Кен Бруен - The Hackman Blues

BRADY’S BAD FUCKED

I wrote it on the bedroom wall, in yellow day-glo marker. Nice colour, blended well with the years of nicotine. So, okay. As the Yanks say, I ’fess up, or — closer to home — I put my hand up, guv. I haven’t taken my medication for the past week. If I couldn’t go a few days without the lithium, I was in deep shit. Thus the wall message. I’d gotten the job ten days earlier and it entailed a whack of pub crawling. Booze and medication is the worst of songs. Sing that!

A job of pure simplicity. Find a white girl in Brixton. Piece of cake. What I should have done is doubled my medication and lit a candle to Saint Jude — maybe a lotta candles.

Jack Dunphy is in the building game. To hear some of them tell it, he is the game. Leastways he used to be, all over southeast London. What’s known as a ‘plastic paddy’. Third or fourth generation down the pike and as English as toast. But could shovel the brogue as the occasion demanded. A flash git too. Liked to show he’d the dosh. Word was, he’d married a game-show hostess and hit the top of some minor B list. A name among the ‘could-’ave-beens’.

Hard bastard. Odd stories surfaced of punters getting done with baseball bats and the blow-torch. Anyway, not a fella to fuck with. I knew him for years on a vague basis. The, ‘How you doing?’ dance. Bags of brief enthusiasm and no follow-up. If you never met again, how much would you be hurting? Like that.

So, I was a little surprised when he offered to buy me a drink. The local bookie got married and there was a knees-up in the backroom of the Greyhound. My sometimes pub next to the Oval tube station. I was standing at the bar while a karaoke merchant mutilated ‘That Loving Feeling’.

‘Paul, whatcha drinking?’

Yeah, he gave it the best south-east London twist. To put me at ease?

‘I’m all right.’

‘Go on then, ’ave somefin’. Yo’ barkeep, couple of double scotches before Tuesday.’

I gave him the full look. He was the spit of Henry Cooper, but Our Henry with a bad drop. Dressed in a good suit, handmade shoes, and washed to a sheen. No electric razors or Bic disposables for this guy. It was the barber’s chair and an open razor job, then the face hand-massaged to a rosy hue. He’d tip good too, ask about yer missus and frame yer balls if you crossed him. A villain with communication skills.

The drinks came and he nodded, picked one up, indicated I should do likewise. I did but put it down, untasted, and he said:

‘Cheers Paul. Best of British, eh?’

‘It’s not Paul.’

‘What?’

‘My name — it’s not Paul.’

That threw him. He was a man who prided himself on information. But he rallied.

‘Shit I’m sorry, could have sworn...’

I had some scotch, it tasted okay, like hope.

He put out his hand.

‘Let’s start over, I’m Jack Dunphy.’

The thought flashed, Who gives a flying fuck? but I let it slide. I was taking my pills. I was mellow and I shook his hand. The grip was solid, let you know he was a man of integrity. You get one of those ‘tight with sincerity’ shakes, watch your wallet. I didn’t have any more of the scotch.

‘It’s Tony... but most people call me Brady.’

He reached for the lighter touch:

‘But what do your friends call you... eh...? Call you Tone?’

‘No.’

A silence for a bit, not a problem for me, then:

‘Look Tony, I’ll be upfront here...’

Watch that wallet.

‘I’ve been told you’re dependable and... that you could help me.’

I reached for the lighter touch too, said:

‘It depends.’

Took a moment, then he laughed... badly. A laugh a long way from his eyes.

‘Oh I get it, yes — very droll. The thing is Tone... Tony, I need to find a woman.’

I ran the gamut of replies:

(1) What, you think I’m a pimp?

(2) The game-show run out of juice? or,

(3) Join a lonely hearts club.

Wittily enough, I opted for, ‘What?’

‘My daughter, she’s gone missing.’

‘Did you contact the Old Bill?’

He gave me a look reeking in ‘Do us a bloody favour’, and said, ‘It’s not a police thing. Those fucks couldn’t find peace.’

I wasn’t sure what to think, said, ‘I’m not sure what to think.’

‘She’s twenty, she’s my only child. I think she’s in Brixton. She was up at Cambridge reading English and just dropped out. I need someone discreet to find her. Rosie, the missus, is going frantic.’

‘I’ll need a photo, some personal details.’

He took a large manila envelope from his jacket, laid it on the bar, said:

‘It’s there... and cash... you need more, you call me... anytime.’

The package looked thick, fat with readies, I guessed. No cheques with this outfit.

He nodded at my drink, asked, ‘You don’t like whisky?’

‘Oh I like whisky, I just don’t like that one... barkeep, give us a couple of Jack Daniels Old Number 7.’

The bar-guy was well pissed at having to locate this, did a production outa finding the bottle. I couldn’t have given a toss. Finally, the drinks appeared.

Jack said, ‘Expensive tastes, I see.’

I tapped the envelope with one finger, said, ‘Reckon I can afford it. Cheers.’

We drank. He knocked it back. A moment, then his eyes watered and he gripped the bar, croaked: ‘Jay-sus!’

‘Tennessee drinking whisky, burns like a bastard, you got to sip it... see?’ I sipped and gave a tight smile. He wasn’t pleased.

‘You could have said.’

‘C’mon Jack, are you a man to be told what to do?’

‘Bear that in mind, you and me will get along.’

A woman had replaced the karaoke and was doing a passable rendition of ‘If It’s The Last Thing I Do.’ Sounded like Tammy Wynette via Peckham. Close to home.

Jack asked, ‘You’re thinking I look like someone, right? People are always noticing the resemblance... go on... have a shot.’

Could I say Henry...? I figured not. Said, ‘Erm... It’s on the tip of my tongue...’

He was like a child with a secret, could wait no longer.

‘I’ll give you a hint... Bite The Bullet.’

Yeah... a horse’s ass, but lied: ‘Erm... missed that one.’

‘Gene Hackman!’

‘What?’

‘When I give that tight little smile, when I’m fucked about... see...?’

Oh God, he gave me a demonstration. It was horrible, truly fucking horrible. I had to blame the Jack Daniels... had to...

He asked, ‘Want me to do it again?’

‘No... it’s uncanny... quite unbelievable, you’ve a real talent there.’

Just then I caught the eye of a young guy across the bar. Long blonde hair, T-shirt, the requisite 501s... he smiled.

I said, ‘Gotta go... I’ll be in touch.’

He put out his hand, gave me another of those manly grips. Gripped me solidly for a time. He said: ‘I think I’ll have some more of that Tennessee... do you think?’

‘You do that... oh... and Gene...’

He loved it.

‘Yeah?’

‘Sip it... okay... nice and slow.’

When I got the young guy back to my place, that’s exactly how I took him.

Next morning I opened my eyes to see the guy preening in front of the wardrobe mirror. Dressed only in white Y-fronts, he was rivetted by his image. A lot to be held by. His body was lean and muscular, of the gym-smoothed variety. Sun-beds featured too, as he’d a light tan all over. My own body looked a wreck.

Catching my eye, he winked and asked, ‘See something you like?’