by Ken Bruen
I felt she was going to add… ‘and balder’.
But discretion won out. Upstairs, I shaved yet again. I’d bought a watchman’s cap, you know those wool jobs that pull down over yer ears and neck. By Christ, they’re warm and just a tad off, like a mugger’s outfit. Said… ‘time to get armed’ and drove through to Islington in the evening. Be nice to see the gun dealer again, he was such a ray of sunshine.
Parked near the green and strolled down. I was wearing jeans and a donkey jacket, Oxfam’s finest – ‘Auf Wiedersein Pet’.
Yeah.
At his door, I pulled the hat on, the less he’d remember the better. Knocked twice. The door opened almost immediately – he was wearing black ski pants, black sweatshirt with ‘CATS’ on the front, bare feet, I said, ‘It’s Cooper, Doc’s friend.’
I heard all sorts of shit in prison. One thing Doc told me from his studies: ‘If you experience deep shock, self-preservation moves into the go area and sometimes never climbs down again. It remains fixed on red alert.’ His smile did that to me now as he said, ‘Come in…’
I thought… uh-uh.
We went to the luxury pad on the top floor and he asked, ‘Drink?’
‘Yeah, some of that Yeltsin stuff again.’
He moved to a sideboard behind me. I sat on the sofa, could hear the clink of glasses then spun round. He was just over me, a syringe in his right hand. I grabbed his wrist and used my other hand to clutch his hair, pulling him up and over. Shot my leg up as a pivot on his chest and used the leverage to fling him from me. Then I righted myself and moved to smack him twice in the mouth… all fight leaving him.
I said, ‘Now look wot you’ve done, gone and got blood on CATS. You want to tell me wot the fuck you’re at… I already had my shots.’
Pulled him into an upright position, grabbed his head and crashed his face with my knee. Heard the nose go – pushed him away. Blood was coursing down his face and I rummaged in his desk for tissues, found a handgun. The Glock, loaded, put it in my jacket. Gave him the tissues and poured two strong drinks. He’d gone into a crouch position and I said, ‘Drink this.’
‘My nose, it feels like a football.’
Let him get some booze and my heartbeat to settle, then asked, ‘What kind of wanker are you? Enough guns here to arm the Met and you come at me with a needle! Like Sean Connery said in The Untouchables - “Trust a wop to bring a knife to a gunfight.” You’re not Italian are you?’
‘It’s for grasses, wot you give squealers, turncoats…’
‘What’s in it?’
‘Smack… heroin.’
‘And.’
‘It’s been cut with bleach.’
‘Nice.’
‘It’s open season on you Cooper. Doc’s friends put together a bounty on you. Even the Old Bill kicked in a contribution.’
I finished the drink, went over to him, took the Glock from my pocket, hefted it, testing the feel. No weight at all, like a plastic toy, asked, ‘If you were me, things being how they are – what would you do? Would you use the syringe or this gun maybe.’
He had no suggestions so I added, ‘Well, you think about it OK’
I got outa there quick. As I headed for my car, I whipped the cap off… jeez, it sure itched. Was back in The Gate in under thirty minutes and that’s impressive. Who could I tell? A shitload of fatigue hit me and I decided to call it a night. My landlady was nowhere in sight and I felt deeply grateful. Sometimes, even the tiniest social interactions are too much. Climbing into bed I put the Glock under my pillow. If they came for me, I was halfway ready. ‘They’ now seemed to comprise most of the population of London.
And dream? Did I ever – a mix of priests with sweat-shirts saying ‘CATS’, Doc with a syringe and my father on a sunbed, a pigeon clutched to his chest. Tobe Hopper stuff. Woke with a saying of my mother’s in my head:
‘Men talk about sex
Women talk about surgery.’
Shook myself to get free, muttering, ‘No wonder he took to pigeons.’ Put on the Oxfam jeans, found a coin in the pocket which meant A: I was getting lucky or B: Oxfam hadn’t bothered their concerned ass to clean ’em. Next a sweatshirt with a hole in the sleeve, then a pair of weejuns, the real thing too. Put them on yer feet, you’re in sole heaven. I felt weary though, thinking – getting older’s getting harder.
Yeah.
Decided I’d nip up to a coffee shop at The Gate, kick start on a chain of espressos.
The landlady was waiting, said, ‘I’ve brewed fresh tea, nice crisp toast.’
‘Shit’, I thought and said, ‘Lovely job.’
Into the kitchen. A gingham tablecloth to match the curtains. The false reassurance of toast popping… to suggest endless possibilities. There wasn’t a rose in a vase but the atmosphere whispered – ‘close call’.
I sat and she fussed round doing kitcheny stuff, said, ‘I nearly did a fry-up but remembered your vegetarianism in time – does it preclude eggs?’
