Ken Bruen - Rilke on Black

There’s a huge Boots in Piccadilly Circus. With plate-glass windows. Before going to the club, I stood at the end of the window and raised my arm and leg. Bonny was treated to the optical illusion of me with multi limbs. Harry Worth used to open his show with this. Back when I was a kid.

“Who’s Harry fucking Worth?” the kids ask.

My old man would have been in their corner. As soon as the show began, he’d roar, “Not that four-eyed wanker.”

Which, if you were to take his words literally, would indeed have been some optician effect. I think old Harry was held in such affection by others, as he reflected a safe cosy England when Morris Minors ruled the road. The only drugs were aspirin and smoking was a social requirement.

No one had learnt of calories, carbohydrates, polyunsaturates or ozone. You could eat what you liked. Dex said they called anorexia poverty then. Harry was a hybrid of Frank Spencer and yer dotty uncle. The Krays loved their old mum and there was no breakfast TV.

Bonny and I ate tacos under Eros and I told her the rules of behaviour as outlined by James Crumley.

He says there are rules of conduct in America that can change your luck in a country based on the rules of luck. After forty, never go any place you’ve never been before. Except on somebody else’s cash. Never go out at night unless you’re wearing black. And never go anywhere without a gun.

I dunno where we’d got the thunderbird but it was washing down the food a treat. Also, alas, seriously affecting my judgement. I took Bonny back to the house in Clapham.

I surfaced around eight the next morning. A manic thirst chanting

  Water

  Water

  Water

I got out of bed quickly and wow was that ever a mistake. A roaring headache nigh split me and the sickness in my stomach was biblical. A hazy series of memories bounced around. The remembrance of tacos past drove me to my knees. Then I looked for Bonny. Her black dress was crumpled at the end of the bed, plus my clothes. Twisted round each other like a weak petition.

In the bathroom, I spewed up a few times, checked my face in the mirror. God-on-a-tandem, it looked like something died a horrible death. Dragged myself downstairs. Bonny was sitting at the kitchen table, in one of my old shirts. Dex was seated opposite, his arms folded. Seeing me he said, The dead arose and appeared to... two. What news from Jerusalem?”

I put my hand on Sonny’s head, asked, “Alright honey?”

She didn’t answer. Dex answered benignly...

“What’s going on?” I asked.

Dex said, “I thought I’d look in on our guest early. Make sure he hadn’t croaked. See if he’d specific newspaper preference. Have him down as the Daily Telegraph type. Know what I mean, he leaks notions. But I digress. Bejapered Seamus, who do I meet coming up the stairs... but the bold Bonny. She looked at me as if I were Fred West or something.”

He waited for my comment. I had none so he continued, “Well Nico old pal, you could have blown me down with the proverbial feather. Did somebody... somehow neglect to tell the Dexter we’d a new player. So what I thought we’d do, Bonny and I, was wait quietly here. Grab a little quality time and then see what Nick would suggest.”

I laid my hand on Benny’s shoulder, said, “Go upstairs, get dressed.”

She looked to Dex who said, “Thank you for attending the interview. Naturally I can’t tell if you’ve been successful as there are others for me to see. However, I do like the cut of your jib, by jove I do. Send in the next applicant.”

He waved his hand in a gesture of busy dismissal.

I eased myself into her chair.

“So what have we got Dex?”

“What we’ve got is a problem.”

“She won’t talk.”

“Tut-tut Nicky, lesson one. All women talk, it’s their nature.”

“You’re going to have to trust me on this one.”

A wave of nausea walloped me. I got shakily to my feet and went to the front room. I located some brandy and, with shaking hands, took a hefty belt. Like petrol with a vicious side. It hit my stomach hard, hard as truth. But stayed. Dex had naturally followed, he said, “Nice going, Nick. Bad sign is the old morning pick-me-up. Hair of the dog I guess. Thing is, you’ll want the whole animal before noon. Maybe later, you could introduce Baldwin to the rest of the neighbourhood. Let’s see, we could have a car boot sale instead of the ransom.”

I began to feel better. Artificial sure, but didn’t care where the recovery came from. You couldn’t say things were so much slipping away from me as in a full gallop. I tried to focus, said, “What had you in mind?”

“You won’t like it.”

“Jeez, wouldn’t that be a novelty... What?”

“Whack her.”

“Whack her... like terminate with extreme prejudice. What kind of a movie do you think this is? An English version of Wise Guys ... and you’re who... Joe Pesci?”

He gave a disappointed shrug.

“Aw, I kinda saw myself in the De Niro role... but OK... Joe Pesci is good.”

I stood up, steadier... getting there.

“Go home Dex, leave this to me.”

“No can do ole buddy-mio. The Dexter’s got roots.”

He sauntered into the kitchen and began to set the breakfast table, shouted, “Settings for three I presume?”

The brandy kicked in and I landed in the twilight zone between health and death. It’s like living behind glass or I guess what the Catholics call Purgatory. They usually have a word for pain.

I went upstairs. Bonny was dressed, the black outfit looked sad. Is there owt as pathetic as last night’s glad rags, like a disco in the morning light. I pulled out a raincoat, said, “An old raincoat will never let you down.”

“What?”

“Rod Stewart! Don’t worry love, you’re going home. I’ll call you a cab... no, no... don’t say anything. I’ll call you tonight.”

I was rummaging in the cupboard when she whispered, “How could you?”

No reply to that, then or now. I found my old black hold-all and tested it’s weight. Yeah, holding heavy. Back downstairs I rang a cab and heard the toast pop. I would see Dex flip the toast like a pizza. He was whistling... sounded like “Fernando.”

I brought the bag into the kitchen, asked, “Are you familiar with Ecclesiastics: ‘A man’s dress tells you what he does... and: A man’s work tells you what he is.’”

Dex, unsure of where this was going, quipped, “Intimately... words to live by.”

But always a game participant, he added, “Shoot the men in suits.”

I unzipped the bag and he ventured, “A run before brekkie. How wise, help distil the quart of brandy you had. They’ll smell you coming, eh?”

God, I was glad he was enjoying it.

“Dex, you know what I work at, hell, you even know where I used to work. But you’ve never actually seen me work. Let’s remedy that right now.”

I pulled out a baseball bat.

“This beauty here is the Louisville slugger and if you listen carefully, you’ll hear a whoosh.”

I put everything behind my swing, all the brandied ferocity and swept the breakfast things across the kitchen.

“Did you hear it, did you catch the whoosh... no, pay attention, you can’t miss it.”

He’d backed up against the wall...

I took another swing and crushed the toaster.

“I think you heard it that time. Breakfast is cancelled... OK? Now let’s all stop fucking around. We’ll collect the money and that’s an end to it... esso es claro.”

He nodded.

When the cab came, I paid him in advance. Bonny never spoke, just staring dead-eyed ahead. Not that I expected gratitude for covering the tab. I was still operating on her money as it was. Dex took off soon after and he hadn’t a whole lot of repartee either.