Кен Бруен - The Hackman Blues

‘I do now.’

‘Good, that’s very good. Give him the brief case.’

Thug Number Two shoved a slim attache case over the seat. I took it and Jack said:

‘Word to the wise, old son. If you’re contemplating any independent action, I’ll cut yer balls off and put them in yer mouth.’

I had a macho response to that but I kept it to myself. Two digs in the head are more than adequate. As they drove off I felt a flood of sweat cascade down my back. I wondered if Joyce had found words for that. I settled for, ‘Shite crossways.’

Back to the hotel, avoided Spiro and into my room. Threw the case on the bed and shouted, ‘I can see fucking India.’ Opened it slow, row on neat row of new crisp bills. Was there forty large?

I’d say so. Did I count it?

No. Did I ring Danny and Reed?

No. Did it make me happy

It helped.

You’d think that knowing lithium solved my manic depression, I’d just take it and be grateful. But it’s a constant struggle to do so. Part of me rebels against the daily task, against the idea of being medicated. There are some drawbacks too. It can play havoc with my concentration. Until the level settles, I can’t read for any length. Shakes, it brings ferocious tremors and out of the blue. You learn never to use saucers or spoons and especially not to allow anyone to hand them to you. Else you see the horror on their face as the spoon does an Irish jig. Vomiting and nausea are part of the deal. You never get used to that shit.

How many times I’d been told that changes in diet, exercise, temperature and the level went toxic? The appearance is similar to drunkenness:

slurred speech,

no co-ordination,

throwing-up

and it requires immediate medical treatment.

Most of all, I missed the high. There was an ad for the dope movie Rush a time back. It went, ‘Between the high and the buy’. No matter that the mania was frightening and lethal, I longed for its seductive beginnings. When my whole being glowed and I was smarter, sexier and supremely uplifted.

For a time I knew everything and felt everything, wanted to nail and be nailed by the world. Despite how that sonic track led only to hell and beyond, I yearned for it.

Being relatively okay and like most people is so fucking boring. There’s the trap in all its alluring madness.

I’d set the clock for six and rose with it. Showered and coffeed and ran the plan again in my head. Full of loopholes and improbables, it leaked danger. That’s why I felt it was a go. A basic simplicity can’t be beat. Leastways, I was gonna find out.

My head hurt where the thug had hammered me. The length of my body was sore from the collision with the bike. Truth to ask, was I the right material for a derring-do caper? Part of me burned with vengeance. I wanted now to stalk Jack and do horrendous things to the thug.

A few years back the black mayor of Chicago was a strutting high flyer. His enemies bided their time and bile. Sure enough, he got caught doing coke and hookers. Disgraced, he went to prison for three years. On release, he clawed his way back up to re-election. When asked if he’d a message for his enemies, he said, ‘GET OVER IT’.

I recited this now as a mantra. As I headed out, a sleepy eyed Spiro lifted his head at reception, said:

‘Mr Hackman, you go early.’ A trained observer obviously.

‘Yeah, it’s busy, busy, busy.’

‘I give you breakfast?’

‘No, catch you later.’

‘You take caution Mr H.’

‘Oh I surely will... epharisto poli .’ Made his day.

At 7.55am, Leon’s Minder arrived at The Oval tube station. He was carrying a black Reebok sports bag. Not best pleased, he glared around. People were milling about, traffic was bumper-to-bumper, the area was hopping. At eight, Ben came out of the café beside the newspaper stand. A bunch of Big Issues before him, like a shield. Walked straight up to the Minder, said:

‘You’ve something for me?’

The Minder pushed the bag at him and Ben said, ‘Sell a few o’ these mate while you’re standing there.’

Then Ben turned, went round the comer to find Jeff waiting at the phone kiosk, handed the bag over. Jeff tied it to his satchels and manoeuvred the bike across the traffic. Into the alleyway by the Community Centre and through the flats. Then out on the Kennington Road, he shifted the bike into top gear and moved like Meatloaf’s bat. Ben had carried on walking and as he reached The Cricketers pub, a van pulled up, two blacks hustled him into the back. Nobody paid any attention. At 8.10am Jeff arrived at Lambeth North Station. I was waiting outside. I asked, ‘Okay?’

He was sweating and smiling, ‘No prob.’

I took the bag and said, ‘Later, sweet meat.’

Into the station, I took the Bakerloo line to the Elephant and Castle. There I caught the Morden train, moving fast. The rhythm in my body urging go, go, go, and my mind scoffing, Fuck ’em if they can’t take a joke.

8.55am, I was back in my room, money strewn across the bed and sweat teeming down my body, said:

‘Piece o’ cake really.’

I was into adrenaline overpeak and that shot my lithium level perilously close to toxic. Had to climb on down. I lay on the bed and began a slow backward count 100... 99... 98...

Knock on the door.

Jesus, my heart shot through the roof of my mouth. On to me already.

Asked, ‘Who is it?’

Thinking, Where’s the bloody bat? and wishing I had something With pump action.

‘You wish for me to make the bed?’

Near hysterical, I answered, ‘No... no, I’ve already made my bed.’

Jeez, did I ever! As I heard her move away, I felt a gurgle of suppressed laughter rush through my system and had to bury my face in a towel to hide the sound. Kept thinking, Now all I have to do is lie in it. While I was having a high old time in Clapham, Leon’s men were extracting the last of Ben’s teeth with a pair of pliers. Without meaning to, I fell asleep and had me a humdinger of a chaucon. What the French call a dream. See, them languages just drip offa me.

I was on a bike and trying to out-pedal some hound of heaven in malevolent pursuit. Lithium was strapped to the handlebars but I couldn’t stop to take it. Jeff was ahead with a bundle of Big Issues screaming, ‘I can’t sell this!’

Alongside was Jack waving those driving gloves at me and singing, ‘Bye-Bye, Brady.’ Roz featured too and kept calling me ‘QUEER.’ If I could get off the bike, I’d kill her, I knew I would. But, the hound was right up close. My own shout woke me, I said, ‘Jesus.’

Disorientated, I couldn’t understand what I was lying on. Crawled off the bed and bundles of money came with me, I said, ‘What the fuck...?’

Then I realised and instead of celebration, I got a real bad feeling, muttered, ‘The Hackman blues.’

Got into the shower and scalded the skin right into my bones. I felt so old and said, ‘Yo’ buddy, you are old.’

As I shaved, I noticed the lines in my face were etched deep. You could plant spuds in them. Some people, their faces... so lined and you hear the expression — ‘lived-in face.’

Mine had been squatted in and for too long. Eviction was way overdue. Some rents can’t be paid. I knew that.

It was evening, I’d slept the whole day. A tap on the door and Spiro entered carrying a tray. It had a bottle of ouzo and little cheese snacks, he said, ‘The mountain come to you my friend.’

I’d tidied the money away, otherwise one of us would have had a coronary. He indicated the snacks, said, ‘This is meze, adds bite to the ouzo.’

He poured, then added water. The liquid clouded over, like Pernod or a bad date. He raised his glass, clinked mine, said, ‘ Yassue .’