On the Brinks

by Sam Millar

  I thought I witnessed a tear in Terry’s eye. Probably from all the dust-covered cobwebs dangling from the ceiling.

  “Shameful,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. “I don’t understand people. Some of these trees have been here hundreds of years. They were here before us, and will be here after us.”

  He sounded like a page from National Geographic, or Thoreau. I didn’t want to remind him that half a minute ago he wanted to coat them all in concrete. I didn’t tell him how much I hated the trees in Dad’s garden; how he made me stand guard, after school, on top of a coal heap in the garden, fearful that neighbourhood kids would steal the apples before he had the chance to sell them to the Greengrocer from Hell. The first thieving head that popped up over that wall, I was to let them have it with all those lumps of coal at my feet.

  “Coffee?” asked Terry, breaking my thoughts. “Rossalina’s restaurant makes the best coffee on the planet, and as for their Italian food …” His eyes went to heaven, indicating an altitude above adjectives. “They do deliveries also, seven days a week.”

  “You don’t happen to own it as well?” I smiled.

  “No, but we’ve been friends for years. They’re great people. Did I tell you they do a special each Tuesday and Thursday?”

  “White with one sugar, Terry, please …”

  He returned in five minutes, and we stood outside, drinking the coffee and listening to a neighbour’s barely perceptible sprinkler spit on a lawn covered with wilted daisies and bored weeds. Sparrows and magpies swooped and darted between scattered bushes, while a fountain of pigeons squirted skywards, destroying the beauty of perfect blue. I watched as they transformed themselves into dragonflies, before disappearing into dots the size of rice beads.

  “There’s a lot of work here, Terry,” I said. “I don’t really know if I want to spend the money and time involved.”

  He nodded. “Of course there is, but you see the potential in it, don’t you?” He was grinning. He thought he had won.

  He had. Almost.

  “Well, I’ve two other premises to look at. One tomorrow, the other on –”

  “Look no further. Two months free rent, plus I personally will take care of all the electrical work and odds and ends.” He put out his hand for the gentleman’s agreement.

  “Three months? Sounds very generous, Terry.”

  His hand was twitching slightly as it moved towards mine, reluctantly, in slow motion. He shook it – a bit too tightly – and, for the first time since our meeting, asked my name.

  “Patrick.”

  “Beautiful name,” said Terry, not wanting to know the rest of it.

  That’s the way all deals should be done, I thought, as we reached the outside of the shop, wishing each other a good day in the balmy heat. A handshake, no questions asked, no implications for either party should things turn dark and nasty.

  I quickly committed the day to memory, hoarding every single word and touch for a time when life would no longer seem so wonderful and calm. A moment for perpetual nostalgia, never spoiled by its disastrous conclusion.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Once Again, The Hulk

  … the companions of our childhood always possess a certain power over our minds which hardly any later friend can obtain.

  Mary Shelley, Frankenstein

  Every one lives by selling something.

  Robert Louis Stevenson, Across the Plains

  I commenced work eagerly on the store, the very next day, scrubbing it from top to bottom. Buckets of white paint set patiently in the yard, ready for their call to battle.

  While Jai Park – a Korean sign maker and old customer from the casino – outlined his plans for the store’s exterior, my mind set about furnishing the interior. I vowed to myself that this would be no ordinary comic store.

  If you build it, they will come …

  People would come, from miles away; kids would torture their parents or guardians to bring them. Once I had the little kid, I would capture the bigger kid – the father, the dweller in retro – mesmerising him with the toys and comics of his childhood, winking at him as he pretended to browse: For the kid, actually. I’m just looking.

  No need for embarrassment, I would assure him. Look at me, the biggest kid on the block. And how about that Spiderman Number 1, eh? As close as near-mint condition as you’ll ever see. Bet you’ve never seen a copy as clean as that? I would say, easing it from the wall, gently, as if it were an Old Master.

