American Skin

by Ken Bruen

  “I only know

  the heart exists

  on what

  it daren’t lose.”

  Put the volume down, only nineteen to go, I’d ration them, have a daily blast of anguish. I didn’t try to make sense of them, hell, I’d never made sense of Tommy.

  He just was.

  No, I’d let it soak, wrap round me for a while, then maybe and big maybe, read it again.

  Vegas has towering blocks of hotels, maybe a thousand rooms per hotel and high, fuck, all the way into the skyline. I’d gotten the courtesy coach into the centre and decided to walk the Strip, try to get a sense of the place. The heat was ferocious, within seconds I was drenched, the booze from the flight pouring out of me. I muttered,

  “Ah, Tommy. You’d love it here.”

  Found a two-story hotel and if that wasn’t remarkable enough, it was old. Old in America being over fifty years.

  La Concha.

  Just what I needed . . . a shell. Crouched beneath the shadow of the Riviera and it was cheap. For thirty bucks, I got a huge, old-fashioned room overlooking a garden and pool. A grouchy security guard was patrolling. I said,

  “Nice day for it.”

  He had his hand on the butt of his revolver, gave me the hard stare, asked,

  “Why are you staying here?”

  He was gnawing at a toothpick, moving it annoyingly from end to end in his mouth. It made a sucking noise, almost wheezing. I went Irish, hit a question with a question. Irritates the shit out of the Brits which is why we do it.

  “You don’t recommend it?”

  More sucking, hitched up his belt, then,

  “The ground floor.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Where you got your ice machine, you got your wetbacks.”

  I wanted to go,

  “Give me your poor, your downtrodden.”

  Not lines that had made much impact on him, I took a guess, said,

  “They’re in the catering trade.”

  He spat, thick phlegm over the balcony, hoping to hit a wetback, no doubt, he said,

  “They’re a pain in the ass is what they is.”

  I nodded, said,

  “Nice talking to you.”

  Turned the key in my room, an actual key, not the card gig.

  How old is that?

  The guard added before I closed the door,

  “Not much longer.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “This joint, they’re gonna knock it.”

  I reached for levity, tried,

  “Not today, I hope?”

  “Not goddamn soon enough, you ask me.”

  I got in the room, unpacked, noticed there was no kettle, just the basics, bed and phone. Thomas Merton style. The army had me familiar with that routine. I’d stopped at a liquor store, bought a bottle of Stoli, poured an Irish measure (generous), took a hefty swig. The thirst I’d always controlled was rearing up, refusing to be denied. I don’t know, was it shooting Juan, Tommy’s writing, Vegas, but for once, I said the biker’s version of the Serenity Prayer: Fuck it.

  Was going to see where the booze took me. I should have been phoning Siobhan, I should have been covering my ass. Should, should, should.

  Poured another.

  “Please don’t put your life in the hands of a rock

  and roll band who’ll throw it all away.”

  – OASIS, “Don’t Look Back in Anger”

  DADE WAS FEELING the miles. All-night driving, behind a speed jag, will take it out of you, nine ways through Sundays. He jammed to a halt, parked like he didn’t give a fuck, which he didn’t, muttered,

  “Caffeine.”

  Stomped into the diner, slid into a booth and the waitress, approached, said,

  “How you doing, honey?”

  He glared at her, spat,

  “Coffee, gallon of it, grits and eggs over easy, some toast and don’t burn it.”

  She stared at him but the scar on his face gave her pause, he was wearing shades but she could sense the ferocity and said,

  “Be just a mo’.”

  He popped a speed, crunching it between the wedge of Juicy Fruit and waiting for the jolt. A magazine was on the

  seat and he spotted an article on Mötley Criüe. Man, he loved those guys, “Girls, Girls, Girls,” he’d got down and dirty with that song like, more times.

  He read with growing disbelief, Mick Mars had a hip replacement, Vince Neil had $70,000 worth of plastic surgery for a reality show. Nikki had quit drinking and Tommy was sounding like an advertisement for rehab. As his chow arrived, he flung the mag aside, said,

  “Pathetic crew, more like.”

