by Ken Bruen
The usual suspects were lined up along the bar and greeted him less with warmth than expectation, expecting that for once he might be flush and stand a round of drinks, they admired his tan, and when he shouted to the bartender, “Pint of your best bitter, my good fellow,” they shrugged, collectively, same old, same old.
It was the kind of pub where everything was for sale, even your mother, well, your mother’s pension, anyway. There was a quite a brisk trade in old age pensioners’ pension books, and of course there was always someone cashing some unfortunate Australian backpacker’s travelers cheques. You recommended a good cheap hostel to them, clean and friendly, and while they went off to make the call, you relieved them of their belongings.
Doing the chaps and gells a favour, actually. Now they’d really have an adventure, see how friendly London was when you were skint. Which is why all the bar staff in Earls Court had Aussie accents, the trips to Italy, etc., shall we say, um, deferred.
Sebastian managed to bum a twenty from an Irish guy who was three sheets to the wind and got the hell out of there. The black cab to Hampstead cost most of the borrowed dosh but ah, glorious Hampstead, where Sebastian felt he belonged – that, or of course, Windsor.
He paid the driver and gazed in wonder at the address. It was a semi-detached in a nice leafy lane. Whistling a few bars from Bridge on the River Kwai, he let himself in, hoping to fuck she didn’t have a dog.
Cash, the house reeked of it. Flokati shag rugs on the floor and paintings, dammit all, one of them looked like a, golly gosh, a Constable. And the decoration, even to his untrained eye, had obviously cost a bundle, all that posh leather furniture that creaked when you sat in it but looked good in the glossy mags. First things first, he found the drinks cabinet, found, ah yes, Gordon’s and mixers. Then he found a nice large Gucci holdall and began to fill it with swag.
Then upstairs and women, ha, so predictable. Under her rather dainty lingerie he found nigh on five large in notes and nearly had a coronary when he found, in a leather pouch, a roll of Krugerrands, with a note: Love from Daddykins Xxxxxx
He was toasting Daddykins when a voice asked, “Who the hell are you?”
Turned to see a woman in her fifties, with a cleaning brush and apron. He was startled, then tried, “Golly, one wasn’t expecting the char to arrive.”
For the life of him, he couldn’t remember the name of the bloody cow who lived here. Meanwhile, the cleaning woman was like all her class, suspicious, and accused, “You’re a burglar.”
In his agitation, he thought she called him a bugger. Now I mean, steady on, a chap had some horseplay with the rugger boys in boarding school, it was part of being English, but to be actually called a homo…
She picked up the phone near the bed, said, “I’m calling the coppers.”
A combination of herpes shock, bugger accusation, gin, and Ripley’s Game meshed and he had the phone cord round her neck in no time. She fought like a demon, they fell over the bed, but he held on for grim life and even began to laugh hysterically, shouting, “Ride ‘em, cowboy!”
Took a time and she managed to scrape his face, hurt like a… a bugger? The cord was near embedded in her throat when she finally gave out and went limp.
He was shaking, rose off her. He got all his loot together, too drunk to realize his prints were all over the place. He didn’t dare call a cab, so he legged it down the leafy lane, found a tube station and, loath as he was to use that service, he did. On the train, a wino asked him for a contribution and he answered, “Bugger off.”
When he finally got to Earls Court, he was seriously knackered, the adrenaline long gone, and his hangover had kicked in with a serious intent. Probably explains why he didn’t notice his door had been forced. He just wanted to have a shower and count the loot and oh, have a large gin. Killing people was harder work than they led you to believe. He’d done it twice, and you know, it didn’t get easier.
He was reaching for the light switch when he got a massive wallop to the head that sent him sprawling across his tiny living room, the bag of swag spilling every which way, a rainbow of miniature paintings, jewelry, Krugerrands, cash, a few pair of the girl’s lace panties he’d grabbed, even one of the flokati rugs.
He turned to see Georgios standing over him. Georgios, how the fuck could that be? The guy was fish meat off the cliffs of Santorini. Jesus, how rough was his hangover? Hallucinating already?
Georgios hissed, “I’m going to cut your balls off, mallakas, for the death of my cousin.”
Good to his word, he had a very lethal looking knife in his right hand. Sebastian held up a hand, asked, “You’re his cousin?”
He didn’t know whether to feel relief or fear. He ranted, “I tried to save Georgios. It was that crazy American bitch killed him. Why do you think I left her behind? She’s completely mad.”
