American Skin

by Ken Bruen

  A woman passing going,

  “Nice to see a family.”

  Then to hell and gone.

  Ol’ Glen came back, the prick. Got himself on some goddamn 12 Step program and Dade . . . Dade was like yesterday. So he'd hung around, hung around a lot, made some, okay, threats.

  He was kiddin’, c'mon, as if he'd hurt his own kin? What they do?

  Took off is what.

  Upped and ran. In the old SUV.

  Dade had come ambling towards their front door, nice and mellow, no biggie. The Walther held real loose in his right hand and so okay, maybe he'd let off a round, nothing major, not like he had a MAC machine gun in his arms and was spraying willy-nilly like some pissed-off postal stiff.

  He was just, what do you call it, getting their attention, I mean goddamn it, they weren't taking his calls, so like, what's a guy to do?

  Write them a letter.

  Yeah, right, that would work.

  Wiped his brow.

  And what they do, were they willing to come out or better yet, invite him in, have a few brews, maybe not Glen, a soda for that alky, and talk the misunderstanding over. Thrash it out as his dad used to say and he giggled, remembering how his ol’ dad thrashed as he put him under the water for the last time.

  No, the mad bastards, they jumped in the vehicle and took off. No see you soon buddy or water the lawn for us. Nope, just upped and lit out. He roared after them,

  “NOTHING WORKS ON IT, THE BELT'S FRAYED, THE LOCK'S FUCKED.”

  And well, he guessed they didn't hear him. But hey, guess what?

  He caught them.

  Sweat was pouring down his body, getting in his eyes, Sherry squeezed his leg, said,

  “Okay baby, it's okay, they fucked you good.”

  And he near upturned the table, snarled,

  “No, I fucked them good.”

  Too loud.

  The roughnecks looked over, she continued to massage him and he reined it in. She moved, wiped blood from his mouth, he'd near bitten through his tongue, she got another splash of drinks, and he pulled way back. She studied him, said,

  “You remind me of someone, an actor?”

  He waited, waited for Jimmy Woods and got,

  “Chris Walken, I saw him in Bloomingdale's one time, buying socks.”

  He let it go, enough heat for one occasion. After midnight they got out of there, could hear Willie on the jukebox.

  “There were seven Spanish angels.”

  Dade was having a high old time, laughing, giggling . . . a good old boy, whooping it up, his gal in tow, said,

  “Hon, I gotta take a piss.”

  An alleyway beside the bar, he stumbled into it, singing with the outlaw, a shit-eating grin on his face, trying to find his fly, bursting fit to blow, got his zip down, his hand against the wall and as he let loose, sighed,

  “Ah . . . “

  Few things to equal that relief and got a blow to his shoulder.

  Hurt.

  His collar grabbed, pulled round and a broken bottle against his neck, a wild-eyed cowboy, long hair to his shoulders, denim jacket, going,

  “Gimme your money, motherfucker.”

  Late twenties, a scar on his left cheek, a stench of garlic, booze on his breath, Dade whined,

  “Don't hurt me, mistah.”

  Got a nice whimper in there, the guy getting off on it, going,

  “I'll cut you, fucker, open you like a bitch, see if I don't.”

  Dade let his voice rise,

  “Please, mistah, I got maybe four hundred bucks in my jeans, take it all, and welcome, lemme get it for you.”

  And the dumb fuck moved back. Dade had to work at not smiling, the guy went,

  “And you can blow me, you'd like that bitch, huh, you do me good, maybe I won't cut you.”

  Began to reach to his groin, Dade had a flash of the joint, when they knocked his teeth out, saw a white shimmer before his eyes, then his knee came up, the guy doubled over, going,

  “Aw, man.”

  Sherry was there, her face lit, asking,

  “He was going to rob you?”

  Like she couldn't believe it, she picked up the broken bottle, her face flush with excitement, said,

  “Think he's got some balls on him, think I should take them off him?”

  Dade thought so.

  She did.

  Took a time.

