by Tony Black
But then lawyer daddy spoke up. 'I believe you have a letter of mine, if I may have it returned I w-would be most grateful.'
Eddie went to the dresser where he kept the letter. He returned to the lawyer, slowly taking the document from its manila envelope, then he presented it: brown streaks of his own shit lined the length of the page.
Slowly, trembling, the lawyer accepted the offering. He stared at it for a moment and then tore it with his teeth and began to chew on it.
'All the way down,' said Eddie.
'Y-yes, yes of course.'
'Eat shit!' said Eddie, smiling, 'Eat shit, you motherfucker.'
I Want Candy
I'd been working homicide for twenty years, but this kind of thing, you just didn't see every day.
'It's the pits, Jake.'
'The pits, that's it, that's what you got for me?'
Billy's mouth dropped, but I wasn't finished.
'A pregnant woman, hacked to death with her child cut out of her, the strays in the alley eating her guts ... and that's all you've got to say?'
'Jake, I ...'
'Forget about it!' I hit out, could have taken down a wall with that one.
Billy didn't see it coming. Fell on the asphalt and shook his head. He got up and walked, grimaced and flashed hurt blue eyes as he spat blood at me.
Two days later they took me off the case. The next week it was my badge they took.
Now I'm doing security in a 7-Eleven in Buffalo. Earning minimum wage and sending half of it back to my ex-wife upstate. You'd think life couldn't get any worse. But, maybe I was the guy lying in the gutter looking at the stars.
****
'Jake! Jake! Get your goat-smelling ass out here.'
I swear that bastard tries to bigfoot me one more time, I'm popping' a cap in his wide old ass. I walk through to the front counter, with the Irish in me rising like a rain cloud.
'You want something, Mr Delago?'
''Course I damn well want something. Think I'm hollering for my health? Help this lady out with her groceries would you ... And put them in the trunk, too.'
He turned that greasy head of his towards her, spat out one of those lousy piranha smirks of his: 'Always glad to help a lady,' he said, adding slyly, 'especially one so fine.'
Delago got a smile back, but her eyes were on the roll of meat spilling over his belt. 'Much obliged to you, kind sir,' she said, turning tail and wiggling her ass at us both.
Please. I mean, was anyone still falling for this Daisy Duke shit? I slung arms around the groceries and followed her out.
'I'm the Caddy,' she said, smiling, 'pink one.'
I nodded and headed off in the direction of the shiny phallus, trimmed in chrome. All the while I could feel her eyeballing me, as she rolled a cherry liquorice between her lips.
'You look like you've been working out there, fella.'
I'd heard all the lines, but most times, I hadn't been on the receiving end of them. As I popped the trunk I felt her hand stray onto my hip and knew I'd scored for sure. Perhaps this wasn't going to be such a hard stretch.
****
I didn't tell Candy about my having been a cop.
'This place sucks,' she said.
'What do you expect? The sign outside says Rooms by the Hour.'
'We should've went to the Holiday Inn, at least they've got a pool.'
I sat up, reached for my pack of Luckies on the bed-stand. 'I didn't know you wanted more exercise.'
She smiled at me, climbed on top and stuck her hooters out like a cowgirl at a rodeo. 'Give it to me.'
'Honey, you're going to kill me.'
'The smoke, wise-ass.'
I could tell she was restless. Always that look in her eye, darting off somewhere, searching for the next big adventure. Shit, that was the last thing I needed dragged along on, I'd way too much on my mind.
'I've got to get back to the city,' she said.
'New York?'
'Of course, where else?' She rolled off and parted her legs in the birthing position as she blew smoke-rings to the ceiling. 'This place hasn't got any action. And I need action.'
I took back my smoke. 'You're not a big hometown girl, are you?'
'Shit no, I outgrew Buffalo long ago ... I'm here because I have to be.'
'And why's that?'
She slit her eyes as she stared at me, changing tack again. 'You're a city boy, don't you miss the action?'
'This suits me fine. The less action the better.'