The knife was raised, and Sebastian had an inspiration that saved his balls and his life.
He said, “See all this treasure, we can use it to track her down, extract proper vengeance for your noble cousin.”
Noble certainly stopped the mad bastard in his knife tracks. He asked, “Why should I believe you, mallakas?”
Sebastian was on his feet now, grabbed the gin bottle, poured two large measures and, with a shaking hand, offered it to the guy, who grabbed it, tried it, made a face. Sebastian knocked his back like a drowning man, said, “I was living on Santorini for months, I never even heard of your noble cousin, why would I kill him? But this crazy woman, she owed him rent, she stole from me, she is truly demented.”
The guy had put the knife down, thank God, and was looking at all the cash and goodies lying on the floor.
Sebastian quickly added, the gin urging him on, “My parents are rich and this is my inheritance.”
Why they would have given him some rather delicate items of lingerie was tricky but the Greeks knew all about the, um, peccadillos of the Brits.
The guy said, “I found your credit card in Georgios’ home.”
Dammit, must’ve fallen out of his pocket while he was bending over, wrapping the body in plastic. Fucking credit cards, always came back to bite you in the bum.
The Greek pushed his glass towards Sebastian, grunted, “More.”
Sebastian thought, the scoundrel might have tried please. But this was probably not the best moment to mention it.
The man said, “My name is Yanni.”
Would Damn jolly good to meet you be overdoing it? Sebastian settled for, “Glad to meet you. Alas, I wish it were under happier circumstances, but be assured, I will track this lady down and wreak revenge for you and your family.”
He was thinking, give the bastard five hundred for his trouble and get shot of him. Well, let’s not be rash, two hundred was probably a fortune to a chappie like this.
The guy had rock-hard eyes, said, “We.”
Sebastian echoed, “We?… I’m not sure I follow you, old chap.”
Yanni was looking at the knife again, said, “I don’t trust you English, we stay together till this is avenged, okay?”
With a sinking heart, Sebastian mustered his best grin, said, “Splendid, rather chuffed to have you on board.”
Yanni grabbed a pile of cash and Sebastian thought, Steady on.
The Greek was heading for the door, said, “Now we eat, drink some ouzo, and plan how we find this she-devil.”
Sebastian wanted a shower and more gin and to be rid of this lunatic.
“Capital,” he said.
Twelve
Dyke City
If there was a dyke scene in Attica, New York, Paula Segal sure as hell was going to find it. She did a couple of lines of coke on the dashboard, made sure her pushup bra was doing its necessary pushing up, and was ready to roll.
She drove to downtown Attica and a good thing she didn’t blink too long or she would’ve missed it. It was the typical small upstate New York town that had been thriving during the time they filmed It’s a Wonderful Life but now it looked
like a ghost town, probably the casualty of a nearby Wal-Mart. But the lesbians had to hang out somewhere, right? She drove by a few dilapidated blocks, past the mostly abandoned shops. There were a few bars, but only one getting any business. As she entered, Kiss’ “Rock And Roll All Night” was blasting. She had a feeling this wasn’t a good sign.
The place was crowded, that was the good news. The bad news was the ratio was bad, i.e. there were practically all men. Standing in the doorway, Paula felt the sets of male eyes leering at her desperately, as if she was the first woman they’d seen in years. Jeez, was the whole town of Attica a freaking prison? Did they release them right into the goddamn bars?
One guy grabbed her arm – he looked frighteningly like Sean Penn in Dead Man Walking – and said, “Hey, how about a little dance, honey?”
Like you could dance to Kiss.
She yanked her arm free, hissed, “Fuck you, townie.”
God, men were so fucking gross. Did she actually used to like them or had she gone through the eighteen years of her sexually active life faking it? Eh, whatever, she was just so glad she was through with all of that crap.
The woman working the bar – she wasn’t bad looking. Blond, a little heavy but, hey, Paula liked big girls. The woman looked briefly in Paula’s direction and half-smiled, but Paula couldn’t tell if there was more to it, if it was a come-on or not. As a newbie lesbian, Paula’s gaydar wasn’t fully developed yet. Since she’d, well, turned, she’d accidentally hit on several straight women and she was sure she’d let some hardcore dykes, easy lays, slip through her fingers. She hoped it all averaged out in the end.
Paula sat at the bar and decided to go native, ordered a bottle of Schlitz.