  The speed kicked in as he chewed on the grits but it didn’t lighten his mood. When the Crüe blew it, it could happen to anyone. He drank three mugs of coffee and left a dollar for the tip. The waitress couldn’t help it, said as he opened the door,

  “You come back and see us soon.”

  He let his shades slide, let her see what he was thinking and she pulled way back, he said,

  “Count on it, sweet thing.”

  Dade rolled into Tucson, the baseball mitt in his lap, a fresh stick of Juicy Fruit in his cheek, rolling it against his gums, making sucking noises as he drew the sweetness deep. The lightning scar was itching and he dabbed at it. He was feeling antsy, his supply of speed getting dangerously low. Plus, the little girl, she’d obviously been pulled out of the SUV. But he should have made sure. He slapped his hand against the wheel, went,

  “Fuck it.”

  The tape was playing

  “Let’s Play House.”

  The irony was lost on him. The picture of Tammy seemed to be staring at him, he threw a punch at her, asked,

  “The fuck you looking at?”

  Then, ground on the accelerator, added,

  “Bitch.”

  Tucson confused him, he’d been driving for fifteen minutes and had yet to find the core. No building was over two stories and it appeared like one lengthy suburb, he shouted,

  “Where’s the goddamn centre?”

  What he wanted was downtown, a central area with Wal-mart, Starbucks, lowlifes, a place he could blend.

  Some redneck had told him Tucson was a little bit country, a little bit rock ‘n’ roll. Yeah, but man, heavy on the enchilada, like being in a clean Mexico. Dade had a connection here, for guns and drugs. His contact, a heavy biker named Fer, had set up the meet, Dade had whined,

  “Why Tucson?”

  Fer, scratching his shaggy beard, creaking in a uniform of denim and old leather, said,

  “ ‘Cos, it’s a hop to the border. Where you think the freight is coming from?”

  Dade hadn’t thought and could give a fuck. What he thought was, score me a case of AK-47s, sell ‘em in Detroit. A soul brother had pledged top dollar, the dope was for maintenance.

  Ride on.

  Dade, as with most of his business, had met Fer in a bar, in El Paso. Now there was a happening place. Bikers and outlaws, drifters from every state, where Dade felt most at home. He sought out the edge, drew adrenaline there. In Pain Management, Andrew Vachss describes Dade exactly, says, “Boy like you, you was born trash.”

  They’d set up to connect in a dive in Tucson, Dade had gone,

  “Why can’t we do the deal here, in El Paso?”

  Fer was drinking Sam Adams, the Boston brew, sucked remnants from the bottle, said,

  “The federales are watching me.”

  Put Dade in mind of Willie and Merle, going mano a mano on Pancho and Lefty, for days after, he’d abandoned Tammy, was humming

  “All the Federales say . . .”

  And couldn’t for the life of him bring up the next line, knew it was something about the cops catching the outlaw without too much effort. ‘Course, he went back to Tammy, always did, she was like family.

  He’d stared at Fer, then reached in his satchel, took out a bundle, half now, half on delivery. The satchel was from San Antonio, Dade had gone to see
the Alamo and been hugely disappointed it was so small, what was with that? Was impressed with the plaques on the walls, to the Irish who’d died there, 176 of them . . . who’d have known that, the spud eaters, dying for Texas. The Irish were about to cross his path in the near future and leave repercussions he’d never have imagined.

  The satchel belonged to a half-caste hooker, he’d beaten the living crap out of her, took the bag as a souvenir, she’d dissed Tammy, lucky he hadn’t killed her.

  Fer had a woman with him, a feral creature who soaked tequila like a leech, she never spoke, just cut slices of lime, put salt on the side, and knocked back the Mexican hooch like mother’s milk. The deal done, Fer stood, said,

  “Gotta piss, man.”

  As it said in Pulp Fiction, this was probably more information than Dade needed. Fer lumbered out, his denim/leather creaking like bad news. Dade took a good look at the woman, she’d a set of knockers that put heat in his groin, she caught the look, asked,

  “The fuck you staring at?”