'Horseshit!' She sat up, shook the bed as she threw back her long blonde hair, 'You're just like me ... you're primed.'
'Get out of here.'
Candy got up and jumped on the bed like it was a trampoline. My Lucky went flying and I landed on my ass, staring up at her from the floor as she stomped up and down like a five-year-old. 'Jake, I'm gonna rock your world,' she yelled.
I didn't doubt it.
****
Onetime there wasn't much could butter my muffin, but these days, I'm not doing too good keeping a lid on it all. Say what you like about me, and some have said plenty, but what sets me burning is the injustice of this world.
Delago was riding me: 'Jake, Goddamn, how many times? How many times? Get that fucking deadwood away from the dumpsters.'
He was talking about the winos. Most were there because they couldn't help themselves. But the point was missed on Delago.
'Have I got to get a bat and break their fucking heads myself?' he said, pointing at me with the chocolate shake he'd brought back from his second trip to Wendy's today.
I held it together by a thread. 'Mr Delago, what you're proposing goes against the law.'
'Against the law ... hold on, remind me when you got out of Harvard Law School, Jake ... Huh, c'mon, remind me.'
'I'm only saying ...'
He cut me off, waddled over and slapped a wet paw on my face, 'You ain't saying nothing, you'll do as ...'
I tried counting to ten — by now I knew I had serious anger issues — but I only got as far as two.
I took Delago's shake in my hand and squeezed so hard a chocolate-coloured volcano erupted all over him. His eyes turned black. He threw down the cup. There was words, loud words, but they bounced off my back as I walked.
The sight of the winos scattering made me look around. I spotted Candy at the edge of the lot, blonde hair blowing wild as she leaned on the fire escape, sucking down a can of Sprite.
'Now, I know you're ready for some action,' she hollered.
****
Does everyone become what they despise? My father had asked me that in high school. He probably had a reason, some incident, some mistake I'd made, whatever it was I didn't remember it now.
'Just sit tight honey-pie,' she said, 'and when you see me come running round that corner, you gun that motherfucker till she screams, y'hear?'
I heard alright. I just didn't have the words. Dropped a vague nod.
'Good boy.' Candy leaned over, placed her wet red lips on my cheek and smiled. 'You'll do just fine.'
As she left, her aroma lingered in the Caddy. That French perfume she wore, the smell of her hair, her scent. She was the whole package for sure. And right to think that most men would do anything for her. She wrapped them around her little finger to get what she wanted. She was used to getting what she wanted, regardless of the consequences.
The bank was two blocks from where we'd parked. The back way out led right onto the alley where I sat drumming my fingers on the wheel — like a teenager hot to take the family sedan for a first spin. Time was lost to me. Could have been a half-hour, could have been minutes. But I was so keyed when I heard the gunshots, I had to open the door and heave my guts on the sidewalk.
This was serious. What the hell was I doing?
I tried to fix my thoughts, get in line. But I was shaking so hard I couldn't make the engine bite. Then I saw Candy, running.
'Start the fucking car!' she yelled.
I couldn't get my hands to
work.
'Start the motherfucking car!'
I don't know where it came from but I found a thin dime's worth of cool, suddenly the Cadillac purred to life and I made those tyres screech louder than bush pigs fucking.
Candy dived through the nearside window and waved me to burn the road up: 'Get the fuck out of here.'
I heard the sirens now, saw the Mars lights speeding along the highway. I turned through the alleys. There was a drill for these things. I knew what the cops would be doing. I just had to hold in my guts and drive, slow and steady.
'What the fuck was wrong with you back there?' said Candy, climbing into the front seat and checking on the loot.
'I don't know.'
'You don't fucking know, no shit! That's exactly right.'
'Look, I ...'
'Don't go saying sorry to me, you know I hate men who say sorry. Man, you're one fucking candyass bastard to be taking along on a job.' She seethed with white-hot anger.
'I ...'
'Enough already. I told you, didn't I tell you?'
