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

“Tell you the truth Ford, I don’t think we can bring you.”

He could have smiled. I mean, a bit of levity was fairly vital here. But he didn’t and it wasn’t something he felt he’d regret.

“Say something Ford, any god-damn thing.”

“Good-bye?”

“Ford, I like you a whole lot, for reasons you’d never even realize. But... Bottom line time: Cecil is rich and I like being rich. I like it a lot! Your mentor, Scott Fitz, ‘The rich are different from you and me.’ Well, babe, I’m with them. I like the difference.”

“Daisy had the sound of money in her voice,” Ford muttered. The gin was making him sick. Worse, maudlin.

“That kind of stuff Ford. You won ninety pounds on a horse and thought you were loaded. I’m talking gold credit cards and Gucci toothbrushes.”

“Toothbrushes!” thought Ford. “She’s hoppin’ on my heart and talking toothbrushes!” He said, “I was rich that day I met you.”

“Jeez, don’t get poetic on me Ford. Not when I’m swiggin’ gin. We had a good time, kiddo. Hell, a great time, but, I mean, was it love?”

She paused, then said, “I always wanted to ask you something...”

“Better ask now while I’m in such a carefree phase,” he said.

“Vikki — did you love her?”

Ford walloped a measure of gin and wondered if the truth mattered. He’d once heard Sean Connery say on TV, “Tell the truth and then it’s their problem.” Worth a shot.

“I loved her because she loved me.”

Grace was silent. She didn’t order any more to drink and Ford didn’t think he’d ever order another gin. He said, to break the silence, “Did I ever tell you that the very meaning of the word ‘Grace’ is ’a free gift’?”

She liked that. He didn’t even have to look at her to know how pleased she was. She prepared to leave and handed him a bag with Tower Records splurged on it. A record, per chance?

“It’s Waylon,” she said.

“Who else?”

“You keep sketching, Ford, O.K.?” She turned to go.

“Grace.”

“Yes?”

“You be careful out there... And that’s from Hill Street Blues .”

He thought, “God mind you well” as she walked out. Not that he would have said that. But oh, how he meant it. She won’t look back, he bet, and this at least Ford got right.

The barman said, “You all right?”

“Yea... Thanks.”

“Anything else?”

“Got any sour mash?”

Ford felt he should stay a bit after her departure. Like about a week. In the while, the pain subsided and he knew he had some decisions to reach. He decided to start smoking again and what else? Right. Buy Marlboro. Pity he hadn’t a zippo.

It was time to leave when he asked a guy where the best place to buy hand-tooled cowboy boots was. He frequently considered sketching what it was he’d left behind there. Close his eyes and he could see it. The bar counter, a mess of glasses and the Tower Records bag. What eased the vision was the half empty box of Marlboro standing upright. Red, white and vivid against the gaudy yellow. As yet he hadn’t bought a zippo. The cowboy boots he put down to a passing whim. No more than that. Nothing but a passing fancy.

The very next day Ford caught a snatch of conversation he was to rate among his absolute favourites. This would top his collection. Hungover! He was knocking on heaven’s door. The phantom orchestras were full tilt boogie in his head. A cure... He’d have to have something before he appeared at work. Purely medicinal. The early morning houses at Smithfield. Have to be.

The pub was jammed with market traders. Maybe he’d turn his life completely round and party in the mornings. These people looked robust and... Good-lord! Alive! Back home, early pubs had the silence and sanctity of church, till later when the cures kicked home.

A large vodka with tonic. Oh God, was he seriously going to drink this? Weren’t there people in the greater London area who leaped to the day and said, “I’m going to have a fry-up for breakfast. Runny eggs, fat sausages...” A jolt of nausea straightened him. O.K., here goes. With both hands trembling he got the glass to his mouth. Tilt the head preferably and slide the sucker down. He did and it did. A-a-rg... God on a bicycle! Ah, it’s down... No, here it’s back... No, oh please. And miraculously it settled. He saw lights and heard tongues. Buckets of sweat blinded him and ran down his arms. This was fun? He hadn’t had such pleasure since those root canal sessions. The world changed, the Promised Land arrived. His heart ceased its mad fandango, the sweat evaporated and, was it possible, he felt pretty good. Might even have him another one of them vodkas, skip the tonic, bit gassy for his palate.

Thus a merry Ford heard a woman say to some guy — they were sitting to his left and he daren’t risk a sudden turn. This new found health was too precious to squander on curiosity. She was saying, “Oh yea, I know all about you little guys. Come for just a little drink. Then, honestly, just a little sex,” she paused and Ford could hear the sheer exasperation.

“Then there’s a little baby and guess what ? You’re a little hard to find.”

Ford wanted to howl. Howling was not a good idea despite the vodka whispering, “No, no, go on. It’s O.K. Howling’s good. Go on, howl a bit.” He knew what happened to guys who howled in pubs. Next stop, the House of Confusion and white T-shirts... with straps. Wasn’t he a social worker! God, work! To quote Grace, he better haul ass. See, see how mellow he was, he could think, “Grace”. O.K. Odd, though, he didn’t much want to howl now. He in fact hauled ass, albeit carefully.

Before quitting time at work, Neville said, “A word before you depart.”

“Whoops,” thought Ford, “on your bike time.”

His final client of the day was a young, black girl. Ford found himself staring for just that too long moment.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

“No... No, well, you’ve a gorgeous face.”

She looked startled, then nearly pleased and settled on sad.

A diagnosis had found her to be an H.I.V. carrier. Unaffected herself, she carried the killer now. Ford was completely lost. He gave her the name of an Aids counsellor and some meaningless patter.

“Can I come to see you too?” she asked.

“Why,” he thought, and said, “of course.”

She was called Isobel and, this being South East London, she was know as Belle. Ford knew for whom the bell was tolling and hated himself for the flippancy. He didn’t know what else to think. He said, “I’ll see you soon.” Ah, the wisdom of the ages.

Neville put a folder aside and said, “I need your help and — er — guidance.”

“Sure,” said a stunned Ford.

“The local authority insist we recruit a field worker, someone with street credibility.”

“In other words, they don’t need academic qualifications.”

“Exactly. You’ve delved to the core of the situation. Social work has a very poor public image just now, so we need to get to the people.”

“Before the people get to us,” Ford mused.

“Any ideas?”

Ford hadn’t. “I haven’t,” he said.

“Well, okey-dokey, let me put this scenario before you. How about your chum Mr. Dalton?”

Ford nearly fell off the chair. Chum!

“Dalton?” he croaked.

“I feel he may perhaps be that rough diamond we need.”

“Well,” said Ford, “they don’t come much rougher.”

“Excellent. Might I prevail upon you to broach the subject with him and for him to drop in for an informal chat?”

“Watch your wallet,” thought Ford.

After he left Neville, he felt again as if he’d just been immersed in The Guardian . He didn’t think he’d file these conversations amongst the gems, rough diamonds notwithstanding.