Watching the woman get the drink, Paula eyeballed her ass. Nice. She liked her shoulders, too – they were big and meaty. She had at least a few tattoos, wasn’t wearing makeup, and her hair was cut short, boyish. Looked like a dyke all right.
“Hey, I’m Paula.”
“Bonny,” the woman said.
Paula smiled, said, “Shake your bon-bon, shake your bon-bon.”
Bonny was deadpan. Maybe she didn’t like Ricky Martin?
Trying to loosen her up, Paula said, “It’s kinda guy-heavy here tonight, huh?”
“Yeah,” Bonny said, “but this is the clientele. What’re you gonna do, you know?”
“I know what I’m gonna do,” Paula said.
She smiled, letting the implication linger, as if there was any doubt what she had in mind.
“Excuse me, are you hitting on me?” Bonny asked.
She seemed if not disgusted, seriously annoyed.
Before Paula could respond a fat guy with a scraggly red beard appeared.
He said, “What’s the problem, honey?
“This lady’s hitting on me,” Bonny said.
Paula said, “Um, I think there’s a, um, misunder-”
“You tryin’ to pick up my wife?” Bearded Guy asked.
Somebody in the bar yelled, “She’s a fuckin’ dyke!” and then everybody started yelling.
Paula hightailed it out of there, back to her car. As she was getting in, Bearded Guy came running over, saying, “Hey, if you’re lookin’ to have one of ’em threesomes, maybe I can talk Bonny into it!”
Back in her motel room, Paula got undressed and into bed, thinking, So much for hooking up in this hick town. She read a few chapters of Lippman’s What the Dead Know, then on pay-per-view she found a good all-girl porno movie – Horny College Chicks Get Dirty. As the girls went at it, wrestling and clawing at each other in the mud, she moved her hand over her crotch, whispering, “That’ll do, pig. That’ll do.”
In the morning, Paula left bright and early for her first session with Max.
The warden had come through, and she found herself sitting face-to-face next to Fisher, a guard near the door. Fisher was, naturally, staring at her bust.
After last night the last thing she was in the mood for was a predatory man. But she reminded herself that her career was at stake and she had to put on her game face.
Fisher asked, “So you wanna set a date?
She stared at him. She didn’t know what he was talking about, said, “What’re you talking about?”
“Tomorrow my morning’s full,” he said, “but how about the afternoon?”
Talk about gaydar malfunctioning, what was wrong with this guy?
“I’m sorry, a date for what?”
“Our fucking wedding,” he said. “The… A.X. needs to get his pipes cleaned. I already got permission from my counselor and last night I wrote out a pre-nup. It basically says, You don’t get shit. Sorry to be so blunt about it but, hey, I learned from the Donald. I know it’s probably not legally binding, but it’ll give me something to fall back on when our marriage goes to pieces and, let’s face it, I know it’s gonna feel like a honeymoon now, but it’s only a matter of time before it all goes to shit. Trust me, when it comes to shit relationships I’ve been there, done that.”
Trying not to laugh, she said, “This is all so sudden. I need some more time to think about it.”
Fisher wouldn’t crack. He said, “I need an answer pronto. No marry, no talkie. You have ten seconds to decide.”
He started the countdown and she was thinking how she couldn’t lose this book deal. But marry Fisher? God, he made Ron Jeremy look like a catch. But if she had to do it, she had to do it. This was her last shot and she wasn’t giving it up for anything.
He was at “two” when she blurted, “Yes, yes, I’ll marry you, I’ll marry you.”
Fisher leaned over and, Jesus Christ, he kissed her. Cringing, she was thinking of that line from Planet of the Apes when Dr. Zira kisses Charlton Heston: You’re so damn ugly.
She couldn’t wait to get out of there, to take a shower, but she reminded herself of her ultimate goal, to write the best damn true crime book ever, and she tried to keep her disgust from showing.
Max was talking about the marriage license and setting a date for sometime next week. Hopefully she’d have all the material she needed by then and wouldn’t have to go through with it.
Speaking of which. She said, “Tell more about this hit man you and Angela Petrakos allegedly hired to kill your wife. Did he really call himself Popeye?”
It spread like wildfire that The… A.X. had had a hot visitor.
One guy asked, “That, like, your wife?”
Max gave him a withering look, sneered, “Ain’t you heard, peckerhead? My first bitch wife got chopped to pieces.” Let the other cons hear this as he paused. Added a wink, then said, “By person or persons unknown.”