  SLEEPING ARRANGMENTS

  IT WAS NIGH IMPOSSIBLE to spook Dade, he was the one who spooked people. Sleeping with Sherry came as near as he was ever going to get. He noticed her fumble under the pillow one night after they'd had wild sex, grabbed her hand, asked, playful,

  “Whatcha hiding there, babe?”

  And got the demented look, he'd seen it before on the lifers in lockup, the guys who were never getting out, it's not a hopelessness, it's an expression of knowing they're going to hell and just calculating how many they're taking along. He'd figured she'd stashed a little pick-me-up, some ludes, maybe, to keep the heebie-jeebies at bay, he certainly understood that gig. But this feral face, he was stunned, said,

  “Whoa, lighten up, babe, I'm not gonna take anything away from you.”

  The walking dead in the joint, you saw them at chow time, the way they protected a dish of rice pudding like it was the most precious item on earth. In the scheme of things there, it was close to that. She turned for a second and then a knife was at his throat, not just any old blade but a lethal double-edged piece of mayhem. Worse, it had the sheen of being well used. She snarled, in a tone like a rabid coyote,

  “Don't you ever grab my hand, I'll slit you like a snake before you blink.”

  Her eyes were virtual slits, and a dribble of spittle leaked from the corner of her mouth, the blade was still pushed into his throat so he said in his real mellow voice,

  “Sure, babe, whatever you say.”

  He wanted to go,

  “Take a fucking chill pill.”

  Her hand shook and he wondered if he'd have time to move, then suddenly a spasm hit her, and she dropped the knife, fell back to sleep. He waited a few minutes to make sure she was really out, even lifted the lid of her right eye, the eyeball had rolled all the way back, Like a corpse. He eased out of bed, got his Walther, racked the slide but gently, and for a brief moment, considered putting two in her demented skull.

  Then his own particular brand of lunacy kicked in and he laughed out loud, said,

  “What a rush.”

  He poured a large shot of Wild Turkey, did a little meth, raised his glass, toasted her with,

  “You crazy broad.”

  From then on, after they made love or whatever you'd term a form of near mortal combat with sex, he'd slip out of bed, sleep on the floor. No sense in taking chances.

  The morning after the knife incident, she woke and was her own sweet self, as if she had no memory of the event, she asked,

  “You sleep good?”

  Something like real affection in her voice, as if she actually cared, he said,

  “Like a baby.”

  And got a smile that was as close to sanity as he'd ever witness.

  He kept the Walther under his own pillow from then on.

  “Thanks for Visiting Vegas, Baby.”

  — WELCOMING SIGN AT THE AIRPORT

  I GOT MARRIED.

  Oh.

  And

  lost Tommy's book of writing.

  That's where the booze took me.

  Britney Spears preceeded me down the aisle a year before in the same church and it would last about the same length of time. She of course went global with the news, my impact was less resounding though equally stupid.

  How it went.

  Standing in my room at La Concha, I'd taken that long pull of vodka and consciously decided to ride the wind. Perhaps Tommy's death, the bank heist, departing Ireland, betraying Siobhan with Sherry, gut shooting Juan, perhaps they were the cause or . . . I simply figured enough already . . . go for it.

  Did I e
ver.

  You take an anal-retentive, big on control, remove the brakes and stand way back, it ain't going to be pretty.

  It wasn't.

  Fuelled on that one drink, I hit the Strip like a banshee, wailing and wild. Circus Circus was advertising margaritas at a buck a throw, sounded good.

  I sunk a line of them, those suckers, they slide on easy, each one whispering more. I answered the call. Played some blackjack and you need to focus, lost a bundle. The only game I really know, have played with intent, is poker. The Sands had a game going nonstop but I decided to leave it till I got straight, splurged money on roulette, shots, waitresses.

  The Peppermill Diner, open 24/7, had waitresses with legs that don't quit. Ever. You go in early morning, bleary eyed, guys with cowboy hats everywhere, and the waitress, before you say a word, asks,

  “Bloody Mary?”

  Christ, yes.

  I thought it was just me. Looked round, the cowboys all got one, came with a mess of reen sticking out, like a mini Vietnam, the waitress named Donna, went,

  “Lose the vegetation, right?”

  I nodded, my head on fire.

  Brought it back, sans garden, goes,

  “Fix you right up.”