  He would tell me that, in fact, he had seen a copy as clean and bright as this one. That was the day he tried to coax his old man for ten cents, begging, pleading for one more cent, because he’s just got to have this copy to keep his collection fluent.

  I wanted to be the Hulk, I’d confide in him, unlocking a key in my head that a good psychiatrist would kill to obtain. The father would smile with relief at our shared dark secret.

  I would not tell him that I wanted to be the Hulk so as to kill my father, smashing a building over his head as he screamed at me, blaming me for my mother walking out the door, all those years ago.

  No, I would not want to scare my very first customer away, so I’d smile right back, watching his eyes, ready to pop, anticipating, the tongue licking. Just at that point it would be time to introduce him to the Mylar experience. Wait until I show him my Fantastic Four Number I. He’ll shit his pants, then die of a heart attack.

  The comics – the expensive ones – are secured in an archival storage Mylar, keeping all those grubby fingers from destroying the irreplaceable. It gives the comic a false liquid gleam, as if it has just left the printing press. Normal plastics, vinyl, and other storage materials gradually oxidise, releasing harmful acids, which slowly eat paper alive. Mylar is a storage material specifically developed for the long-term storage of historically important documents. It is the archival material in which the Declaration of Independence and the Magna Carta are stored. Used by leading museums worldwide, it is considered completely impregnable for up to 400 years. I doubt if I’ll be about to contradict that claim.

  Once he sees the Mylar, he knows we’re speaking serious money. A mortgage may have to be gambled on; the kids’ college days look doomed. Fuck, he may have to rob a Brinks armoured car … suddenly, he is transported back to his first meeting with Peter Parker, Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent, et al., because the moment he touches the comic, he is mine, everlastingly trapped in Spiderman’s web.

  My love of and addiction to American comics can be blamed squarely on Dad. It was he, after all, who started me on this shaky road, introducing me to the wonders of Marvel and DC at the early age of seven, bringing back bundles of them from his trips to New York as a merchant seaman. The writers and artists had a profound impact on my youth, employing a dazzling range of storytelling devices. I learned more about the world of words from Stan Lee, Jack Kirby, Neal Adams, Jim Steranko and Steve Ditko – the unchallenged masters – than I ever did from the long roll-call of teachers with angry leather straps and angrier leather faces. Graphic artists such as Robert Crumb and Art Spiegelman filled an even greater need in me, later.

  “The name? You’re sure?” asked Jai, clicking his fingers in my face, rousing me from my childhood trance. “No going back.”

  I had pondered over the name for the store for days. The obvious came to mind. Heroes and Villains? I’d be asking for trouble with that one. Dragon Slayer? Would that scare people away? Hulk’s Kingdom? No, Marvel would have me in court quicker than Clark Kent removing his shirt in a telephone booth. Finally, I opted for the more cryptic KAC Comics. The initials stood for each of my kids: Kelly, Ashley and Corey.

  Tomorrow would be the big day. I was nervous and excited. What if it’s a complete flop? What if no one comes? What if …

  But I believed, deep in my heart, that they would come. I would soon be watching kids’ faces lighting up, as their imaginations travelled to vast, unexplored realms, to places where words are irrelevant. I remembered my own tiny face in th
e wee shop on Duncairn Gardens, as I pleaded with the woman to hold on to X-Men Number 14 for me, promising her I would have her three pence in a week, and producing my bus fare and school dinner money as a down-payment and commitment of trust. I tell her she can even hold on to the comic until I come up with the goods. Does she not realise that comics are the only thing keeping me sane in a house gone mad? All I ask is that she puts the comic away under the counter, away from greedy prying eyes, away from predators who would have the audacity to take what is destined to be mine.

