why – when I got back, she was gone. I’ve never seen her since – that’s partly why I’m such a goddamn mess.’
I agreed about her being a bloody mess but felt maybe it wasn’t the time to mention it. Coffee, yeah, I was glad of the diversion. Made it hot and ball-bustin’ strong. Elephant blend, as a mate said. At first I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Reckoned the Yeltsin had finally kicked in but no – she was singing! In a low clear voice of nigh absolute
purity. I dunno about beauty, fuck knows, where would I have learnt, I was raised with pigeons. But, I’d bet this was close. I didn’t know then but it was a song by Tricia Yearwood called ‘O Mexico’. It had a ring of loneliness, of longing that hit like a gut-shot. I felt as close to weeping as a hard-ass like me’s ever gonna come.
Then she stopped and the silence scalded my heart, muttered, ‘Get a friggin’ grip.’
I was wrung as tight as tension, not worth tuppence. If the filth had come callin’, I’d have put up my hand, shouted – ‘fair cop guv’. Carried out the coffee, no bizzies, Noble had scoffed the lot. She’d been crying, I wish I didn’t know that and she said, ‘Are you familiar with Thomas Merton?’
‘Not unless he’s a bookie.’
She quoted:
‘We must be true inside
true to ourselves
before we can know
a truth
that is outside us.’
I poured the coffee, asked, ‘How d’ya take it.’
‘Cream and sugar -
“But we make
ourselves true by
manifesting the truth
as we see it.”’
I handed her a mug, wondering if she’d finished. She had.
I took a sip, real good – fuck, I make great coffee.
‘So Cassie, where’s my gun… eh?’
‘I tossed it.’
‘You wot.’
‘I was scared – scared I’d eat the metal so, I walked over Waterloo Bridge and sank the sucker. Is that the one Ray Davies wrote about – I saw the Kinks once.’
‘And my money, I suppose you, dumped that too.’
‘Don’t be a horse’s ass, I spent it, you’ve mucho dinero.’
‘But not so mucho patience lady and your meter’s running high. Lemme see if I can get this across. You stole from me, broke in to my gaff, took a shot at me and generally ran fuckin’ liberties. Am I getting through to you Cassie. Our firm has been moving rag-ass trying to find you.’
‘I’ve been naughty!’
‘Naughty?’
‘I need spanking.’