Ken Bruen - The Devil

If only they did Mary in a patch, you could erase depression overnight.

Now I was clicking it, loving that clunk that only a Zippo has. Rang Stewart, asked,

‘How’s Aine?’

He laughed, asked,

‘You write her name down, Jack?’

Er…yes.

‘C’mon Stewart, she’s important to you, I know her name.’

A cynical laugh, then,

‘What’s up?’

Sounding like that old Bud advert.

I said,

‘I’m meeting Carl, he’s staying at the Meyrick, I’m buying him dinner.’

‘The where?’

‘Used to be the Great Southern, Gerry Barrett owns it. He also owns the Eye cinema and the Benetton outlet, and Edward Square is named after his dad.’

He said,

‘I know Gerry, good guy.’

I asked as I used the Zip to fire up,

‘Anyone you don’t know?’

Pause, then,

‘Times are, Jack, I don’t think I know you at all. Hey, what was that sound? Are you smoking again?’

What was he going to do, tell Aine on me? I lied,

‘You fucking kidding me? You know how hard I found it to quit.’

He let it slide, then,

‘You’re meeting with him again? Why?’

I was a bit pissed about the cig remark so I hit back with the truth.

‘I’m going to kill him.’

Silence.

Then,

‘Jack, this is a joke, right? Please tell me you’re not serious.’

I told him about Peg, the priest, Father Raphael, South Africa and, lest he forget, his own responses to Mr K.

I flicked the Zippo back and forth. Stewart had been a dope dealer, he knew the sound of addiction.

I don’t think I ever heard Stewart plead, not a trait you use when you’ve done hard time in Mountjoy and you were a pretty boy going in.

He pleaded now.

‘Jack, listen to me, this is all conjecture. I’ll admit there’s some weird stuff going on, and sure, you can see a pattern of some very bad karma, but you’ve been doing a lot of dope, and I know it’s been a very bad time with not getting into America and all, but…’

Pause.

‘To cap a guy on speculation?’

Cap?

What were we? Boyz in the fuckin’ hood?

I reined in a whole range of anger, assumed a patient tone, not easy for me, said,

‘It has to end, Stewart.’

He took a deep breath, Zenning no doubt, and said,

‘What if you’re way off base? You’re going to kill a man on…on what is probably a terrible set of coincidences, and I hate to say this, Jack, your own peculiar paranoia.’

Long silence as we both measured what we should say. I went with,

‘I’m guessing you won’t be available as back-up?’

Deep distress in his voice, he said,

‘Aine is a very fine lawyer. You’re going to need one.’

I asked,

‘What makes you think I’ll be caught?’

Total resignation as he said,

‘Cos, Jack, you fuck up everything.’

Hung up.

He was the closest to a real male friend I had, so I figured I’d at least consider his point.

I remembered a time, after I’d been thrown out of the Guards, I was drinking like Behan in his last days and not giving a fuck. I met an American in a pub on Forster Street. In publishing, if I remember, and we got to chatting about the nature of evil.

It was a pub, so what’d you expect?

He was editing a book on the supernatural and told me:

‘It’s known as horror. Occult fiction. I call it the Further-Out genre, like in David Lynch movies. You’re in the middle of a crime story. But then the camera finds, say, a painting. Pushes into it. Turns a corner into the realm of the metaphysical. Which, in the sense of the real origins of suspense, might actually take us closer than men with guns ever could.

Consider.

Everyone sees things out of the corner of their eye. Everyone has feelings that can’t be explained. Everyone, to a certain extent, is afraid of the dark. The Further-Out genre speaks to this condition. Reminds us that maybe, at essence, if a gun is pointed at you, it’s not the bullet you’re afraid of.

You’re afraid for your soul.’

His name was John something or other. I remember his words so clearly, as I was stunned a young guy could know so much.

Over the years, I kept a vague track of his career and wasn’t surprised he’d become an editor with some major American publisher.

I wish I’d kept in touch.

How to dress for murder?

Neatly.

I put on me finest suit. That it is me only suit is a minor quibble.

Nice clean shirt (charity shop) and a Masonic tie I’d…er…acquired.

Cloud the issue.

Some gel in me hair. Slicked.

The Sig in me waistband.

Dropped two X, muttered,

‘Time to kill.’

John Grisham needed the promo.

Bought a bottle of Moët.

See, you can teach an old dog new tricks, albeit expensive ones.

I entered the hotel, asked for Carl and was told,

‘Penthouse, top floor, you are expected.’

The Masonic tie?

I wasn’t sure if he’d meet me as the elevator opened. Me experience of penthouses is a little limited.

He didn’t.

Long as I live, and that’s always up for grabs, I was surprised the penthouse had a number.

101.

Most hotels – forget the stuff about not having a thirteenth floor – never have a room with that number because of Orwell’s 1984 . That room is where you find the thing you are most afraid of. There is even a TV show based on it, where celebrities get to dump their pet hates.

The door to the penthouse was open, so I went in.

I had no fixed plan as to how this was going to go down. Basically, shoot the bollix and run.

Company.

Not in me plan.

Two gorgeous girls.

Snorting coke, lines of it on a beautiful glass table.

Washing it down with bubbly.

Carl appeared, in a silk dressing gown that the Hef would have been proud of. Beaming, he said,

‘Jack, meet the girls.’

Ingrida and…yes, Tricia.

Hookers.

East Europe’s best.

I handed over the Moët, he slapped my shoulder, said,

‘You kill me.’

The guy had style – repellent, but fuck it, he had the moves. He said,

‘Room service is about to provide us with a veritable feast.’

Did I do the decent thing?

As in leave?

No.

I did the coke, had the amazing food, the more amazing hooker, and come two in the morning,

sated,

drunk,

doped,

the girls left.

Carl/Kurt, sprawled on the white leather sofa, his legs spread, eyes afire, said,

‘ Une nuit excellente .’

I took out the Sig, levelled it.

He smiled, said,

‘Ah Jacques, you disappoint. Is this the gratitude you express to your bon ami , votre frère ?’

I said,

‘I was going to ask you to do the trick with the blond locks, but you know? Who the fuck cares.’

He gave that wild laugh, was mid sentence,

‘Ah, the hair that is-’

I shot him in the balls.

First.

Then, moving over, I shot him in the guts, said,

‘Sorry, all out of dogs’ heads.’

I swear to Christ, he was smiling, so I ended that by opening his mouth, shot him right in those terrific teeth.

I checked his pulse, none.

Then moved to his bedroom, took

the Rolex,

the Mont Blanc,

a damn nigh mountain of coke,

a wadge of cash such as I’d never seen,

then got the fuck outa there.

Took the emergency stairs, met nobody, and once I was out on the street, I exhaled.

Jesus.

I’ve killed before.

I still have dreams about it, about them.

Back in my apartment, sure, I did some fine coke, tried on the Rolex.