  He loved it, feisty was near his favourite thing. On the turn of a nickel, he’d have dogged her, then turned her over, cut her throat. He gave her the smile. She was a biker chick, a Mama, had seen badass up close and personal for longer than she dared remember. Psychos, loser’s stone killers, she’d partied with the worst of them. But this guy, this was a different species, he’d cut you and not even take count. He’d smile, ice in his veins, and now he said,

  “I was wondering, your old man, Fer . . . what kinda handle is that?”

  She wished Fer would come back, she was feeling something she hadn’t felt in a long time, fear, answered,

  “Short for Lucifer.”

  Dade loving it, soaking up every hostile vibe available, said,

  “He’s the devil, huh?”

  Fucking with her, she tried for hard, went,

  “You better believe it, buster.”

  Fer was returning, heavy boots thumping along the floor, his flies undone, urine stains along his left jean leg, like a badge of pride, Dade whispered to her,

  “I’m a bit of a demon my own self.”

  Physically, Dade had more than a passing resemblance to Christopher Walken, not the gorgeous specimen of The Deer Hunter . . . no, more the crazed face of later movies where he seemed to have cornered the market in psychos and whackos. Dade believed he looked like Jimmy Woods, especially the Woods of The Onion Field and Salvador. One of his favourite fantasies was the movie of his life . . . him portrayed as a Dillinger lovable scamp. He’d put J-Lo in there, not that the bitch could act, but he liked that body, get Oliver Stone to direct ‘cos that dude was seriously out there.

  Fer had suggested Dade stay at La Quinta in Tucson, Dade had asked,

  “Why?”

  Fer had sniggered, said,

  “It’s like citizens-ville, lots of wetbacks working there, you get horny, you put it to the housekeeper, like who she’s gonna call?”

  Where the fuck was it, he pulled up on an avenue, checked the sign, read,

  STONE AVENUE

  Tickled him. Got a flash of the biker chick, he’d asked her,

  “You like Tammy?”

  “Who?”

  He couldn’t credit her, went,

  “Who, an American icon, is fuckin’ who, Tammy Wynette is who.”

  She’d been scared, he knew. Fear was near as vital as speed, cranked him way up, she’d said,

  “I don’t, like, do country and western, I’ve got the Hole CD.”

  Figured. Courtney Love, another space cadet.

  He hit on her tone, prissy, a middle-class accent overriding the biker front. He let her remark simmer, dance around in the stratosphere, then said,

  “Next time we hook up, I’ll play you some Tammy, maybe ‘Don’t Want to Play House,’ get you converted.”

  Considering, after the business, maybe track them, get his green back, put the bitch in the ground, shove a Tammy tape in her mouth, go,

  “Now you’re country.”

  And Fer, it would be a real buzz to put out that dude’s lights, cancel his ticket.

  Getting out of the vehicle, Dade liked the way his boots crunched on the asphalt, popped a Juicy Fruit, had the Walther in his waistband, watched a Mex with his wife and kids, hailed them,

  “Yo, Pedro.”

  The man turned, asked,

  “Qué?”

  Dade eyes him, giving him the yard treatment, thinking, spic city, the guy wearing cowboy boots, Yankees T, and Wranglers, like he was a goddamn white man, Dade decided to fuck with him a little, asked,

  “What’s with the T, Speedy, like you’d know shit from shinola?”

  The wife’s eyes widened and before the man could go macho, Dade added,

  “Dónde esta La Quinta?”

  The man conferred with his wife, the kids staring at Dade, he winked at them, made a gun of his index finger and thumb, dropped the hammer.

  The man replied in a burst of Mex, Dade held up a hand, smiled, said,

  “Whoa, easy, Miguel, that’s about all my spic rap, gotta like ration it, hit me again in Ingles, comprende, hombre?”

  The man’s eyes glowed and Dade felt his adrenaline zoom up a notch, thinking the fuck’s got a knife in his boot. Dade could see it, the Walther up and spitting, take ‘em down on Stone Avenue, waste the brats first. The man was saying,

  “Ees not far, you make a right then along Beaumont, ees past the university, beside Denny’s.”

  He pronounced it Dinny’s. Dade figured he’d grab a bowl of chili there, wash it down with some Lone Star, he said,

  “Much obliged, pilgrim, I ever need like a gardener or someone to clean my pool, I’ll keep you in mind, and hey, great boots.”

