Ken Bruen - Merrick

‘Big job today my friend, we have to put…………

He pointed

The gaping vacancy at the top of the ninety story building,

‘A full two floors on today. It’s delicate and risky but I have my nephew, Cloud, with

you, he is an artist.’

I nearly laughed, asked

“I’m to call him Cloud?’

‘No, call him Brad.’

A heavy wind was coming in and normally, such a job would be called off but there was

Deadline, and cash call’s the ultimate tune.

For the first time, when I got up there, and heard that sucker howl, I briefly considered

the safety harness.

But….

One, it marked you as White…………..afraid.

Two……………..it impeded you and cut your work pace by half.

No harness.

Cloud was maybe twenty, terrific looking kid, like Johnny Depp way back. And worse,

he was a good guy, knew he was the best at what he did but didn’t Lord it. I asked

“Brad, you good to go?’

Gave me a radiant smile answered

‘Bring it on white eyes.’

Despite the wind, we got a rhythm going, like pure music, not me, I was just following

the kid but he was a sight to see. Like such heights were made for him, he danced, I

swear to God, he danced from girder to girder like it was fun. Maybe it was, for him.

We were getting the job almost done, late afternoon, and Brad was soaring, doing stuff

that if it weren’t so damn artistic, it would have been reckless.

And, you can’t figure every contingency. A girder, I’d have sworn I’d locked, cut loose,

went shooting out across the Manhattan sky like a stealth missile. I screamed the warning

but the wind was so fierce, it took my words and scattered them like wasted prayers on

the pavement, ninety floors below. The steel girder hit him full ferocity on the back of his

head and he never made a sound, just dropped like the smallest sigh.

I stood, dumbstruck.

The large man had just got a hot dog, Diet Pepsi. The vendor appeared to speak no

English. He took the ten dollar bill, put it in his soiled apron, and no change appeared.

The large guy nearly smiled, he so loved confrontation. Street one’s were the best. Inflict

damage, be three blocks away before the skelly hit the pavement.

He leaned over, began to shovel a dollop of sauerkraut. The vendor reached out his hand,

going

‘No, is my job.’

The guy shot out his hand, grasped the vendor’s wrist like a vice, squeezed hard. The

vendor, horrified………..Had he heard bone break? Muttered

‘Ok, ok, help yourself.’

His English returning? The guy released him, said in a very quiet tone,

‘Return my money, you thieving fuck.’

The vendor put his other hand in the apron, pulled out a splash of notes, ten’s twenties, a

fifty. The guy took the fifty. The vendor cried

‘Is no right. You gave me ten dollar!’

The man smiled, all ice and emptiness, said

‘Coppin a plea but are you calling me a liar Mohammed?’

He decided, no.

The large man asked

‘Little more ketchup there, yah think?’

Got it.

The guy bit down on the dog, leaned right in the vendor’s face as ketchup leaked from

his mouth, asked

‘The fuck is this, Real dog?’

Then laughed, displaying sauerkraut, meat, awash in his mouth, Patted the vendor almost

gently on the cheek, said

‘Lighten up buddy, just kidding.’

He took another bite, snapped

‘Napkin?’

Got it.

Them dumped the mangled remains of his food on the cart, said

‘See you tomorrow.’

Moved away, hesitated, as if something had occurred to him. The vendor was gazing in

distress at his cart, plus the fifty that went south.

The large guy stepped back, looked contrite, went

‘Oh My Gad, a tip! I forgot, what must you think of me?’

The vendor was afraid to meet his eyes, something dead was in them, dead a long time.

But a tip?

His fifty back?

He raised his eyes to the guy’s, the dead thing in there was laughing

The guy said

‘Here it is…………………………………

            Don’t

              Fuck

With

New

Yorkers.’

And was gone.

The vendor felt a cold that was no relation to the weather. He began to push his cart

away.

Away?

Maybe the UK?

At least they had free medical cover.

But first, he’d have to answer to his sponsors.

The Russian’s.

The large man wondered why it was he felt compelled to come by every day, watch the

Irish guy do his gig. He wasn’t really certain why. Was it he just liked to keep tabs on

this wild card fuck? Or something in watching those guys, fly across the sky that awoke

a long vanished sense of yearning. And too, somewhere deep down, long buried so long,

a freedom those cats displayed.

He shook himself, physically shedding all those crazy idea’s, he was…………..what he

was, fuckit.

He was crushing the Pepsi can, not even realizing it when something on his peripheral

vision pulled his eyes skywards.

Jesus H.

Something was hurling down from there, something substantial.

The winds had looked dog rough up there and he figured a girder?

Nope.

Holy shit.

A goddamn person!

The body hit the sidewalk, narrowly missing two Hasidic Jews. He heard that horrendous

squelch.

The freaking Irish, had to be. Indian’s didn’t fall. No fucking way.

And you had to figure the Irish guy had a hangover, when the sweet fuck didn’t they?

He’d seen his share of jumpers and ID was a bitch. No point in moseying over there, it

would tell him nothing but that it was all she wrote. If it was the Irish, then one less

problem. Kind of a shame though, he enjoyed mind fucking him.

He damn straight hated them, hated that Irish blood was part of his DNA. Being Irish, do

him a fucking favor.

What?……like using obscenities, drinking lights out and

planting bombs was an achievement?.

Truth to tell, it wasn’t just the Irish, he hated every muthahfuckah who crept over the

planet, getting in his way.

He walked to the next street, his Studebaker parked in a No Park Zone. He looked round,

then removed the ‘Park Permit’ from the shield. Got in, let out a long sigh

Mohammed

The acidic download of the Hot dog

Had given him a hard on thirst.

Maybe he’d cruise a gay bar, big fuck like him had the pillow biters frothing at the

mouth, got his drinks free and if he’d the time, kick the crap out of some faggot.

He always had the inclination.

See the movie

Service to Society 11.

Boyz in the Hood?

He’d flush em down the goddamn crapper.

Memo to himself

‘Chill big fellah.’

Couple or three Seven and Seven’s, he’d be good to go. Meet with the psycho, and man,

wasn’t it the truth?

‘Never have enough drinks on board for dealing with a stone psycho.’

He smiled, almost beatifically.

I’d been sitting in Herald Square. Drinking a Starbucks Latte Grande, followed it with a

cig. I swear to God, as I cranked the Zippo, I looked round furtively, checking for The

Nicotine Nazi’s. Three obese people went by. I muttered

‘See, eat yourself to death. The American Bill of Rights.’