American Skin

by Ken Bruen

  “How the hell do you know so much about Chicago?”

  And the momentum began to leak away, I could see the light slowly draining from his eyes, creeping back into darkness, he said,

  “I’m just blowing smoke, probably be too cold for you.”

  I wanted him back, full of vim and devilment, tried,

  “No, Tommy, sounds great, we’ll do it.”

  And then he turned his head, the distant drummer was near, looked right at me, said,

  “Truth is, Steve, you’re not a Chicago kind of guy.”

  That hurt, like, a lot, and I’m still not fully sure I understood the meaning of what he said. I do know it was a farewell and it shut me down, shut me out . . . och ocon. Times, I’d hear his voice, especially if he was on the Chicago rap.

  Like this.

  “We will destroy the Florida Marlins at Wrigley Field. They will die horribly and (worse), without honour although if any team needs to be smote “without honour” it is the New York Yankees. Plus, I hope New York beats Boston like they do every year—the Boston Red Sox cry and cry and always fuck up when they get the chance for the series. But the Cubs, man, they’ve gotta win.”

  Jesus. Tommy, like so many other things got that hopelessly wrong, the Red Sox took the World Series.

  The cabbie was calling me,

  “Yo, buddy, time to wake up and smell the coffee.”

  Yeah.

  I paid him, laid the mandatory five on top. He said,

  “Have a good one.”

  There’s a music store in the East Village that specialises in vintage stuff; the last thing I wanted to do was listen to music but I figured, if I ordered Siobhan’s favourites, she’d be delighted when she got to Tucson and found them waiting. The guy behind the counter was friendly, opened,

  “Irish, right?”

  Lotta work to do on that accent.

  I ordered Planxty, Rory Gallagher, Clannad, The Saw Doctors. The guy was nodding, liked the selection, and I asked,

  “Can you ship them to Tucson?”

  He was a New Yorker, he could ship them to China. I gave the address of the Lazy 8 in Tucson and his interest perked, he said,

  “That’s like a dude ranch.”

  I agreed and then he asked,

  “You mind me asking? What’s with Tucson, what’s that about?”

  I had to smile, Americans, right up front, they’ll ask you your business, and they know you, maybe, all of five minutes.

  In Ireland, you know someone for years, and I mean years, and still, you’re hesitant to ask them the exact nature of their life. I said, only half kidding,

  “Always wanted to be a cowboy.”

  He took my credit card, did the deal, then, as I left he cautioned

  “Watch for them sidewinders.”

  The rest of the day, I walked the city. In my head was Aimee Mann, jeez, when had I listened to her? Where did she spring from, unless her songs of guilt were related to my shame, my agony at the callous betrayal of Siobhan.

  She remains among the great underrated, the true unappreciated. As Tommy often said.

  “Fuck, she rocks.”

  Ain’t that the truth.

  On pure impulse, I called Kaitlin, Siobhan had given me her number, said,

  “If you get a chance, give her a call, see how she’s doing, she’d love to see you.”

  Wasn’t so sure how smart it was, she was intuitive or maybe I was just guilty but would she spot I’d been, what’s the word, unfaithful? Women have this sense of betrayal, maybe because they’re so accustomed to it. Rang the number, her apartment number, and hoped I’d get the answering service, then my duty would be done and I’d say, what, sorry I missed you. Pity we couldn’t have got together, maybe when Siobhan arrives.

  She answered her own self and was thrilled to hear me. Her day off, talk about poor timing. Arranged to meet her for lunch on Lexington in two hours, she ended with,

  “Dying to hear all your news.”

  Jesus.

  I was standing outside the restaurant she’d selected in plenty of time, get my face composed to hide the lying I’d been doing. A slender woman stopped, smiled, and I did a double take, croaked,

  “Kaitlin?”

  She’d lost a ton of weight, her hair was cut short, and she was dressed in casual but expensive jeans and trainers. A soft suede jacket that roared money draped on her arm. She held out her arms, asked,

  “I don’t get a hug?”

