Ken Bruen - Rilke on Black

“Hey, I’m not going to top myself.”

“I didn’t mean that... the other business.”

“I’ll see you Tom, I’ve got to leg it. You mind how you go... keep the faith, see you again.”

Outside I drew some deep breaths; thought he’d said, “I’m afraid not.”

I forgot to light the bloody candle and decided I’d burn a whole batch of ’em next time. Shove a tenner in the box, cook up a flaming frenzy. Yeah, I could do that.

The hour was getting on. I had to haul arse to make the pub. Hailed a cab and liked the easy way to travel. I got one in a million. On the glass partition was a large sign, “PLEASE DO SMOKE”. I smiled and couldn’t miss that the cabbie was certainly setting an example. He was scarcely visible through smoke. True to the taxi code, he was a talker, couldn’t shut it. I wonder do the verbals just continue even after the passengers are gone. No mystery to me if they did. Shit, was beginning to enjoy my own rap and I didn’t need professional help to figure out where that led.

He was saying, “Yer smoker now, he’s the new leper. Know wot I mean John. You got yer politician, yeah, most of ’em got ’er head up their arse, or someone else’s more like. They get fat on the tax from tobacco, am I right? And treat the smoker like dirt. I’d a non-smoker get in the cab the other day, started to give me a lecture on passive smoking. Know wot I done?”

I realised he expected an answer, so: “I’ve no idea.”

“Stopped the bleeding cab I did. Told him to hop it, wotcha think of that then.”

“Am... well done?”

“Too bloody right! Here we are then, Oval tube, right?”

As I paid him, I said, “Keep up the good work.”

“Too right I will, the sanctimonious bastards.”

And he burned rubber.

The pub was The Greyhound on the corner there, opposite St Mark’s. Best grub in South-East London and generous with it. I suppose I better describe Bill. Like Ed Asner with a jig, a hairpiece... or how he was in his Lou Grant days. The grouchy-bear effect, the look that says “I’ll help you out but don’t get fucking notions either.” Few did. Most everybody liked him, including me. Dex had said, “He’s a wanker.”

Perhaps the best endorsement. One end of the pub had the Irish fraternity doing serious damage to rivers of Guinness. Midway was a hockey team, a male one and they were doing... I dunno... hockey-ish stuff. The end alcove had Bill on his tod, such is his rep. I’d heard he had a baby girl with something wrong. I said, “On yer lonesome.”

“Yeah, makes a change. How are ya Nick?”

“Doing OK.”

“Wotcha drinking.”

“Scotch.”

“Yo’ Jimmy... couple large Teachers, one for yerself.”

We waited till the drinks came, said, “Cheers.”

And meant it. Drank deep. Bill wiped his mouth, said, “I bin hearing about you Nicky. That toe-rag you run with, Dexy, him and some black bit... Mebbe involved in major bad doing.”

“Just talk Bill, no substance.”

“Yeah, well, you mind how you go.”

“That’s why I asked to see you. Do you know two nasty pieces of work named Danny and George.”

He finished his drink and I called for refills, he answered, “Steer clear of ’em, bad news.”

“Not that simple. I need to ask you a biggie.”

“You want cash... how much and how soon?”

“No, no jeez, I appreciate that.”

Then I told him. He was surprised, near shocked but went with it, said, “That’s heavy merchandise, it’s gonna cost.”

“I’m good for it.”

“When?”

“As soon as.”

“OK, gimme two days, then come round my gaff. I’m not going to stick my oar in but this is serious business.”

“It’s only for demonstration purposes.”

“Do us a favour Nick, alright... leave it out.”

He got up, said, “So come round in two days, meet my missis and our little girl.”

“Yeah, sure I’d love to. Yer little girl, can I bring her something?”

“Sure... Alf videos.”

“Wot?”

“A cartoon character, she adores him.”

“Sure, I’ll do that.”

He considered a moment, then leant back, said, “We called her Chelsea, give ’er a bit o’ class.”

“I like it.”

“She has Down’s Syndrome. Near fuckin’ killed me at the time.”

I didn’t know wot to say, so I said nowt and he continued, more to himself, “Couldn’t ask for a spunkier kid. She has more spirit than anyone I ever met. Ain’t nuffink she won’t try, and a wicked sense of humour. I think I’m the one with the handicap. Anyway, sorry for ranting on. I’ll be showing you bleedin’ photos next like those sorry fucks you meet on trains. Okey-dokey, I hope you know wot yer playing at.”

“Sure I do. Can you locate Danny’s home too... thanks.”

I sat on for another half hour nursing the Scotch. The story about Chelsea really got to me. I dunno why and I sure as hell couldn’t afford any extra emotion.

There wasn’t music in the pub but these days I was tuned to a continuous internal soundtrack. Iris de Ment lyrics. A song of such loss as most times I skipped it on the album. It’s called “Easy” and, of all the things it might be, easy sure wasn’t one of them. As I left, I mouthed the hook line... “and easy’s getting harder every day.”

Amen to that.

Next day, I was wound tighter than a Tory, fit to detonate. Had to do something, get laid mebbe. Decided it might help and took a wedge from the ransom. Fuck, it seemed a mountain of cash. No matter how many times I dipped, it didn’t care. I wasn’t complaining.

Headed for Covent Garden. You’re surprised, right! You figured I’d be a Kings Cross punter and sure, I’d been there, been there lots. But, what’s the point of heavy cash if you ain’t going to get heavy action. Same system though. Go in a phone box and select a card. I was just off Long Acre and selected this one:

Trina, South American beauty

will give you the trip of a lifetime.

Rang the number, got the address and walked round. The building was flash and I guess I’d be helping with the rates. An intercom buzzed me through and then I met the bouncer or pimp or wotever. He was, as Daniel Woodrell put it, sixty stitches past good looking. I was going to share my bouncing credentials but then thought, mebbe not. There isn’t really a brotherhood of bouncers. Most aspire to be wrestlers on Sky Sports. He said, “Not the filth, are you pal.”

“No.”

“Yer big enough.”

“But not in the places it matters.”

Gave him the money. Enough to fly to Hollywood and collect Alf. Then in to meet Trina. A luxurious pad and “Vienna” playing. She was a beauty and jailbait. Oh yeah, looked about sixteen if you didn’t look close. I asked, “You like Ultravox?”

“Excuse please?”

“The group, them singing ‘Vienna’.”

“Oh I don’t know, is spool tape, plays all day. Come in please... a drink?”

“Cup of tea, two sugars.”

“I don’t know.”

“Just kidding, any watered concoction will do.”

“Whisky.”

“Sure.”

Handed me that and I took a sip. Yeah... tea.

“How can I please you?”

For all the punters, just once to roll it, I said, “No kissing on the mouth, no touching of the hair.”

She was lost, so I added, “Look, I’m leaving Old Blighty soon. I’d like one truly memorable fuck before I go.”

It was memorable. She put a condom on with her mouth and led me to almost roar YAHOO! But, I’d save that for the States.

Came out into Covent Garden and I was full and proper shagged. The nearest thing to contentment I’d get. A wino asked me for a pound and I gave him a tenner. He shouted after me, “What’s the catch?”