Ken Bruen - Rilke on Black

“Not terrific?”

“Not yet.”

But the night was young and I half believed I once was. Who knows how the mellowness might have progressed. Lisa’s voice cut across this.

“So this is where you arse-skunk off to. A rendezvous with your old mum.”

Lisa looked sixteen and I swear that was deliberate. Fresh scrubbed skin, extra-large baseball shirt and matching shorts. White knee-length socks.

The essence of jail bait. It had the desired effect. Bonny looked old and no one was more aware than her. I said shakily, “Lisa, this is my friend Bonny...”

“Oh my Gawd, I’m sorry... for thinking you were his mother. Oh please forgive me... let me get you a milk stout dear, I feel just terrible...”

Bonny got up.

“I was just leaving but I kept it warm for you. When you get to my age honey, you’ll appreciate a bit of kindness.”

As she got to the door, Lisa called out, “So sorry, but our babysitter will be waiting.”

Without turning, Bonny shouted, “Ducks, I thought you were the babysitter!”

Lisa moved to finish Benny’s drink.

“Leave it,” I said.

She did.

I could have pulled the plug. Perfect time to call it quits. But even then, fuming as I was, I wanted her. The more she riled me the more the physical attraction grew.

She glanced down at my lap, said, “I hope that’s for me baby, not yer old mum’s perogative.”

Before I could answer, she put her hand on me, coo-ed, “Come for me sweetness, let that old tension go.”

“Jeez,” I said, “not here. This is my local.”

“Come in your local,” she whispered.

She stood up, said, “I’m going to run a bath, full of bubbles. I hope you’ll join me, we can just blow them ole bubbles together... don’t be long baby.”

I ordered a large Scotch. Such times I wished you could order a bath of booze. Climb in, open yer mouth and see fuckin’ Katmandu. Escapism, jeez...

I should hope so. A guy moved up beside me. One of the staff from the nightclub, the glory days. I thought he might be called Jack. Not that I gave a tuppenny fuck either way.

“Yo’ Nick! How you doing?”

“Hello Jack.”

“It’s Danny actually.”

“Whatever.”

“Man, I been watching you. What are you doing, interviewing the chicks now?”

“Hey, Jack. Let me give you a little tip. Nobody calls them chicks any more. It’s not a great tip but you’ll find it smooths areas of your life.”

He thought about it. At least he gave the appearance of thought, said, “The old club just isn’t the same since you left.”

“I’ll bet.”

“So, are you working?”

“Yeah, on my tan.” It was November.

“Where are you living now, Nick?”

I put down my drink, took a good long look. He didn’t seem drunk. I gave a dramatic sigh, said, “What’s with all the questions? You gave a flying fuck before? I don’t think we ever even spoke. So how would this be, you fuck off back to where you were. If I need a reference I’ll give you a call. Can you do that for me?”

It was time to haul arse. The bubbles would be cascading.

Two days later I went through the racing papers. I’m not superstitious, omens and the like I’ve never taken stock in. But a horse called “Lovely Lisa” was too much to ignore. Study made it even better, a horse on the make. Last time out, it seemed like it had been given a tug. The money hadn’t been down I reckoned.

Alas, Pat Eddery was currently suspended. A relief perhaps as I didn’t want to hold him responsible if... shit... I knew horses, this horse was due, this was a live one.

Deals with the devil. I’d already done that. Now I made my own deal. If this horse won, I was clear, Mr Baldwin wouldn’t be in my basement. The old maxim, only bet what you can afford to lose.

“Bollocks,” I said and upped the ante.

Part of it too, I dearly love to put the shite crossways in a bookie. It’s a moment, close to sex.

The horse lost.

No long fandango of nearly or should have. Wasn’t even close. Course I could have interpreted that as an omen all by itself. Now it was out of choices time: I tried telling myself I’d had the bookie going for a bit and that, sometimes, is as good as it gets.

I put the racing papers in the bin and wondered if they brought out any on kidnapping. Thing was, all the experts were in jail or highgate. The form figures weren’t encouraging.

I got home, no cash to do a whole lot else. What I wanted was some quiet time. Just crawl into my room, close the door and howl.

Most of all, I didn’t want to see or talk to anyone. As I opened the door, music nigh deafened me.

A figure in the middle of the room dressed in a ten-gallon hat, red-and-black shirt, black jeans, cowboy boots. Dex roared with the music: “I’ve got friends, in, low places.”

He asked, “Guess who.”

“Roy Rogers.”

“It’s Garth Brooks, the king of the shit-kickers, the biggest name in Country.”

“That’s new Country. I dunno that.”

“Fuck’s to know. They just added rock’n’roll to the old stuff. I thought you’d get a rise to this. You been a little down lately partner.”

“Now I’m risin’... you wanna turn down the music?”

“But you and Garth, I thought he was a role model. The guy was a bouncer and get this, he met his wife through chucking her outa the club. Now is that not a Country song or wot.”

“Thanks Dex, mebbe a little later... OK... now’s not a real good time.”

He flicked the hat across the room, said, “It’s outa here. There’s a big hit you should have a listen to sometime. Right up your street.”

“Oh yeah, what’s that then?”

As he stomped to the door, said, “Here’s a quarter, call someone who cares.”

Nice.

Once I read some lines from a guy who wrote them in the seventeenth century,

By night

we’re hurled by dreams

each one

into a several world

Got to tell you, he wrote it bang to rights. That’s exactly how I felt and not just by night.

Silence. I couldn’t even hear my breathing. Then the doorbell. Dex with one more adage. But he didn’t stand on ceremony. Muttering, I threw it open.

Two young men in young suits. Hair as close cut as mine. They looked like the FBI or what they tell us these guys resemble. But in Clapham? One, or both said, “Sir, we are from the Church of Latter Day Saints. Might we have a moment of your time?”

Big Yank accents and attitudes to match.

I said, “Might I get a couple of bucks from you guys?”

“Sir, I’m not sure you understand.”

“Sure I do but time is money and I’m a bit strapped. Caught me on a bad day.”

“Sir, this is not our policy to...”

I cut him off. I was weary of the accent already.

“You guys really are untouchable. But so as you don’t go away empty handed, we’ve got our very own Latter Day Saint and he lives right across the road. He’ll be chuffed to see you guys. Tell him Garth sent you. Have a nice day now... here’s a quarter...”

I felt better already. God works in mysterious ways OK.

If I knew Dex at all I’d be only mildly surprised to have him turn up late, wearing one of the suits. He already had their accent.

The kidnap strategy. Dex and I were going through it. I felt him eyeing me so I asked, “What?”

“How’s it to be big?”

“Excuse me?”

“To be a large guy, built like a brick shit house.”

Before I could answer, if such a thing were, he continued, “If I were built... I’d spend the time cracking skulls.”

“Jeez, what a thought. Don’t you think you might tire of it?”

“Never, I’d never get tired of kickin’ fuck outa them.”