Ken Bruen - Rilke on Black

I persisted. “We don’t want to kill him do we?”

Dex smiled, said, “Some of us don’t.”

Like so many things, I let it slide. A flurry of giggling girls passed. A batch of teasing innuendo. Youth and hope. I thought I couldn’t recall either. Dex said, “You can get a virgin to sit on your face for seven bucks.”

“What?”

“Jimmy Woods in Salvador. You’ve got to get past I Love Lucy re-runs. Hate to be Mr Deeds but you’re cinematically illiterate. Fuck, you’re bordering on ignoramus.”

I gave him the look. He tapped his watch.

“Crying-time.”

I didn’t wish him luck. As it wasn’t that kind of business. Plus, I didn’t want to. I watched him join the crowds. Thing was, he did look like Mickey Rourke. But late-night Brixton, most do, even the women. Then I could see Lisa. No sign of Baldwin. His boast was, according to Lisa, “In Brixton, I don’t need protection. I am the protection.”

Nice foolish ring to it. We were about to test the theory. Was hoping they’d fail. From there maybe I could begin to crawl back. A rap on the side of the van. I jumped out. Lisa and Dex were supporting what appeared to be a very drunk man.

“Wake up Nick, open the back doors for fucksake.”

I did.

They threw him in, I had a glimpse of an Armani suit and hand-tooled shoes. He seemed tiny. Lisa came up front with me. She was in high excitement and her breathing near choked with adrenaline.

“I bopped him that needle right in the club, he never felt it. I thought it wasn’t going to work. Then when he got outside, he just folded. His fuckin’ legs just buckled. Awesome... so watcha staring at... drive this fooker... let’s boogie.”

As I pulled out, I checked Dex in the mirror. He was going through Baldwin’s pockets and none too gently.

“Cut that out,” I shouted.

He didn’t and held up a black wallet. A confetti of plastic began to pour out. Dex said, “Friggin’ credit cards, wot happened to cash you black fuck?”

He turned to look at me. It was tight for space back there but he was near his full height. His tight work boot shot out and belted into Baldwin’s head.

I jammed on the brakes. Lisa grabbed my arm and I shook her off. Climbed over the seat. Dex had fallen off balance and as he rose I hit him with everything I had.

Dazed for a few minutes he then put his hand to stem the blood from his nose, he gave a weak snigger, asked, “The fuck you do that for?”

“No pain, no gain.”

“Wot?”

“Freddy Kreuger. Nightmare on Elm Street. Literate enough for you?”

I’d prepared the basement. How pleased Bonny would be at what her money provided.

A thick chain fixed to the wall to be attached to Baldwin’s ankle. The prisoner of Clapham. Christ it made me want to puke even to look at it. To chain a human being, something in you has to be extinguished. You douse a light that can never be re-lit.

An army cot I got on the Walworth Road for a tenner. I went to Oxfam for the lamp. It had a shade with small cute mice playing guitars. He was sure to love this. It had certainly been a hit with Dex who said, “What age exactly do you think he is... ten mebbe?”

I’d laid in ten cans of purdey. With the onslaught of designer waters, this had joined the range of healthy beverages.

Truth be told, I liked the can. It contained:

Vitamins.

Herbs.

Ginseng.

I thought it might keep him healthy.

I didn’t know if he was a reader or not... and if so... what. Some James Baldwin or Chester Himes... or Walter Mosley. What? I hadn’t the courage to leave my Reader’s Digests. All the abuse I was going to take for them I’d already taken. Some copies of Ebony.

A cheap walkman as music would pass the time for him. Then a new dilemma.

What tapes would he like? From the sublime to the ridiculous. I got Aretha and Whitney Houston. I drew the line at Stevie Wonder. Not even a hostage would endure that torture.

Then I thought...

“Whoa... hold the goddamn phones. What am I doing? This is some house guest. Who gives a toss what he likes? I mean... wot... he’s going to leave ’cos he doesn’t like Whitney Houston?”

Was I losing it big time or wot? Did I expect the good kidnapper of the year award or wot?

To get some background, I thought I’d read up on captivity. Nothing could get me to concentrate on Patty Hearst. I just didn’t possess that degree of masochism. Or the heavy-weights, like Waite, McCarthy. Too much dignity and nobility these. Was I going to rub my own nose in it. A gallop towards the classics was equally fruitless. Robert Louis Stevenson just didn’t seem to jell with the climate of Clapham.

“Fuck,” I said, “I’ll wing it. How difficult can it be?”

Chain a man, threaten him, intimidate his wife... collect the ransom... ride off into a Brixton sunset.

Piece of cake.

Dex had tried giving me instructions on dealing with Baldwin. At all times we’d be masked. None of these heavy balaclava yokes or the sweat-inducing ski jobs. Lisa had made light cotton ones. The sort of thing the Klan might have for those long balmy Southern evenings. Dex said, “We’ve got to give a lot of red herrings... use an accent Nick, can you do Irish?”

“This isn’t Vaudeville, for fucksake. Not even the Irish do it with any conviction any more. Do us a bleedin’ favour.”

Another theory was for me to have an obvious tattoo he’d remember.

“Tattoo yourself, Dex... OK...”

I did go along with leaving some envelopes in among the pages of the magazines. These were pinched at random from North London houses.

As we’d argued back and forth over these various diversions, Dex had thrown his hands in the air and shouted, “None of this would be necessary if we just put the bastard’s lights out.”

And Lisa had given me that look that said, “See!”

My street was quiet and we bundled him into the house. The four of us linked in drunken bonhomie apparently. The animal tranquilliser and Dex’s boot had done their work. Baldwin was out cold.

I laid him on the cot and fixed the chain to his ankle. Then I stood looking down. A quiet “sploosh” put my heart pounding. Dex had helped himself to a can of purdey. I said, “The fuck you doing, they’re for Baldwin.”

“He’s going to notice one’s missing. Take it outa my share... Slainte... that’s Irish for Cheers. Tell you wot though, the fuck doesn’t look much lying there. Not so high and mighty now.”

Sweat was cascading down me. God I needed a drink. Lisa turned to me. “Go get yourself a drink baby, I’ll stay here.”

I looked at Dex, said, “You come with me.”

He snapped his heels together, threw a Hitler salute, shouted, “Yaboob Herr Kommandanten.”

In the kitchen I cracked open a bottle of Scotch and drank it by the neck. It burned like desolation and I wanted that.

Dex moved in close. “Tell you big guy, we should have gone for them with a tattoo. Truman Capote knew a lot of the heavy killers on Death Row. Their common characteristic was a tattoo.”

I didn’t answer. Trying to keep the Scotch down. It settles poorly on bile. He continued, “How much notice can you take of a faggot eh?”

“Baldwin’s a homosexual?”

“Jeez, pay attention. Truman Capote. When he was in Russia he flounced out of a hotel in high camp. Swishing it up in front of the comrades. An American official tried to apologise to the Russkies. And the Russkie smiled, said ‘Oh we’ve got them here but we keep them chained.’”

“You like that Dex, don’t you. How long have you had to hold it until the suitable moment arose?”

What I really wanted to ask but I heard horrible echoes of that punk in Stockwell, was, “Truman who...”