  She did.

  We went into the restaurant and a line was already formed, I said,

  “Shit.”

  Kaitlin laughed, said,

  “I booked.”

  We were escorted to a table, seated, and I marvelled at the change in her. Before I could ask, she said,

  “Atkins.”

  I shook my head, went,

  “Miraculous.”

  And meant it, it wasn’t just the weight she’d lost, though that was startling enough, it was her whole demeanour, she had a whole poised confidence. A waiter took our drinks order, sparkling water for her, Miller for me. Kaitlin had been plagued with bad skin, not unrelated to the greasy food she’d such a liking for. Siobhan had told me that she fretted constantly, had tried everything to clear it.

  Now, her skin was luminous, shining in its health. She touched her face, wonder in her eyes, said,

  “I’ve even new skin.”

  What I was trying to achieve. I said,

  “You’re transformed.”

  We ordered steaks, lean, and nothing else for her, with fries and all the lashings for me. She studied me, said,

  “You look tired.”

  Whoops.

  I sighed, went with the,

  “New city, takes a time.”

  She laughed, said,

  “Tell me about it.”

  Jeez, she even sounded American with the Irish lilt just coasting beneath. The food arrived and between bites, she told me about her job, a promotion already, her apartment, cramped but close to work, and a guy she was seeing. He was, she said, something in the city, meaning, lots of bucks and though a little bland, he was good to her. She used the throwaway line of dismissal,

  “He’ll do.”

  Till somebody more exciting came along, she obviously registered my expression and asked,

  “You think that’s mercenary?”

  I did, but hell, was I going to admit it, nope. She launched,

  “What you and Siobhan have, you think that’s common, it’s so rare as to be nonexistent and where is she, what the devil are you doing here on your own?”

  I gave her the song and dance about me getting everything settled, having all arranged. She didn’t believe a word of it, said in complete American,

  “What a crock.”

  I gave a last lustre defence but she shook her head, said,

  “There’s something you’re not telling me but I won’t push it, all I ask is you don’t screw her around.”

  The word screw causing me more than a moment’s fright. Then a thought hit her and she asked,

  “Your surname, Blake, didn’t you guys used to be Prods?”

  I kept my tone light, said,

  “A long time ago.”

  Now she was completely Irish:

  “Ary, them crowd, they never change.”

  Before I could argue, if argument there is, she asked,

  “What about that creature, that demon who follows you around, what rock is he hiding under?”

  Tommy.

  If I’d said,

  “Under the whole of the Atlantic Ocean,”

  Would she have felt bad? I don’t think so, and she definitely wouldn’t have been surprised. I said he hadn’t made this trip and she didn’t respond. We were finished with the meal and she declined coffee or anything else. I called for the cheque and she protested but not too strongly. Outside, she immediately lit a cigarette and I was astonished, she looked at me, went,

  “What?”

  “Y
ou’re smoking.”

  A flush of anger hit her cheeks and she said,

  “You think a complete transformation like I’ve achieved is without price, you live here, it’s stressful.”

  She suddenly looked on the verge of tears, said,

  “I miss home.”

  And I said,

  “Go home.”

  She ground the cig under her expensive trainers with a ferocity, vowed,

  “Not if it was my dying wish.”

  I hugged her and she whispered,

  “Mind that girl, she’s priceless.”

  I promised and said I’d call her soon.

  For a moment she looked up the sky, seeing what, I don’t know, Galway Bay, the pubs of the town, and then she said,

  “You have a cold spot, Steve, you probably can’t help it, but Siobhan, she lights you up, try not to be the usual gob-shite and fuck it up.”

  I wanted to part from her with a lightness, to leave with a good feeling and asked,

  “You think I’m a gobshite.”

  She stared right into my face, said,

  “You’re a man, it’s your nature.”

  Got back to the hotel, tired, recognised the limo outside. Juan’s driver, smoking, leaning against the hood, I was tempted to pun,

  “Boy on the hood.”

  Maybe not.

