Her Last Call to Louis MacNeice

by Ken Bruen

‘Whoa – hold the phones lady.’

  She was up, took my hand and put it on her breast, said, ‘Hold this.’

  I pushed her away and her voice dropped to a whisper.

  ‘You don’t want me?’

  ‘Look Cassie, you’re a hot lady but this isn’t a real good time – OK.’

  ‘It’s because I lost my little girl, isn’t it. You’re punishing me.’

  I stood up, ‘For heaven’s sake, I’m real sorry about that. I’m trying to be fair, I’m not going to hassle you about all the other crazy shit. Just leave now and we’ll let it be.’

  ‘I think I see her, you know, on the street and I chase after her – or on a bus – or…’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘But I have a good report that she’s in Agadir.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Morocco. Her father was from Kif.’

  ‘I thought that was Keith Richards’ nickname.’

  ‘It’s a village in the Blue Atlas Mountains, they specialize in hash. I know he now lives in Agadir, a P.I. says he’s ninety percent sure.’

  ‘A private investigator?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve had dozens of them. Will you come – will you come and help me get her back.’

  ‘I don’t believe this. You can’t just go down there on a vague report – can’t you get Interpol to check.’

  Her voice rose, ‘Those pricks – do me a goddamn favour. But you’re different, you’d get her.’

  ‘I’m sorry, look it’s late…’

  ‘We could drive on down there, to Algeciras, I’d read MacNeice to you, I…’

  ‘Stop it! Just stop it all to hell. You need help, but not any kind I can provide.’

  Now she dropped her arms, seemed to shrink.

  I took her arm, moved her to the door, opened it and had to push her out. She stood outside, like little Orphan Annie, said, ‘You’ll come to Agadir, you just don’t know it yet but, I promise you that – on my little girl’s head.’

  I closed the door, said, ‘Dream on lady.’

  She stood outside the door and I could hear her say, ‘David – David, did you ever hear what Kafka said,

  “No people sing with such

  pure voices

  as those who live in

  deepest hell.”’

  ‘Indigent! I don’t friggin’ believe it. You’ve got to be bloody joking – c’mon!’ – Yelling at the very height of my lungs.

  Doc took it all, well, almost, and replied, ‘Would I joke about that. It’s the term they use and a right vicious one.’

  I couldn’t take it in – how could he be skint-

  ‘How can you be skint?’

  ‘Don’t get righteous with me Davy boy. The bloody house is mortgaged to the gills, those school fees – like murder – and the blackjack. It’s been a long run of shitty luck, I’m going to have to pack it in.’

  ‘Blackjack! You’ve been gambling – you’ve been wot? Why didn’t I know?’

  He stood up, his boots gleaming in the light, ‘Why should you know. My bloody Missis didn’t know. Since when do I account to you fella?’

  I was close to losing it, had to pull back. I could see a roof in Battersea, see my father’s eyes.

  ‘OK… OK Doc. Might I ask how you propose paying for the Taj Mahal or whatever bloody monument you’re building to Laura. Won’t Father what’s his bloody face be a tad surprised to hear you’re – indigent – or does he play blackjack too?’

  ‘Watch yer lip boy.’

  ‘Or wot Doc?’

  He made the effort also to rein in. We’d never – ever – hit this place before.

  ‘Father Cleary doesn’t know, alright. Treesmead will pay for his project and get me out of the hole – it has to.’

  He paused, then, ‘I went to see Meryl Streep in her action pic, River Wild and jeez, she was louder than the friggin’ rapids, so my head was opening. Could you then stop shouting at me now – OK.’

  I didn’t even know I had been, said, ‘I wasn’t shouting – you went to the cinema without Laura.’

  ‘Would have been hard to bloody bring her.’

  I went to make coffee, brewed up a storm, heard Doc say, ‘Tea for me, two sugars.’

  Mutterin’ ‘Now he tells me’ I half mangled a tea bag into a cup, sloshed water on it, tepid water. Put the sugar in before extracting the bag and, worst crime of all, didn’t heat the cup. All petulant I grant you but it was that or reach for the new 12″, give it an early outing. Piled the lot on a tray that had Charles and Di’s wedding portrait. As he sipped the tea, he gave a grimace, asked, ‘Did you heat the cup?’