  The future Mrs. Blake.

  Got the drink down and miracle, felt healed, had me a full breakfast. A few more mornings, Donna and me were old friends. She had a face like a young Mary Tyler Moore, I'm a sucker for that, the mix of pain and vulnerability. Clearing away the debris of my breakfast, she said,

  “I finish at noon.”

  I didn't know what day it was, had it been a week, a month in Las Vegas, worse, I didn't care. I asked,

  “Wanna hang out?”

  Like what . . . at the mall?

  Jesus, talk about lame.

  She gave me a radiant smile, said,

  “I love your accent.”

  The booze said,

  “I love you.”

  I'd forgotten my resolve to work on my accent, had forgotten a whole heap of things, call Siobhan, the moment of shooting Juan, bedding Sherry, but no, not Tommy, his spirit was in every drink, every glass raised, I could see his smile.

  1:30, I met her at the Venetian. She'd changed into a tight black top, faded jeans, Reeboks. Looked like gorgeous. We had a meal, as if we were in Italy, the whole of that country reproduced in the Venetian, even gondolas on a canal, I'm praying we didn't go on one. What I most recall is she was from Dayton, Ohio, and she liked to gamble, well, she was with me, perhaps the biggest gamble. I was having the time of my life and in some casino, asked,

  “Want to get married?”

  Next thing, we're in a limo, going for a licence, down the bad side of town. Gangbangers on the pavement, giving the dead eye. I was drunk enough to seem sober, you don't get a licence if you display evidnce of intoxication.

  Next day, we're at the Little White Chapel and Elvis is marrying us. He looked more like George Bush but at least had the moves.

  I woke up the next morning, hangover kicked in.

  Mercilessly.

  I looked round at an opulent room, clothes scattered everywhere, champagne bottles lined up along the wall.

  Empty.

  I crawled out of bed, got a peek at the hotel stationery . . . Excalibur . . . serious bucks. Heard a groan, saw I hadn't been alone in the bed. My finger itched and I saw a gold band. Stared back at the bed.

  My wife.

  A song uncoiling in my head, like a snake of dementia. “Methamphetamine Blues,” by Mark Lanegan Band, gritty and noir.

  Later, in Tucson, when so much blood had flowed, at reception in the Lazy 8, I'd be given a package. Opened it to find a CD by Patty Griffin and a note saying

  Because

  I

  Loved

  You

  Donna

  Yeah.

  Noir that.

  That afternoon, in Tucson I'd a few Sam Adams, no vodka, not no more, I waited till I'd sank the third beer, played Patty Griffin.

  Fuck.

  Killer.

  A track, highlit in gold, went to that first, the beers riding point, I could take it; almost, titled, “Nobody's Cryin’.” A line there, about when you wake in the morning, may the voice of anxiety become the voice of angels . . . fast-forwarded to a Bruce song, “Stolen Car,” figured that was safe.

  Figured wrong.

  Opening line . . . we got married and drifted apart. Ripped off the headphones, got out of there. In the motel corridor, I realised I was carrying the CD, let it drop to the floor, the carpet ensured it didn't make as much as a murmur.

  But Vegas, staring at Donna, her asleep, I near shouted,

  “The fuck I've done?”

  Stumbled through the day, Donna all lit up, and come evening, safe-ish side of some margaritas, I said,

  “I want a divorce.”

  Her face crumbling, I launched into a drunken rap about what a class act she was, great lady but she didn't need to be hitched to a ne'er-do-well, I actually used that term, a measure of my panic.

  As I fumbled on, tripping over the clichés, spilling mediocrity upon garbage, she toyed with the shiny new band on her wedding finger, interrupted me with,

  “You told me about Tucson, about some dude ranch with the name . . . Lazy 8?”

  I held my breath, Jesus, did I mention Siobhan, she said,

  “I want to go to Ireland.”

  “What?”

  Her ring was off now, sitting in the middle of the table, like recrimination with a dull sheen; she added,

  “You can have the divorce but I want a trip to Ireland.”

  My face betrayed me as she said,

  “On my own, I guess.”

