Кен Бруен - The Hackman Blues

‘Well, if Gene said so...’

‘I’m going to give you something.’

‘Not a good thrashing, I hope?’

‘A baseball cap... he always wears one.’

‘Jeez, what can I say — we’ll be two Genes.’

‘Two what?’

Too bloody much, but I said, ‘I’ll call as soon as I get something, okay Jack?’

‘You do that.’

And he rang off.

Was it me, or did that sound like an order? Said aloud: ‘Never no mind, probably a Hackman thing...’ Yeah, that was it. You could tire of Gene though. No doubt about it, he could definitely get on your fucking nerves.

Reed and I had a partnership. Nothing on paper. No contract, no set deal, but fixed as fate. He had little cards printed:

The cards he’d stolen but I think he paid for the printing. When he told me the scheme, or scam, I laughed out loud, said, ‘Bollocks.’

We were never out of work. Go figure. Okay, sometimes we gave it a nudge and stole the item first.

A Labour parliamentary candidate went public on the loss of her beloved Yorkshire terrier. I found it and got a write-up in the South London Press:

Even had my photo. Made me look like Ken Livingstone on speed. From his London Council era... Yeah, that bad.

If you watch videos, you know about FACT. You may not want to but you can’t escape the fuckers. Slammed in at the beginning of every video — you can’t avoid them, like muggers in Stockwell. The Federation to stop video piracy. We did a bit of work for them. A nice little earner and reliable. To cover both ends of the market, we made the pirates... then shopped ’em. A version of Tory innovation. Reed said it was our tribute to the Thatcher years — and cars. Oh yeah, heavens-to-betsy, it’s where the gold is. Steal ’em and find ’em... fast. No repo could match our record for instant recovery. Recently, the mountain bikes had become a market mover. Those suckers trade for serious earners. You get a set-up like that, money leaking in from all angles, it’s sweet as a nut. But... you’re also gonna get attention. Blood in the water and the sharks come cruising.

You get:   (1) Scavengers

      (2) Predators, and

      (3) Policemen.

Things were just falling into place when my doorbell rang one morning. Two suits, one burly and one creepy. Numero Uno began, ‘Good morning, sir — I’m Chief Inspector Nolan.’

‘And how are the sisters?’

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’

‘If I might continue? My colleague here, though shy, is Sergeant James and you, sir are...’

He consulted his notebook, stepped back to check the house number, the usual bullshit, then exclaimed, ‘... Mr T Brady. Am I correct?’

What, like politically correct?’

‘Ah, a comedian. How jolly. Me and my sergeant likes a good laugh.’

Then the tone changed. ‘Might we step in, sir?’

I moved aside. Nolan went ahead but James hung back, keeping me in the middle. Like in the cadets manual. It was a hot read in prison, the cons loved it. We trooped into the living room. Nolan put out his hand... then the other, said:

‘If I’m right the kitchen is that way. Might Sergeant James do us a brew and one for you, of course. Thing is, we skimped on breakfast, keen to make yer acquaintance and all that.’

I said nothing.

James headed for the kitchen.

Nolan flopped into an armchair, took a look ’round.

‘Fairly spartan, eh? Is that the minimal effect like them Japs are so keen on, or are you just a cheap bastard?’

Was there an answer to this, short of a kick to the side of the head? James returned with a tray and tea stuff, said:

‘Nowt to eat Guv, except for marietta biscuits.’

‘What, no bacon sarnies...? Well, pour the tea, we can’t very well expect our Mr Brady to attend to us hand and foot.’

James continued to stand, snatching at the tea with a puckered mouth, as if it would bite. Nolan made smacking noises, loud and vexing, said:

‘You’re in the video game, Mr Brady.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Oh I do like a good film.’ He pronounced it ‘fill-um’.

‘Me and the missus, we like nothing better than to put the feet up, have a curry, then a box of Dairy Milk for afters. Though I suppose you’d have a sturdy young lad with yours.’

James threw me a look and Nolan bit down on a marietta, continued ‘Oh sorry Sarge... didn’t you know...? Our Mr Brady is an arse bandit — a bum-boy... yeah, a pillow-biter in the flesh, so to speak. A bit of marg’ would go a treat on these.’

He smiled and showed surprisingly fine, even, white teeth. Didn’t add any warmth to the smile. Over the next few minutes he ate six biscuits, crunching down hard on each piece. I counted... what else had I to do? Then he patted his belly, said:

‘Oops! I’ve been a bit of a greedy guts I have. Right — now Mr Brady, no doubt you’ve heard of the Police Benevolent Fund?’

‘Oh yeah.’

‘Watch yer tone, laddie!’.

‘How about if I write you a cheque... Inspector?’

He stood up, brushing crumbs off his pants and tut-tutted. To hear a grown man make such a sound is awesome. And to think, he was calling me names!

‘Oh let’s not bother with formalities. Cash will be fine... coin of the realm, eh? First Friday of the month... like catholics.’

I had managed to keep shtoom, let him goad me, but I figured one shot was merited, said:

‘Like bribes, more like.’

James gut-thumped me with his elbow and I went down on my knees. Vomit washed in my mouth. Nolan squatted down, eye balled me, said:

‘You’re an ’ard ’un Brady, eh...? But this isn’t the Scrubs. I’m the guv’nor here. If I whistle, you ask, What tune? Am I getting through to you, asshole?’

I nodded. There are times when it’s best to be macho, to shovel the shit right back. This wasn’t one of them.

I could smell the biscuits off his breath and see the particles stuck in the fine teeth. He stood, said:

‘That’s it then. Don’t get up son, we’ll see ourselves out. And tell that jungle-bunny mate of yours not to nick motors on my manor. Makes me look bad. Well, got to fly... toodle-pip.’

There’s nowt as queer as folk.

My old man used to run that by us. Fucking wisdom of the ages, by gum. From a man who rated Yorkshire pud as a culinary achievement.

Reed had asked once, This depression man — how it be?’

‘Be fucking rough is how.’

Mania is the ultimate rush. Energy and euphoria hit fever pitch. A racing mind moves in a whirlwind pace and you become the original motor-mouth — gunning out verbals at hectic mode. Physically, little sleep is required and a supernatural energy takes over. The next stage is delusion and you can feel all powerful — all intelligent — all wonderful. Like a Thatcher.

Depression is the exact opposite. Loss of energy, feelings of worthlessness, mental slowness, a shut down. It’s not a common ailment. What joins the two is that mania is followed by depression. The doctors like to talk about ‘episodes.’ ‘Attacks’ are no longer PC. So when you’re in the middle of one, you, ‘Phew, it’s only an episode, that’s all right then.’ Yeah! A shrink told me that about one in two hundred people are prone to manic depression. This was a comfort? Oh yeah, episodes are not frequent. Lithium helps me best.

When I’d explained all this to Reed he was quiet, then exclaimed, ‘Jeez, what a bummer.’