Ken Bruen - Rilke on Black

Threats only seemed to encourage him and I was weary hitting him so I said, “It’s goodnight fella. Anything you want as this is it till morning?”

“My cup overfloweth, I rest content... oh, by the way, whose is the woman... yours or Clint Eastwood’s?”

“What woman?”

“Don’t insult my nose... I smell ‘Poison’.”

“You’re a perfume connoisseur as well... is that it?”

“I ought to know that brand. It’s my kiss-off to... how shall I term them... my cast-offs...”

“You’re sure your missus is going to want you back. What does she use?”

“Her rather splendid mind.”

I flicked off the light. The bizarre thing is I think he was content. As I reached the top of the stairs he whispered, “Hey Attila... shut the door.”

Lisa was gone. To change her clothes or something, her attitude preferably. I rang Bonny, arranged to meet her at the Crown. Anything to get out of the flaming house. I felt I’d been kidnapped. In many ways I had.

I went upstairs to check Lisa’s cosmetics. Sitting among them, a bottle of Poison. I’d unscrewed the top and was sniffin’ it when for some reason I glanced at the window. A panda car... then the knock at the door... I bolted down, my heart fucked.

Two uniforms.

“Good evening, Sir, might we step in a moment.”

“What’s the problem?”

“Really Sir, best if we came inside.”

In they came.

“We’ve had a complaint about noise.”

“Just a few friends around. Won’t happen again.”

“You the owner, Sir?”

“Yes... I...”

One of the uniforms looked towards the basement...

“That lead somewhere, Sir?”

Before I could reply, if I could, the other let out a cry, “Merle Haggard... you a Country fan?”

He threw an appreciative eye over my collection. I said, “Feel free to borrow whatever you fancy.”

He selected an armful.

“If I might just...”

“Of course.”

Then he said to the other, “No need to trouble this gentleman further George... is there. Country music has got to be loud.”

As they got to the door, he too looked at the basement.

“Bit of a hooten-Annie down there... the old square dancing.”

“Something like that... yes.”

“Mebbe I’ll drop round, cut the rug with you. I don’t advise you to drink that, it’s poison...”

I looked down, in my left hand was Lisa’s open perfume bottle, the name clearly legible. I said in a weak voice, “Next time I’ll have Lone Star... OK?”

I shut the door, my knees went, I slid to the floor.

A while later, Dex came banging and I let him in.

“Jeez Nick, what happened to you, you’re pale as Michael Jackson.”

“The old Bill were here.”

“Yes, I know. I called them.”

“What?”

“Dual purpose really. Throw them off the scent and sharpen up our act here. We’re getting sloppy... need to get lean and mean. How’d it go, get the old juices flowing... give you back yer edge?”

I couldn’t answer.

I went to the fridge. Bingo, there was a can of Coca-Cola. Back to the living room, I front lobbed it and shouted, “Catch.”

He near fell over, but he got it. Before he could right himself, I kicked his legs from under him and planted a foot on his chest. I opened the Coke, it exploded from the can and I poured it into his face.

“Tell me Dex... does it taste like the real thing?”

“What?”

“Not a replicant, is it?”

“Ah...”

“Where is it?”

“I sold it to a drunk paddy.”

I bounced the can off his forehead.

“Go away,” I said, “before I get very fucking mean.”

My hands shook as I dressed but I realised I hadn’t done any dope all day. Behaved like one, sure. I felt the vague promise of a treacherous hope.

The pub was humming. Bonny was at the counter. A middle-aged guy was pulling chat on her. No wonder as she as wearing

a short black dress

black tights

black patent heels, killer high

the whole

“hey-wanna-fuck-me-stupid-fellah”

outfit.

“Nick... this is... sorry, what did you say your name is?”

“Brian.”

He was dressed in the ultra-faded denim. One more wash and it’s gone. The look caught between haute couture and oval panhandler. A delicate balance. His smile and hair colour accessorised exactly. And King’s Road workboots, the kind that yell he never did a day’s work in his life.

A sour look flashed at me. I smiled. The evening had promise. Bonny had ordered large Scotches, beer chasers, raised her glass.

“Tiddley pip.”

“That too,” I said.

Brian was something in electronics, or was that the other way round. Who gave a rat’s arse?

He was desperate to suss out our relationship and figured he was already halfway to first base with Bonny.

... figured wrong.

He was chewing nuts. Bonny said, “You want a definition of hell?”

“Sure.”

“Englishmen in shorts.”

Brian turned quickly to me.

“And your field is?”

“Thuggery.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m a thug. I beat up people... for money. But sometimes I just do it for the hell of it... you know how it is Bri, when you love your work, you just can’t leave it alone.”

All the time I was smiling. Good ole boy version, like Merle Haggard on the album cover. Felt good too. The thought skittled across my mind that I was more like Dex than I wanted to admit.

Brian turned to Bonny. “He’s pulling my leg... isn’t he Bon?”

She gave him her most sincere look.

“No... that’s what he does. But tonight is his night off. Isn’t it darlin’... or was that yesterday... oh and Bri, don’t call me Bon... OK?”

Her lipstick had snagged on her top tooth. Nothing makes a woman look more vulnerable than that. I could have loved her then.

“Well,” I said, “tonight I don’t expect to be paid... but who’s counting... eh?”

Brian suddenly remembered the car parked on the old double yellow and had to rush. Most used getaway line in the business but effective.

“Hurry back,” I said.

Bonny rested her hand on my knee.

“You’re in mighty form.”

“And the night is young, let’s get some serious Scotch flowing. Yo’, bar-keep!”

Rilke never crossed my mind.

Bonny said, “See when you lighten up, you’re almost a fun guy.”

“Not so dark eh... less black in fact. Thing is Bonny, you’re a woman and an attractive one. If you live to be a hundred, you’ll never know what it’s like not to be a good-looking guy. Fun ain’t it. I placed an ad in those personal columns once. The end result was I was to meet this woman outside Burger King in Leicester Square. She never showed up. But I think she did, had a look from a safe distance and then fucked off. I pinned her letter to the glass, all her details. Who knows, mebbe she got lucky.”

Later we hit a new club in the West End called the Deep South. They play some mean low-down Cajun and play it live. A fiddle player, he was bewitched in his artistry. Dance to that the devil said. We did and for as long as they dished it out.

All the while I was hammerin’ down these boiler makers. I can’t dance... need I say more about the state I was in. With a woman who made me feel I could dance. That’s the rarest kind. The awful thing is... you get the knowledge after you let ’em go and you’re not ever going to dance again.

Not like that anyway.

She looks at you with shining eyes and you’re the guy you always wanted to be. You feel almost tanned! Then, you get to thinking, she’s just the music, the accompaniment... not the creator. The magic’s gone. Once... mebbe once, you get that lucky and let it skip away. The first time it’s a free gift... ever after, you have to earn it... and it isn’t ever worth it. Elvis has left the building and you weren’t looking.