  ‘Always.’

  ‘Not yer best mate – no, not at all.’

  ‘Doc, why don’t I do this – I’ll move some of the repo money to help you out.’

  He gave a sheepish grin, ‘Em… might be a slight problem.’

  ‘No, I’ll tell the accountant to do it – he gets paid to shuffle figures. A little cosmetic arithmetic and you’re whistlin’ Danny Boy.’

  ‘I’ve been and sang that song already, ’tis not a tune worth humming.’

  Now I was up, ‘You’ve been dippin? You’ve been robbin us!’

  ‘Whoa – slow down Streep. I’ll put it back, it was just sitting there. But I do have good news.’

  ‘You shot the accountant?’

  He laughed, said, ‘That’s more like it son. Let me put it this way, Quinn won’t be a problem, I know you were concerned there.’

  ‘Jeez, you didn’t top a cop!’

  ‘Naw, they just broke his legs. If I’d another few hundred they’d have completed the job. But fuck, the readies are tight. Anyroad he won’t be playing for the Police Reserves this season.’

  ‘You’re a piece of work Doc, you’re a real fuckin’ class act. I better buy a lorry load of strawberry delights.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘For the Noble savage, he’s fond of his bikky he is.’

  When Doc had gone, I thought about funerals. The way things were shaping, I’d soon be arranging my own. In prison, Doc had waxed eloquent and long about the Irish rituals for it, mainly he’d waxed long.

  At a loss after Doc left, I flicked through the paper. Read an article on Patricia Highsmith and liked her saying, ‘I find the public passion for justice quite boring and artificial, for neither life nor nature cares if justice is ever done or not.’

  ‘Amen,’ I said.

  Time to move, I’d an accountant to see, Doc and I had force back-pedalled from out and out war. Not so much a sheathing of weapons as an option for other battlefields. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t bounce somebody’s head off a wall.

  Heard the post come through the box, didn’t think it would be news to cheer. The handwriting on the envelope was now familiar. Could be worse I thought, the loony bitch could be phoning. Opened it with a heavy heart. In large clear writing she began,

  ‘O Happi-Mou,

  Why do you refuse us, we are destined to be one and, so it shall be. Time to wake up and smell that coffee – you hear what I’m saying.

  A woman described my beloved MacNeice as having the looks of a fallen angel. Like you, he believed himself to have become, as a result of his childhood ‘in a strange way hollow’. And he remained ‘always terrified of his father’.

  Darling David, let me make you complete. Ariana can be your daughter too. I just know you’re made to be my family

  I won’t be sending any more mail as, obviously, you won’t be able to receive it. Don’t fret about a suitable ardrobe for Morocco. I’ll take care of all your needs. Men are hopeless at such practicalities. Feel the warmth touch your hand, that’s me.

  Sagapoh,

  Your Cassie,

  Siempre.’

  I bundled it fast, lobbed and caught it on the fall with my right foot. Kicked it mightily across the room and saw it bounce off the far wall.

  ‘In one,’ I said.

  I parcelled up the guns lest Noble came calling. Took them out to th
e car, piled them in the boot – a day to drive carefully. Thought I wasn’t showing the strain till I got to the accountant’s office and Iris said, ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘More important, what happened to Duran Duran?’

  ‘You look rough Cooper, maybe you should call round to me, I’ll give you some T.L.C.’

  Time to cut to the chase.

  ‘Is he in?’

  ‘He’s tied up.’

  ‘Sure.’

  And I barged on in.

  He looked more like a sour priest than ever. A large slice of Danish was en route to his mouth, I said, ‘Arnold L. White – mid bite.’

  ‘What happened to knocking Mr Cooper?’

  ‘What happened to my business?’

  He took a chunk of the pastry, chewed a bit, then a gulp of coffee, replied, ‘A touch of poetic justice you’ll appreciate. Your firm is up for repossession – isn’t that ironic.’

  ‘It’s fuckin’ criminal is what it is.’

  ‘You sound, how should I put it – surprised.’

  ‘I’m bloody flabbergasted.’

  ‘Am I to believe your partner didn’t inform you of the developments?’

  ‘Got that right pal. You didn’t think to give me a bell yourself?’

