American Skin

by Ken Bruen

  “Like, who gives a fuck?”

  Chow time, Dade had put powdered glass in the bigot's stew, early in the morning, the cracker on his knees, spitting blood, Dade asking,

  “Like, who gives a fuck?”

  Sherry said,

  “He had CDs delivered yesterday.”

  Dade was confused, she sighed, explained,

  “The Mick, he had stuff posted from New York, so, like, he's arriving . . . soon.”

  She opened her bag, took out a slip of paper, read,

  “The music store, East Village, he likes music, I'll give him some songs, I'll give him some thrills.”

  Dade blew it off with,

  “Don't mean nothing.”

  Her voice raised, going,

  “Over two hundred bucks on CDs? . . . he's coming.”

  Dade veered another direction, asked,

  “You stuck on this guy, that it?”

  In a cold exact mimic of Dade's remark, she sneered,

  “Don't mean nothing.”

  He shucked out a cig, got a book of matches, lit up, striking outwards, trying it, didn't work, couldn't do it. She reached over suddenly, fury writ large, snapped it alight, he asked,

  “So, what's the deal, why you going to all this trouble, I mean, if the dude don't, like, mean nothin'?”

  Got some edge in it, let it sound mean, she got right in his face, the Juicy Fruit he'd given her, all over his nostrils, her eyes huge, said,

  “The fuck walked out on me, upped and left . . . like . . . like I was a one-off!”

  Dade went,

  “Uh-huh.”

  She was in front of the mirror, checking her hair, frowning, said,

  “Nobody, no two-bit Mick fuck walks on me, not now, not ever.”

  Dade filed the warning.

  “I looked around the bar. There were five men in the

  bar and no women. I was back in the American

  streets.”

  – CHARLES BUKOWSKI, South of No North

  SLAN GO FOILL.

  A common Irish term for “See you later” or . . . “That's it.” But there is an undercurrent, depending on the intonation. You hear the old people, at the graveside of a loved one, whisper the words with a sadness beyond articulation. The meaning hangs in the air, dances a little with the sway of the breeze, then is washed away by the rain. A faint echo lingering as the evening falls.

  I was standing outside the Bellagio Gallery of Fine Art. The showcase was a collection of old masters: Mantegna, Raphael, Titian, Dürer, Rubens, Rembrandt.

  Not what you'd expect in Vegas, right?

  Why I loved America, the rules only existed to be reinvented and if dollars could buy a dream, then bring it on. In my head was a DVD I'd watched of Bill Hicks . . . Jesus, his death, what a waste. I'd thought the paintings would part balm my wounded heart. But I'd flitted past them, my awareness of the beauty only intensifying my pain. The very first time, Siobhan, we'd made love, her lying in my arms and she turned her face up to me, asked,

  “Will you mind me?”

  Siobhan had never, never in her woesome life asked anyone for anything, and careless, without thought, full of afterglow, I said,

  “I give you my word.”

  She'd said,

  “I'm going to keep you to that.”

  What had I been thinking?

  Siobhan was dead.

  Everything pointed to that conclusion. Still, I'd have to go to Tucson lest she was somehow, against all odds, alive.

  So I turned away from art, felt the heat from the desert brush my face, uttered,

  “Slan go foill.”

  An indication of my state of mind, I wanted to be in Brooklyn, to walk Third Avenue, stand on the corner of Fulton and Flatbush, trace the border between downtown and Fort Greene, stroll carefree (as fuckin’ if) on Nassau Street to McCarren Park, heading towards the Russian church, open a savings account at The Williamsburg and, in the evening, sit on the bleachers, pop a Bud, watch the neighbourhood kids play stickball.

  I missed Brooklyn, how weird is that?

  I come from a country steeped in culture and without a backwards glance, I'd have settled in Park Slope.

  Or better, head for the Jersey Shore, my Walkman going, Bruce with “American Skin,” I'd be wearing a Yankees jacket, baseball cap riding low on my eyes, tan chinos and Docksiders on my feet, sifting the sand with my boat shoes, I'd sing along to the chorus, imagine Patti Scialfa giving me the enigmatic smile.

