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

“Thomas has gone outside to the motor,” she said, eyeballing Ford.

“That’s nice,” said Ford. He was damned if he’d say on word about the interview. He stared right back and thought, “Yea, motormouth!” After she’d left, Neville went into a long spiel about apples in the bud and other timely metaphors, down home Suffolk wisdom by the kilo. “Any impressions to share, old chap?”

“Yea, don’t put all your eggs in one basket.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s no wonder he drinks.”

All of this would fill Neville’s report. Ford didn’t really see a huge future for himself in this field. Whoops! Depression’s knocking on wood.

Ford scanned the evening paper. One eye on the bar. An American student was browbeating the bartender.

“Lemme tell yah, buddy, the English don’t know shit for sports.”

Ford didn’t think the bartender was likely to be his friend. The American had a sweatshirt proclaiming “Cleveland 11.” Ford hadn’t really heard a whole lot about the first. He loved to hear them mangle and do absolute gymnastics with English. They had some choice expressions, apart from Muttah, which they prefixed to every conceivable kind of sexual activity and then flung the lot at you. He never ceased to wonder at “shit for brains”. What construction, and this was an insult! Their predilection for the mammary gland was truly breathtaking. Ford smiled at his own pun. See, it’s contagious, he thought.

“This country sucks,” said Cleveland.

The barman was now most definitely not his buddy. Of all the names for newspapers, Ford liked this best, The Cleveland Plain Dealer . A man’s paper, you felt. No floss, just the news, nothing fake or fancy. Calls ’em as we get ’em. Jack Webb would have bought it in his Dragnet fashion. He returned to his own paper. The Dow Jones index was down again. Ford knew two things about it. It went up. It went down. Pure simplicity!

Yet, you said in a reasonably crestfallen tone to somebody, “The Dow is down!”

Bingo, next time around, they were asking for financial advice. Worse, you were tempted to give it. He looked at the TV. Oh, gloried-be, The Rockford Files . Better than The Sweeney repeats. Forget the drink. Run for home, re-heat the chili and relish. Bliss indeed! What mortal could ask for more (maybe Barney Miller ). His cup runneth over. As he prepared to depart, he heard what sounded like a very vindictive rain out there. The lash-you-into-the-face type. The notion arose: was he over emphasising the joy of the evening ahead... just a tad overstating.

The barman roared. “All right you, I’ve had it, time to sling your ’ook.” He leaped the bar and showed Cleveland to the door. Plain enough! Sling your hook. The English had a few beauts of their own.

Phew, Ford was sure glad it was Saturday. No putting the world to social rights today. He uttered a silent prayer that Tom the travel agent wasn’t like death warmed over. With that wife, he speculated on how it could be otherwise. The phone shrieked putting the heart cross-ways in him. It had that shrill insistent yak which went “answer me and answer me fast.” Implicit in that was the sly promise “but you’ll be sorry.” Most times Ford answered the phone, he regretted it. “Here goes,” and reflexively his fingers crossed.

“Yea.”

“Ford?” Dalton roared. He had the Irish habit of bellowing at phones. Loudness abetted comprehension.

“And good morning to you.”

“Ford, have you been drinking already? Or is there a woman there? Hey, put a knot in it.”

“More of it,” said Ford.

“Listen, you know what a dip is, do you?”

“Anything to do with the Dow Jones?”

“What? Dow who... are you pissed?”

“No... And no, I dunno what a dip is, should I?”

“It’s what the English call a pickpocket, you know, a Jimmy light-fingers.”

“O.K.”

“Well Ford, I got dipped... over sixty notes. What do you think of that?”

Ford didn’t think much of it one way or the other. All he knew was, it would cost him. In fact he felt he was about to experience exactly what it was to be dipped by phone. Right now he wasn’t in to the mood for Dalton.

“So, Ford... Ford, are you there? Hello?”

“Yea.”

“I wonder if maybe you could let me have seventy-five?”

“Seventy-five!”

“Just kidding. Lighten up Ford. Seventy will do grand.”

“I’ll be in The Kings Arms around eight. O.K.?”

“What am I supposed to do till then?”

“You’re always telling me you’d have been a gifted actor, that you missed your vocation.”

“Jeez, so what?”

“So, act outraged,” and Ford put down the phone.

Then there was Grace. A lovely name for a woman, and a lovely lady she was. You could put music to this. Ford wished he had. On one bright and shiny day he won on the horses. He’d noticed a horse called “Vikki’s Way” was entered at Redcar. On a whim and a prayer, he put a tenner to win... and it did. He’d gone into Ladbrokes in Piccadilly Circus. The horse paid nine-to-one, minus tax. Ford was stunned. He had a fist of tenners. Something special to remember. He did a wee jig on the street.

Fortnum and Mason caught his eye. Why the hell not? A high English tea... cream buns and crumpet... ah! He really wanted a drink but he could do that later and seriously. In he went. The staff intimidated him, and it was crowded. On the verge of fleeing, he spied a table with one person. “Go on, it’s a day for gambling,” he urged. This was a fine looking woman here. Too late to gallop.

“Excuse me. Er — might I sit... Is the table free?”

She looked up. Blue, blue eyes and my, oh my, a face close to beauty. Around thirty. In there!

“Is it free? Now, mm... There is a vacant place, but I’d hazard a guess and say it’s far from free. Not here!”

Wouldn’t you know it? A comedian. What a wit! He sat anyway. Ford was very uncomfortable. So much that he ordered coffee and felt a distinct freeze. From nowhere a devil-may-care mood took hold, laced lightly with rage. A caff, that’s all. For all the snotty trappings, it was just a caff. But the treatment wasn’t quite over.

“And how would sir wish his coffee?”

You could cut glass with the smirk. Ford looked up. God! He’d be brawling in a minute. The woman sat and watched Ford. Enough already!

“I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you bring it in a cup, then if I feel maybe I’d like a bucket later, I’ll get back to you. The coffee came quietly. Ford didn’t think the attitude improved a whole lot but he sure felt better. Way, way better.

“You’re losing your hair,” she said.

Follow that! Ford couldn’t. For starters it was true. Boy was it true? Every morning the mirror taunted, “Hey, you got so bald, where did all your hair go?” He had sandy, loose hair. A whole lot looser these days. Gloried be, some mornings there seemed to be more hair on the brush than on his head. A wig would never be a solution. His mother said a thousand times, “See a man with a wig, you see an ejit.”

Pithy but effective. You hoped for a high forehead and the kindness of strangers. Not today. Was she all in it, he wondered. I mean, would you say to a person, “Hi, how come you’re so bald?” or “I see you’re missing a few teeth there, missus.” Come on!

She had a hoity-toity voice with an underlay of America.

Ferocious combination. Ford looked at his coffee: could they find smaller cups?

“Don’t sulk, you’ve a strong face,” she said.

There isn’t a man in the world who wouldn’t swap a strong face for a head of hair. Ford ran a series of snappy rejoinders all of which sounded flat. Oh tonight, he’d have a veritable trove of crisp replies. He said, “You’re all in it, are yah? Firing on all cylinders I mean?”