‘No, no, eggs are fine but not today, in fact any day with a yolk in ’em.’
She gave me a blank look and I added, ‘Good of you to bother.’
‘No trouble to tell you the truth.’
When you hear that statement, reach for your wallet or a weapon.
‘It’s nice to have someone to prepare for. Course you know wot it’s like to lose someone.’
I sure as hell didn’t want her story so bowed my head and she changed direction.
‘Mind you, it’s hard to picture you married.’
‘Excuse me?’
As she struggled for words, I thought – yeah, I’m a liar, say it.
‘You have the look of a single man, used to pleasing yerself. Married men have a more confined expression, as if they’ve suppressed a sigh for too long. It’s not a criticism, only an observation.’
I wanted to say – psychology bloody one eh, but drank my tea, muttered, ‘Laura was the world to me.’
It had the desired effect, her face took a wounded look.
‘There I go again, me ’n my big mouth. My George used to say…’
‘Is that the time, I’ll have to run… thank you for the tea.’
I left her mid-sentence with whatever nugget of wisdom bloody George had bequeathed. I didn’t think I’d short-changed myself. At Portobello Road a guy was shouting, ‘Keep England for the English.’ I remembered Nick Hornby saying in his football book, ‘By the early seventies I had become an Englishman, that is to say I hated England just as much as half of my compatriots seemed to do.’
Well.
I’d finally got up with the Letterman Show and what I couldn’t understand was – just wot was the fucker laughing at all the time. Rang the number, he answered immediately, the voice so like Cassie, ‘Yo, talk to me.’
‘It’s Cooper.’
‘No shit… the one-man crime wave. What’s your beef buddy, I mean first you take out a cashier and then your partner. Are you nuts or what.’
‘That’s not exactly what happened.’
‘Whatever you say buddy. You sure pulled in a shit-pile of greenbacks.’
‘Can we meet?’
‘But will I come away in one piece?’
‘Of course.’
‘Sure, I’ll meet you buddy.’
‘Thanks… thanks a lot. I’ll be in the Magdela Tavern at nine tonight. That’s in South Hill Park, NW3.’
‘Whoa, hold the phones, lemme just get this down… okey-dokey. Why there, I’m gonna need my A-Z.’
‘It’s where Ruth Ellis caught up with Colin Blakeley.’
‘You’ve lost me buddy.’
‘The film Dance with a Stranger.’
‘Miranda Richardson, right?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Well I’ll see you there. Don’t shoot anyone else… OK.’
And he rang off.
I hadn’t told him Ruth Ellis waited outside the pub which is exactly what I planned. At least the waiting part, the rest would just have to be pl
ayed out.
That evening I arranged the money in a suitcase, row by row of neat piles. I tried not to visualise the cashier. Snapped it shut and shoved it under the bed. If I didn’t get back, the landlady would eventually find it. Would she give it up or leap for bloody joy… go find a new George.
Wore the donkey jacket again and put the Glock in the right-hand pocket, easy access. Dark jeans, shirt, and trainers, said, ‘Cassie.’
I was parked outside the pub at eight forty-five. Letterman drove up at nine on the button in an Audi, parked recklessly and went into the bar. I estimated thirty minutes tops before he’d decide I wasn’t coming. It took forty-five. He came stormin’ out, got in the car and roared away.
He was easy to follow, an angry driver sees only his road. Aston Towers had the smell of money and he drove into a basement garage. I waited fifteen minutes then went to check the name bells. Rang the top one, a woman answered. I said, ‘Pizza for the Trentons.’
They buzzed me in. I found the stairs, went to the first floor, knocked at a door, a voice said, ‘Who is it?’
I took a breath then tried a loud Yank accent, ‘David ’ol buddy, you ready or what.’
‘You want 4B for Godsake.’
Not a sound in the place. Money buys quiet. Listened outside 4B, could hear nothing, rang, kept my face in profile. Letterman asked, ‘What ya want?’
‘Electrician.’
He threw the door open and I said, ‘Our next guest is…’
Put the gun in his face and added, ‘Let’s take it inside.’
He backed slowly away from me into a living room. Cassie was lotus style in front of a huge TV, or is that yoga. Anyway with her legs folded, hands resting on her knees. Dressed in shorts and a halter top, for all the world like Sarah Miles at rest.
‘Guess what… she turned up.’
‘I can see that.’
‘No, I mean like… today. Go figure huh…’
Cassie said, ‘Put on some music, maybe the artist formerly known as Prince for the guy who used to have hair… how would that be.’
I said, ‘Everybody stay put – and you fuckface, wot’s yer real name.’
‘Believe it or not, it’s David. Is that serendipity or what?’
‘You knew I couldn’t understand how Cassie could follow me so successfully… but, if she’d a partner… What I can’t get is why.’
