Кен Бруен - The Hackman Blues

As I walked back into the room, Jack’s voice was raised, ‘I’m telling you it was the bloody Superman movies. Plus, it’s not a period of his career I dwell on... okay?’

I gathered up the envelopes, stuffed them in my suit pockets, said, We’ll be off then.’

‘How soon can I expect a result?’

As Jack was closing the door, Reed leant back, asked, ‘Yo’ sure it was Superman ?’

I drove, as Reed had laid into the Guinness. I counted six empties on the bar alone. Like I said before, I count. The shrinks say it’s an outward sign of internal conflict. And I’d thought it solely an observation.

Reed said, ‘We gonna need another dude.’

‘Danny?’

‘Mo’ mon... Danny be good. What cho’ wearing... yo’ smell fine?’

I hit the radio for the country station. What a slice of luck, Iris DeMent but Reed moved the band, said, ‘Sorry mon but I gots to hear de blues.’

‘I thought you liked that rap shit?’

‘No’ me bro’, I am de blues.’

Danny. The villain’s villain. If there was a poll, he’d top it. Me, I didn’t much like the bastard and he detested ‘shirt-lifters.’ But... if you had to pick a guy, you’d be smart to go for Danny. Him and Reed went way back, so there was that. Danny was a burglar and a good one. He had only been caught once and that was down to a mate grassing him.

I fucking hate burglars. My own activities are far from legal but I hang on to the old dictum, An Englishman’s home is his castle — or at least it’s the building society’s. I ever catch a guy doing my gaff over, I’ll do him.

Danny was into a new caper. Literally an off-the-rails venture. Derailment. Once, twice a month a heavy goods train was knobbled. He got the call and as the looters went for the surface stuff, he’d select choice items with high street return. The month before, there’d been three derailments. One hit the front pages, because the cargo was wine. Bottles of plonk littered all over the tracks. There wasn’t a home in south-east London without a nice Riesling to go with the fish fingers. As a burglar, Danny had access to the good things in life. You want passports, credit cards, driving licences, weapons... Give him a bell.

We’d need weapons. It wasn’t as if Leon was going to hand over Roz if all I had was attitude. Yeah...

I said to Reed, ‘No frills, no major strategy. We go in, we grab the girl, and we’re outa there.’

‘Leon’s gonna know it be us.’

‘Sure.’

‘He gonna come after my black ass first.’

‘I hope so.’

I had a plan for after. To fly to San Francisco and meet Armistead Maupin.

‘Tales of The City’ was my literary lithium. Calmed me down when the meter was pumping overload. Madrigal says in these: ‘When I retire I’m going to buy a small Greek island.’ Then she thinks a bit and adds: ‘Well, maybe a small Greek.’

I had it all down in my head. I’d be sitting in Fisherman’s Wharf, my face lightly sun burnt after the day trip to Alcatraz. A margarita in my hand and weejuns on my feet. Very soft battered ones. Armistead would stroll in and I’d take off my aviator sun-glasses, give a lazy smile and say, ‘My Man!’ Now... there’s cool.

The phone crashed into my reverie.

I was not best pleased, snapped into the receiver, This better be good.’

‘Tone... that you... it’s Jack?’

Fuck.

‘Wotcha want, Jack?’

‘An explanation, very possibly an apology.’

‘For what?’

‘You bring a nigger into my home, you want to comment on that fella?’

‘Yeah, I can comment, he’s my friend, how would that be?’

‘You couldn’t find any white friends.’

‘Nah, they were all like you.’

Silence, then...

‘Look... Tone, I’ve got off on the wrong foot here. Let me make it up to you.’

‘How would you do that, Jack?’

‘You like Cliff Richard?’

‘What?’

‘I thought you might, well... when this is all over, I’m treating you to the best seats at the Hammersmith Odeon. A one-off reunion of Cliff and the Shadows, what do you say now, Mister... eh?’

‘The Shadows!’

‘We’ll make a night of it, have a late supper at The Savoy.’

‘Wow.’

‘The sooner this is over, the sooner we start partying.’ He said that in the American way.

‘I’m humming “Summer Holiday” already.’

‘You like that? Me, I love “Miss You Nights”.’

‘Well Jack, much as I’d love to stay swappin’ classics from Cliff...’

‘Of course... no hard feelings on the nigger then?’

‘Jeez... bye Jack.’

Reed left a message.

‘We be toolin’ up, bro’. Danny’s at Seven. Yo’ all gonna need mo’ than a bat and an attitude.’

I was going to wear the suit but you can have too much of a good thing. Plus, I didn’t want to piss Danny off from the out. I resolved not to needle him.

Took my medication. My past was littered with the baggage of manic-depression. See the highlights...

hospitals

insanity

psychotic irritationality

the compulsive spending

and the part I dwell on least,

the suicide attempts

and yet...

When the elation hits, Jesus, it’s like nothing on earth. Fireworks not only go off, you are the bloody fuse. A doctor reprimanded me on lust one time. It doesn’t seem that it’s a sensuality of white intensity razor cut to the soul of sex itself. Junkies say heroin is like kissing God. When elated, I am God and want to kiss the world.

You feel so fucking marvellous. You think you’ll explode...

... and you do.

Cos there’s no slowing down. That song...

‘Fly me to the Moon’

Well, all the way over to Pink Floyd’s dark side there.

Course, no one can keep apace. It’s like a cobra on speed. Get outa the road, fast.

Then, the crash... oh shit, it’s not the bottom of the pit. It’s below that, scraping further down. A bleak nothing landscape of pure desolate emptiness. That’s the destination, to dwell there in all yer days.

So I took the lithium and headed for Danny’s.

He lives in Meadow Road, not far from the Oval. You can hear the crowd roars during the Test series. A one-up, one-down terrace house, as re-converted by yuppie values. Brass knocker in the shape of a mermaid.

I like that.

Gave it a fine wallop. A girl of sixteen... or maybe thirty-two... slim, dark hair, black Levi’s and one of those... (halter-tops, are they?)... nice smile... opens the door.

‘Mr Brady?’ she asks.

Jeez, how old is that?

‘How d’ya know I’m not a Mormon.’

‘Bad teeth.’

‘What? I frigging pride myself on those pearlies. Brush ’til I bleed with that tooth-whitener. The paint off a gate job. My face obviously showed all the shock.’

She laughed, said, ‘I’m winding ya’ up, you have nice teeth, come on in, I’m Crystal.’

‘Hello Crystal.’

I liked her. Mouth without malice, a rare humour. Danny was in the garden with Reed. Both in track suits... team players, eh? The fruits of derailment.

I said:

‘Yer daughter let me in.’

Danny’s face tightened and Reed laughed.

‘That be his old lady bro’.’

‘Oh... and there was me thinking I’d interrupted her homework.’

Danny dropped in a deckchair, said, ‘Least ways she’s female, eh Brady?’

‘Or will be when she grows up.’

Reed threw his hands in the air.

‘Yo’, guys — nuff of dis shee-hit.’

Danny shrugged, then:

‘Crystal, bring a cold one for Tone...’ He looked at me, asked, ‘Yeah?’

‘What the hell,’ I said.

‘Yeah.’

After I got that, I sat and Reed said, ‘I dun told Danny what we be planning.’