  Took two days and a shitpile of cash to get the marriage . . . gone. A lawyer, smooth talker, offered my drinking problem as grounds. I was continually half in the bag, so it wasn't difficult to pass. The deal done, Donna and I were standing outside the Bellagio, my eye further down the Strip, past the store that sold Western gear to a sign flicking Liquor. I handed her a fat envelope, said,

  “You'll love Ireland.”

  She stared at me, then reached out her hand, I flinched, anticipating a slap. No, she touched my face with her fingers, said,

  “I'd have been real good to you.”

  I had no answer. She turned, walked towards the Riviera, I waited a few rapid beats of my heart, then headed for the off-licence. A priest or chaplain was standing in the midday heat, had a box, asking for donations for the homeless, I dropped my wedding ring in there.

  Another week to pull out of the spiral, lie in bed for two days, puking, sweating, hallucinating, swallowing aspirin. The room was like a slaughterhouse. Fourth day, I sipped a Bud Light which is as hellish as it gets, and began the crawl back. My psyche had taken a ferocious beating and I tried to get some food in. Rationed a six of the Light over some more confused days till, finally, food was staying put and the snakes were hissing less in my head. Got out on the Strip, legs shaky and into the shopping mall, to Macy's, bought a mess of new gear but couldn't buy off the recent past.

  By the Friday, my hands had stopped shaking and I could almost function, I attempted an accounting of my financial situation. Had blown a blitzkrieg in my credit. I dreaded to think what Siobhan would make of it, kept postponing the call, knew she'd hear the actual tremor in my voice.

  No more gambling or vodka. I went to the movies, saw the wondrous Lost in Translation, walked the Strip a thousand times, get my energy back.

  Restore, restore, restore.

  The commando exercises I'd learned in the army were notable for their gruelling, harsh requirements, went at those like a demon. The sheer punishment helped the guilt, not a whole lot but when you're hurting physically, the mental stuff moves back a notch. By Tuesday, I was able to relish a shower.

  An afternoon, walking the Strip, getting my wind back, the heat was beating down, felt it was a good way to sweat out them toxins, and man, did I have a whole truck of those bab
ies.

  I decided on a pit stop at the Mirage, keeping my eyes averted from the simulated volcano, I'd had all the explosions I could handle.

  Watched the craps table for a bit, they say it's the glamour point of the gaming floor, but then, they say all kinds of shit in Vegas. There seemed to be lot of hollering and shouting, I headed for the bar, asked for a large Coke, laced with ice. A guy on the stool next to me, extended his hand, said,

  “Reed, from out of Long Island.”

  Looked like a hardass, trucker's hands but had a warmth. I shook and he said,

  “What about the Sox?”

  He laughed at my blank look, went,

  “You're Irish, huh?”

  He told me the Boston Red Sox, back in 1920, had sold the legendary Babe Ruth, the bambino.

  Prior to that, the Sox had won five World Series. After the Babe left, they won no more for the rest of the century. He waited for my response, I said,

  “Bummer.”

  I was afraid to ask if we were talking about baseball, I was Irish but did I want to appear totally pig ignorant?

  No.

  He sighed, continued, the team always lost in game seven. Now he was talking my language, superstition, omens, jinx, curse, we wrote the book on that gig. He took a deep breath, said,

  “Then the mothers, they stage the greatest comeback in history by beating the Yankees and taking the title.”

  A silence followed and finally I said,

  “Nice one, eh.”

  He was disgusted, near spat,

  “I'm a New Yorker, do the goddamn math.”

  What I did was, I got the hell out of there.

  The next evening, feeling stronger, dressed in fresh white shirt, new Calvin jeans, mocs, headed for the Sahara. Checked out the celebrity poker, word was that Ben Affleck, David Schwimmer were in attendance.

  Nursing an iced coffee, heard,

  “Yo . . . buddy?”

  Turned, to see the fat man, couldn't get his name, from the plane, dressed in a Western shirt, pearl buttons, and I hope not, but alas, Bermuda shorts, real bad idea. Despite the freezing air conditioning, he had a line of perspiration on his brow, he extended a huge hand, said,

  “Bob Milovitz.”