Кен Бруен - The Hackman Blues

I laughed out loud...

Then Reed said, ‘Fuck it, it don’t mean nothing... drive on.’

Danny smiled, said, ‘You’re my mates, my best best mates... let’s get a curry, watch a vid’.’

Reed was excited:

‘Yo’ bro’, let’s git The Domino Killings.’

‘What?’

‘Gene Hackman, he wastes on all.’

I said nothing and Reed asked, ‘Whatcha say my man, curry?’

‘And... a box of Dairy Milk.’

If it was good enough for Inspector Nolan, then who was I to argue? As the scene with Mickey Rooney was rewound, Danny said, ‘Yo’ Tone, how would it be if I give you a present of the Glock? It’s mostly plastic... lightest gun you can get.’

‘Naw... I’ll stick with what I know.’

Reed punched my shoulder.

‘Git with de ’90s bro, what’s de deal with de bat?’

‘It doesn’t jam... know what I mean?’

They didn’t.

If I were a man who appreciated irony, and most times I don’t, I’d have to note that both Danny’s cross and his weapon of choice were plastic. The moral being wasted on me. It’s like Madonna wears forty-seven crosses and Mother Theresa wears one. A person could draw deep significance here. Me, I reckon, Go figure.

Time was when I was fascinated by coincidence and psych’ books. A lethal combination. Ever come across Professor Karl Averbach? Not yer run of the mill TV pundit.

No.

He wrote an introduction to Freud’s ‘Future of an Illusion.’

‘Coincidence begets mysticism, which begets religion, which begets sin and retribution, which begets repression...

guilt

psychosis.’

See, I could figure this shit out.

Shrinks have their war stories too. They’re never happier than trotting out one of the standard yams about manic depres-sives.

It gets them hot.

Usually they go like this:

A man believes he is the second most intelligent person in the world. He doesn’t know the first.

Or the guy goes into a department store, charms the sales girl and buys every tie they have. Course he comes back later claiming he’s been conned. He has, but not by the shop.

The best book has gotta be ‘An Unquiet Mind’ by Kay Jamison. Not only is she professor of psychiatry at the John Hopkins Medical Centre in Baltimore, she is also manic depressive. This lady writes from inside the barrel of the gun. In her own words, she was ‘a raving psychotic.’

On one London spree she spent a small fortune on books because she liked the covers and magically, ‘Twenty Penguin books because I thought it would be nice if the penguins could form a colony.’

I understand that completely.

Recovering alcoholics call it identification. Me, I figure she was reading my mail. ‘Lithium,’ she said, ‘prevents my seductive but disastrous highs, diminished my depressions clears out the wool and webbing from my disordered thinking, slows me down, gentles me out.’

Oh shit, how I love the concept ‘Gentles me out.’

Fuck knows, I been all kinds of heavy duty attitude all my born life but I’ve never been gentle.

And yes... I do miss what I never had.

Ever get your cod ’n’ chips in newspaper? Cover them suckers in salt ’n’ vinegar like there was no such thing as nutrition, put yer face down in ’em and breath that scent... like the scores of childhoods you wish you had, like a love you’ve never experienced.’

But hey, I’m getting manic here. End of the day, they’re just chips and when you’re done, you ball the pops and sling it in a wide hook shot. Sometimes it hits the bin.

A Jewish sailor... trolling on New York’s Upper East Side said it best:

‘Oh Lord God of Abraham

Keep me Alive and smart—

the rest I’ll figure out for myself.’

Next day, I treated myself — had me a rent boy. Done him to the music of M-People. So what if I’m fifty plus? I still listen to what’s happening.

I didn’t get him off the street. I went through the classifieds in Gay Times, got one who was available on a mobile, for fuck’s sake and made house calls. He arrived at 4.30pm. All blond scraggy hair, torn jeans, ripped T-shirt and Armani leather jacket. Designer rough trade.

I offered him a drink, he said, ‘Got any mineral water, sparkling... with a hint of lemon.’

‘Sure.’

I poured it from the tap, added a shot of fairy liquid and figured he could imagine a lemon. Course he never touched it, they never do. Then he read the riot act.

‘No anal. No bondage...’

And I interrupted, said, ‘Hey, no talking.’

Had him quick, paid and we were all through by 4.55pm. I said, ‘Don’t call us, we’ll get in touch.’

Can’t help wondering if that’s where the term ‘bum’s rush’ derived from. I don’t regret too much. But I wished I’d told Jack the old story about Bonanza. How Lome Green, as a fifty-year-old had four sons who were all forty-five, each born to him by a different wife and worse, who had all died giving birth.

...And no one noticed. A more innocent era or just plain stupid? Bit of both, I guess.

Time to prepare for Roz. I went into Boots, looking for a likely candidate. Got her, a middle-aged assistant... okay, my age. A Rasta was ahead of me, so I stood patiently. It had to be her. He had dread-locks all down his back and kept bursting into giggles, near convulsed with hilarity. Eventually, he shuffled away without a purchase. But she was good, didn’t lose it.

I got right to her, said, ‘I’ll have whatever he’s taking.’

And she hesitated, then smiled, said, ‘I don’t think that’s on prescription.’

Okay, I began: ‘I wonder if you could help me. My daughter, she’s twenty and due to come outa hospital. She’s coming to recuperate at my home and I’ll obviously need all sorts of things for her... you know, like women’s stuff.’

A moment...

‘And her mother?’

Coup de Grace time.

I lowered my eyes, said, ‘Her mum was taken from us... I...’

Then she took over:

‘I understand. Shall I presume she needs a little of everything?’

I looked at her name tag, said:

‘Thank you, Betty.’

It took some time so I tested the men’s aftershaves. By the time she was ready, I was smelling good enough to eat. She handed me a huge carry bag, said, ‘I think that’ll do the job.’

‘You’re so kind Betty, you put the B back into Boots.’

‘B?’

‘Beautiful.’

Awful shit I know, especially as I had to run the same gambit in British Home Stores for the clothes. Then I hailed a cab, took it to Balham.

Our warehouse is situated near the rear of the Argosy store. They do mail-order and so do we. It’s roomy with boxes piled high to the ceiling. An Arthur Daley wet dream. Best of all, you could scream your head off, no-one’s going to hear.

I fixed up the camp-bed, laid out the parcels, then looked round. If I swept the floor, put up some chintz or, even better, gingham curtains, it would be downright cosy. Instead I thought, Fuck it, and got out of there.

Reed did his surveillance; Leon normally left round two in the morning. A minder walked with him and Roz to their car, which was parked a little down from the entrance.

Okay.

Danny got the CS canisters, the van and the balaclavas. The van was a transit, beat up and dirty.

I asked, ‘Does the engine stall?’

‘Nope, it’s in good condition.’

Reed tried on the balaclava and said, ‘Shee-hit, dis mutha be hot.’

Amazing, you put one of those on anyone, they immediately turn sinister.

He asked, ‘How I look?’

‘Evil.’

I wondered how Betty from Boots would fit one. Give a whole new agenda to the business.