They could check this out and see indeed it was true. It should further enhance his violent rep.
The guy took off, muttering, “No offense, bro.”
Man, Max was having the time of his freaking life. Did he own this joint or what? Even the guards were looking at him with fresh respect. And the writer babe, the bust on that chick! He was hard just replaying the scene and the way he’d laid down the rules to her. He could see she was panting for him, he knew all about how those crazy dames married guys in the joint. Soon he’d have a stack of letters from women wanting to be his penpal. The… A.X. might allow one of the queens to do his letter writing, they were good at all that romance shit.
Another con stopped, asked, “Mr. Max, you need me to run any errands, stuff like that?’
Max gave him his imperial look, said, “I seem to be running low on decent booze.”
Let it hover.
The guy, some variety of spic, licked his lips, said, “There’s the prison hooch, I can get you a bottle of that.” Trailed off as The… A.X. gave him the silent treatment then said, “There’s a bottle of Chivas going for like five cartons.”
Max gave him a tiny pat on the shoulder, said, “Now you’re talking, hermano, deliver it to my cell in say, ten minutes?”
When Max finally got back to the cell, Rufus was standing there, gazing in wonder at a bottle of Chiv
as, said, “You the man, yo, how the hell you get this shit? How much it gonna cost?”
Rufus, who knew how the system worked, had never even seen real booze in all his years in lockup. Max smiled, took the bottle, said, “I let him live.”
Max clinked his prison-issue tin cup again Rufus’s. Chivas in a tin cup. Thought to himself, Hmmmm, maybe a good title for the book of poetry he’d been thinking he might write someday. He was just so on fire. Then he laughed to himself and said out loud, “I’m a fucking riot.” Later, he’d remember saying this, after he’d become the cause of one of the bloodiest fucking riots to come down the pike. Wouldn’t seem so funny then, but for now he couldn’t stop chuckling.
He had another shot of the Chivas, man, that was good shit, he didn’t know if the big guy appreciated the finer things in life but hey, hang in there, The… A.X. would bring him right along. He reminded Max of the giant in The Green Mile, and he made a metal note, tell the writer babe to put ol’ Rufus in there.
Then he realized the big guy was… sobbing? The fuck was that? How good was this booze?
Max, allowing his sensitive side to show, asked, “Hey, amigo mio, whassup?”
Then to keep his Spanish in trim, added, “Que pasa, compadre?”
Rufus, massive tears rolling down those cheeks, said, “Yo, Max, man, I just been feeling so bad and shit, know what I’m sayin’? When you came in here, me wantin’ to ram a rod up yo’ pretty ass and shit? That shit was wrong, know what I’m sayin’? That shit wasn’t me talkin’, man, you gotta know that shit’s true.” He sobbed some more, then said, “Outside, man, I never even been lookin’ at another man’s ass, know what I’m sayin’? But inside here, shit, it fucks with a man’s mind and shit. You see the sissies walkin’ ‘round shakin’ they pretty asses and you start wantin’ some of that shit yourself, know what I’m sayin’? You start sayin’, ‘Gimme some a dat shit,’ ‘I want some a dat shit.’ ‘I wanna fuck that shit.’ Know what I’m sayin’?” He wiped his eyes on the back of his hand. “And, Max, yo, if I been knowin’ you was some hot shit gangsta an’ shit, I wouda been cleanin’ yo’ ass fer you every day ‘stead a wantin’ to fuck it, know what I’m sayin’? Why would I would I wanna fuck some big time gangsta’s ass for? That’s shit’s crazy, man, shit makes no sense and shit. And some a the shit I been sayin’ to you, man, like how I been hatin’ Moslems and shit, I didn’t mean none of that shit. I don’t know why I said that ’cept I was crazy cause I been in this jail too long and I been gettin’ too much sissy ass. It fucks with a man’s brain and shit, know what I’m sayin’? And now, every night, I been afraid. Yeah, I been afraid that I wake up my dick won’ be on my body no more. Every night, ’fore I go to sleep I pray to Jesus you won’t take off my dick. And every mornin’ when I wake up, first thing I do is I check to make sure my dick’s still there. So that’s what I’m sayin’ to you is thank you, man. Thank you for not takin’ my dick off, and I hope you forgive me for disrespectin’ you and shit. I didn’t mean none of that shit. That was just bullshit talkin’, that wasn’t me.”