The Big O (A Screwball Noir)

by Declan Burke

  ‘I can wait,’ Frank offered, finishing up. ‘Until you get here.’

  ‘Christ, no. Just leave the car keys at Reception. I’ll pick them up there.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Certain. Please.’

  Relieved, Frank hung up and then rang Genevieve to ask her to collect him at the hospital. Gen just banged the phone down. Didn’t even ask, Frank reflected bitterly as he waited for a cab, was Frank okay, or who was hurt. So they argued about that when he got in, and then they had a row about Frank wanting to stay home.

  ‘On a Friday night?’ Gen said. ‘You’re kidding.’

  ‘I’ve had a long day,’ Frank pleaded.

  ‘Me too, waiting for it to get to Friday night. Besides, you left the Merc out at Oakwood. So you need to pick it up.’

  He had two stiff belts of bourbon waiting for Gen to get dressed, pacing his study, unable to sit still. Trying to convince himself it wasn’t a bad omen, Doug shipping a stray Slazenger. Then, as the bourbon filtered through, the bad omen became karma, bouncing back on Doug for trying to play it cute with Frank over the insurance forms.

  Frank wondering, with everything that was coming down the pike – divorce, the Medical Ethics Committee, inevitable bankruptcy – if someone wasn’t trying to tell him something.

  Like, how it might be coming time to bolt.

  The phone rang. ‘The Dolan residence,’ Frank announced. ‘Doctor Dolan speaking.’

  ‘This Frank?’

  ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘You have the twenty? The good faith?’

  Frank harrumphed clearing his throat. ‘Um, not exactly.’

  ‘Then no deal. Take care, Frank.’

  ‘I thought,’ Frank said quickly, ‘that you could stump up the good faith, if required.’

  ‘Why the fuck would we put up our own good faith, Frank? Kind of defeats the purpose, don’tcha think?’

  ‘Well, yes, now you mention it. But ––’

  ‘Can you get it?’

  ‘Sure, yeah. Probably.’

  ‘It’s a simple question, Frank. Yes or no?’

  ‘It’s, ah, being arranged.’

  ‘For when?’

  ‘Monday morning, first thing. And once I get it, I can drop it off anywhere you want.’

  ‘That’s real generous, Frank. But we’ll probably just drop around to the office and pick it up there.’

  ‘The office?’

  ‘The surgery. Where you have your office. We wouldn’t want to, y’know, put you out or anything. Then, once we know you’re serious, someone’ll call to confirm.’

  ‘Confirm? Confirm what?’

  ‘That you understand how, if anything goes wrong, it all fucks up or for some reason or other doesn’t happen, we still clear the good faith.’

  Frank swallowed hard, bourbon thick on the back of his throat. ‘You get twenty grand for doing nothing?’

  ‘We got expenses, Frank. We got the guy doing the snatch, we got transport, we got logistics. You want to take care of all that, okay. Just say the word and you can go ahead and snatch your own wife.’

  ‘She’s my ex-wife,’ Frank said, desperate to retain a sliver of dignity.

  ‘I give a fuck if she’s your x-rated porno flick, Frank. You make a commitment to us, welch out on the deal, it’s ’til death do you part. We clear on this?’

  ‘Crystal.’

  The phone clicked dead. Frank built another bourbon, three fingers in honour of Doug, the bottle clicking against the rim of the glass. He poured it down fast before going to the study door and calling upstairs: ‘Gen? Baby? If you want to leave it for just another hour, we might make it out to Oakwood in time for breakfast. I hear they do muffins.’

  Gen strolled out of the bedroom, still in her bra and panties, the lime-green thong-and-push-up combo. Leaned on the balcony railing, sucked the tip of a middle finger, flipped it at Frank and sashayed back into the bedroom.

  Frank shrugged and went back to the wet bar, poured another couple of fingers and sipped it slow, thinking, okay, Doug’ll be fine, the intern on ER is just taking precautions, covering his ass. Monday Frank’d get Doug to sign the insurance forms, then wait for the half million to roll in.

  And then, fuck it, Frank had always liked the idea of captaining a yacht through the Caribbean. He’d often thought about setting up practice on an island not too far from Florida, all the rich Jews flying in for cheap surgery, some island where they’d never heard of any fucking Medical Ethics Committee.

