Кен Бруен - American Skin

“You’re saying you want a divorce, that what you trying to tell me?”

And she’d lost it, shouted,

“You maniac, we’re not married, get out of my house or I’ll call the cops.”

He did the worst thing, he smiled at her, a smile of such malevolence that she shuddered. He strolled towards the door, said,

“You’re a bad lady.”

Glen came back and for a little while, it seemed okay. Till Dade appeared in the driveway, a gun in his hand, and began shooting. They’d done the only thing they could, they jumped in the SUV and fled. Karen could see his face as Dade strolled towards the door, the smile in place, and from his truck she could hear that damn Tammy Wynette singing. Glen had asked as they burned rubber out of there,

“What does he want?”

Karen had told the truth,

“To kill us all.”

There was no doubt in her mind.

Rosie, unable to bear the tension, reached for the door handle. Mum had cautioned her not to touch it till Daddy fixed it and the seat belt didn’t even lock.

The shock of wind rocked Glen and he went,

“What the fuck?”

The man in the truck saw what appeared to be a package hurled from the SUV, bounce against his grill, and disappear. He ducked reflexively, nearly losing control.

Karen twisted round in her seat, moaned,

“Oh sweet Jesus.”

Ben let the mitt go, the wind tearing into the seat. Karen grabbed at the wheel, screaming,

“Stop... stop...”

And the vehicle went off the road.

Crashed into a tree at a speed upwards of 120 mph. Karen, her air cushion not working, shot through the windshield, hitting the tree with her head, crushing the neck down into the torso. Glen’s air cushion kicked in and he sank into its folds. Ben, his belt tied, the only one still working, bounced against the upholstery. The truck ploughed into them, the grill preventing serious damage. Dade’s head hit the dash, opening a three-inch cut above his right eye. Blood began to pour down his face. Took him a few minutes to focus, then he reached under his seat, saying,

“Rocking.”

Got a bandana, a souvenir from a Springsteen gig, wrapped it round his head, said,

“Sucker hurts.”

The Clash had shut down with the collision, he said,

“Bummer Strummer.”

A silence followed. He popped a couple reds, reached for the Walther, got out. His boots crunched on the asphalt as he sauntered towards the SUV. He surveyed the make of the thing, thinking it must have been the first off the line, how goddamn old was that? The lights from the ruined vehicle lit up the tree. He could see the remains of Karen, suspended on a branch, asked,

“Hanging out, babe?”

Glen pulled his head from the cushion, took in the carnage before him as the glass on his window shattered, a voice asking,

“Glen, how you doing there buddy, day at a time, that how it goes?”

Shot him twice in the upper chest, dragged him out, leaned over the seat, looked at Ben, took the mitt, and put a round in the child’s face. Counted, said,

“Uh... huh, one missing.”

A Buick approached, slowed, catching him in the glare, he moved to the side as the car stopped. An elderly man behind the wheel, rolling down the window, going,

“What happened?”

Dade shrugged, said,

“Shit happened.”

Shot him between the eyes, reached in, got the wallet, had a hundred bucks in there. He climbed into the truck, reversed, a grinding of metal as the grill came free, pulled out, moved off, began to sing,

“Our D-I–V-O-R-C-E becomes final today, me and little J-o-e...”

His voice was low, modulated, almost a hint of sweetness in the tone.

His lights braked on a hill, then disappeared in the direction of Tucson.

Galway, Ireland

It was ten days since the “heist.” I’d been lying low, watching the news, wondering if I was about to be arrested. The smart thing would have been to stay put, let the heat fade. But I was antsy, anxious to move. When you’re sitting on more money than you could ever even count, you’re not too laid back. That my oldest friend died in the robbery was a burden I couldn’t shake, refused to dwell on it.

Siobhan, my girl for a long time, came out of the kitchen, asked,

“Can we switch to Sex and The City, it’s the final series.”

I was glad to move, three beers hadn’t mellowed me. I’d some Vicodin, the ultimate painkiller, but was saving them for the flight, said,

“Sure.”

Siobhan was so Irish, she might have come from central casting, red hair, snub nose, fine body, and that white skin the Americans call “Irish Colour.”

They know about colour.

I grabbed another beer and she asked,

“Will you watch with me?”

I could have but was finding it difficult to be still, said,

“It’s always about shoes.”

She laughed, the way women do when men “don’t get it.”

Which is most of the time.

One line did make me laugh. Carrie had a boy toy and said, “I don’t know if I should blow him or burp him.”

A bottle of Black Bushmills on the sink. We’d been keeping it for a special occasion. I guess this would have to be it. I put the beer down, broke the seal, got some heavy tumblers from the press, poured freely, she said,

“Put lemonade in mine.”

Christ, what a travesty. But it hardly seemed the time to mention that. I poured the lemonade, made a mental note to call it “pop,” get into American mode. Every day, I adjusted my vocabulary, getting in gear.

The robbery flashed across my mind, Tommy’s ruined face, the bullet hole where his nose had been, and gripped the counter, muttered,

“Motherfucker.”

Siobhan turned, asked,

“What?”

“Nothing, caught my finger on the cap, no big thing.”

I meant Stapleton, the coldest man I ever met. Our third member of the gang, he was the iceman, with eyes like the dead, according to rumour, and a long time with paramilitaries. He’d supplied the weapons, most of the strategy.

He also shot Tommy.

In bed, Siobhan asked me if I loved her, I said I did.

Kept it casual, I loved her more than mere words could express, she was the beat of my heart.

She worked for an investment bank, was helping me off load, legitimise the mountain of cash. I already had American Express, Mastercard, Visa... Gold.

And a healthy wedge of dollars. Siobhan had a banker’s attitude toward money, not concerned where it came from but very anxious where it was going, I’d asked,

“Are you sure you won’t get caught, this is a serious amount of cash you’re channelling?”

Got the look, she said,

“The day a bank refuses money is the end of democracy as we know it.”

It was in my interest to agree. I’d been worried about CAB, the Criminal Assets Bureau, who were highly effective in shutting down John Gilligan and a legion of others. She explained,

“They’ve been bringing down dopers, now they’re after politicians.”

Pause.

She held my face, staring intently, asked,

“You’re not political are you Steve?”

Like most Irish men I could talk it, give me a few pints, I might even mean it. I just rarely bothered to vote.

Our plan was to meet up in Tucson, picked the eighth day in the month as it was, she said, her lucky number. I’d given Siobhan a gold Miraculous Medal, with a long chain, seemed in keeping with our rendezvous, lucky numbers and religion, how could we lose?

Before I left the next morning, she’d suddenly taken it off, hung it round my neck, a serious expression clouding her face. I’d asked,