by Ken Bruen
“Don’t.”
He stopped, a hundred note resting in his hand, and he asked,
“You like to see it spread out, yeah?”
“No, I like to see it on the floor, where it belongs.”
Finally, he said he’d better make a move and asked,
“You going to be OK, Jack?”
I said sure and thanked him again for the hypnosis feat, reiterated it was very impressive.
He stopped his exit, said,
“Jack, there’s all sorts of things I could help you with.”
He had an eagerness I was loath to puncture but that never stopped me, I said,
“Yeah, you mean that?”
His face lit up. He said,
“Just name it, Jack.”
“Restore my fingers.”
I saw the pain in his eyes as I shut the door. I went to the fridge, pulled out an icy bottle of Hoegaarden, that blond fine imported beer that we can never pronounce, and got the top off with my left hand. Figured I might as well get familiar with that hand, it was in for a lot of use. I drank some of the beer chased with the Jay and felt, if not better, at least energized.
Time to get ready for action. Some years ago, I’d run into a serious hard case named Kosta. His nationality was never established.
I’d done him a major service. He was the real deal, never needed to shout the odds about his nature-it showed in his eyes and his complete ease with violence. We shared the same ideas about justice and had become almost close. He was a good guy to have in your debt. I was about to call it in. Rang him. He’d told me on our last outing, a messy affair that I’d blundered our way out of, that his gratitude was infinite, saying,
“Jack, anything you ever need, you got it, my pledge to you.”
Right. Let’s see how much smoke he was blowing.
If I was American, I’d have him on speed dial. I laboriously dialed his number from my landline, using, yeah, my left hand. I kept telling myself, Kosta dealt in everything on one condition: it was under the radar, i.e.: illegal, discreet.
He answered on the third ring with,
“Kali mera.”
Greek today, then.
I said,
“Kosta, it’s Jack… Jack Taylor.”
“Madonna del mio.”
That’s what I heard or something like it but it had warmth. I can recognize that in any tongue. I remembered then, he was one of those rarities I’d helped-he actually liked me. He said, “My friend, I am so happy to hear you. They tell me bad things have been done to you.”
I said,
“Why I’m calling you, buddy.”
I remember introducing him to the collected works of Tarantino and he was fond of quoting from the movies. Worked for me and, I guess, Tarantino. Never missing a beat, he said,
“Give me their names Jack, I’ll go biblical on their ass.”
I said,
“Thank you, I need a Mossberg Pump.”
Not exactly something you can ring up Tesco and order, least not yet.
No hesitation, he said,
“Give me your address, I’ll swing by round seven.”
My kind of guy.
And seven, on the dot, my bell rang. I’d managed to grab close to five hours sleep, popped some Xanax, and was, if not aware, at least alert. I opened the door. He was a small man with a heavily weathered face. Now my own face, I’ve lines you could plant spuds in, but Kosta made me look young.
Kind of.
His head was shaven, he had an aquiline nose, or so he said, and large brown eyes that went to black in a second. He wore his perennial black leather coat and a bespoke suit. Like an out-of-work KGB agent. That was not an impression he discouraged. As I knew from our previous form, he spoke Russian, fluently. He grabbed me in a bear hug and was one of the few who I could not only tolerate it from, but feel they meant it. A large sports bag swung loosely in his left hand, with the logo
… Ti Krema.
I’d asked before.
It was Greek for
“What a pity.”
I hadn’t asked further. Who in his right frigging mind would? I welcomed him to my home and, before I could offer hospitality, he unzipped the bag, produced a bottle of Grey Goose, handed it to me, and said,
“Nice place Jack.”
I asked,
“On the rocks or neat?”
Silly question.
I poured two large, no ice, and said,
“Sit and let’s catch up.”
We clinked glasses and I got there first, toasted,
“Slainte amach.”
He loved that. Responded with,
“To better days, my dear friend.”
Glanced at my mutilated hand, commanded,
“Drink.”
I did, we did. Ferociously.
He sat back on my freshly cleaned sofa, looked round, said,
“Very clean, very neat; this I like.”
A few moments later, the Goose bit, and that warm glow lined my stomach. He stood, glass in hand, and began to move around, paid full attention to the bookcases, selected the Poems of Hemingway, said,
“I did not know he wrote poetry.”
I said,
“Take it, then you decide if he did.”
He smiled, that’s the kind of answer he liked. He pointed his glass towards the sports bag, said,
“Your merchandise is in there.”
Paused, a vague smile hovering, added,
“With ammunition, of course.”
I took out the Mossberg and for a moment I was amazed at how light it felt. He said,
“The barrel, the grip, have been sawn off, so it fits almost like a handgun.”
He chuckled, quipped,
“Taylor made.”
Delighted at his own pun, he freshened our drinks. He said,
“Give me the shells.”
I placed half a dozen on the table. They were heavier than I’d imagined. He indicated the gun and I tossed it to him; he caught it effortlessly, one hand. Looked impressive and showed a deep familiarity with the weapon. He muttered,
“Epharisto poli.”