  He clocked me, flicked the cig, and rapped the glass of the back window. Juan peered out, said,

  “Bro, need you.”

  I sure as fuck didn’t need him, I was sick to death of him, said,

  “Not now.”

  Juan was wearing a pale leather jacket, Calvin Klein jeans, Bally loafers, designer git.

  He looked at the driver, an expression passing between them, hard to decipher but warmth was not on its agenda. Juan smiled, a new gold molar gleaming, said,

  “I’m in a jam here, bro, you gonna diss me?”

  Diss, fuck.

  I was seriously tired but said,

  “Okay, but can we get to it, I’m like, beat.”

  He nodded and the driver relaxed, I slid in beside Juan, his cologne overpowering, he slapped my knee, went,

  “Muchas gracias, amigo.”

  He leaned over to a briefcase, opened it, took out a cellophane bag, the white powder heavy in its weight, began to roll a line on the cover of the case, asked,

  “Hit you?”

  “No thanks.”

  He raised an eyebrow, mocking,

  “Set you right up, bro.”

  I shook my head. He did two fat ones, then went into that snorting, nose pulling, wheezing they do. What it is, is fucking annoying. Finally, he leaned his head back, went,

  “Ah, Dios mio, here comes the ice.”

  He uttered little sighs of near-orgasm then sat bolt upright. Pulled the leather jacket aside, asked,

  “You know what this is, bro?”

  It was a gun, a big one, I said,

  “Looks uncomfortable is what it is, you ask me.”

  He laughed, then in bullet Spanish, repeated my hilarity to the driver. He, not a fun guy like Juan, just grunted. Juan said,

  “Ramon no like you.”

  Gee.

  I stared straight ahead, deadpanned,

  “What a shame.”

  Juan used his index finger to tap the gun’s butt, said,

  “This a Walther PPK 3805 automatic, like them CIA dudes got themselves.”

  What was I to say . . . congratulations? Went,

  “And you need it for?

  Gave me an evil smile. There’s a line in the Johnny Cash song about a guy going round taking names.

  Always seemed threatening to me and seemed appropriate for whatever direction this conversation was headed. We arrived at Clinton Street, another song, Leonard Cohen, another heartbeat. We got out and Juan indicated a building on the other side of the street, said,

  “Ees my office.”

  Heavy on the “ees.” Ramon fucked off with the limo, I’d miss him. Juan had a shitpile of keys, got various locks opened and we were in, got an elevator to the third floor, Juan was a ball of energy, all of it strung. His fingers clicking, foot tapping, a tic below his left eye, I was tempted to ask,

  “You ever audition for Riverdance?”

  Then into the office, two large rooms, with leather furniture, massive TV, and box upon box of electronic equipment. Juan indicated I should sit down so I did, in a leather armchair, the fabric creaking as I sat. Juan moved to a cabinet, pulled open the door. Bottles of booze, every brand you could imagine. He got two glasses, then kicked a mini fridge, shovelled some ice in the glasses, held up a bottle, asked,

  “Tequila good for you, mi amigo?”

  I could be wrong but I swear it had the worm in the bottom or was that Juan? I asked,

  “Got seven and seven?”

  I was John Cheever in the flesh, the suburban ideal, Juan squinted, went,

  “Qué?”

  “Segram’s and 7UP.”

  It pissed him off, he held up the tequila like some holy relic, asked,

  “You no like my country’s drink?”

  The phony accent was getting on my nerves, urging me to go,

  “The Bronx is a country?”

  Yeah, drop that into the already loaded atmosphere, see how it jelled. I settled for Wild Turkey, on the rocks. Juan had his back to me as I took a sip, then he turned, the Walther in his hand, said,

  “You cocksucker, you put the meat to my old lady.”

  “Your Love Is the Place I Come From”

  – TEENAGE FANCLUB

  I NOTICED a slight tremor in his hand and that was a worry. His finger could squeeze involuntarily. I stood up, the leather protesting, Juan shouted,

  “I tell you to move, motherfucker?”

