Ken Bruen - Rilke on Black

Bill gave me a look, said, “I don’t fink so.”

“Wot?”

He handed me an Adidas bag, said, “It’s all in there. Danny’s address is also innit.”

I asked him the price. It was fuckin’ steep. I said, “I have a package here which should cover it but lemme add a wedge for your end.”

“I don’t want your money. We’re even now and, if you’ll excuse me...”

“OK — oh yeah, here’s the Alf collection for Chelsea.”

He looked at me as if I’d offered him a shit sandwich, said, “I don’t think so.”

“Hey Bill, don’t be such a prick. Where’d you come off bin so high and mighty. You’re going to deprive the child ’cos you’re suddenly a man of principle — gimme a fuckin’ break.”

I stormed outa there and was halfway up the road before I realised I still had the bloody toys. I wanted to weep. Of all the things I regret, that might top the list. Passing a litter bin, I dropped them in, my heart in tatters.

Thursday morning I was up at daybreak. Danny’s house hadn’t been hard to locate, his car outside. Pulled the van alongside and got out, acting as if I’d a flat tyre — even put the wheel up on the jack. Twenty seconds it took. Five minutes later, I was outa there. Jeez, that easy. Now all I had to do was get Danny and George in the car and, as Lauren Bacall said, “Blow.” Call it a whim or defiance or plain bloody mindedness, I decided to drop in on the priest, see if he could tell what I’d been at. The church retained the air of quietness but no sign of the priest. I walked up to the altar then spotted an old priest doing church things. Went up to him, said, “Excuse me.”

If he was pleased to see me, he hid it well, near barked, “What is it?”

“Sorry to disturb you. I’m looking for Tom — Father Lee.”

“No Father Lee here.”

“That’s Tom Lee.”

And feeling foolish, I gave a full description. The old codger glared at me, said, “No priest like that here.”

“Mebbe he was a visitor.”

“If a priest visited, I’d know.”

“But...”

“I have a lot of work ahead of me — you must have the wrong church.”

“I sure as hell got the wrong priest — no wonder the bloody place is empty.”

And I left him to his religion.

Continuing in foolishness, I stopped at a jeweller’s and ransomed a gold bracelet. The engraving was included. I know it was a futile gesture but for a moment, it burned bright.

Friday morning I woke early. Did a hundred push-ups, fifty sit-ups, and felt ready. A new Reebok tracksuit and I looked set. Nodded to Jack and strolled down to McDonald’s. Ordered their touted breakfast, it had eggs, muffin, sausages, juice. It tasted like absence. And, what on earth do they do to their coffee! An American company, right. But their coffee — like someone had shit in it and never even stirred it. This is not my observation, Dex said it and I thought about him for a bit. When push came to shove, he was found wanting. As Clint Eastwood observed — “you talk too much.”

Went to an Italian cafe and got double cappuccino to go. The proprietor asked, “You want I should sprinkle chocolate on the top?”

“Shoot the works.”

“That is a fine tracksuit, how much you pay for it?”

“Too much. Can we get on with the coffee.”

Got in the van and sipped as I drove to Clapham. When I get there, found a note from the estate agent — he might have a buyer. So I rang him, told him to do whatever and bank the cheque for me. All in place.

They came at noon and I let them in. Danny was wearing jeans and sweatshirt but George had opted for a suit, imitation Armani. I knew enough to know a real one wouldn’t bag at the knees. Danny said, “Are we set?”

“Yes, I have the money.”

George looked sceptical, asked, “Well sport, where the fuck is it — don’t be shy.”

“How do I know you’ll be satisfied with this payment? Wot’s to stop you coming at me again?”

Danny smiled. “But Nick, I give you my word so c’mon, let’s see the dosh.”

Now I smiled. “What! You think I keep it here in the house. We have to go get it. I have my van, you follow me.”

George shook his head. “No, no, no, you come in our motor.”

“Then no deal. There’s the phone, drop the dime.”

Danny signalled to George and they had a heated consultation. Danny won out and my suggestion was accepted. As we went out the door Danny said, “One wrong move and you’re fuckin’ history arsehole. Am I getting through to you?”

“Perfectly.”

I got in the van and drove to Wimbledon Common, took a good hour. I knew they’d be pissed but they kept behind. When we got there I pulled up and watched them stop about five hundred yards from me. I rolled down my windows and signalled for Danny to do likewise. As he did, I banged the horn twice and shouted, “Now, you’re history arsehole.”

The explosion was quite muted but lifted the car about four foot off the ground. The force waves took a second to reach me and shook the van. For a moment I was transfixed then I turned the key and drove the fuck outa there.

I wondered what lines of Rilke would cover this.

The flight to New York left on time. I bought a pair of the red socks and slept through the in-flight movie. A huge amount of money nestled comfortably in the body belts.

After we touched down, it crossed my mind as to how Rilke would translate into American. I was wearing my blue suit and reckoned I looked the part.

They arrested me as I came down the staircase. A small army of uniforms and plain clothes all over. Cuffs were jammed on my wrists as my hands were pulled behind my back. A barrage of instructions roaring back and forth.

“Frisk him — read him his rights — multiple homicide — get his ass in gear.”

They took me to Rikers. I felt like an extra in Hill Street Blues , but on the wrong side. My pockets were turned out and a small bracelet was found in my top pocket. It had been engraved “CHELSEA”.

One of the cops said, “Hey buddy, we kept the Sid Vicious cell vacant for you — where he bought the farm, so you should be right at home.”

As I was pushed into a cell, the warden said, “Welcome to The Tombs.”

I sat on the bunk and wondered if America was all it was cracked up to be.