Thank you, in Greek.
I think.
It didn’t, of course, mean he was Greek; it simply meant he knew how to say thanks in the language. He flipped the gun to his left hand, grabbed two of the cartridges and inserted them, pumped the barrel once, said,
“Rock ‘n’ roll.”
Handed it back to me, a man who treated a loaded weapon carefully, a man who knew his trade, said,
“Practice with your left, over and over again, using your right hand to prop the barrel.”
I tried, fumbled, and he moved his finger.
I. e., again.
I did.
Knowing there were shells in it kept me focused. We stayed at it for a time, his eyes never leaving the weapon. Finally as sweat began to roll down my face, he signaled: enough. I went to put the gun aside and he said,
“No, make it part of your hand. Until it is, you are an amateur.” Lesson over, the steel left his voice. He asked,
“Need backup?”
I thought about it, said,
“Maybe.”
Then I reached for a thick envelope I’d readied and moved to put it in his hand. He shook his head, said,
“No, but perhaps, a little further along, I might call on your assistance.”
I assured him with,
“Ask and ’tis done.”
Words that will haunt me to my grave.
We sat, sipped at our drinks in more relaxed fashion. Laura’s letter was on the table. He asked,
“A woman?”
“Yes.”
He could see it was unopened, then,
“Do you love her?”
With Kosta, everything was direct, to the point of bluntness.
I said,
“I had hoped I might.”
He pondered that, staring at the remains of the vodka in his glass, said,
That I knew.
French for what a pity.
I asked,
“Like a brew to go with the Goose?”
He nodded, and still cradling the Mossberg, I grabbed two ice-cold Buds from the fridge. Screw-off tops which are, in my view, damn smart. Handed one to him, and said,
“To all the girls we loved before.”
He was a major Willie Nelson fan and the duet with Julio Iglesias was a staple on his sound track, inner and outer.
He smiled, said,
“And to those who might yet find us old guys… colorful.”
Unless beige came back into vogue, I was shit out of luck.
He took a large gulp of the brew, waited, then,
“Jack, you were a policeman but you didn’t carry a gun. Now you are not a policeman, you do. Is that how you define irony?”
I said,
“More like insurance.”
His mobile shrilled, he took it from his coat, answered, said, “Abla.”
Listened, his face expressing nothing until he spat out a staccato of some East European language. Then he snapped his phone shut, said,
“A rumor, without a leg to stand on…will find… another way to move around.”
I left it as cryptic as it was.
He stood, took me in a bear hug again, said,
“We have much in common, hermano.”
Thanked me for the book, the hospitality, and was gone. I drank the Bud slowly, took one of the painkillers the doctor had provided. I wasn’t hurting but felt it coming on. Then I lifted Laura’s letter, moved over to the sink, and, using my Zippo, set it alight. If I opened it, her words would be branded forever on a soul already too heavy. It burnt quickly, like my aspirations, as I held it over the sink. The slightly smoldering remains floated towards the drain like the dying dance of a disintegrating dream. Turned the tap on full, the jet of water sucking the embers of what might have been. I’d laid the gun on the countertop and avoided looking at it lest I put the barrel in my mouth.
I thought of A Moveable Feast, of all the wood that had surrounded us then and how I never touched one single piece of it for luck. Blinded by love and joy, I believed I’d little need of luck and that Paris would simply continue in Galway and that Laura would hold my hand forever. One glorious moment, as we were standing by the Eiffel Tower, I’d been looking up at the steel girders when Laura kissed the nape of my neck; a fleeting kiss, almost imperceptible, and my whole body was alight with awe that such a single gesture could have me believe I was bulletproof and that the future would be writ as it was then. A light rain had begun to fall and Laura turned her face up to it, said,
“Thank you, Lord.”
I said,
“Wait till you see the rain in Galway. It’s incessant but soft, like your eyes.”
She’d never feel the Galway rain and I’d never feel her gentle eyes light on my face.
Och ocon…Oh misery is me.
I moved back to the sofa, the gun resting in my arm again, turned on Marc Roberts’s new album, the track “Dust” killing me slowly. My mobile rang, thank Christ.
A Dhia, ta bron orm.
(God, I am so sad.)
– Old Irish prayer
Stewart.
He launched,
“Father Malachy has regained consciousness.”
Father!
I never… never heard him call him thus.
I said,
“Good, how is he?”
Stewart seemed momentarily lost for words; Malachy had that effect, then,
“I think the nurses might be about to blacken his eyes, too.”
I might actually help them. I asked,
“When can I go see the oul bastard?”
“Ridge has the day off on Thursday and asks if she can pick you up then, go with you?”
I laughed, not out of humor, but Ridge? Said,
“Safety in numbers. You think we need that for him?”
Without hesitation, he said,
“Actually we were both thinking of protecting him from you.”
Nice.
I needled,
“You think I’d assault a priest?”
“Why not? You’ve assaulted everyone else.”
The little sanctimonious prick. I hissed,
“Thanks Stewart, your Zen spirit has made a contented man very old.”
