American Skin

by Ken Bruen

  He and Sherry met with Fer at the dive.

  Dade cautioned Sherry,

  “Fer has a biker chick with him, you got to watch those broads, they’re sneaky as a rattler, so you get a chance, you frisk her, make sure she isn’t carrying any weapons, we don’t want her producing any surprises when the shit goes down.”

  Sherry gave him her most sluttish smile.

  “Me, frisking her down, running my hands all over her, that get you hot?”

  He sighed, Sherry was so far out there, he couldn’t keep score, he said nothing.

  They were primed for action when they met up with Fer and his woman.

  Lots of high fives, tequila and hits of speed. Fer took a real shine to Sherry, she downplaying, goddamn coy, like she was awed by the angel. Kept touching his arm, letting her eyes linger on his crotch and he sucked it up. Fer’s old lady was not a happy camper, glared pure poison at Sherry, who smiled sweetly. Dade went to take a piss and Fer followed/unleashing beer torrents. Both sighed contentedly, Fer said,

  “Hell of a woman there, partner.”

  Dade shrugged, said,

  “No biggie, just hooked up with the bitch a few days is all.”

  Fer bought it, asked,

  “You guys not an item?”

  Dade, zipping up, laughed.

  “Nothing to me, bro, piece of trailer trash is all.”

  When they got back, Sherry had asked Dade to help her select some tunes on the jukebox, Fer said,

  “Put some Guns n’ Roses on, you hear?”

  Sherry said,

  “I gave the babe a hug, took her by surprise, hugs are not the gig she’s used to, but I got to frisk her good, she’s not carrying.”

  Then Sherry laughed, added.

  “She asked me was I was some kind of dyke, me running my hands all over her.”

  Dade pushed,

  “You sure she’s clean?’

  Sherry smirked, said,

  “She hasn’t had a bath since Bush took over but no, she’s not carrying any weapon, unless you count her foul mouth.”

  Sherry took a quick look over at the bikers, said,

  “Those sure are the ugliest boots I’ve ever seen on a babe.”

  And they were, heavy motorcycle jobs, that came to her knees, scuffed and worn.

  Many brews later, Fer said, leering at Sherry,

  “Let’s get down to business.”

  Dade felt the jolt of adrenaline, time to boogie. They went back to Sherry’s villa, Dade and Sherry in the pickup, Fer and his woman behind in a beat-up Dodge. Back there, Fer had Dade help him carry the boxes inside, laid them on the floor, then Fer went out again, returned with a cloth bag, some CDs . . . said,

  “Put these on, I like to hear those punks when I’m doing business, and this is my travelling pharmacy.”

  He spilled the bag out and pills of every colour rained on the floor.

  He gestured towards the boxes:

  “And there is primo firepower, get your own militia started.”

  Dade checked the music, the Ramones, put it on, and smiled as he heard the scream, “One, two, three, four,” then “Blitzkrieg Bop.”

  Dade laid out rolls of bills, asked,

  “You want to count it?”

  Fer gave a full grin, green and gold teeth, a dribble at the corner of his mouth, said,

  “Me . . . count it . . . no way, Jose.”

  And before Dade could respond about trust and shit, Fer pointed at his woman. Said,

  “My bitch does that.”

  He was openly staring at Sherry, stroking his crotch, said,

  “Got me an itch here.”

  Sherry gave a bashful smile, excused herself, said she needed to get something in the bedroom. Fer looked at Dade, who gave him the thumbs-up. Dade, alone with Fer’s old lady, asked,

  “You like the Ramones?”

  They were into “Sheena is a Punk Rocker.”

  She gave him an icy glare, adjusting those heavy boots she had, as if they were itching her, she said,

  “They’re dead.”

  He raised his eyebrows, asked,

  “They sound dead to you?”

  She was deep into the count . . . still fiddling with the boots and then back to the count muttered,

  “Fuck you.”

  He loved it, asked,

  “Get you something?”

  Without looking up, she snapped,

  “Bourbon, rocks.”

  There was an almighty roar from the bedroom, the woman, alarmed, looked up, Dade reassured,

  “No biggie, she likes her men to howl.”

