Кен Бруен - A Fifth of Bruen - Early Fiction of Ken Bruen

We did the introductions. Julie’s friend was Robbie. I got a round of drinks. Vodka for Julie and vodka for Robbie. Indeed a twosome. More stout and whiskey and a snowball for Marisa. There wasn’t any way that repetition made that drink more accessible. The earring took the cherry as given a slight suggestion that hash now appeared. Julie did that scene sometimes. I liked my drug wet and in a glass. Preferably in a lotta glasses. But... there it is. The three were brisk in conversation. “These are double vodkas,” yelled Robbie.

“Yeah,” I said.

“Here’s looking at you, kid.” He toasted Julie.

Now, what could I do. I got deep buried in my own drink. When in perplexity, run like hell. Spare me the Bogart drivel.

“Have you known Dillon long?” Julie asked.

“M... m... h...” from Marisa.

The aim of conspiracy she launched blended with the hash. I offered the cigarettes. As I expected — Robbie didn’t. I waited for the inevitable and it came.

“Don’t you know how dangerous smoking is?”

“I have a feeling you might be about to tell me.”

He looked to Julie. She said

“Do you work, Maura.”

“It’s Marisa... actually, I’m hoping to be a teacher.”

“Of what?”

“What... oh I see, well I was thinking of Montessori.”

“Why?”

“Am... I want to do something fulfilling.”

“Ah... the ‘Total Woman.’”

Marisa to here had drank viciously from the snowball. T’would take something more lethal than that to stop Julie.

“The Total Woman ... I have a copy. I haven’t actually read it. Is it absorbing?”

“I dunno, I haven’t read it.”

Julie produced the black book and a wad of notes. Irish style, it was an indeterminate wad of bruised notes. All denominations. I saw a hint of drachmae in there. She pushed a flutter at Robbie.

“Get the drinks in... keep the vodkas doubled... Dillon will have the same and another yellow thing for Maire... yeah?”

“Oh yes please... and... am... it’s M-A-R-I-S-A.”

The black book was Julie’s catch all philosophy. She’d had it for years and wrote in whatever grabbed her. Kazantzaki featured heavily, Cavafy usually took pride of place. I had once offered some Emily Dickinson and she’d withered me. If I wanted to talk American women poets, she’d said, go find Anne Sexton. I was working on it. It could have been worse. I’d nearly offered Sylvia Plath... phew-oh.

Robbie arrived back — beaming.

“Ted works here,” he said.

Not receiving the ecstacy this warranted, he continued.

“Ted Joyce, he’s working part-time here... we were at college together.”

The Earring. It figured. The lash rose in me... did they take perhaps cordon bleu together. Julie shot me a look. I passed. Pity.

“What do you do, Robbie?” asked Marisa.

“I’m an articled clerk... at Boyd’s.”

Ol’ Ted took English Lit. Took it where, I wondered. A long standing insult down our street was “You dirty article.” I didn’t need to look at Julie. I passed here again. Julie found the quote.

“Listen to this, Marcy.”

Marisa was snowballing and missed the chance to give her name again. Julie read:

“High up in the mountains of Crete, it sometimes happens a milk-sop is born into a family of ogres. The father is at a loss. How can this... this jelly-fish be his son? He gathers the family. ’This son is a disgrace. What can we do with him? He can’t be a fighter, shepherd or a thief, he’s a disgrace.”

Julie took a hefty belt of vodka. If not exactly enthralled, we certainly looked attentive. Julie concluded:

“He’s a disgrace. Let’s make him a teacher.”

Robbie spoke first. “That reminds me of a joke... there was...”

“For chrissake,” said Julie.

He shut up. Marisa went to the ladies. The Earring gave Robbie a shout. Julie snapt the book shut. I asked, “So Julie, how do you like Marisa.”

I got the Emily D. look. “She says ‘ actually ’ a lot... I can see you’re taken with Robbie too—”

“Well Julie, I’ve been thinking of getting an earring... actually...”

“Do... and I’ll help you put it thru your nose.”

Truce... of sorts.

“In fact, Dillon, I have something of interest for you... Listen... listen to this... are you ready?”

“What’s ready, I’m interested — okay... is it something about Greek security guards?”

Julie gave the bleak smile.

“The dead have their own sad grammar

— he was

— he said

— he did...

Poor young man, thinned to a single tense...”

I had some whiskey, ah that sucker was sliding down slow and ferocious. I gave what she said some consideration. Why not, I thought. I was near through with my time of Julie affirmations.

“Well, I think people are stupid by a tense alright. But it’s not the past. Most people I know are crucified by the future... how the hell they’re gonna get by. How to pay for things. Most funerals these days, I hear less and less of grief and more of the expense of dying... a costly business.”

Julie looked furious.

“The funerals... His cock-swalloping funerals. You’re gonna have to give up that garbage...”

In her tirade, she took a slug of the snowball.

“Oh Gawd, am I poisoned? What the hell is this... yellow Biddy... Aher... gh...”

Marisa arrived back to see Julie apparently swiping her drink.

“Nice, isn’t it?” she said.

“Yeah... so are funerals,” Julie rasped.

Robbie came with a tray of drinks. “My shout,” he said.

So shout, I thought. I was well the worse for drink now. I took off for the toilet. An indication of my condition was a friendlied roar I hurled at the Earring. He glared. The toilet was a hive of industry. The drug dealing has its centre in a fitting place.

Gurteen was centre toilet. A fellah my own age. He was 5’2” with eyes as black as his attitude. A victim of the peroxide craze, the hair was a sick yellow... long and lank. There wasn’t a pick on him. He looked like a worm-fumbling crow. A particularly vicious one, he was one of the few very dangerous people I knew.

Even my father had said, “Don’t turn your back on the fellah, particularly when he smiles...”

When Gurteen smiled you could believe there was indeed a hell. Such as the old priests preached. Gurteen wasn’t so much headed towards it as on an extended sabbatical from there. Solely by virtue of the length of time we’d known each other, he was “fond” of me. Fond if snakes can be credited with fondness. A small-time dealer in drugs of every strength, he greeted me.

“Dillon... you wanna score?”

“Naw, I’m doing fast and furious on the drink.”

“Yeah... a piss-head, that’s o-kay, I like to get maggoty meself... I hear you’ve moved in on the money...”

“What?”

“Maunsell’s Hill; the Darcy one... Martha or whatever she calls herself. A bitch in her heart that one...”

He paused to give a small envelope to a zonked client. A flash of notes showed... he gave me an indefinable look then continued.

“Do you know her brother?”

“Raoul.”

“That’s him... a bolix but quare as a Kerry sixpence.”

“Odd — you mean... is he odd... or wot?”

“Jaysus, cop on, Dillon... gay ... he likes it Greek style... you know what I’m saying.”

“I didn’t know... I didn’t.”

“Isn’t that more of it, Dillon, you’re always the last to know... do you want some speed... no charge.”

“No... no thanks... I’ll be seeing you... no, wait... will you take a look at a fellah who’s here with Julie... Robbie, he’s called.”

“Give Julie my love, that wan would kill for you, Dillon... go on, you’re not the worst. I’ll let you know about yer man.”