  Haiti, maybe. Frank liked the name, Port-au-Prince, the way it just rolled off his tongue.

  Ray

  Ray cracked a beer and settled in on the couch, watched some Simpsons and then a DVD, Blood Simple. What he liked about that was how long it took Marty to die, the realism, the guy shot and then buried alive, being battered with the spade. Ray in his time had seen two men die and neither went easy, one guy gut-shot, Ray still had nightmares once in a while hearing the glugging screams.

  When the movie was over Ray got the Tindersticks going on the stereo, the TV still on, the sound down. He opened another beer and stripped the Glock, cleaning and oiling, building it back up, dry-firing. Then he flicked through the channels, wound up, sitting in on a Friday night, it wasn’t natural.

  Over the Tindersticks he heard the distant whizz-bang-crack of fireworks going off, a sad sound, the only way the kids could make themselves heard. It put Ray in mind of the time he’d seen this graffiti, the word ‘sex’ scrawled on a wall, that single stark word – Christ, how frustrated would you need to be?

  Ray trying to distract himself from his main concern, whether Karen’d been feeding him a line when she said she was tired, didn’t want to go three-for-three. Then thought about lunch, wincing as he remembered, shit, telling Karen about getting his arm broke three years in a row. Once, okay, maybe even twice would have bought him some oohs and aahs. Three made Ray a victim: a six-stone weakling, Karen’d called him. A loser, some bully’s toe-rag.

  He drank another beer, working it around, how maybe he’d let it all out because he felt he owed her something: Karen telling him about her father, the fork, all that shit. Laying herself open but getting the message through, how no one fucks with Karen.

  Ray’d heard that one loud and clear. One thing he took pride in, why he did well in the Rangers, got his stripes, was no one had to tell Ray anything twice. Like the first time he ever heard the Tindersticks, he got it, Staples really pouring it on now in that quavery, heart-broke voice. Although, it wasn’t so much the words as the way he sung them. What Ray got from Staples’ voice was, when it came to women, you took that little bubble of joy for what it was, for as long as it ran, and when it was over you sucked your bitter little heart dry of the poison and started over fresh again….

  He cracked another beer but didn’t touch it, still edgy, winding up tight inside. Needing to get out, maybe take a drive.

  Three minutes later he was behind the wheel, Bruce on the stereo singing about yet another Mary, Ray humming along. Heading across town with the vague idea of running a little drive-by recon past the surgeon’s ex-wife’s place, see how the lay-out looked, if there was anything unusual he’d need to know, one-way streets, shit like that.

  Curious, too, about the swimming pool. These days everyone but Ray had a pool.

  Karen

  Karen poured the last of the wine and watched Julia slap some guy’s face then smile and cry at the same time, the guy with a look like he was only now hearing about Julia’s fee.

  ‘Fiona had this guy around,’ Madge said, ‘he’s doing her downstairs.’

  Karen giggled. Madge caught on. ‘I mean,’ she said, ‘he’s redecorating the place. Like a makeover? She says he’s cute, has buns of steel, a sexy voice. Not her type, though, he’s too skinny.’ Madge snorted. ‘Not her type. It was wearing a Rolex, Fiona’d get up on a carrot.’

  ‘You’re thinking of redecorating?’ Karen said.

  ‘Maybe,’ Madge s
aid, considering. ‘With the divorce going through, I don’t mind telling you, I could do with a good cheer-me-up.’

  ‘A coat of paint’s going to cheer you up?’

  ‘Tight buns up a ladder, Kar – that’ll cheer me up.’

  ‘Ray paints, decorates. Has nice buns too.’

  ‘Oh yeah? Because Fiona said, her guy didn’t leave his number.’

  ‘Then that’s him. That’s Ray.’

  ‘Now I’m definitely having the place done. Does he bring his own ladders or will he need me to, y’know, hold a chair for him?’

  Karen was about to retort that a chair’d be the only wood Madge’d be holding with Ray around when she realised she didn’t know if Ray had ladders or maybe screwed his clients as part of the makeover. Realised she knew practically nothing about Ray except he liked rock ‘n’ roll and didn’t give out his number, drove a Transit van. She wondered if she hadn’t been a bit previous earlier, telling Madge about Ray’s tigery glints, the butterfly tornado over lunch.