  By fluke, I'd caught a classic episode of The Sopranos, when Tony and Christopher set up Adriana to be whacked by Silvio. It was the in-joke that made it so memorable. Silvio is played by Steve Van Zandt, original member of the E Street Band . . . Silvio is late, and Tony hollers,

  “Where da fuck you been?”

  Christopher, in a tone dripping with venom, says,

  “The highway's jammed with broken heroes.”

  From “Born to Run.”

  There I'd be, minding my own biz, maybe get lucky, catch a glimpse of Bruce and Patti, out for a saunter with the kids, I'd be cool, go,

  “How you doing?”

  Not stopping or anything, cool with it, no biggie, try not to hum . . . “Into the Fire.”

  Come evening, I'd be home, small house with a porch, me mates out there, shooting the shit, maybe catch a rerun of Monk on TV Siobhan would shout,

  “Dinner in ten . . . you guys okay with burgers?”

  She'd have only a hint of the brogue remaining, barely discernible. Me, I'd be deep under the American psyche, below radar, no remnant of the old sod. Just a regular joe, work on my car at the weekend, eat meat loaf on Saturday, shoot pool in the local tavern, hear the local band, a high school kid as babysitter . . . kids? . . . me ‘n’ Siobhan, always planned on two.

  When the boy came of age, I'd bring him out the yard, throw slow ones for him to bat into the net, or shoot a few hoops before supper. In the window, the Stars and Stripes and on the fender of my beat-up Chevy, the logo, “Knicks kick ass.”

  Let out a long, slow sigh, let the dream dance on the desert air, evaporate over the top of the Sands. Such a weariness enfolded me, soul sickness that choked my breathing. The heat was hitting me hard, and I walked into Circus Circus, thinking of Gretchen Peters's song, “Circus Girl.” That didn't help one little bit.

  Vegas is the great timeless zone, in the casinos, no clocks, no windows, you stagger out and the sunlight kicks you in the teeth, you wonder, where'd that come from.

  Right then, I wanted to suspend time. A waitress, impossibly beautiful, gave me a smile of miraculous perfection, asked,

  “What would you like, sir?”

  Not her and that was damn straight, said,

  “Bottle of Bud, long neck and cold as you got it.”

  That came and I overtipped her, she gave a gorgeous smile, said,

  “You need another, you ask for Cindy.”

  Don't hold your breath.

  I was putting the bills back in my wallet when I saw a tiny pocket I'd never noticed, the secret compartment Tommy had mentioned, I opened it and a scrap of folded paper in there. Unfolded it and it was Tommy's spidery writing, some lines of a poem . . .

  Took a long pull at the long neck, it was cold, read,

  Legacy

  Leave you

  The leavings of

  An inarticulated thanks

  Will to you

  The echoes of the lines

  As yet . . . un-writ

  Term you

  The keeper of my conciliatory heart

  That heart as mortgage

  Hold

  My throat felt constricted, my heart like a void, the line about keeper of my conciliatory heart. Asked meself, were we reconciled, had we renewed our deep and deepest friendship, did he die knowing I loved him?

  One thing was for sure, I hadn't been my brother's keeper.

  Later in the day, I realised I'd left the lines with the tip on the counter at the bar.

  Seeme
d fitting, I was unable to hold on to anything.

  When I'd asked Bob for help, took me a time to articulate the exact detail, asking is not my gig. Time later, the happy side of bourbon, I said,

  “I need a piece.”

  He laughed, asked,

  “You taking down a casino?”

  When I didn't respond, he got focused, said,

  “You can get anything in Vegas.”

  And then I smiled, said,

  “Prove it.”

  He stood, a tad unsteady, nodded and was gone.

  A full hour till he returned, carrying a McDonald's bag, I asked,

  “You got hungry?”

  He handed me the bag, said,

  “I held the mayo.”

  Could feel the weight, raised an eyebrow, he said quietly,

  “Browning automatic, full clip, ready to roll.”

  I reached for my wallet, he blew that off, said,

  “Just don't tell me about it, okay?”

  Seemed fair.

  Brace's song . . . “You're Missing” was reeling in my head, time to head for Tucson, should have been Tombstone but I guess they already had their showdown. I had no plan, only show up, kill Stapleton, keep it simple. ‘Course, if he saw me first, I wouldn't need a plan. In my hotel room I packed and wondered how my wife, ex-wife was doing. Jesus, marriages and shootings, this was a low profile? I'd hate to think what would have gone down if I'd been headlining.