  ‘Not my place dear boy.’

  ‘Leopold, don’t you care if you go down the shitter with me.’

  ‘Never happen Sir – I took precautions.’

  I wanted to pound him, asked, ‘What do you suggest I do now?’

  ‘Run.’

  ‘This amuses you, doesn’t it. OK, gloat while you can but keep hoping I run far.’

  ‘When you dallied with Iris, you did me a grievous injury.’

  I turned to leave, left him with, ‘Nice term that – grievous injury – has the proper note of righteous pain. What’s more, I’m going to run it by you when I feed you your balls at a date to be arranged. Might I add, you can count on it.’

  First I went to the lock-up. It doubles as a bolt hole – got bunk, kettle, shower, phone. All the vitals. Phoned Jimmy, he’s a minor burglar I met in prison, he’d told me, ‘There are some things a man won’t do for money. Luckily, I’m not one of those men.’

  He had the form to prove it.

  ‘Jimmy?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘It’s Cooper.’

  ‘The Repo Man.’

  ‘Yeah, that too. Like to knock down a few hundred?’

  ‘You want me to nick somefin.’

  ‘Actually, I want you to add something. If I give you the guy’s name, could you find his gaff and hide an item there.’

  ‘Bit unusual, is this on the up an’ up?’

  ‘How does four hundred sound?’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  I met Jimmy in the bar at Victoria Station. He arrived in a natty three-piece suit, hair spit-combed and I’d swear a regimental tie, said, ‘Looking good Jimbo.’

  ‘I’ve been taking lessons.’

  ‘Is that a regiment tie?’

  ‘Sure is – the Argylls – or is it the Enniskillens, one of those bods.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Opens a lot of doors.’

  ‘You’re the best judge of that.’

  ‘I have a Masonic one too but, I have to be careful, I’ve never quite mastered the handshake. Is it a Mason or a Jesse, you know, a fella who’s very friendly.’

  Jimmy was smoking roll-ups, Old Holborn and, like a true con, he was a master. He offered, ‘Smoke?’

  ‘Naw. Here’s the papers I want you to conceal. Put them in an obvious place but not so’s the guy living there will find them – as if they’d been hidden.’

  ‘Putting someone in the frame or is it none of my business?’

  ‘It’s none of your business. Here’s the name and his work address. Any problems.’

  ‘Any cash.’

  ‘In the envelope. Do you know any hookers?’

  ‘C’mon Cooper, go into any phone kiosk. Those cards there – take yer pick.’

  ‘I need one who can keep her mouth shut.’

  ‘That’s a contradiction Cooper. The two don’t gell – know wot I mean?’

  ‘Cut the comedy eh – yes or no?’

  ‘There’s Sharon, she could do with a few quid. Here’s her address, tell her you’re my pal.’

  ‘Right. You won’t feel the urge to blab about our little transaction?’

  ‘Aw, for God’s sake, I’m a pro.’

  ‘And you’re healthy – best to remain so.’

  ‘I’m a bit offended Cooper.’

  ‘That’ll pass, two broken legs would take longer.’

  And then, I’d swear I saw Cassie on the upper floor. Jimmy said, ‘You OK’

  But then she was gone.

  ‘Yeah, thought I saw someone I knew.’

  ‘You know wot they say, sit here long enough, you’ll see everyone you ever knew.’

  ‘I’m afraid you might be right – take care.’

  ‘Or heavy weapons, am I correct.’

  ‘Keep it in mind… later.’

  I went into Burger King, ordered a whopper and a giant coke. Get the killing junk full in my stomach. Asked the guy to leave out the sauce and, of course, the burger came shitpiled with it. I was about to go through the routine when I saw David Letterman watching me. You know, the talk show, I’d been getting it on the late-night cable. Course it wasn’t him but wow, a dead ringer. He smiled and I shrugged, wot else. Found a table where he wasn’t in my line of vision. Bit down on the whopper and, sure as Sundays, the sauce shot out the side. Looked up, there he was, smile in place, said, ‘I had you going, you did a double take.’

  ‘Yank accent – jeez, another one.’

  He said, ‘The way I see it – he looks like me. Am I right?’

  Took a hit of the coke and it was sweet, I’ll give it that, even the ice.

