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

I tried to remember that what you got from Gurteen’s smile was a view of his teeth. Anything above that carried a price. I’d felt warmer looking at the corpses in the morgue.

“Gurteen sends his... acknowledgements,” I said to Julie.

“Who’s he?” asked Robbie.

“A part-time psychopath,” Julie said.

“And the rest of the time...” from Marisa.

“The rest of the time you don’t want to know about. He used to hang out with your brother Saul.”

“Raoul.”

“Let me tell you, it’s many the one perished on that rock.”

Was I very pist or was Julie mixing a heavy batch of metaphors here... a heavy mix of aggravation if nowt else.

“Let’s go Chinese,” chirped Robbie.

“He means... do ye want to eat?” said Julie.

We jumped on this with way over the top enthusiasm. At the door, I felt my arm tugged... Gurteen.

“He’s Robbie Fox... a gay... so tis easy three to one that you’ll have company of some description in that bed of yours tonight. Oh yeah, I read today that bi-sexuality is socially okay... okay!”

Inscrutability is the Chinese byword. Our only Chinese restaurant has moved into active hostility.

Surliness with impeccable subtlety. The waiter dealt us four slow menus and a slower sneer.

Julie is in her element with strife. Being pist helped. She rattled off a crescendo of numbers. The waiter had to check twice. Some Oriental respect might perhaps have hit his eyes. We sat before Julie like children, indeed of a highly temperamental God. She said... “I ordered a rake of stuff, it’s bound to have something ye all like, and I threw in two bottles of Beaujolais.”

Robbie asked for chopsticks. Now how did I know he’d do that.

The waiter brought the wine. No pretence of tasting or pouring.

“Are you familiar with the I–Ching?” asked Marisa.

Julie snorted.

“Oh yes, I do it on a daily basis,” said Robbie. I refrained from asking if it was some breed of Oriental dog.

“Did it tell you to be a montesorry —?”

“Am... that’s Monte-sorri... am...!”

Open bloodshed was deferred with the food. Plates and plates. Chop suey this, chow mein of sundry descriptions... bamboo shoots, curtain rails, rice, sweet and sour porks, all served with resentment if not panache.

Robbie flourished the chopsticks. The waiter flourished condescension.

Waving a chopstick in my face, he said, “I believe you attend funerals...” I was stunned. I looked to Julie who was opening a Chinese cookie.

“Confucius say, ‘Shut your mouth, asshole.’”

Marisa spilt her Beaujolais over the mess before her soy sauce was available... but...!

“Yeah... yeah, I find them gay affairs,” I said.

“Seems like a sick pastime to me.”

“No... not sick... it’s well past that stage; it’s a dead pastime.”

“Can’t be a whole lot going in your life, is what I think.”

I took a ferocious hammer of wine. My father would have taken the chopsticks and put them where they would forever have remained lodged. Some vestige of control tried to surface. The wine said, “The hell with it.” Marisa said nothing.

“Well, Robbie, you consult the I–Ching, so you’re familiar with the oracle of changes — resting on coins—”

“Yeah... so!”

“So why don’t you and me toss for the bill, to sweeten it, I’ll put a straight twenty alongsides!”

“Am... I dunno, can you afford to do that?”

“Can you afford not to?” asked Julie.

“Look, Robbie. It’s more civilised than me asking you outside and wallopin’ the living be-jaysus out of each other.”

“Okay, the bill and twenty quid. Let Julie toss... I’ll take heads.”

He didn’t put the money on the table. I put a new crisp note down. That’s the way I was reared — foolish.

Julie took a coin, cleared the centre of the table. A flick high and slow. Marisa gulped wine. Thunk... nigh flat down... tails. I picked my money up.

“You’re some latch-crow,” he said.

“Does that mean I get paid?”

“I’m going to have to owe you the money... but I’ll pay this bill... okay... is that okay guys... yeah... fair enough?”

“Well, Robbie, tis not the question of okay or not... tis — do you pay on bets? Let’s go, Marisa...”

We stood up. The waiter brought the bill. Julie looked at it and her eyes lit... huge.

I was holding the door for Marisa when Robbie shouted something.

“What did he say?” she asked.

“I’m not altogether certain, but it sounded like ‘baulox.’” She suggested my flat. I stopped en route to buy a bottle of Jameson. From my winnings you could say. The rain was lashing, cold... dark, and I felt... felt bedraggled inside. I gave her the makings of a dry tracksuit. She tried to fit into that, and I built some big hot whiskeys. I even had faded cloves. Whoa-hay, whack in the sugar, the cloves... no lemon... no problem... get that water hot... right... now put a normal sized whiskey outa your head. Lash in mad amounts. Gotta paste it. Now big mugs. Taste. Phew-oh, that’s the kick. So who’s bedraggled. A shot more and mebbe us can get into realms of befuddlement. Cruising home. I bring the mugs to the bedroom. She’s sacked out in my battered sweat-shirt — going thru my books.

“You’re very close to the canal here.”

“Yeah, you can think of me lying here listening to the wino’s roar.”

“Is that a quote?”

“A Joyce mutilation—”

“I love Joyce.”

The temptation was enormous... what do you love about him... but I’d had my tails streak already. Best not to lean on that luck. I said, “Cheers.”

“Oh right... slainte... there’s an awful lot of Hemingway here.”

“Yes there is.”

“I suppose you love all that... strut... and yes, all that macho stuff.”

Ah... u... d, the whiskey chunneled down in a weltor of sugar and... did I swallow a clove? Who cared. My eyes moved into overdrive. I figured she’d been reading Cosmopolitan . Sure it heightened your awareness. So did hot whiskey... then the sugar kinda blinded your subtlety. Time to reply.

“No.”

“What?”

“No, I don’t... I like A Movable Feast .”

“Will you teach me about him?” Was she lisping.

“What!.. what’s to teach. You read his books. You like or you don’t like the way he writes. You get something from his view of the world... or you don’t. That’s what there is to learn. What I can tell you of real significance is nearer home.”

“Oh please... tell me!”

“It’s smart to drink hot whiskey when it’s hot!”

... she did... and how, she knocked back a whack that my father would have had a cure from.

“Whee... ee... h... oh Dillon, that’s lovely. Cripes, you read a lot of American writers. Do you like them a lot.”

“Lemme show you something.” I weaved towards the bookcase. I wasn’t hurting now — at all. It took me some time to locate Ross Macdonald. I kept forgetting what I was seeking.

“Here it is. The Ivory Grin... written in 1952. He’s describing an American woman. Listen to this:

‘There were olive drab thumbprints under her eyes. Maybe she had been up all night. After all in my case, she looked fifty, in spite of the girlishness and boyishness.

Americans never grow old; they died; and her eyes had guilty knowledge of it.’”

I forgot then why I was sharing this. Marisa forgot too.

“Do you want to sleep with me, Dillon”

“I do.”

She stood and pulled off the track suit.

The whiskey receded a moment, and I didn’t know — was it Julie before me. I said nothing. Then the whiskey got back to its mission. I moved close to her, and we forgot Ross Macdonald, Hemingway, Robbie, Chinese waiters... the whole shower.