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

Edward A. Dillon

Late of Traders Security Patrol .

Dress informal .

A reception will be held afterwards in the New Cemetery .”

I wasn’t sure about the R.S.V.P.

I stuck the initial “A” in there after Edward as that strikes the right note of sincerity. So one of the better cheque passers in Traders had told me... dud cheques, I should add. People don’t expect duplicity from middle initial people. I wondered about a black tie obligation. Naw, that would exclude winos. Best to keep it a quiet informal affair. The guest list. M... m... mp.

Julie and Carlo.

Marisa (why not, let her flaunt the oul Dylan T. number)

Gurteen

The three thugs (I kinda owed them)

“Bad Weather”

I wish the Wilde opinion of George Bernard Shaw hadn’t leapt into my mind just there.

“he hadn’t an enemy in

the world

and

his friends didn’t like him either.”

Whoa-hey. Lighten up, Dillon.

Clothes. Julie’s Aran sweater and the fading track suit bottom. I’d forego the black tie, I reckoned I’d given enough service to the necktie brigade. A pair of strong warm brogue’s. New shoes would bring out the begrudgers. I knew from my own funeral experience the emphasis people placed on a good pair of shoes. Yea, worn but solid. A Timex watch. They last for years and set the right tone of unpretentiousness. No jewelry; let’s keep this simple. I’d see if Father Benedictus was available to do the service. The words of farewell over the grave... something by Chesterton perhaps... none of that other shuffling off of mortal calls. It always reminded me of a drag artist. Before John Berryman jumped from the Washington Avenue Bridge, one of his students wrote that he had lately found his own faith in God. But, since it was a changing time... he said “this may change too. But I hope not.” Berryman liked that a lot.

I visualised a plain slab of granite on my grave. No dates or name. Just “I hope not.”

With my luck they’d figure it was a comment on the weather. I called Julie at work. She had a piece of my hungover hide for disturbing her.

“Good to talk to you, Julie, I needed to be ate and I sure called the right place...”

“Look, Dillon, don’t you have funerals or something morbid to be at?”

“You’re right, Julie, I thought I should ring to ask something truly weird as ‘how yah doing’...”

“How am I doing... How am I doing what...”

I hung up. I’m right there for the oul wisecrack. Tis many the stretch I’ll make to grab a crumb of humour. Bad friggin manners is something else. My friend Julie. Probably I should have gone the distance and hoped the friendship would be sitting further down the line. I reckoned she was wasted in the travel business. She ought to sit down and write a good vicious book. Coming out of the phone kiosk, I met O’Malley. A subdued version. His eye was blackened and he had a limp. The clothes were clean and fresh, round about Christmas Eve when he’d put them on.

“Will ya buy us a drink, Eddie?”

Ribs broke in devils, hell freezeth over, Eddie! The shock shocked me. Rigid.

“Come on... so.” We went to Nestors.

The dirt remained the same. Lodged thick. Mrs. Nestor gave us the evil eye.

“Pints... is it?” We nodded. I gave O’Malley a cigarette. He shook like a bad lie.

“I’m in quare street,” he said. What’s new, I thought but kept in a thought. The drink came. Mrs. Nestor waved the money away... “yer Christmas box...” She fixed a look of granite on O’Malley.

“Aren’t you the right pup...”

He flinched but said nothing.

“I hear the guards beat the lard outa you... I knew yer mother, God rest her, if she were alive to see this... she’d... she’d turn in her grave. One peep outa ya in here, mister, and I’ll blacken yer arse for ya... do ya hear me.”

He sure did... and half the town I would have thought.

“Yes, ma’am.” She threw the eye towards me.

“You’re not the worst of them, Dillon, I’ll give you that.”

We drained the pints in a silent penance. I ordered two more.

“What will I do, Dillon, my case comes up before the judge next week... and if it’s Carty, I’m fecked...”

“I dunno, what can you do...”

“The Weir are looking for five hundred pounds damage. I know... look, Dillon, I know I owe you twenty-five quid but... but will you lend me £450.”

“What... I thought you said they wanted £500...”

“Ary, not to pay them crowd of ejits, to skip... you know... flog off to London... I know a fella in Kilburn High Road...” I didn’t quite get it. I didn’t see why he needed that amount.

“I don’t see why you need that amount.”

He sighed tolerantly. I was real glad he was going to be patient. The Guinness was chugged noisily. Mrs. Nestor even heard it as the living net on her head turned.

“If I’m going to London, I’ll need a bit o’ gear. Shoes, suit, and things. I saw a grand jacket in the sales.”

So steal it, I thought, they’re all at it. He was working on fervour now...

“And I thought like... as I’m going... forever... I’d give a bit of a do before I left... nothing fancy... just a few of the lads...”

He gave a loud cackle. Not a pleasant sound to hear. Worse, up real close. An actual slyness showed in his un-blackened eye. I saw it root.

“... oh... of course, you’re invited, Dillon... give us more drink, Mrs... hey, Mrs...”

I wondered was he on somethin’. Apart from total insanity. Mrs. Nestor brought two creamy pints.

He leapt into it. I toyed with selecting my reply... thought carefully. Then the hell-with-it switch.

“I can’t give you the money.”

He hopped on the stool. This was a man whose life’s plans had been snatched from him.

“What... what are you saying. I’m feckin’ depending on you... if you break your word... if you let me down, I can’t go... I’m dependin’ on you, Dillon.”

The roarin’ of him brought Mrs. Nestor.

“What the blazes... O’Malley, finish up yer drink and clear off... or I’ll put my boot in yer arse.”

He didn’t hear her. A man with his visions in ruins. The vision ruiner felt a beat of sympathy.

“O’Malley... I could mebbe give you thirty...”

“What... thirty, I wouldn’t piddle on thirty. STICK IT. Do you expect me to do the rounds asking gob-shites for dribs and drabs. Is it coddin’ ya are. STICK IT where the monkey stuck the peanuts... thirty... ha... ha... ha... come out here, Nestor.”

I took my leave. On the street I could hear him roaring at her as to how she was fixed for thirty. I hadn’t got my traditional blessing of “ya bollix.” Mebbe some caution told him that in itself would have “Eileen” blacken his arse. I doubted that too. Caution that is.

The next five days were a blur of work. I doubled up on shifts. I dunno was I trying to raise cash for O’Malley. Probably not. The sales were in full blast. I was standing well clear of the entrance. On my third day of this double-shifting and reading double-visioned, I saw the Chinese waiter. He was with a wizened Chinese woman of similar height. Which wasn’t a whole lot to start with. Hammering words to the dozen, he was attempting to push a large box into her unwilling hands. She was having none of this action. It vaguish crossed my mind as to what clothes he’d buy. Something in surliness to match his attitude no doubt. We did a slow line in kung fu apparel. The local muggers made do with a basic iron bar. Nothing fancy and they rarely drest for the occasion.

A voice behind me said, “I wouldn’t mind a little nip...”

Gurteen! Nigh covered in contraband. He was one of the professional shoplifters. A craft to him and never a game. Always done with the utmost seriousness.