  She is amazed by my passion, and tells me she will hold the comic for three days. I’m devastated – I know I will never get my hands on that sort of money in the time allocated. And then it becomes so clear it frightens me. I will be able to get it! Why didn’t I think of this before? Tomorrow is the day I bring the rent for the house up to the Antrim Road, to be paid at the wee corner business. It’s simple. I’ll sign the wee orange book. I can master Dad’s signature on it perfectly. Dad will never know, and I’ll have enough money to buy as many comics as I can carry. Fuck! Why didn’t I think of this foolproof scheme before? It’s perfect, and the great thing about it is that I will be able to do it every week, for the rest of my life. I’m gonna be rich …

  Terry popped in on his way home, to wish me all the best for tomorrow. “I’ll be honest, Patrick. When you told me you were opening a comic book store, I thought, bang goes my rent. But now … I’m not so sure. It almost makes me wish I was a kid again.”

  His glance travelled from wall to wall. Not an inch of space was to be seen, as comics covered every spot.

  “God, you must have hundreds of ’em, Patrick.” Then he spotted the price on some of them. “You’re kiddin’. Right?”

  “No,” I smiled. “And believe it or not, those are great prices.”

  “Three hundred bucks for a Batman comic?”

  “That’s cheap. Look behind you, at the one in the glass case.”

  He read the price out loud, and then whispered it to himself, like a Gregorian chant. “I don’t believe this. And people actually pay that sort of money?”

  “Gladly.”

  He was captured by the beauty of it all. He remembered his Green Lantern comics and, regretfully, asked me how much they would fetch if he still had them. When I told him, he became quite despondent.

  “Don’t worry, Terry, you’re not the only one who destroyed or lost his collection. If no one lost their comics, they wouldn’t be as valuable and as sought-after as they are. The Wall Street Journal said it – what all enthusiasts already knew: that golden- and silver-age comics appreciate in value quicker than real estate.” He didn’t want to hear that. “Perhaps you should come into partnership with me? Sell me the store?” I smiled.

  He left, no longer wanting to hear about it. He mumbled something about Green Lantern, that he could still have a couple of copies in the loft, or perhaps in the basement.

  The door chime alerted me to someone entering the store. I turned to see my first customers come through the door. They were not what I expected.

  “How’s it going?” I asked, nervously. My stomach froze. Not because they were my first real customers, but because of their uniforms. New York’s Finest, all blue, different shades.

  The cops said nothing, and I knew that in a moment I was going to be arrested for the Brinks.

  “Long you open, pal?” asked the smaller of the two giants, who’s at least six-foot-two from his knees.

  “Tomorrow’ll be the first day. You’re my first customers,” I smiled, even though I knew how scary it must look, like the Joker.

  “Nice place. Great collection,” said Giant Number One, while Giant Number Two appeared to be looking down the hallway, suspiciously.

  “Got a bathroom down there? Too much coffee.” He smiled, as I searched desperately for a way to say no. Above the cupboard in the toilet is a grip-bag containing single dollar bills. Over 20,000 of them! From the Brinks. I should have burnt them while I had the chance, but I couldn’t stomach good money going to waste. I was about to pay for my greed.

  “It’s … a bit small. I doubt if you’d be able to squeeze through those mountains of boxes down there, with all the comics in them.” My smile started to fade. It looked very suspicious, my smile, and I hated it for trying to sabotage me.

  “Ha! Don’t worry. I’ve been in tighter spots,” he said, manoeuvring his bulk nimbly for such a giant.

  So have I, pal, I thought, as he sucked in his breath, winking at me, his frame slowly edging victoriously through the barrier of boxes.

  “Don’t forget and wash your hands, Jimmy,” shouted Giant Number Two, then turned to me. “So, where ya from? Just moved into Queens?”

  Think very carefully. “No, I used to live up at Jackson Heights for years.”

  He nodded. “Gettin’ dangerous, that place. Lots of drug dealers. It’s the cocaine capital of America.”

  What he conveniently left out is that it is also the most ethnically diverse neighbourhood in New York. It is home to approximately 100,000 people, and famous residents at one time included members of the big swing bands that dominated the music scene in the thirties and early forties, including Benny Goodman, Woody Herman, and Glenn Miller – no relation, sorry to say.

