Ken Bruen - Merrick

And they got into sports.

The bar got busy, Charley had to go and Merrick waved him away, said

‘Go, earn, shalom.’

Merrick finally got out of there, no sign of Charley to say Thank you, the tab had of

course been paid, he’d left a fifty tip on the table and got a cab to take him home.

He was tired but feeling good, even felt less resentful to Ryan.

The guy would learn.

And who better to teach him?

You got it.

The large man had been busy, very.

Sat back now, savoring his first Seven ‘n Seven of the evening

Jesus H……………what a blast.

First, meet with the psycho, and being real careful. The fuck was in meltdown, who knew

when’d go seriously postal? The large man could see it in his eyes, the fevered glint,

some psychotic shit waiting to be fused. He met with him in Queens, business closed for

the day, the large man had his Nine in his jacket right hand pocket, one crazy flicker from

the crazy, he’d blow his shit to kingdom come. He kept in macho pose, no choice, said

‘Give me the fucking money.’

Got it.

Tried not to show his joy at the what might be the clincher on Boca. Kept his face in cold

neutral, demanded

‘The Heckler and Koch?’

Tricky moment.

The psycho was having some conflicting thoughts. Time to ride roughshod, he said

‘Don’t be fucking stupid, I have to have the gun that matches the slug they took out of

Merrick, then put it in the hand of the dentist in Tribeca, with a typed note of remorse and

believe this shitkicker, we are seriously on the clock. You want to continue enjoying your

………..interests? Then be smart.’

Got the gun.

Had to cross town, in traffic for Chris sakes, meet with the dentist, and blow the bastard’s

brain to fuck and gone.

Not that he found that difficult, who wouldn’t want to waste a freaking dentist, give it to

the son of a bitch in the teeth, no, the worry was being seen and his luck held. He’d hate

to have had to waste the Barbie doll Receptionist. He might yet have plans for her.

Then a call to 911 and let justice roll.

He laughed out loud.

Sometimes, it was just too fucking easy.

I was grabbing a coffee, bagel with lox, before I took the elevator up to the ninety-th

floor.

Trying not to ask myself

‘Nervous

Apprehensive

Scared?’

Jesus. Stop already.

Put on my helmet, got up there. There was a wind, that high? There is always a wind. But

nothing like…………..

Shook myself, knew, you cannot be thinking.

A new guy, asked

‘Need the harness?’

Tempted.

No.

Swung out there, high and wide, like a dancer.

Ok.

Slight sheen of perspiration on my forehead, blame the coffee.

Got out on the steel beam, swinging a little precariously, got my boots squared on the

next beam

Froze.

Fucking froze.

I don’t remember getting down. Crow had come up, and gone out to get me himself.

I was on the ground, in Crow’s porto-kabin, He’d given me a hot drink, laced with sugar.

Put a blanket round me, then sat opposite. He asked

‘How you doing buddy?’

I’d stopped shivering, said

‘The last thing I remember is smelling Irish stew?’

He stared, asked

‘Food?

‘No, it’s a stress gig.’

I reached for my cigs, got one in my mouth but my hands trembled and took the Zippo,

fired me up, looked at it, said

‘Nice.’

‘It’s yours.’

Indians love gifts, Shona had told me.

I asked

‘What happened to me?’

He asked

‘Were you thinking?’

‘Yes.’

He sat back, said

‘You’re done brother.’

Added

‘You know Ryan, start to think about it, it’s gone.’

I said

‘Aw fook.’

He stood up, said

‘You’re alive bro, a lot of dancers never…………………come down.’

I asked

‘Will I be able to go back, up there, you know, after a time?’

He looked at me, then

‘You have lot’s of work on the ground, I don’t want to lose you. My sister would kill

me.’

All I could hear was Merrick’s voice, when describing The Ranger’s Elite Force and the

one’s who

‘Washed out.’

Crow said

‘As your chief, I’m telling you to take off, have a few days to chill.’

I nodded, said

‘Thanks, a lot.’

He shrugged it off.

Later I would hear that he’d gone out on the girders, took me in. His first time in the sky

for eight years, when his best friend had fallen.

Shona took me to her home. An apartment in The West Village. I was zoning in and out,

as if a high fever was trying to build and break simultaneously. The apartment was

comfort in action. Indian woven throw rugs on the wooden floors. I always loved that,

you could crack the heels of your boots on them, feel as if you were really there. Not

grounding you so much as establishing you.

And sculpture’s, I know shit from shinola about that but these, of wood, of stone, even of

cacti, were haunting. Figures of warriors, Indians on horseback, they seemed to be alive.

I slumped down on the couch, Shona brought me a tall iced glass of water. I was wearing

my Levi white shirt, one that had cost me close to fifty bucks.

An Irish guy will blow fifty on a round of drink, no problem but on a shirt, you kidding?

I’d had this shirt for nigh ten years.

You ask……….what’s in a shirt?

History.

It has been so often in the wash, it was threadbare and all the more assuring for that. I

know, you love a shirt, you are a sad fookin excuse for a life.

I loved the shirt, so shoot me.

Sweat was pouring out of every pore, my hair, was drenched in it. Like I’d just come out

of the shower.

Shona said

‘My love, you are burning up’

Helped me to her bed and that’s all she wrote.

Two days.

The stress in ferocious assault

……………….twisting

………………………..burning

………………………………..lashing

…………………………………………and

…………………………………………………lacerating.

I vaguely remember coming to, Shona feeding me some liquid, then out again, the smell

of Irish stew near suffocating me.

And it broke.

Two and a half days in.

I sat up, felt my hair, dry.

Shona, her face, a portrait of worry, said

‘You’re back.’

I tried to stand, managed it after a few false starts and said

‘You believe it mo croi (my heart), I’m hungry.’

And was.

Starving.

As we sat down over scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, Shona went to the fridge, brought

back a Shiner Bok,………..Texas best, said

‘You’re eating, you’re entitled.’

I said

‘A man could love a woman for that.’

She feigned surprise, asked

‘You mean, you’re not crazy about me already?’

I raised my bottle, said

‘Is tu an cailin is fear.’

……………………………..you are the best woman.’

She asked

‘Who is Eddie?’

Jesus.

I asked

‘What?’

‘ You called his name over and over.’

The fooking subconscious, wreathed in guilt, will rat you out every time, a supergrass of

the damn soul.

I nearly told her.

Nearly.

Bit down.

A history of Irish violence?