Ken Bruen - Merrick

‘Maybe later.’

Crow called to one of the women and she appeared a moment later with a long neck and a

tumbler of Bourbon. I started to get on the other side of that as the feast began, I kid you

not, a steady drumming started and some of the women began to dance.

The sound of

rattles, the drum beating seemed to be monotonous first and I thought, worse than Musak.

Then they added the chanting.

I’d barely

Registered that you know? But it started to sound different, meaningful.

The bourbon helped and shite, if I’d had the peyote, I’d have been out on the floor with

the

dancers, doing a very poor, Irish jig.

Crow had a gourd rattle and was steadily rattling it in time to the drums, almost without

knowing it.

The food was laid out on long wooden tables,

Boiled meat

Corn

Macaroni cheese

The afore mentioned raw liver.

To honor the buffalo said Crow.

Every time I drained my glass, it was instantly replaced by another. No complaints from

me and The Texas Long necks were sliding down real easy.

Crow said, listening to the drum

‘The dance is low energy movement, for the powwow, it will continue for up to twelve

Hours’.

He laughed out loud, at my expression of horror, I didn’t know that at an Indian

ceremony, laughter, crude jokes are not only tolerated but encouraged. A shout of

celebration against death.

Assured me

‘Shona will rescue you before then.’

No wonder I felt at home and I did.

Crow said

‘Our last ceremony was something, we had it in the baseball court, outdoors, where the

spirit belongs but the cops busted us.’

I remembered to pass over the envelope. Crow asked

‘You know about giveaways, to give something to honor a family?’

Nope.

But I got the drift.

He looked in the envelope, back home, that would be regarded as rude but for the

Indians, pure curiosity.

He gasped, said

‘This is a month’s wages, you risked your life for this?’

I said, truthfully

‘I liked the kid, a lot.’

He touched my shoulder, said

‘Ryan, for a white eyes, you have many Indian traits.’

Didn’t elaborate.

‘Come.’

Led me over to a large coal brazier, I wondered about the Fire department. Crow handed

me a plastic bag, said

‘Dried cedar sprigs, sprinkle them on the coals.’

A woman behind him handed him a fan, he put it in my hands, said

‘Eagle wing, wave it over the coals.’

Fook, I did.

Crow spoke some words as I did so. I should have felt like a horse’s arse but it seemed

right. He threw a pair of moccasin’s on the coals, said

‘Cloud Dancer will not be barefoot because you give him those.’

Okay?

A little later, Crow handed me a huge steak sandwich, fries on the side, laughed, said

‘It’s not Buffalo, it’s to soak up the booze.’

I said

‘I’d have eaten Buffalo.’

He gave me a long look, said

‘That I true believe my friend.’

I’ve no idea when Shona came, took my hand, said

‘There is a room below the loft.’

I said, no idea what this meant

‘There is?’

She laughed, those Indians sure laughed a lot, said

‘We need to make love, to celebrate Cloud’s Dancer arrival among his tribe.’

Worked for me.

In The Bronx, above a dry cleansers, the hot dog vendor was trying to explain to his

Russian backers, what went down, the encounter with the large man. The most vital

talking he’d ever do. Fail to convince them and he was sauerkraut. A friend had told him

‘Borrow twenty five grand, the vig will be about two hundred a week. But in six months,

you’ll be free and clear, own the business yourself. The Russians will provide the cart,

get the meat etc. cheap. Never ask…………….never what’s in the meat and don’t eat the

things, ever. Oh, do not fuck with those guys, give them their money every week, they

will protect you but screw with them, you’re dead. Nobody, not even Russians fuck with

……The Russians.’

And he’d been right on target, even ahead. Until………….

One Russian stood behind him, Mr. Silent, he never spoke, just looked at you with cold

eyes. The other, in front, classic interrogation technique. He had a scar, like lightning

running all length of his face, on the right side. It looked like it had been high lit by blue

ink. Not re-assuring, such a memorable scar would have made most people in his

business worry about ID. That he knew this would never happen was too frightening to

contemplate. He led the vendor through the events again. Then pushed,

……………………………the man was there

…………………every day?

Why? To what? Stare at the sky. The workers in the sky./

Why?

You don’t

………………………………………….know?

He described the man again and again. Scarface, stepped back, grabbed a bottle of Stoic

from the table, drank from the neck, then handed the bottle across the vendor to Mr.

Silent.

The vendor could have done with a heavy slug of it himself. He wasn’t offered. Sweat

was cascading down his face, though the room was icy. Scarface rattled off a volley of

Russian to the other.

Who grunted.

The vendor didn’t know had a death sentence been passed. Scar face bent down, stared

into his face for over two minutes. The vendor was afraid to speak. He’d learned to only

answer questions, never volunteer them. Amazing how one solid punch to the back of the

head brought you up to speed on the etiquette of torture.

Finally, the deathly stare was over. Scar face stood up. Wrote something on a piece of

paper.

Said

‘You can go.’

The vendor wanted to ask if he was to continue business and realized, of course. They

wanted paying. Scarface pushed the note at him said

‘New place to sell, until we say.’

He got to his feet, his legs literally shaking. He made it to the door. Scar face, said

‘You need drink?’

Tossed the bottle at him and he never knew, how in hell he caught it. He was on the street

in ten seconds, trying to put distance between them. Not that you ever could witht hose

animals. He needed that drink so bad, raised the bottle, it was empty. A sound carried

from the room he’d been in, a low growling, laced with violence, it could almost have

been laughter.

I don’t know was it luck, or coincidence but I was back in my so called apartment when

the phone rang. The elusive answer still biting on the fringes of my mind.

Answered

‘Yeah?’

‘Ryan, it’s Boxer.’

Took me a moment, then I said

‘Sergeant, how you doing?’

Jesus, I sounded like Joey from Friends.

He said

‘Good. The luck of the Irish, your query on the credit card gig, who sent the flowers, we

got a hit.’

Holy fook.

I said

‘Holy fook.’

He laughed, said

‘Thanks would have worked as well.’

Then he got focused, said

‘The credit card is issued to a Mr.’s Trent. Mean anything to you?’

Thought……come on, Jesus, come on…………..bingo.

‘Yes, Sweet Jesus, yes. Thank you.’

I could hear him laughing, he said

‘We stand to serve.’

‘I owe you, big time.’

‘That you do………….boyo, A bottle of Jameson would do nicely.’