She was hyped, madder than hell, the adrenaline twisting her face. I hardly recognised her now. Truth told, I hated this person and what she'd got me into; even if my intentions were pure.
She turned on me. 'Man, you are one weak bastard, Jake ... I should have known better. That was nearly a repeat of NY, I didn't have you down as a Lottie Tanner, no I didn't.'
That name sang like a pay cheque to me. 'Who?'
'The bitch on my last job, turned yellow on me, wanted to split before we sealed the deal ... She got hers.'
I looked at Candy, she had a twisted smile as she counted the cash, 'How?' I said, my voice a soft plea.
She turned to me, wiped off the smile. I swear that look in her eye came closer to evil than I'd ever seen. 'I carved her.' She made a slashing move with her arm. 'But I still delivered, I got the job done.'
Candy looked back down at the cash, her mouth counting out the reams of bills.
'That name, Lottie Tanner ...'
'Yeah.'
'Think I might have heard it before.'
'Oh, really ...'
'Yeah, she came from Buffalo didn't she?'
Candy looked up, her tone rose higher. 'You knew Lottie?'
'Only of her. And only professionally.'
'What the hell are you saying, Jake?'
'She was my last case.' I looked her in the eye. 'I was a cop ... some days I think I still am.'
Candy's lip twitched. I saw her reaching into the bag for her Colt but my foot was already on the brake. Her head hit the windshield like a ten-pin strike.
I stopped the car. Leaned over to Candy, put her hands behind her back and took off my belt to tie them.
The words felt worth the wait, the work I'd put in. 'Time for a trip downtown, honey.'
###
THE LOST GENERATION
A lonely ex-pat in Paris finds himself acting out of character when a beautiful but troubled young woman walks into his meaningless work-fuelled existence in The Lost Generation, whilst an ex-con takes matters into his own hands when a bullying boss targets his new inamorata in Take it Outside; both stories feature in this new collection of short fiction by Irvine Welsh's 'favourite British crime writer', Tony Black. See a recent school-leaver react against the rigours of the workplace in First Day in the Job and witness the drug-addled descent into madness of a man forced to take the only job in a town peopled by junkies in Too Cool for School. These stories are collected here for the first time in an 8,000-word anthology. First Day in the Job originally appeared in Northwords Magazine whilst the rest of the collection featured in Demolition Magazine and the American anthology, Dicked.
The Lost Generation
The Lost Generation
First Day in the Job
Take it Outside
Too Cool for School
The Lost Generation
It was an old bar in the quarter Parisians no longer frequented. On the walls hung pictures of sporting heroes from across the Atlantic; baseball players and heavyweight boxers of the thirties and forties that no one remembered now, but that had once been popular enough to summon an air of nostalgia for lonely ex-pats. It was a place not quite for the Lost Generation, but for those who had heard of them and fell for the romance of the era. It certainly seemed out of time; maybe that's why I liked it so much.
I saw her come in and order herself a Pernod from the bar. She was not tall, but of that height where heels will help a woman's stature. She wore her sleek black hair loose on her shoulders and tucked a long stray tendril behind her left ear as the barman handed her some change. She stared at the few coins, momentarily, like she wondered what they were, then swiftly removed them to her coat pocket. It was then that her eyes caught mine.
She had dark eyes, round and black, with a penetrating stare that came not from an interest in life but more an anguish with its tribulations. I couldn't say she looked tormented, but the jerkiness of her movements made me think she wasn't far from it. She seemed to shiver and sway a little – appeared uneasy out in the open – as she reached out a hand to steady herself on the bar-counter.
I have never been confident, or even competent, in my dealings with the opposite sex. There is no particular reason for this; I am not an unattractive man, but I am not the sort given to easy entanglements either. Stories my friends or colleagues have told me of torrid mid-afternoon couplings with strangers picked up in the Jardin des Plantes or a Montparnasse tabac are wholly alien to me. I do not live that way and never have. All my affairs of the heart have been just that – heartfelt. I need to know there is more than an animal instinct at work.