  ‘Hon?’ Madge said. ‘You okay?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m fine. Just tired. It’s been a long day.’ Plus it was in the post, her moods were overdue. Karen suddenly feeling weepy, quivery.

  ‘Frank giving you a hard time?’

  ‘No worse than usual. Although, he’s getting frisky again.’

  ‘Maybe you’ll be getting another raise soon,’ Madge teased.

  ‘No offence, Madge, but I’d rather go down on you.’

  ‘Can’t say as I blame you. Does he still make that snuffling sound when he’s about to come?’

  ‘Seriously, Madge, I’d rather not think about it.’ Karen wondering where Ray might be, what he was doing on a Friday night. ‘I think I’ll head for home,’ she said. ‘I’ve a lot on tomorrow.’

  ‘Want a lift?’

  ‘You’re stoned. I’ll ring a cab.’

  ‘I’ll let you play with the stereo.’

  Karen giggled. ‘Okay by me.’

  Ray

  Ray didn’t much like tree-lined streets, leafy avenues, all that middle-class crapola: three seasons a year they’ll cut down your sight-lines, narrow your field of vision. Then, in winter, the leaves are lying all over, damp and rotting, making it dangerous for a man who might need take corners faster than maybe he should.

  So Ray wasn’t too impressed with Larkhill Mews, lined on both sides with sycamores meshing overhead.

  Ray rolled down the avenue in third thinking, okay, it’s worse than we thought but this is good to know. Putting some spin on it, looking at it from the other end, how narrowed sight-lines would apply to everyone, not just Ray. Trying to judge, as he cruised Margaret Dolan’s five-bed semi-d, glancing up the driveway, how near someone would need to be to the front gate before they could know for sure something was happening up there that maybe shouldn’t be happening.

  He turned left at the bottom of the avenue, drove around the block, cruised Larkhill Mews again; pulled in opposite the driveway, had a good look, noting details. The drive gravelled and curving up and away to his right behind a high laurel hedge. A Chrysler Crossfire – a sweet three-door coupé with, if Ray wasn’t mistaken, double-wishbone front suspension, the six-speed manual shift – a Crossfire parked near the front door, reversed into position beside three shallow steps leading up to a glassed-in porch.

  Ray sat there scribbling notes, the avenue quiet, no traffic, no pedestrians; thinking, okay, other than the trees, it’s not so bad.

  Then the Crossfire swung out of the driveway, wobbling slightly on the left turn, its headlights flaring to strafe Ray before he had time to duck.

  Karen

  ‘So what’s on tomorrow it’s such a big day?’ Madge said.

  ‘I’m taking Ray to see Anna,’ Karen said, still fiddling with the stereo.

  ‘Oh yeah?’

  Karen wondering, Christ, what was wrong with her? First pouring it out to Madge about Ray, then seeing weird flashes of Ray in the headlights, some guy minding his own business sitting out in his car, maybe fighting with his wife.

  And now, from nowhere, some half-stoned delusion or perverse instinct, talking about bringing Ray to see Anna.

  ‘I thought you liked him,’ Madge said quietly.

  Karen tapped her fingers on her knee, a Smiths number on the radio, Panic, how appropriate was that? Seeing Ray again as Morrissey, the fringe that was nearly a quiff ….

  ‘Kar?’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ Karen said firmly, ‘I find out if I like him.’

  Rossi

  Still hard, it had to be some kind of record, six hours now and still no sign of relief. Rossi peeing up the wall behind a stand of some bamboo-looking oriental crap in front of Karen’s apartment block, wondering if he shouldn’t contact the Guinness Book of Records, see how long he needed to keep it hard to qualify.

  Plus, while he was on, he could be asking about the pee-height record, he had to be hitting six feet at least. Then realised, shit, there’d probably be tests for performance-enhancing drugs, urine samples, all this. Rossi with a few smokes on was good to go all night.

  Although, Rossi wasn’t smoking any more until he saw Karen and laid it out: the cash, the bike, the .44 – just hand them over. Playing it cool, laidback, the way he’d run it with Marsha, asking her nice, do what I want and no one gets hurt.