  The woman was on her feet, worried as the sound of a body hitting the floor, then the bedroom door opened, Sherry, wearing only panties, covered in blood, staggered out, a knife in her left hand, gasped,

  “Gutted, like the pig he was.”

  Too late, Dade registered the gun in the woman’s hand . . . had come out of the boots, no wonder she’d been messing with them, having a pistol in there was sure bound to have been a bitch. The gun was in her hands, double grip and squeezing off rounds.

  Four shots at Sherry, then turning to him. He dived behind the table, fumbled for his weapon, two rounds slammed into the wall behind him, inches from his face. He’d the Walther up, let off a full clip, the sound deafening him, and heard her fall backwards. Cordite, smoke, and then a stunned silence filled the room. He took a deep breath, stood up, moved to the woman, her head was half gone. Turning towards Sherry, he whispered,

  “Tammy, babe, you okay?”

  One round in her left eye, he sighed,

  “Aw, fuck.”

  He didn’t touch her, went into the bedroom, the angel on the floor, his jeans round his knees, his throat a riot of slashes, Dade moved back to the front room, opened the cloth bag, whistled. A kaleidoscope of dope, he did some crystal, figured he needed something fast, lethal. Waited for the ignition, he was singing quietly,

  “Let’s get the blanket from the bedroom.”

  Took him a time to get the bodies into the pickup, then he drove to the desert, buried them deep. Before filling the hole, he’d gotten the photo of Tammy, thrown it in, said,

  “Hell of a show, babe.”

  He drove Fer’s Dodge back to the dive, left it there. For the past week, he and Sherry had played music loud and mean to get the neighbours accustomed to raucous behaviour so when the gunplay went down, no cops would be called. Still, he kept a wary eye on the road. Back at the Villa, he opened a bottle of Easy Times, did two rapid shots, then some blow, a little speed and got to work. Cleaned the place from top to bottom, scrubbed the floors, put a fragment of brain in the bin liner, washed the walls, the chemicals in his blood pushing him till his fingers bled. Did another shot of booze, cranked with speed and hopped in the shower, scalded his own self, got a white T . . . with the logo “Twisted City,” a fresh-washed pair of Levi’s and got the hell out of there. He didn’t look back, not a habit he ever acquired. As he drove, he used his bleeding hand to gather the Tammy tapes, threw them out the window, shouted,

  “Wreck on the Highway.”

  A speeding Mack mangled the tapes as it burned towards Phoenix.

  The next few days, Dade made plans to offload the spoils. His heart wasn’t in it. Without Sherry, he felt at a loss. Sitting in the pickup, running pictures of her in his head when it came to him: Finish her business for her.

  The Irish guy she’d been expecting, fuck, he’d do it for her. He got in gear, went to the Lazy 8, hung out in the lobby. Two days of this before he choose his mark. One of the bellboys, late twenties, seemed to evade work at every opportunity. His name tag read “Willy.” Dade let another day slide by, then when Willy finished work, he followed him. The guy headed straight for the cantina, got a cold one, grabbed a table. Dade got two brews, sauntered over, took a chair, said,

  “Howdy, partner.”

  Willy gave a nod, cautious, Dade stared at him, asked,

  “How much you pulling down there,
William?”

  “What?”

  “The Lazy 8, the dead-end gig you got going, with tips, scarce in your case, I’d figure, tops, you’re maybe lucky to see two hundred bucks?”

  Willy glanced round, see who else was involved, then back to Dade, tried,

  “And it’s your business, how?”

  Put a little muscle in there but it was halfhearted, he’d gotten a look in Dade’s eyes, it drained the tone of conviction. Dade laughed, he’d caught the hint of aggression and nothing he loved more, it was low-key mind fucking, kept his act sharp, he said,

  “You’re the only white guy, what, they weren’t hiring at Denny’s? All the rest of the help, they’re like, wetbacks, can’t be easy.”

  Dade had hit the nerve, Willy’s voice rose, “It’s only temporary, get me a few bucks stashed, I’m so outta there.”

