Кен Бруен - The Hackman Blues

Quite.

My weapon of choice is a baseball bat. I kept one under the bed. For all things Hackman. Gene made a movie called Bat 69. Course, I didn’t give a toss for him then, else I might have inscribed 69 on the top. The sexual connotation would have been value sufficient. But more likely not. This was the real McCoy, a genuine Louisville slugger with wood as smooth as Tony Blair. If I could gauge the manic feelings building, I’d get Reed to hold the weapon, but you can’t always. No, not always.

Much as I appreciated the craftsmanship, I’d once made a guy eat it — and not with his mouth.

After Nolan had visited, I went to see Reed, told him the deal. He took it well, said:

‘Let’s off the fucker.’

When I told him the amount due on first Friday, he added, ‘Let’s off the fucker Friday.’

He could have done with some lithium himself.

I looked at the photo of Roz again, held it up close. As if inspection could bring information. Nada, nowt, zero. The thing they used to say: ‘Only the winner gets the dinner.’ If looks were the means, this girl was starved. As the Americans say, Who you gonna call?

Who else?

‘Reed.’

‘Talk to me, baby.’

‘We’ve got a job.’

‘Lay it out bro’.’

I did. Omitted nothing, not even the baseball caps. Reed said — I thought he said — ‘Blood-claat.’

‘What?’

And he said it again, louder. Yeah, I’d heard him right.

‘Reed, are you stoned?’

‘Don’t get righteous bro’.’

‘What the fuck is blood-clot?’

‘It’s a state of mind bro’.’

‘Like Texas?’

Those sighs from him again. Like his theme song. Put a soundtrack to a life, I’d get the Sex Pistols’ ‘Never Mind the Bollocks.’ I danced to ‘Anarchy in the UK.’ But all is profane, they’d regrouped. Alas, my life didn’t have the space for such re-runs. Reed’s track would be Vangelis, punctuated by sighs. Deep... yeah. Reed had tried to explain BEV. Black English Vernacular or, quite simply, black-speak, he’d said:

‘There be a whole new vocabulary of Niggaz — Buck — Whylin.’

I’d given an informed, ‘What?’

It meant black men talking. Lest he now go totally black on me, I cut to the chase, asked:

‘Are you free to begin tonight?’

‘I be free.

‘Okay, see you here ’round nine.’

‘Anything else?’

‘One thin’.’

‘Yeah.’

‘When I be getting me baseball cap?’

For the next three nights we trawled through the Brixton clubs. The modem version of hell might be Railton Road on a wet Wednesday night. Milton would be glad of his blindness.

Thronged through the hustlers, pimps, transsexuals, transvestites, muggers, junkies, dealers. The signs that read — ‘IF IT SWELLS? RIDE IT.’ What Travis saw from a windscreen in Taxi Driver , we saw up close and reeking. Mario el mano with the waste that comes behind. Reed’s colour may have got us in but my mania got us out.

He said, ‘We be doin this wrong bro’.’

‘Too easy-going... you want to crack skulls?’

‘No... eee, we’s got to put down some incentive.’

‘Pay the bastards, that it?’

Laid the money and the promise of more all over Coldharbour Lane. We found her on Friday.

Ballistic is a word of mouth joint. Never advertises and never needs to. You have to be connected to get to the door, and connected plus loaded to get in. Reed had the appearance of both.

Half way down Electric Avenue, it kept a dilapidated front. Inside was plush — red and white leather, huge dance floor and circular stairs to the bar. We headed up.

The clientele was predominantly black and I looked... well... white. Me ’n’ Roz. She was behind the bar, dressed in white leather micro and red see-through blouse. Truth to tell, in the subdued light in that place, she looked pretty okay. A huge guy in a tux caught Reed’s arm, asked:

‘Elias... that you?’

‘Sure be.’

‘Wha’ch you be thinking, yo’ bring a white boy here?’

I pushed forward, ‘Hey, nobody brings me anyplace.’

Reed shot me a look, moved the guy to the side... had some words. Then back to me and before he could start, I said:

‘Don’t do me no favours.’

‘Yo’ all lighten up bro’, yo’ want the girl or a lynchin’?’

‘You think I’m afraid of that fat fuck?’

‘I’m afraid you not, now shut yo’ trap... hear?’

He pushed me into a chair and moved to the bar. I watched him talk animatedly to Roz. She looked over then nodded her hair. Reed came back, said:

‘She be here in a mo’ — now yo’ be cool... are yo’ cool?’

‘As ice.’

Something else was eating him.

I asked, ‘What’s eating you?’

‘De girl — de white chick, she belong to Leon.’

‘Who’s Leon?’

‘Uh... oh... here be Leon.’

A build-up like that you expect the point man for the grim reaper.

What he was was small and almost insignificant. Dressed in a blazer, white shirt, grey slacks, he wore pince-nez. His age was indeterminate. You’d believe sixty, but fifty was an option too. If I knew about ties, and I don’t, I’d figure it to be one of those regimental jobs.

Then you reached the eyes, cold as the Oval in December. The glasses enhanced the metallic effect and, whoever was home, was not to be fucked with. I decided to fuck with him anyway. Reed jumped to his feet, said:

‘Leon, this be mo’ partner... Brady.’ I stayed sitting.

Leon smiled, said, ‘Don’t get up Mr Brady.’

Yeah, he could do News At Ten, he had the accent. Put out his hand, I shook it. Like touching dead flesh and he knew I was thinking it, smiled more, said ‘I am Leon.’

‘You say that as if it’s meant to mean something — don’t mean shit to me.’ As I said, no medication.

But he could roll:

‘One likes to believe one has a small reputation.’

‘I saw Leon...’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Leon the Pig Farmer.’

Didn’t take too hot on that.

Reed raised his eyes to heaven.

Leon snapped off the pince-nez, rubbed the bridge of his nose, said in a tight voice, ‘You’re a foolish man Mr Brady... or crazy. But, as one has a certain fondness for...’ He waved a hand vaguely to indicate Reed ‘...For Elias Rasheed, one is going to overlook your impertinence.’ He waited for my response and I decided to forego it. The pince-nez was readjusted and he said:

‘As I thought! Rosaleen will be with you presently. To demonstrate my largesse, drinks are on me. What is your pleasure?’

‘Jack Daniels Old Number 7.’

‘Capital! The black choice it is. Liquid smoke n’est pas.’

‘Whatever.’

Then he walked away, to do power things, no doubt.

Reed slumped beside me, exhaled, ‘Yo’ a piece o’ work, yo’ know that?’

‘But I have a nice telephone manner.’

‘Sh... ee... hit! Yo’ be messin wit’ dee man.’

‘No, no that’s not correct. If I was messing, I’d have pissed on his shoes.’

Groan from Reed, then he sat up, leant close, said, ‘Yo’ mutha, yo’ ain’t on yo’ medicine.’

Before we could get into that, Roz arrived carrying a tray with a bottle and those chunky glasses.

Reed said, ‘Gimme dem drinks.’

I motioned for Roz to sit. She did, without any attempt to compensate for the micro skirt. It rode up to her crotch, showing heavy thighs.

I said: ‘Show me your arms.’

‘Are you a policemen? I’m not a junkie.’

I indicated her tattoo, said, ‘Just being thorough.’

‘Leon asked that I be courteous. How may I help?’

Cambridge had done its work on her accent but south-east London was going down shouting. The effect was what they call ‘doing posh.’ I was about to discover how her attitude was.