  Rossi still peeing, hitting four feet now, the stream easing off.

  It was times like these, trying times, when Rossi drew on his heritage, the Sicilians. Those old guys, Rossi knew, wouldn’t bitch about having to wait around a couple of hours. The Sicilians could wait up in the hills for years, sitting around polishing their shotguns and growing beards they wouldn’t shave off until honour had been avenged.

  Rossi, humming some James Brown – Payback – didn’t hear the metallic screech of the security gates. So the first he knew of Karen’s arrival was headlights flashing across the stand of bamboo, which caused Rossi to instinctively zip up, thus snagging his erection in his fly.

  The only consolation there was that he could hear ABBA’s Super Trouper booming muffled from the car, a grey Crossfire that crunched to a halt on the gravel just as Rossi came down knees-first on the chopped bark behind the bamboo.

  Which meant they probably didn’t hear him scream.

  Karen

  Karen went through to the kitchen and put the kettle on, made some instant de-caff, brought it into the living room.

  She checked the phone, which told her she had two messages; punched in her code and heard the Rossi alert, the cop sounding dry and practical, advising Karen to contact her at her first opportunity.

  Karen thought it was a strange phrase, ‘her first opportunity’, like they were hoping she didn’t get tied to any chairs before she had a chance to use the phone.

  Then, it was always the way, she heard her mobile chirrup from her bag, cutting across the detective’s voice. She hung up and dug out the mobile, checked the caller ID, but it was just a number flashing. She picked up, thinking, if this is Rossi I’ll fucking ––

  ‘Hello?’ she said.

  Then, it was always the way, the doorbell rang.

  Rossi

  Rossi was impressed. Sicilian it was, the way he caught the Crossfire’s tags even from on his knees behind the stand of bamboo with a zipper lodged in the fleshy undercarriage of his rapidly shrinking shaft.

  The moment passed. Then came the panic, the searing pain, a warm stickiness that could only mean one thing.

  Rossi buckled, keeled over and lay on his side, sobbing but still careful not to squash the box of Belgian truffles. The very idea horrified him, but somehow he managed to squeeze a hand inside his belt, cup his marbles and relieve some of the pressure; then, the warm stickiness in the palm of his hand spurring him on, Rossi made it back up onto his knees and hauled himself to his feet.

  He lurched across the parking lot, slow.

  Leaning against the wall, summoning the strength, the courage, to reach up and buzz Karen’s intercom
, Rossi thought about the old guys sitting up in the hills and how they’d never had to deal with a ripped undercarriage. Hunched over, shivering, Rossi just hoped his ancestors weren’t looking down on from, where, Rossi didn’t know, Sicilia or some shit ….

  Another agonising jab ripped through his shaft. Rossi sagged at the knees, slumping against the lobby door, streaking the glass bloody and screaming: ‘Kaaaaaa-ren!’

  Ray

  Ray was so intent on watching the driver’s side when the Crossfire’s interior light went on that he missed the passenger getting out. He watched the Crossfire all the way to the security gates, getting ready to follow, when something about the way the passenger moved came to him.

  Some kind of gesture, that was it, the way she waved into the Crossfire as she closed the door. Ray’s gaze came back to the apartment block, watching as the passenger fiddled in her pockets, shadowed, standing directly beneath the porch light.

  And then he stopped looking at the passenger, took a look at the apartment block instead. Thinking, no fucking way….

  Watching the Crossfire roll up towards the roundabout, Ray cursed his sloppiness, how he hadn’t recognised the apartment block straight off. Okay, so he’d had no reason to expect the ex-wife was heading for Karen’s place, and Karen had always been coming from the other direction, out of town, when bringing him home. Still, Ray knew he should have copped it earlier.

  Knew too, the first sign of a guy on the slide is he starts believing his own excuses. But what the fuck was Karen doing with the ex-wife?

  It was too much of a coincidence. Ray could smell it, a set-up.

  He got the Transit in gear, checked his mirrors, the Crossfire hitting the roundabout. Ray hoping the ex-wife’s next port of call might clue him in as to what Karen might be planning. Then, rolling off, Ray jammed on, tyres squealing; reversed back to where he could see the apartment block and the hunched-over guy he’d caught in the rear-view, now easing himself up the apartment block steps.