Кен Бруен - The Hackman Blues

Like I said, a winner.

My father had five suits. It was the one extravagance in his northern frugality. I dunno if my mother’s drinking was contagious but he began to drink too. The suits were identical and the object of my mother’s wrath, her most vindictive scorn.

He always treated me fair. When I was nine, he lost his job as a hospital porter. My mother ordered him out. He was a better person drunk than most people are sober.

With the five suits, he went to live under Waterloo Bridge. In the tunnels there, he’d put on a fresh suit, then, when it was dirty, he threw it away. When he reached the last one, he stepped under the 9.05 from Southampton, the express.

I hated him cos my mother did. Then, when I understood who she was, I began to comprehend him. I read once that Hemingway’s mother sent him the gun his father used to kill himself with. Cute. My mother would never have gone in for such studied viciousness. When she died, I had to clear out her things, dump all the empty bottles. I found a train timetable for arrivals at Waterloo. Maybe she thought he’d finally come up to speed.

I had a good look in the mirror, said, You’re too handsome to let out, and began to read the satellite section in Time Out . They had a piece about sci-fi:

‘Why anyone would actually want to watch men with no testicles in spandex outfits utter lines like, “The flux transponders nearly run out of euronium, captain” remains unexplained.’

I was with them — beat the shit outa me, too. Spandex!

If Nick Nolte can get his scrotum tightened in case he gets to do a naked love scene, then I’m way outa answers. The doorbell went.

An apparition in blinding white.

I said: ‘Jeez!’

Reed in a cotton white suit, red shirt and red kickers. He said ‘Sharp or what?’

‘There’s been a Saturday Night Fever revival?’

‘Yo’ be jealous bro’, is all.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Yo’ see, dee man is impressed.’

‘He’ll certainly notice, I can guarantee that.’

Reed has a battered Cortina. What Leon would have called de rigueur for Brixton. It had a souped-up engine and we burned rubber to Dulwich.

Reed asked, ‘De man, he know I be coming?’

‘M... m... m?’

‘He dunno?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘Well, be nice surprise for him.’

‘Yeah, he’ll be surprised, sure enough.’

He was — big time. The house was on its own grounds, well back from the road. Trees in an immaculately trim garden. TREES. The house said, You’re talking big bucks here, none of your rent allowance shite in this neighbourhood. If you wanted to be obscene, try saying GIRO. Never heard of UB40, the group or the form. Did the house have a pool...? It sure had the attitude. Reed let out his breath, said, ‘Home.’

Heavy iron gates blocked the entrance.

I said, ‘They ain’t going to open of themselves.’

‘Yo’ all try whistling? Why do I think yo’ expects me to git out.’

‘Helps the tone of the neighbourhood, Reed, if a nigrah opens them.’

‘No shee-hit. See how it works — already yo’ the white mastah.’

‘Open the bloody things.’

We rang the doorbell and Jack actually stepped back on sight of Reed. Maybe he thought it was one of those home invasions.

Reed said, ‘We be in the hood, mon.’

I added, ‘Jack, this is my partner.’

‘Oh... okay... erm... right... you better come in.’

The hallway was full of light. The last time I saw that much illumination was after ECT.

Jack paused, offered, ‘You want to leave your jackets here?’

And the inference hung — Want to park the black too?

The combination of the lights and the whiteness of Reed’s suit was dazzling. Into a sitting room choc-a-block with Antique Roadshow props. Plush armchairs that whispered, ‘Flop in me.’ We did.

Jack went to the bar and it was the full begonia, even had authentic wooden stools.

He said, ‘Alas, I don’t have your favourite tipple but, most everything else.’

Then he lapsed into a brogue, ‘What will ye have, min?’

‘A beer is good’

And Reed, awkward bastard, ‘A Guinness.’

Jack made little trips back and forth, laying down coasters, bowls of peanuts, crisps, napkins. Reed raised an eyebrow, gave me the look. Finally, we were all squared away and Jack raised his glass, ‘ Slainte.’

‘Whatever.’

Silence then for a minute and Reed chewed peanuts, sipped the Guinness.

Jack broke, asked:

‘Where is she?’

‘In Brixton, she’s working in a night club.’

‘Is she coming home?’

‘I don’t think so.’

Reed suddenly interrupted. ‘Hey mon, yo’ be de twin fo’ dat actor... dat Hackman dude.’

Jack suspected a rat, looked at me but Reed went on, ‘Man, yo’ do dat thin wit’ yo’ mouth... yeah... der, yo’ dun do it again...’

And Jack beamed. Bought it full, said: ‘Well, you’re not the first actually...’

‘I’m a believer bro’.’

I said, ‘Yo’... Guys, can we get back to business?’

Jack composed himself, asked, ‘Did she mention me?’

‘Erm... yeah... sure.’

‘Is she okay?’

‘She’s fine... truly...’

Jack took a large swallow of his drink, considered... then plunged:

‘Can you bring her home?’

Before we could answer, he got up, walked over to a large painting. It had one of those little lights suspended above it. He shoved the frame aside and... yup, a wall safe. The middle-class aspiration realised. He did combination things, then pulled it open, took out fat envelopes.

Threw one on the glass table, ‘That’s a bonus for a good job... now this...’ He held up a thick parcel, ‘is heavy cash. It’s yours if you bring her home.’

I hadn’t touched the beer and my mouth was dry, probably the medication.

Reed said, There be a problem.’

‘What kind of problem?’

I drank some beer... ah... cold and bitter, said:

‘Leon... he’s a black guy with juice who’s protecting her.’

Jack lost it.

‘You’re afraid of some jumped-up nigger!’ And realised... He looked at Reed, said, ‘No offence. I mean, normally I’m not a racialist but...’

Reed indicated his drink, said, ‘I’s could go one mo’ of dese black drinks, boss.’

Jack waved to the bar... ‘Please, help yourself... okay...? So Brady, you’re telling me you can’t do it?’

‘No, I’m not telling you that. I’m telling you it won’t be easy.’

‘What I just offered you... I’ll double it. Now, is there still a problem?’

‘No, sir.’

And then it struck me about the room. Mr Family Man, right? Not a single photograph, no family frame whatsoever. Nowt, nada.

You ever see those movies about the missing person, the hero always asks to see the girl’s room, for clues.

I asked, ‘Can I use the bathroom?’

Jack was seething, said, ‘What! NOW you need to go, now?’

‘If you don’t mind.’

‘Upstairs, second on the right.’

He didn’t say stay out of the bedrooms but it was there. Oh yeah.

As I left, Reed was saying, ‘I liked Gene in dem Batman movies.’

I checked the other rooms but they were locked. I was going to be clueless in Dulwich. In the bathroom I had a good wash, tried on some Joop aftershave. Nice. Then I opened the medicine cabinet. The usual crap at the front but I reached in behind and bingo... a thick bottle. Took it out and read the label — Temazepam. Uh-uh. The new name of oblivion for the housewives of London. No wonder his missus wasn’t in attendance. I put the bottle back. All the towels bore Jack’s initials and you have to be a special breed of asshole for that.