Ken Bruen - Her Last Call to Louis MacNeice

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.

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?’