  ‘Might I sit down – I’m Cassie’s brother.’

  I finished the food, pushed the debris away, said, ‘You’re here for the shoplifting, I believe the season’s started.’

  ‘I need your help.’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Let’s call me David.’

  ‘Wot – all of us?’

  ‘Mr Cooper – oh yes, I know who you are. You may be the only one who can help her.’

  ‘Sorry pal, I’m up to me arse in aggravation, plus – no offence but that lady’s beyond help.’

  ‘No no no! She’s obsessed with you and you can use that to persuade her to return home. We can get treatment.’

  ‘Hey David, you deaf or just stupid. I said – I didn’t say – hey maybe we’ve room to negotiate.’

  ‘I know where you’re coming from Mr Cooper. But it’s not a choice thing, she’s volatile and, OK, I’m going to play straight with you. I believe she may have pushed a woman under a train in New York.’

  ‘What… jeez… Laura…’

  ‘Laura? Who’s that? The woman was my fiancée. Cassie doesn’t like people close to her – loved ones – she doesn’t share.’

  I couldn’t take it in. What was running through my mind was this family who looked like stars – Letterman and Sarah Miles. I asked, ‘Who do yer parents resemble – Bogie and Bacall?’

  And he laughed. ‘They’re Mom and Pop Diner, Mr and Mrs Ordinary, Citizens of Nerd City. You getting this?’

  The door of the restaurant was kicked in, the three Yahoos came dribblin’. In their late twenties, they’d the uniform of denim jackets, combat trousers, scarves and filthy trainers. If grunge was gone, they hadn’t heard. The personification of the urban hooligan to be found on every High Street, more common than litter and as nasty as tax. Intimidation is the party tune. Amid guffaws, obscenities and horseplay, they collected their grub and sprawled at the table next to us.

  Naturally. This is your life! I said, ‘The ambience at Burger King isn’t to their palate.’

  And now began the obligatory food fight, flicking fries and buns all over. He
said, ‘Gotta hang a right.’

  And was up and over to them. He put both hands, palms outspread on their table. This put a thug to his left, to his right, and directly facing him. His accent seemed like a roar.

  ‘Hi guys.’

  ‘Wotcha want fooker… Yank fooker.’

  Course this led to a wild repartee and chorus.

  ‘Yeah, the fook you want wanker.’

  ‘Are you guys the real thing – lager louts’ (he pronounced it lowts) – ‘we’ve got broadcasts on you back home.’

  ‘Fook off wanker – put me shoe in yer arsehole – how d’ya like that then eh. Want yer fookin’ teeth up yer backside, yah wanker?’

  He stood back, gave a huge smile and charaded a light bulb going off over his head, answered, ‘I know that word – you guys are implying I’m a self-abuser – have I got it right? But let me demonstrate what it is I actually do with my hands, OK?’

  He bent slightly, then shot out both elbows to crash into noses left and right, then gave a bounce, gripped the table and headbutted number three. The sound of bones crackin’ was loud. He pulled back and came over to me, asked, ‘How’d I do?’

  ‘Lemme put it this way – can I buy you a drink.’

  As we got out of there, a round of applause followed us. I’d say it did wonders for Letterman’s ratings.

  We went to The Swan on Bayswater Road. I wanted away from my own manor. I ordered Scotch and he had Scotch rocks. I asked, ‘You’ve got some moves, where’d you learn ’em?’

  ‘Marine Corps.’

  But he was staring at the painting behind the bar and the barman said, ‘This pub has been here since Bayswater Road was a lane leading from the Courts in Uxbridge to Marble Arch.’

  When David showed no recognition, the guy continued, ‘Marble Arch, or as it was then, Tyburn, where they hung ’em! The condemned man and his escort would have a final drink here. See, that’s what the painting shows.’

  ‘One for the road.’

  The barman gave a sour laugh.

  ‘Didn’t have to worry about being over the limit, know wot I mean.’

  David looked him full in the face, said, ‘I believe I catch your drift.’

  Enough with the history I thought and moved us to a table, said, ‘Cheers.’

  ‘Whatever’

  ‘So David, what do you do?’

  ‘I’m a poet.’

  ‘Wot?’