Cassie shrugged, ‘Bucks – as mundane as that.’
Letterman smiled, said, ‘You’ve gotta admit, you’re a natural patsy, the original fall guy.’
I used the gun to indicate the room, asked, ‘But this place, the Audi…’
‘All hired.’
‘And are ye… related?’
Letterman gave a snigger, ‘Only in the sack buddy.’
Cassie began a series of stretches, said, ‘What are you gonna do now hot-shot. I mean, you have a plan… right.’
Letterman added, ‘No shit buddy but first, I did give the straight gen on one thing… I was in the Marine Corps and they showed us…’
He did some split-second manoeuvre, his leg shot out nd my gun went flying across the room
‘… this…’
With a second kick to my chest I was thrown back across a sofa to curl on the floor in agony.
‘… and that… impressive huh!’
Cassie retrieved the gun and examined it closely. Letterman hunkered down in front of me, said, ‘See this hand, not a fist… watch the birdy.’
Shot it into my chest. The pain was nothing I’d ever experienced, it burned screaming into my brain. I couldn’t help it and roared, he roared right along with me. When I stopped he said, ‘I guess you won’t tell where the loot is but I’ve got a few methods to change your mind. Lemme give you a pointer, it involves a needle.’
Believed him, said, ‘I’ll tell you.’
And did.
My body was paralysed. I couldn’t move to even relocate the pain. Letterman said to Cassie, ‘You wanna do him sugar?’
‘Why bother, just leave him.’
‘Hey babe, he’d come after us… motherfucker doesn’t know how to quit.’
‘We could drop a dime on him, let the cops have his ass.’
‘Naw, he’d give us up.’
He bounced upright and left the room. My eyes locked on Cassie’s, hers had an expression of… such softness, it was eerie. I asked her, ‘Did you burn my house?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘To get your attention.’
Back he came with a kitchen knife, saying, ‘This fucker’s not even sharp but, what the hell.’
Cassie said, ‘Let’s not do this.’
‘Get real babe, he’s a liability.’
And bent down whisperin’, ‘Thing about a blade is… it’s so personal, goddamn intimate. Am I gettin’ hot already… Cassie… I’m gonna need my ashes hauled.’
The shot was loud in the room and a coin-sized hole appeared above his left eye. Then he fell beside me. Cassie said, ‘We’re pulling the plug on your show, the ratings just aren’t there.’
Again I tried to move but the effort was awesome, she said, ‘If you he very still for a time, gradually the agony will slip away.’
‘How the fuck would you know.’
‘He’s done it to me.’
She began to collect her things and then rummaged in my clothes, found a key to my room. So close I could have kissed her. Then she laid her hand on my bald skull, said, ‘I prefer you with hair.’
And she stood up, ready to leave. I shouted, ‘You want me to thank you for saving me… is that it?’
‘No David, I guess I don’t.’
‘At least tell me what the fuck all of this was for… Did you kill Laura… Why’d you shoot Doc! Who the bloody hell are you?’
She smiled and answered, ‘I’m no big deal.’
‘Wait… I mean… c’mon… was anything true… your bone disease, the daughter?’
‘In Morocco they say the only truth is the love of a child. But hey, maybe that’s a crock.’
Then she was gone. As she’d said, the pain began to fade but it was still two hours before I could move sufficiently to get out of there. I stood for a moment over Letterman and said, ‘Not so hot now eh!’
By the time I got to The Gate, Cassie had three hours on me. How long would it take to walk away with a million quid.
The house was quiet and I had to force the door. I hoped she hadn’t shot the landlady.
The suitcase was on the bed, a white envelope resting on it. I opened the case, the money was gone. Then I grabbed the envelope, one short sheet, it read:
‘Guess Who
The lady is gone
who stood in the way so long
the hypnosis is over
and no one calls encore
to the song.’
I sat on the bed and tried to see how I’d lost it all,
Doc
Cassie
The money
ME.
Yeah, when those blasts took the cashier, they took me too. I hadn’t been caught but, oh shit, I hadn’t got away. What is it – the bank robbers’ prayer: ‘Lemme get away CLEAN.’
I was dirty to my soul and I felt it began to leak, to seep and fester.
Some line of MacNeice… to wait for the gun-butt… rap upon the door.
I began my sentence, this was hard time all the way.
On the floor I saw a pack of Camel Lights and, way-to-go, a battered Zippo.
Thinking ‘Why the hell not?’ I shook one free, got it in my mouth and cranked the Zippo, one, two, three.
Zip
Nada
Zilch
Outa gas.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineere
d, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 1998 by Ken Bruen
cover design by Jason Gabbert
This edition published in 2011 by MysteriousPress.com /Open Road Integrated Media
180 Varick Street
New York, NY 10014
www.openroadmedia.com
Ken Bruen
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