  Dade nodded, as if he approved the sentiment, then asserted,

  “Like that’s ever going to happen.”

  Willy glared at him, gulped his beer, made to leave, Dade had a hand up, said,

  “Whoa, here’s a cold one, bring it down a peg, I might be the answer to your dream.”

  A week later, Dade’s cell shrilled and he answered, went,

  “Yeah?”

  “An Irishman just checked in.”

  Dade punched the air, asked,

  “And?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Willy, get up to speed pal, like, room number?”

  A pause, Dade could imagine the dollar signs in Willy’s eyes, then,

  “I don’t know, that seems . . .”

  “You want the cash or not?”

  Got the room number.

  Willy’s body was found in an alleyway, listed as drug-related homicide, twenty tabs of speed in his jeans.

  Dade watched the Irish guy for a few days. Dude had that army stance, and cautious, discreetly clocking everything out. Dade withdrew into the shadows. Come evening, the guy went to a bar, had a couple of shots of Jameson, that shit cost, then walked back to he Lazy 8. Fourth night, Dade was ready. As the guy approached the motel, Dade appeared, staggering, reeling, holding his stomach, the guy let him close, asked,

  “You all right?”

  Dade sunk the knife in his belly, then with both hands, ripped upwards, bent over the guy, right in his face, the guy’s low moan, his hand on Dade’s shoulder, lightly, as if he were merely seeking support, then Dade withdrew the blade, pushed it deep into the throat, pulled it lengthways, said,

  “It’s a country song.”

  He was about to walk away when he had a thought, bent over the guy, scalped him.

  “Life is improvished, it loses its interest when the

  highest stake in the game of living, life itself, may

  not be risked.”

  — SIGMUND FREUD

  I ARRIVED in Tucson at midday and was amazed at how flat it seemed, the small buildings like toytown after New York and Vegas. I had to pull over, ask a guy for directions, he warned,

  “Lazy 8? You don’t wanna go there, buddy.”

  “Why’s that?”

  He gave a low whistle, said,

  “Bad hood, bad shit happens there, lots of dope.”

  And moved on. Well, trouble was what I’d come for. Found the place and liked the look if it, a dude ranch. Got my bag, went to reception, the oddest thing happened, my accent arrived.

  I was speaking like an American, they confirmed my reservation, handed me the parcel of CDs from the village music store. I asked if Siobhan had shown up, not yet.

  Not yet.

  I clung to that.

  Tucson had been Mexican property until the Gadsden Purchase. I noticed the Mexican influence straight away. I didn’t know a whole lot else, save that there was the University of Arizona, the Davis-Monthan Air Force Base, Southern Baptists.

  On the drive in I spotted mountain flora nestled right up against cacti. And suburbs, jeez, how many were there and, more importantly, did they ever, like, ever end.

  Everybody had transport, from old Caddies to state-of-the art Harleys, to beat-up trucks, yeah, with the rifle on the back window. The pedestrians were but briefly out of their vehicles, and the rest, the rest were Mexican.

  All I could think about was,

  “How would Siobhan respond to it?”

  Followed immediately by,

  “Would she be here to do so?”

  Made myself focus on the vital issue, find Stapleton.

  I’d thought of staying elusive, stalk the neighbourhood, get to Stapleton by stealth. Truth was, I was tired, playing hide and seek wasn’t something I could find the energy for. Come evening, I went, had a few drinks, being cautious without being obvious.

  The second night, I was coming out of the bar, heard

  “Be-jaysus, ‘tis himself.”

  And got a wallop to the side of my head, followed by a kick to the balls, I was down and hurting, bad.

  Stapleton.

  He hunkered down, grabbed me by my hair, said “Fooking amateur, I could kill you right now, but thing is, I want me money.”

  He stood up, in his left hand was a bowie knife, he said, “On your feet, lad, I need to get you focused, see this knife, I bought it downtown, they have a grand selection in this neck of the woods.”

  I managed to get up on one knee and get a good look at him, his body was relaxed, the born fighter, the knife loosely held. He’d done this before, a lot, and more, he relished it. The up-close-and-personal gig, that was where he lived. My own time in the British army was going to have to serve me very well now, I tried to get into that zone they had drilled into us but when you’ve had a kick in the balls, it’s a little hard to concentrate, I croaked,

  “Where’s my girl?”