  He burned rubber outa there, got a jump from them. Five minutes later, he was checking into La Quinta, not flash but clean and white, he booked for five nights, asked,

  “You got cable?”

  “Sí.”

  Grabbed his key, got squared away. Two beds in the room, coffeemaker, wide-screen TV. He got the coffee going, hit the remote. MTV. The Black Eyed Peas with “Shut Up,” he cranked some speed, sang with the hook,

  “Shuddup.”

  Sang loud.

  Dade’s first serious stretch was when he was twenty, he’d burgled a house, could have been away clean but spotted a bottle of tequila. Never having tried it, he knew there was some shit involving salt and lime but opted for putting the bottle on his head.

  Chug

  Chug

  That’s all she wrote.

  Blew him across the room.

  He’s slumped against a wall, vomit on his front, the empty bottle between his legs when the cops came. This was in Oklahoma, not the best place to be a burglar, especially an inept one. They take property seriously. Too, he was out of state and he was most definitely out of luck. When he opened his eyes, a state trooper named Jones was standing over him, said in a friendly way,

  “Tossed your cookies, huh.”

  Dade was naïve enough to buy the tone. Jones put out his hand, said,

  “Lemme give you a hand there, son.”

  Put out his hand.

  Later, when they finally extracted the nightstick from Dade’s ass, Jones said,

  “Hey, I was looking for that.”

  The judge, with an equally friendly, warm voice, asked,

  “First offence, eh, partner?”

  Dade had done a week of lockup, the nightly visits from the deputies, and he was no longer buying warmth. He glared at the judge, who continued,

  “Don’t see why we should ruin a young life over a youthful prank, you listening to me, son?”

  And Dade had dared to breathe.

  Got a five-year jolt.

  Served every day, came out with a brown paper bag, prison tats, a passion for Tammy Wynette, and a simmering ferocity he’d learned to put behind a smile. Dade had great teeth.

  State issue.

  First week of the term, a black guy had knocked
out his teeth, going,

  “Don’t need ‘em for blow jobs.”

  Six months later, Dade, a leading light in a white supremacist gang, had taken the guy’s eyes out with a spoon. No one fucked with him again.

  He’d gotten a queen for his cell, a sissy out of North Carolina, and the bitch had been heavily into Tammy, played her all day. When Dade traded the cow for a piece, he’d kept the Tammy albums.

  Speedway Avenue was where the students boogied. Dade, dressed in black 501s, a black T with a red lightning zag, felt it accessorised his scar, reading, “Metallica.”

  Figured the students’d dig it. He let the T hang over his jeans, not as a fashion statement but to cover the Walther. No way he was rocking without weight. Last item, the boots, he studied the heels, stacked, getting worn, needed refit, said,

  “Fuck it.”

  Pulled them on, studied himself in the mirror, he’d a toke earlier, chill him out. Liked what he saw, a dude in black, easy smile and crinkly lines round the eyes. Pass for Clint Eastwood’s son. Maybe he’d score a college chick, give her a touch of the hard country. The baseball mitt was on the bed, he picked it up, smelled the old leather, made him sigh. Been a shame to waste the kid, he’d an arm on him and catch, shit, that kid had eyes in the back of his skull. Then he giggled, feeling the gun buck in his hand, giving Ben, the kid, a third eye. He put the mitt in his satchel, the maids, wetbacks, they’d steal anything. He raised his palm to his reflection, asked,

  “Give me five, bro?”

  He slapped his hand against the glass, then made a clicking sound with his tongue, said,

  “Let’s boogie.”

  The glass guy winked.

  “Sherry was juicily conceived, but Marie squeezed

  even more out of her, flirting coyly with Sterling

  Hayden, conniving with Vince Edwards, snidely

  blowing smoke up Elisha Cook’s aspirations.”

  – EDDIE MULLER,

  Dark City: The Lost World of Film Noir

  THE FIRST BAR, Dade lucked out, scored a few tabs of E from a student who said,

  “Like the shirt.”

  He was cruising, on his third bar he switched from long necks to Wild Turkey, tried a line on some girls but they blew him off. He shrugged, the night was young.