  The drink was in my left hand, carefully, no sudden movement, I put it on one of the boxes, asked,

  “You ever read James Lee Burke?”

  “What?”

  “Or Andrew Vachss, you read at all?”

  The barrel was moving left to right, spittle at the corner of Juan’s mouth, he wanted to use it, asked,

  “The fuck you talking about?”

  I sighed, explained,

  “Great writers, thing is, they both have an expression for a guy like you.”

  His tongue was darting in and out of his mouth, like a Galway eel, slippery, wet, and mainly repugnant, he was explosive, shouted,

  “Like me, they know me, they put names on me, I put a cap in their heads.”

  I stayed absolutely still, my whole body language presenting no threat, said,

  “Burke calls you a meltdown, and Vachss, he’d have you down as skel.”

  He didn’t get the meaning but he sure as hell got the implication. As the insult registered, it was time to act. The British army, in training, they beat you up, vomit you out. One of the very first lessons you learn is how to disarm a man. Vital if you’re headed for the streets of the Ardoyne. It’s an action so simple, so beautiful, it’s close to art.

  Right foot forward, pressure on the left, palm of the right hand fast and straight, left zooming in to slap the gunman’s head as his weapon sails above his head. Here’s the best bit, you allow him a moment to wonder,

  “What the fuck just happened?”

  And as he begins to ask, “How’d he do that?” You give him a ferocious kick in the balls.

  Add,

  “Don’t ever point a gun at me.”

  That’s the macho bit.

  On the Plains of Salisbury, a desolate acre of desperation, a thousand times I’d be put through that routine. Most nights I went to bed, I could hardly breathe because of the pain in my balls. Teach a man through his genitalia, he’s a real fast study.

  Juan was writhing on the floor, a litany of Spanish prayers leaking from his mouth. Usually as the groin pain recedes, you break the nose or two fingers, keep them focused, but I wasn’t flashy. Picked up the gun and my drink, sat on the edge of the table, said,

&n
bsp; “The way that leather creaks, it’s a bastard to sit in.”

  He fixed his eyes on me, hatred like the proverbial coals, tried to speak but hurting, his manhood in his throat, a gargle was the best he could manage.

  He gargled.

  I was tapping the barrel of the gun on the rim of the glass, an irritating sound, said,

  “We’ve got us, what you gangbangers call, let me see, yeah, a situation.”

  I hadn’t decided on whether to kill him but I was giving it some consideration. Maybe meant two for one as I’d probably have to off Ramon, too. His vocal cords were finding a level and he tried,

  “You going to keel me, you think you have the cojones?”

  Credit to him, he dragged up some saliva, with a massive effort, spat, not a whole bunch but it reached the floor, so I shot him.

  Gut shot first. Get the serious pain started, raised the sights, aiming at his Adam’s apple, saw a British army colonel demonstrate that one time. Takes the apple right out the back of the neck. He’d used colour slides to show the aftereffect, looks like you took a combine harvester to it. Juan was in too much pain to grasp the story.

  Changed my mind.

  Stood up, said,

  “You keep it in your pants amigo.”

  Out on the street, before anything else, I dumped the gun in a grate then hailed a cab. At the hotel, I moved fast, got my gear packed, then down to the desk, the clerk, surprised, asked,

  “You’re leaving us, Mr. Blake?”

  “You got it.”

  As he booted up the screen, he persisted,

  “Was everything to your satisfaction?”

  I acted like I had to think about it, then,

  “Hunky dory.”

  He smiled, said,

  “David Bowie, right?”

  “Yeah, whatever.”

  Another cab. My mind locked down, locked tight. So much for plans, I’d wanted to stay in New York longer, reimmerse myself in the way of life. Not that America is New York, but as a launching pad, it’s pretty good. Get that dialogue down, ensure the smooth transaction of the money through Siobhan. And take a block of time to grieve for Tommy. I was never going to get over him but had hoped I’d find a level of acceptance.

  What’d I do?

  Shot the one friend he had.

  Nice going, Steve-o.

  The driver asked,