Ken Bruen - Her Last Call to Louis MacNeice

I went into Burger King, ordered a whopper and a giant coke. Get the killing junk full in my stomach. Asked the guy to leave out the sauce and, of course, the burger came shitpiled with it. I was about to go through the routine when I saw David Letterman watching me. You know, the talk show, I’d been getting it on the late-night cable. Course it wasn’t him but wow, a dead ringer. He smiled and I shrugged, wot else. Found a table where he wasn’t in my line of vision. Bit down on the whopper and, sure as Sundays, the sauce shot out the side. Looked up, there he was, smile in place, said, ‘I had you going, you did a double take.’

‘Yank accent – jeez, another one.’

He said, ‘The way I see it – he looks like me. Am I right?’

Took a hit of the coke and it was sweet, I’ll give it that, even the ice.

‘Might I sit down – I’m Cassie’s brother.’

I finished the food, pushed the debris away, said, ‘You’re here for the shoplifting, I believe the season’s started.’

‘I need your help.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Let’s call me David.’

‘Wot – all of us?’

‘Mr Cooper – oh yes, I know who you are. You may be the only one who can help her.’

‘Sorry pal, I’m up to me arse in aggravation, plus – no offence but that lady’s beyond help.’

‘No no no! She’s obsessed with you and you can use that to persuade her to return home. We can get treatment.’

‘Hey David, you deaf or just stupid. I said – I didn’t say – hey maybe we’ve room to negotiate.’

‘I know where you’re coming from Mr Cooper. But it’s not a choice thing, she’s volatile and, OK, I’m going to play straight with you. I believe she may have pushed a woman under a train in New York.’

‘What… jeez… Laura…’

‘Laura? Who’s that? The woman was my fiancée. Cassie doesn’t like people close to her – loved ones – she doesn’t share.’

I couldn’t take it in. What was running through my mind was this family who looked like stars – Letterman and Sarah Miles. I asked, ‘Who do yer parents resemble – Bogie and Bacall?’

And he laughed. ‘They’re Mom and Pop Diner, Mr and Mrs Ordinary, Citizens of Nerd City. You getting this?’

The door of the restaurant was kicked in, the three Yahoos came dribblin’. In their late twenties, they’d the uniform of denim jackets, combat trousers, scarves and filthy trainers. If grunge was gone, they hadn’t heard. The personification of the urban hooligan to be found on every High Street, more common than litter and as nasty as tax. Intimidation is the party tune. Amid guffaws, obscenities and horseplay, they collected their grub and sprawled at the table next to us.

Naturally. This is your life! I said, ‘The ambience at Burger King isn’t to their palate.’

And now began the obligatory food fight, flicking fries and buns all over. He said, ‘Gotta hang a right.’

And was up and over to them. He put both hands, palms outspread on their table. This put a thug to his left, to his right, and directly facing him. His accent seemed like a roar.

‘Hi guys.’

‘Wotcha want fooker… Yank fooker.’

Course this led to a wild repartee and chorus.

‘Yeah, the fook you want wanker.’

‘Are you guys the real thing – lager louts’ (he pronounced it lowts) – ‘we’ve got broadcasts on you back home.’

‘Fook off wanker – put me shoe in yer arsehole – how d’ya like that then eh. Want yer fookin’ teeth up yer backside, yah wanker?’

He stood back, gave a huge smile and charaded a light bulb going off over his head, answered, ‘I know that word – you guys are implying I’m a self-abuser – have I got it right? But let me demonstrate what it is I actually do with my hands, OK?’

He bent slightly, then shot out both elbows to crash into noses left and right, then gave a bounce, gripped the table and headbutted number three. The sound of bones crackin’ was loud. He pulled back and came over to me, asked, ‘How’d I do?’

‘Lemme put it this way – can I buy you a drink.’

As we got out of there, a round of applause followed us. I’d say it did wonders for Letterman’s ratings.

We went to The Swan on Bayswater Road. I wanted away from my own manor. I ordered Scotch and he had Scotch rocks. I asked, ‘You’ve got some moves, where’d you learn ’em?’

‘Marine Corps.’

But he was staring at the painting behind the bar and the barman said, ‘This pub has been here since Bayswater Road was a lane leading from the Courts in Uxbridge to Marble Arch.’

When David showed no recognition, the guy continued, ‘Marble Arch, or as it was then, Tyburn, where they hung ’em! The condemned man and his escort would have a final drink here. See, that’s what the painting shows.’

‘One for the road.’

The barman gave a sour laugh.

‘Didn’t have to worry about being over the limit, know wot I mean.’

David looked him full in the face, said, ‘I believe I catch your drift.’

Enough with the history I thought and moved us to a table, said, ‘Cheers.’

‘Whatever’

‘So David, what do you do?’

‘I’m a poet.’

‘Wot?’

‘Ever listen to Stevie Nicks?’

‘Not unless it’s absolutely unavoidable.’

‘She said – “they are poets of nothingness”.’

‘Are you any good?’

‘Well, there isn’t anyone good enough to know if I’m hot or not.’

‘You should meet the Doc, he’d know. But a poet – bit like being a shepherd in London.’

He took out a pack of Camels, a Zippo, cranked it, blew out a batch of smoke, coughed, said, ‘Hits the goddamn spot I think.’

‘I thought Americans were violently anti-nicotine.’

‘I like one of your writers, the Martin Amis guy, one of his characters wants a cigarette even when he’s smoking one.’

‘Sounds like madness to me.’

‘Hey, what I did say – I said I was a poet – did you hear me say I was sane, did I run that by you. Amis reckons cigarettes are a relaxant and writers are the great un-relaxed.’

‘David, I could give a toss whether you smoke through your arse.’

‘Whoa, testy – I’m only making conversation here, OK’

‘What about yer sister, wot am I to…?’

‘Lemme play a hunch here – you did her a good turn?’

He laughed loud, said, ‘I imagine John Dillinger said similar as he walked outa the Bijou Theatre and into the guns.’

‘I’m not Dillinger.’

‘And heavens-to-Betsie, neither was Warren Oates but go figure. I made a shit-pile of bucks back in the manic ’80s when Ginko was hoodwinkin’ Wall Street. But heck, what have I got to show for it – a crazy sister, some property, and a heap of bad poetry.’

‘You’d be different poor?’

‘I probably wouldn’t admit to the poetry. Next time she gets in touch – and she will – call me, any hour. Hell, call anyway, how would that be. Here’s my card.’

‘Aston Towers.’

‘Yeah, impressive huh?’

As we left, he said, ‘My old man, he was like… fifty-five when they had me. Yeah, on his deathbed he said, “Sorry I was old.”’

I didn’t know how to respond so I said, ‘Just like my old man.’

‘He said the same?’

‘No, he said… Argh…’

Thought of something, then thought… check it out. Called, ‘Em… David… Dave, wait up.’

Calling your own name, you feel like a horse’s ass. He had the same thought as he answered in a high-pitched voice, ‘Yes David.’

Shades of Tiny Tim and other obscenities.

‘Cassie’s daughter, wot’s the story.’

He shook his head. Not good, said, ‘There is no daughter. She had an abortion when she was nineteen… a botched job. After, she began exhibiting signs of psychosis. Then she invented a daughter and to explain her absence, she added abduction, not by aliens but Moroccans. Hardly an X-File but certainly spooky.’