  He mimicked me exactly:

  “My girl, that’s fooking lovely, warms the cockles of me heart.”

  Then his hand moved and the knife opened a gash on my right cheek, from my eye to my mouth. He said,

  “I could have taken your eye, and what would you do, beside piss and moan.”

  Arizona has lots of dust, gets on your shoes, in your hair, but right now I was glad of it, grabbed a handful and threw it in his eyes, he staggered back and I followed, throwing sucker punches to his kidneys, ribs, and two granite ones to his head. He didn’t go down, the bastard was in terrific shape, the slash from the knife to my face kicked in and combined with the agony in my groin, I faltered, lost my advantage, I’m sure if I’d been able to continue my assault, I’d have killed him there and then with my bare hands.

  He used the moment to pull a pistol from his waist, said,

  “Whoa, back off, tiger, unless you want the Falls Road special, lose one of your kneecaps.”

  We were both breathing heavily and he said,

  “We got us a Mexican standoff, you think . . . so here’s the deal, you bring me the money in twenty-four hours, I’ll tell you where to find the girl.”

  I managed to gasp,

  “And what, I’m supposed to trust you?”

  He gave a sour laugh, said,

  “Like you have a choice.”

  And he was gone.

  I got back to my room, poured whiskey onto the wound and howled, managed to apply a series of Band-Aids to it, took a look at my own self in the mirror. I saw a seriously fucked, desperate face.

  Next morning, at breakfast, I’d ordered pancakes, coffee. More caffeine than food. My guts were a knife of tension. A group of Canadians at the next table, I was half listening when I heard,

  “Yes, murdered right outside, an Irishman.”

  I tried not to react, kept still and listened. What I could gather, was, in the early hours of the morning an Irish male had been robbed, knifed to death, he’d been a guest at the motel. I waited but they’d moved on, were planning a trip to Tombstone, see a reenactment of the OK Corral. I went to reception, got directions to the local newspaper office. A girl in her twenties at the desk there, big smile, my accent was holding
as she asked,

  “You from New York?”

  I nodded and she said,

  “I want to do a journalism major, I applied to Manhattan, is it like, really exciting?”

  I curbed my impatience, said,

  “Never sleeps.”

  She stared into space, imagining the new life, seeing herself in a loft in Chelsea, bagels and lox for breakfast.

  Yeah.

  Then she focused, asked,

  “Sorry, what was that again?”

  I repeated my request for the early morning paper. When she got it, I reached for my wallet, she looked behind her, said,

  “No charge.”

  I put the stuff under my arm, said,

  “See you on Coney Island.”

  I read the paper with a sense of shock, relief, agitation, and disappointment. The accounts reported how an Irishman, identified from his wallet as a John A. Stapleton, had been robbed and murdered. Police had been unable to find relatives or family of the deceased. A spokesman for the Tucson cops said they were treating it as mugging gone wrong. Finally, they were pursuing a definite line of inquiry.

  Bollocks.

  They had nothing.

  The next few days I spent in a state of disbelief, couldn’t accept he was dead. Was life so random that he’d run into a mugger and was taken by surprise. ‘Course, he would have been less alert than usual, after our encounter. Didn’t think I’d ever have the answer. Frustrated, I rang Mike, who owned the music store I’d worked in. He was amazed to hear me and sounded . . . cautious? Went,

  “Steve, good lord . . . where are you?”

  By rote, I said,

  “London.”

  Silence and I had to prompt,

  “Mike, you still there?”

  “Yes, I’m . . . I don’t know what to say.”

  I tried,

  “It’s okay, I’m fine.”

  “She was a lovely girl, I’m so sorry.”

  Oh god, sweet Jesus, I asked,

  “What did you say?”

  He took a deep breath,

  “When she, sorry, Siobhan, when her body washed up on the beach, we were stunned.”

  I put the phone against my forehead, needing a moment, cold sweat was popping out in streams, heard Mike go.