Ken Bruen - Rilke on Black

I’m not a criminal.

I’ve done my share of dodgy things but they managed to slide under the legal line. Then I kidnapped a man, a black man. Even criminals despise this branch of the business. It smacked of cowardice and worse, stupidity.

To add insult to cliché, I did it for a woman. I don’t even think I liked her a whole lot but I sure adored her.

I was working as a bouncer. I didn’t wake up one morning and think “I must become a bouncer.” I didn’t think God whispered it. But I sure look the part. I’m six foot, four inches, weigh sixteen stone and I look mean. Shee, I’ve behaved mean in my time but it’s not part of my nature. It could have been as my father is a drunk. Always was. A very vicious drinker. Alcohol didn’t turn him that way, it just fuelled the process. My mother lit out for Bradford when I was seven. That’s where she probably still is and I reckon that’s penance enough.

Dad was a Hitler. At fourteen I was big and most of all, I was ready. He slapped me in the face for some infringement of his manic code and I grabbed his wrist.

“It’s over,” I said. “Do that again and I’ll kill you.”

And it was over. The final slide for him had begun. He’s a wino now. No frills or hard luck story, he lived bad and peaked. At the bottom of Shaftesbury Avenue, there’s a small island surrounded by theatres. A drinking school have their patch close to the traffic. Maybe they like to hear it roar. Some days I think I’ll have a stroll down that way. See what plays are on and see my old dad. As lead player on the island. No doubt he sings, dances and intimidates.

“The Old Connemara Shawl”.

That was his favourite. I don’t think I know another. So I visualise a visit there, surprise him mid-verse. Two solid fist blows to the side of his head will rattle some memories. It would not wipe out the years of waste but it certainly would feel fine.

I have a transit van. It looks like shit and I’m glad of that. Our local thieves have more taste. But wow, does it go. The engine is souped to an insane level and I’ve done a lot of work on it. I’d been doing “Moves and Removals” when I got the bouncer job. I met the owner in a Clapham pub. His club, Lights, was nearby. We’d fallen into one of those semi-friendly beer chats. He’d told me who he was and I’d told him precious little. He said, “My doorman got nicked today. Drops me right in it.”

“That’s a pisser.”

“You look as if you could handle yourself. Done any of that kind of work?”

“Does it require a shit? As I’ve never done anything that needed that. I’ve done work that might have needed jail if that’s any indication.”

He gave a hearty laugh. The sort they teach you on nightclub trainee courses. It means only “Watch your Wallet”.

“That’s a plus right enough, in fact it should be compulsory... if you don’t mind my saying so... and I mean this in the best possible way, you look like a thug... no offence.”

I gave the laugh a try... and said, “None taken.”

My nose looks broken, or as if it should have been. I keep my hair cut real close to the skull and a dose of acne left a riddled complexion. A nondescript mouth. That’s according to a woman I knew. I don’t smile much. Thing is, the true thugs I’ve run into smile all the time. I guess ’cos they know what’s coming next.

I got the job and even worse the suit, a dress one at that. A clip-on tie that comes off if grabbed. I was good. I kept trouble to a minimum and hardly hit people. Rarely hard at any rate.

I was polite and that in South-East London. That might be the best arsenal of all. I don’t have much schooling but I’d been trying to educate myself.

The Reader’s Digest ... “Improve Your Word Power”.

I’d sweated over that, chewing the words... fighting the shame, clawing towards clarification. To my shame, I’d begun to slip my vocabulary into use. Blame the suit.

Until!

One evening a well-dressed couple tried to enter the club. They were very pissed. But their accents... ah... the BBC World Service. I was trying to explain it would be better for them to call it a night. And I chanced the description “inebriated”. He laughed and she roared.

“Oh Gawd Cecil, is there anything more contemptible than a chimpanzee in a suit trying to sound educated.”

I might have let it go. Deep shame might have seen to that. But he took a swing. I dropped him fast and took her arm, whispered, “No darlin’... that’s not contempt... contemptible is to kick a man when he’s down.”

Then I force kicked him in the bollocks.

Dex is a psychopath. I read about that type in the Reader’s Digest and he fits all the buttons. He lives across the road from me. Late one night after Lights I saved him from a beating. Outside his house two guys were raising welts on him. I stepped in and they took off. He said, “I owe you big guy, and Dexy always pays off.”

As he brushed himself off I got a closer look. He was short and wiry, sandy hair and the face of a teenager... he was thirty-eight then. Maybe boyish might apply but I don’t think he was ever a boy. His eyes were grey and though they looked right at you, you felt they saw something entirely different. Not anything you’d want to see. I asked if he’d like a drink and we crossed over to my home. A one up, one down basic house with a basement. I keep my gym equipment there. I poured some Scotch and he got comfortable in my armchair, said, “Chez toi.”

“Whatever.”

“I’m Dexy... after Dexy’s Midnight Runners... remember them?”

“Not off-hand.”

“Big numero uno with ‘C’mon Eileen’.”

“Missed that one. You were in the band, is that it?”

“Hey big buddy, I don’t reckon you miss much. Am I right... am I on the old money there. Fuck no, I wasn’t with the band, I used to take dexedrine, a lot of them evil suckers.”

I nodded. Seemed he was still taking something fairly lethal. My measure perhaps. He drained the Scotch, held up the glass.

“Yo’ partner. Hit me again with one of them piledrivers. So, have you got a handle, amigo?”

“Handle?”

“Yer name. Jeez... what’s this tight-mouthed act, fella? I ain’t going to quote you, you can risk more than a monosyllable. Go for it guy, try one of them full sentences.”

I didn’t even have a twinge of irritation. I thought he wasn’t firing on a full tank. I said, “Nick.”

“Now that’s a man’s name. No friggin’ frills. Just out and out plain label. How about I call you Nicky, how would that be?”

His accent was all over the shop. From American through plumminess to Irish. And always in the shadow of South-East London. I poured some more Scotch, said, “I’m too set in my ways to call a grown man ‘Dexy’... OK. So I’ll settle for Dex and how about you call me the name I told you I had.”

He gave a huge grin. Not a pretty sight.

“I like it... yeah Nick and Dex the deadly duo. Sharp... you’re a sharp dude... I can tell you’ll need watching.”

He leapt to his feet and patted his stomach.

“Not an ounce of fat... I’m in shape old buddy.”

I dunno if there’s an answer to this but he was looking round the room. The pile of Reader’s Digests were painfully visible.

“Not a dentist are you Nick?”

Next he moved to the music system. I’d always planned on laying in some classical albums for show. Just go down to the market and buy a shit-load of culture. Mikados and stuff, fluff in some Concertinas and Allegros. What I had was Country and Western. An awful lot, a mini Nashville. I was beginning to gauge Dex a little and he didn’t disappoint me. He gave a rebel yell and said, “I get it, you’re a Rod-eoo star. Not the best town for it but I guess you took a wrong turn somewhere. No worries pal, I’ve taken a few of those myself.”