When I came to Paris it was for work – I am a low-caste engineer – but I stayed for Marie. When that particular entanglement had run its course I stayed for my other love – the city itself. I have never regretted it, though have often wondered why I stayed alone.
The black-haired woman turned embarrassedly when she saw that I was assessing her. I felt a pin pushed in my heart when those dark eyes were removed from mine but I brushed the impulse away, just like the glint of desire I felt. I was not the type of man to stare wantonly at women in bars. For a moment I returned to my newspaper – a story about suburban decay – but I soon felt my gaze rising from the pages to follow the woman once more. She had turned from me and started to walk back the way she had come in – towards the door. She seemed to be looking for someone, waiting. Her features firmed, became pensive, and then she raised her Pernod to her lips and drained a good third of the glass in one draught.
I was still watching her as she moved towards me, her sharp heels clicking on the hardwood floor. She walked briskly, always those dark eyes burning into me. What did they say? I could not answer, only knew they stoked my curiosity in the strangest way, a way I had not felt before.
I first met Marie in a bar; not one like this, however. She worked then for one of those large American conglomerates who seemed to trail the world looking for reasons to acquire new businesses. A hotel on the Boulevard Haussmann had been the firm's latest purchase and Alcatel-Lucent – my employers – had been tasked with providing the company's telecommunications equipment. We drank fabulous coffee in the luxurious surroundings and Marie told me about her upbringing in Idaho. She missed the open space; Paris felt oppressive for her. I could see, even then, that she was ambitious; the fact that she was also the type to succumb to homesickness seemed strange to me – it was as if two contradictory parts of her nature were competing. My then limited experience told me the stronger instinct had to win out; I could not conceive of the presence of both in one individual. I was that naive with Marie.
'You must help me.' It was her, the dark-haired woman. She put her glass down on my table, the ice rattled and some liquid escaped the brim, ran down the edge of the tumbler.
I knew my mouth had drooped, I felt my breath stilled. I fought for some words but none of significance came, just an atavistic drawl.
'What
? I mean, what's wrong?'
She rounded the table and sat. She knew my French was not native and she spoke again, in English. 'You look like a good man to me.' Her thin brows lifted. 'I need your help.'
I put down my paper at once. There was a part of me that did not want to be a good man – as I stared at her I saw she was even more beautiful at close quarters. I guessed her age to be early thirties, there were fine radial lines around the corners of her eyes but the rest of her skin was clear, young-looking.
'Please ...' She stole a glance towards the door as a man walked into the bar.
He was rangy, wearing a tight-fitting, double-breasted jacket. For a second or two the barman appraised him – they exchanged nods – then the rangy man looked up and down the bar. He thinned his grey eyes when he spotted the woman at my side.
'Please ...' she said softly. I felt my hand gripped under the table. I turned, and at once fell into her dark stare. My mind whirled as I tried to grasp this predicament, but all thought was soon drowned out by the heavy footfalls I heard pacing towards our table.
This was Paris, a city I loved and knew well; well enough to know that its quotient of madmen and carousers was high. Did I want to get involved in these strangers' pas de deux? Did I want to read about my involvement in yet another of the city's many torrid street crimes in tomorrow's Figaro? I had only come in for a quiet drink, an escape from my small, deux-pièces apartment. I led a simple life: I worked; I ate; I slept. I did not, as a rule, defend damsels in distress. I was a sales engineer, by God, not a white knight.
'Who in the hell is he?' the rangy man spoke broken French; my new companion replied in what sounded like a language of the east, Bulgarian perhaps. I quickly became lost in their volatile exchange, only the flaring of eyes and shaking of heads allowing any insight into the talk. She was calm, more composed than she looked at first, but he was a hot-blooded type, eager to anger. He spoke quickly, scarring the air with his brisk gestures. As his face coloured and sweat pustules sat out on his broad, flat forehead an unhealthy agitation overcame his speech. The volume of the man's voice rose, the woman looked away; at first she turned to me, but then we both espied the barman taking an interest. He put down the glass he polished with a white towel and strolled to our end of the bar.
