Ken Bruen: The Devil

I should be in America.

Tried.

Jaysus wept. Did I ever?

Went to the airport.

Bought my duty-free.

Doing good, right?

Had my one suit on, the black job that had seen too many funerals.

White shirt, muted tie.

I like that… muted .

Seems almost like a Brit.

Dark one I bought in the charity shop.

I was Xanaxed to the hilt, so mellow I certainly was.

Headed for Homeland Security.

American Immigration.

Seemed to be doing OK, did the eyeballing job, stared into that security camera, then did the index-finger job.

‘Now sir, your left hand.’

And you’re trying not to sweat like a bastard.

That icy politeness puts me on alert.

Not even 10 mg of Xanax can stop that.

Then the hesitation.

And the dreaded words, ‘Could you step to the side, sir?’

You’re fucked.

Seems my past was up there, a brief stay in jail when I put a child-beating bollix through a glass window.

I don’t regret that, didn’t then, don’t now.

I was sorry it was on record.

Then I was told I could re-apply for entry to the USA, but for now, sayonara.

The looks from the other passengers, looks of ‘Thank fuck it’s not me.’

Reclaiming my luggage, returning the duty-free, need I say how that felt?

Shame.

No worse feeling in the whole damn universe.

I finally got back to the general population.

Yeah, just like prison.

I did what you do when you are humiliated.

What I do, anyway.

I went to the bar.

Hadn’t been drinking for nigh on six months.

The bar guy would just have to be an asshole.

That kind of day.

Ignored me for ten minutes.

And I seethed.

Watched him polish glasses, wipe down the counter, and finally,

Golly gosh ,

He noticed me.

Opened with,

‘What would sir’s pleasure be?’

His balls for openers.

I went with,

‘Double Jameson, no ice, pint of the black.’

I figure something in my tone backed him off and he said,

‘Of course.’

I drained the Jay, fast and furious.

Good title for a movie, I thought.

Sat back and waited for the hit.

It came.

The warmth in your belly, the creeping illusion that everything might be OK.

Why you drink the shite, I suppose.

The best bit then.

As it snuggles up in your gut, you take the head off the Guinness.

The bar guy might be a prick but he sure could pour a pint.

Nowadays, we had so many non-nationals in the service industry, they poured a pint of G like a pint of friggin’ lager.

This guy knew his stuff, had let it sit for nigh on four minutes before he creamed the head.

I let out my breath.

Hadn’t even known I’d been holding it for six months.

You’re a dry alcoholic, that’s how you live.

And this is wrestling with the Xanax, you’re going to get some moments of reprieve.

Take it where you park it.

I hadn’t even known a guy had slid on to the stool beside me, till he spoke.

Going,

‘Sure is hell here today.’

I was mellow enough now to turn and look at him.

Tall slender man, in a beautiful suit.

You been shopping in charity shops as long as I have, you know the real deal.

This was it.

Armani or some other way-out-of-my-reach number.

The kind of suit, you kick the be-jaysus out of it, it’s still there in the morning, like a faded butler, looking prim and proper.

He had long hair, blond with highlights, and, I’d have to admit, a handsome face, but something…off.

Maybe the mean, down-turned mouth.

I’d seen enough of them to know they are very bad news.

And obviously he worked out, you could see the toned muscle behind the shining white shirt.

He had a devastating smile, marred a little by two crooked teeth.

And his cologne, top of the range I’m sure, but underneath, something else, like garlic left too long in the sun.

I nodded.

And he asked,

‘Travelling today?’

I wanted to say,

‘The fuck is it to you?’

but the Xanax, mixing with the booze, said,

‘No, change of plans.’

He gave that killer smile again, said,

‘Ah, that’s a sin.’

His emphasis on sin was, I swear, deliberate.

He had the bar guy hopping, no mean feat, ordered a gin and tonic and then, to me,

‘Get you something, Jack?’

I said I was good.

Fuck, I was close to lights out but not quite out of it, asked,

‘How’d you know my name?’

Ravishing smile and he indicated my dead ticket on the bar, said,

‘Says so on your ticket.’

Then he gave a tiny smile, said,

‘I met a guy on the plane, you know how it goes, you have a drink or two and get to shoot the shit?’

He paused to see if I was following this.

How difficult was it?

I nodded and he continued,

‘This guy was a shrink, and you’ll laugh when you hear this, he studied evil.’

I didn’t laugh.

He went on,

‘So I asked him, you think there is a motive for evil?’

He gauged my response and, seeing nothing special, said,

‘The guy tells me evil hones in on those closest to redemption.’

Time for my two cents. I said,

‘Lets me off the hook then.’

He gave me the most eerie look, asked,

‘You’re beyond redemption, Jack?’

Jesus, we were having a drink and he was getting not only theological but downright fucking personal.

I said, letting my bitterness leak all over my words,

‘Let me just say, experience has taught me there’s no such thing as a free lunch. Or drink, either.’

He made a sound – I blame the booze, the disappointment of non-entry to America, but it seemed like fucking… glee .

He said,

‘I would imagine if evil were zoning in on a person, you’d be the ideal candidate. You have all the requirements for where evil would nest and multiply. Bitterness, disbelief, and a cynical disregard for how such things work.’

I’ve been around bad guys for a lot of years, some serious whacko jobs, the sociopaths, the psychos, the totally insane. And yet this guy gave me a sense of ‘You ain’t seen nothing yet!’

But like I said, the blend of stuff in my stomach was keeping me loose. I went with,

‘Fascinating as this might appear, I’m not really in the mood for The Garden of Good and Evil …I never got your name.’

He laughed, a sound like a hyena with meat in its mouth, said, extending his long slender hand,

‘I’m Curt.’

I thought he meant his manner – and he was certainly that – till he added,

‘With a K.’

Almost mesmerized by the intensity of his eyes, I echoed,

‘Kurt?’

He tossed his long blond tresses, and I mean tossed, said,

‘ Absolument .’

Like I gave a fuck. I was thinking Conrad’s Heart of Darkness , but being too obvious is never smart so I went with,

‘We met before?’

He took a long swig of his gin, savoured it, then said,

‘If we had, surely you’d remember?’

I had no reply to this, signalled the barman to hit me again. Kurt said,

‘My treat, please.’

I let him…treat.

My drinks came and I raised the Jay, said,

‘ Slainte .’

He seemed amused by that, asked,

‘That’s Irish?’

The tone was as the Brits might say, sardonic .

And the feeling he was fucking with me I put down to the booze, so I countered with,