  Giant Number One seemed to be taking an awfully long time. I peered down the corridor.

  “Where you from? Ireland?” he asked, knowing the answer. What he wants me to tell him is exactly whereabouts in Ireland.

  “Yes. But I’ve been here a good ten years,” I said, trying to keep the head and avoid the trap.

  “Still got the brogue, though,” he continued.

  “That’s right. Proud of it.” Careful, I thought. Don’t get too defensive. He’s only being friendly. Or is he? Where the fuck is that other big bastard? Fallen through to the East River?

  “Jimmy’s people are from Ireland. Isn’t that right, Jimmy?” he says to Giant Number One, who thankfully reappears, a bit thinner than when he went on his excursion.

  “Cork. Great people. The best county in Ireland, I believe.”

  “I’m from Antrim. The real best one.” Had he spotted the bag? Did he open it? Don’t be stupid. You’d be handcuffed by now.

  “Jimmy Coogan.” He put out his hand and I shook it, wondered had he washed it. “This is Tommy Johnson, my partner,” said Jimmy. I shook Tommy’s hand also.

  “I’ve a lot of friends who collect comics, over at Rikers Island.”

  “Rikers Island Penitentiary?” I asked, dreading the answer.

  “Don’t worry. They’re guards – not prisoners.” They both laughed. So did I, but nervously.

  Rikers Island Penitentiary is New York’s largest and most violent prison, with ten jails sprawled across an area half the size of Central Park. I’ve seen it from a safe distance. Hopefully, it’ll stay that way.

  “That’s great. I’m sure I could work out a special deal for them,” I replied, hating the thought, but thinking ahead. One never knows …

  “That’s nice of you, pal. I’ll let them know. Anyway, we’ve got to run, but don’t you be worryin’ about this store. We’ll be passin’ every now and then. Let the bad guys know we’re here.” He smiled, and his teeth were scary-white.

  I closed the door, wondering what I had let myself in for as I turned off the main lights, leaving the neon superheroes flashing in the darkness. I doubted if I would sleep tonight, and promised myself I’d get up very early in the morning, to make sure every tiny detail was perfect.

  Pinprick stars dusted the sky above me and the darkness felt vast and heavy, as the bottle-green ford parked conveniently beside an umbrella of trees. Faint headlights danced with the darkness, guiding moths to the ugly bug ball.

  I was sure it was the same one I had noticed the preceding evening, but when the old man emerged from it, bent and grey, I laughed at myself for such foolishness.

  “Drive carefully,” he said to the driver, as the car slowly edged away.

&
nbsp; He looked straight at me but through me. Suddenly, my skin began to tingle, just like Spiderman’s.

  You’ve got to get out a bit more, I advised myself. A lot more …

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  The Rat

  JULY 1993

  It appears to be one of the biggest robberies in U.S. history.

  New York Times, front page

  We are offering $300,000 reward for information leading to the suspects.

  Brinks Incorporated

  Gentlemen, in this business, you’re only as good as your rats.

  US Law Enforcement Academy

  “FBI Agent Fuentes speaking. How may I help?”

  A few moments of silence seeped in, making the pause seem longer. It was as if the person at the other end of the phone was having second thoughts, weighting up action he might, in time, come to regret.

  Every inch the professional, Fuentes detected the hesitancy and quickly moved. “Would you prefer to speak to one of our female agents?” He didn’t know if the person at the other end was male or female, but this option might help to gain their confidence.

  “I need to …” A cough, a clearing of the throat, not the conscience.

  Again the silence, but at least he now knew it was a male.

  “Yes, sir. Just take your time. I’m sitting right here.” Easy. Don’t rush him. Something in the FBI man’s stomach told him that this could be the call they’d all been waiting on. They knew he was out there. The local rumours had mentioned a grudge. This could be him.

  “I need to speak to Agent Stith … the one in charge of the Brinks case.” The voice still held the tell-tale Belfast twang, though covered by years in America.