Ken Bruen - Merrick

“Now, we’ve even, you asked about Jewish people, now you know, we bide our sweet

fucking time.’

I watched the blood from my split lip roll down my off white shirt, didn’t make any move

to staunch it.

He said

‘Ryan, you had that coming, Ok? were doing good in there, but you, you wanted to step

all over the guy, scare the hell out of him, what’s your problem haven’t you got any cop

instincts?’

I pulled my door open, he shouted

‘Aw, come on.’

I reached in my waistband, pulled out my piece, leaned in the window, asked

‘And you, bollix, wanted to know about my background, open your fookin mouth, go on,

do it and see how cop!..………..I am?

He tried

‘Ryan’

I pulled the slide

He nodded, put the car in gear, burned rubber out of there.

I wiped my mouth with my sleeve, the gun hanging loosely in my hand, asked me own

self

‘Would you, would you have shot the prick?’

Said

‘I’ve got a personality problem.

Added

‘Checkmate.’

I’d read somewhere that Bobby Fischer was accused of being anti-Semitic.

Yeah?

The heavy chess tournament award flew across the room, shattering the full length

mirror. The man known formerly as

Gacy

Initials

Et Al

Was so angry he could fucking spit.

A lot.

He was wearing his Yoga gear, wanted to rip it to shreds.

Peace……………

Fucking A Mister.

The rage was building even more as he couldn’t see himself in the shattered mirror,

hissed

‘Unbreakable, crap goddamn movie and crappier mirror.’

Turned to his bureau, the drawers not opening fast enough, so he yanked the bastards out

full, watched his carefully arranged underwear, arranged by day and color, fly all over the

room. Found the Heckler And Koch, aimed it at the mirror, wanted to weep at how he

was going to have to know what underwear to put on tomorrow. He checked the clip, way

to go, full and put a round in the dying glass, hissed

Yeah, who’s fucking sorry now?’

Spun around, muttered

‘Creep up on me muthahfuckah, how’d you like these cojones.’

Put two shells into the empty space.

One of the bullets ricocheted off the wall and came real close to taking his insane head

off. Got his attention, he whispered

‘Death by cop, by stealth.’

Heard the term………….unraveling, he knew it well from the serial killer books he’d

read and worse, how the schmucks got caught. Went to the bathroom off the room,

opened the medicine cabinet, grabbed the bottle of Vic Odin, dry swallowed two.

Asked

‘Do the trick?’

Nope.

Kay……………

Got out the heavy duty babies, meant to be for an emergency and what the fuck was this,

pray tell?

Stopped, had he uttered that aloud?

Like a cartoon character, he put his hand over his mouth, then back to the cabinet, time to

get down, and got the Ocycodeine. Then holding three of these lethal suckers, went back

into the room, headed for the drinks cabinet, selected the Johnny Walker Blue, poured a

healthy measure into a tumbler made of Irish crystal, toasted

‘Oblivion, take me thus.’

The pills washed down with the blue. Now, all he had to do was wait, be chill and wait

for the answer.

After five minutes was able to sit down, feel the booze warm his stomach and then the

jolt as some of the Med’s kicked in.

Took a deep, albeit ragged breath, felt his mind go into the icy region and then was able

to say, without too much bile

‘They….

……………..they

…………………….came to my fucking place of work, put down two pictures of my

beloved, and……..

He could barely say it

Question ME!.

He’d wanted to throw up when they appeared but felt he covered it well but then, who

knew?

You deal with fucking morons, they might get lucky and they’d only to get lucky ONCE.

The big guy, Merrick, all bluster and hard ass but the Irishman, a worry. He looked at you

with those killer eyes and you know, you knew, fess up, he was a crazy, he was Crystal

meth in human form. You took your attention offa him, hello fifty years in the slammer,

if………….and big if, the madman didn’t gut you first.

Lessons to be taught

Harsh

Brutal

Merciless

……if he was to distract the duo. Only one way, the dope told him, no argument.

Shoot one.

DAVID THOMPSON, MURDER BY THE BOOK.

I was back in Brooklyn, Van Morrison with Astral Weeks on the stereo, not an

Mp3

Or any of the new fangled shite

On a sound system that the brothers would have been proud of. You can’t appreciate

music with things stuck in your ears.

Play it loud and aggressive.

Annoy the neighbors.

The whole point of stereo.

Just ask the black cats what the boom boxes are really all about.

My neighbors were a pair of stoner dudes, worthy of a Don Winslow novel, no I hadn’t

begun to read, they told me! And when I played, especially Thin Lizzy, loud and defiant,

they begged

‘Louder dude.’

Stoner’s, like I said.

Madam George was on and that bring s me as close to tears as any Oprah show. The

dreaded memory began to un-reel, I opened the seal on The Wild Turkey, the deli didn’t

stock Jay.

Yet.

Took a hit, good, lit a cig, and tried to let the lyrics blot out the awful mind replay.

Eddie and I, two kids from the Republic,Eddie from Dublin, with that indefinable accent,

you didn’t know was he

a…………….cultured

b……………………….had notions

c…………..just a cunt

not many of us with the Boyo’s then,

after Bloody Sunday,

well, they came in droves.

‘Field of Dreams’, build the stadium and they will come, well, the Brits built a blood

stadium that they’d never quite play ball in again.

We earned our respect in the real testing ground.

South Armagh.

Bandit country.

Arm elite Armageddon.

Taking heavy hits every fookin day, got so you didn’t even talk to the new guys no more,

they’d be dead in two days. The SAS had us on the run, a turkey shoot but as they had no

respect for us, they got smug and we got back, viciously. Began to hit them literally at

home and I’m not real proud of that.

Different time.

We were finally sent to Belfast, the big number. Street to street, rooftop to alley, hit, run

hit again.

I was barely twenty and hadn’t one night ‘s sleep in a year.

Even the brass saw how beat we were and gave us two days Rn R in a safe house off the

Falls. We had crates of bottled Guinness, Fenian music, a stash of Poitin. We made

serious inroads on all of it. Even had some girls come round, look after our food,

washing…………..and stuff. Molly, red haired, Jesus wept, she adored Van the man,

used to have me listen to The Philosopher’s Stone, over and over till she was convinced I

got it. She was the very best of Irish women

Smart

Defiant

And ferociously loyal.

Said to me

‘Ryan, I’m your bulletproof vest.’

I was eating the stew she’d made and it was fierce good, full of spuds, meat, cabbage and

that heavy gravy, I looked up to tell her I might love…., I knew she figured I was going