Silence, then,
“Jack, you OK? You sound a little… off.”
I thought of Kosta, said,
“I’m all right, as right as a rumor.”
Clicked off.
I crashed early, meaning I managed to get to my bed, took the Mossberg with me, and, as long as I didn’t shoot meself during the night, I was doing OK.
Next morning, thank Christ, I couldn’t remember my dreams but they’d been rough. When you wake with your hair drenched in sweat and panic riding roughshod all over your torso, you weren’t dreaming you won the freaking lotto.
Got a scalding shower done, a lethal strong coffee in me and the Xanax. Spent an hour practicing the moves with the gun. I was clumsy, couldn’t get into a rhythm but stayed with it; it would come. By fuck, I’d make it. Got my all-weather coat. The right inside pocket was a shoplifter’s dream, large and unobtrusive. The Mossberg slid in like sin. I got a yellow pad, wrote down all I knew about Headstone. Took me a time, writing with your left hand for the first time is a bitch.
Done, I sat back, drained the coffee, and stared at the pad, willing it to speak to me. There was a pattern, a design; I just hadn’t got it yet. I brushed my teeth, the smell of burnt paper still lingering in the air, hovering above the sink, like some specter of paradise lost, a lost plea of transcendence.
Shrugged on my coat, the gun in place, and headed out to face the day. Whatever it brought, I was at least locked and loaded. As I opened the door, I glanced one last time at the sink and my dead dream, muttered,
“Smoke, that’s all.”
I came out of my apartment building, made a sign of the cross at the cathedral, moved across the Salmon Weir Bridge, and didn’t look to see if the salmon were jumping. The water had been poisoned two years now and the only things jumping were me nerves.
Of course, I ran into a wise guy, some fuck I vaguely knew, who immediately stared at my fingers, said,
“Not paying your debts, eh?”
It did flit across my mind to have him jump where the salmon didn’t. I said,
“Yeah, how’d you know?”
Smirk in place, he said,
“Common as muck these days, everybody’s in debt and having to give up parts of their life they never expected.”
I said,
“I gave them your name, said you’d cover my tab.”
Whatever he shouted after me, it contained not only invective but a sense of alarm.
Good.
Books.
I needed to ground myself and nothing, not even the Jay, quite does it like books. I don’t always have the focus to read them but I sure do need them around. Especially as a woman was not in the cards, not no more. I headed for my second home.
Charlie Byrne’s Bookshop has grown and become almost as important as the swans of Galway in the very pulse of the city. I hadn’t been since my most recent accident and felt almost content to be heading there. I passed the newest head shop, doing, it seemed, a brisk trade. Not a high away was the Oxfam shop, emanating a mellow vibe. And then Charlie’s. Sylvia Beach would have been proud of those guys.
Vinny was behind the counter, chatting animatedly to a customer. He had that Clinton touch of making each person feel like the most important one. His trademark long black hair was trimmed. He no longer resembled John Travolta in Pulp Fiction, whose character was named.. . Vincent.
Go figure.
He handed a stack of books to the customer, said,
“Sure, pay the rest when you can.”
Why the town loves the shop.
He saw me, ask
ed,
“Jack, it’s my smoke break, time to join me?”
Oh, yeah.
He has the laid-back gig down to a fine art, without working, and yet, if the situation requires it, he can focus like a hunting Galway heron. He lit up his Marlboro Light, offered the pack, and I said,
“Thanks.”
Forgetting, I tried to use my right hand with the Zippo and, without a word, Vinny leant over, fired me up. I folded my right hand in a feeble fist and asked,
“Want to know?”
He reflected, then,
“On reflection, no.”
Not that he didn’t care. It was the very caring that doused his curiosity. He said,
“A friend of yours was in the other day, the Ban Garda?”
I was stunned, asked,
“In an official capacity?”
He laughed, said,
“Jack, we’re a bookshop, not a speakeasy.”
Added,
“Least not yet.”
He finished his cig, extinguished it carefully in the provided bin, said,
“She bought a stretch of James Lee Burke.”
Wonders never cease. I muttered,
“Ridge buying books.”
He corrected, gently,
“Ban Ni Iomaire Jack.”
One of the girls stuck her head out the door, shouted,
“Vin… phone.”
I smiled, said,
“Bet you have them primed to do that after five minutes.”
He laughed fully and he has one of those great ones, makes you feel good to simply hear it. He asked,
“How’d you know?”
I said,
“It’s what I’d do.”
Now he did glance at his watch, left to him by his late beloved dad. He asked,
“You living in Nun’s Island?”
Surprised me and I said in a tone heavier than I meant,
“Keeping track of the customers, that it?”
It was unwarranted and I instantly regretted it. His eyes changed, the usual merriment faded, he said,
“No, it’s called keeping track of friends.”
In a piss-poor attempt at reconciliation, I handed over a list, said,
“Any chance you got any of these?”
Ten authors on there:
Jim Nisbet
Tom Piccirilli
Craig McDonald
Megan Abbott
Adrian McKinty and
Others.
You want to truly off end authors, list them under Others.