  Deeply regretted losing Tommy's poems . . . not to mention, Siobhan's life . . . some lines of Tommy's had lodged:

  “Make a go of it

  the roar

  was roared enough

  to be nigh . . . meaningless.”

  I said aloud,

  “Got that bang to rights, buddy.”

  I zipped the bag, looked round the room, then walked out quickly. Like the man said, you can buy anything in Vegas, save peace, and perhaps the easiest item was a car. Guys go belly up on the tables, they sell that first. Not much advertising about the men who walk out of the Strip, all that’s waiting is the desert.

  I bought a Buick, keep the American flag blowing. Dark blue, like my aura, almost new, the salesman said,

  “Check under the hood, that engine is primed.”

  I took his word for it, haggled the price though my heart wasn’t in it, got five hundred bucks off the marked one, the salesman grinned:

  “You’re a player.”

  Like either of us believed it, I began to drive off the lot, he added,

  “You have a full tank of gas, you’re good to go.”

  The American dream, me in my car, top down, Highway 66, times I so wanted to get right under the skin of the very soil and then the Irish in me would whisper,

  “The Marlboro man died of cancer.”

  The radio blasting, country station, Kimmie Rhodes and Willie Nelson with the Waits song “Picture in a Frame.”

  Beautiful song, darkened my heart that was already in shadow. I’d woken one morning way back, to find Siobhan staring at me, I’d asked,

  “You okay?”

  Her face a mix of melancholy and longing, she’d nodded, said,

  “I love looking at you.”

  Fuck, how do you respond to that, especially as the feeling is not reciprocated.

  Coming out of a deep sleep, I was not at my sharpest, gave some bland reply, mercifully lost to me, and she asserted,

  “I’d stand in the rain to catch a glimpse of you.”

  Hell.

  I’d wanted to go back to sleep, sidestep the whole gig, but no, she continued,

  “When I was at school, I was I think . . . eight. . . things were very bad at home, I mean, ferocious and I guess I was suffering from stress.”

  She laughed.

  “Stress! Eight years of age and crushed by worry. In assembly, I wet myself, the headmistress made me stand in front of the school, confess my shame.”

  Now I was awake, reached for her, but she was somewhere else, not touchable, she continued,

  “ ‘Course, that added to my burden, wet knickers, it became habitual, and I don’t need to tell you what the other children were like?”

  I tried to hug her but she was rigid, carved in stone, asked,

  “The headmistress, you know why she hated me?”

  I didn’t, couldn’t imagine, what would make a grown woman hate a damaged child and Siobhan said,

  “Because I was poor.”

  I definitely had no reply, and she concluded,

  “So money, that’s the only answer, you want to get seriously even, get seriously rich.”

  The Count

  WHEN I’D ARRIVED back at Siobhan’s, she had let out a tiny scream, seeing blood on my collar, down my left cheek, and I said quickly,

  “It’s not mine, it’s Tommy’s.”

  She’d gotten a towel, washcloth, cleaned me off, then poured a large Jameson, said,

  “Drink that.”

  She had to hold the glass to my lips as the aftershock hit. Tremors lashed my body, I heard small whimpers of anguish and realised they were mine. I told her how it had gone down. She had her arm round my shoulder, asked,

  “Is Stapleton dead?”

  I didn’t know, said,

  “I don’t know.”

  She was all business, asserted we couldn’t worry about it then. For one of the very few times, she made a mistake, we should have worried and worried a lot. If I’d been less shook, I’d have got in the car, driven back to the spot, gone down the incline, and put at least three bullets in his head.

  That evening, she looked at the sacks of cash, asked,

  “How much do you think is there?”

  I had no idea, said,

  “A lot.”

  We began the count and it took five hours. We began by putting wedges of ten grand in piles and as time went by, got tired, just threw whole batches against the wall. I was drinking beer, a lot of beer, and Siobhan, never a drinker, was putting away vodka like water.

  Exhausted, she finally slumped against the wall, her eyes out of focus, said,

  “Stephen, there’s at least three point five here.”

  I stared at it, hating it, said,

  “More, I’d say.”

  In noir movies, the couple make love on the mountain of money. We were as close to putting a match to it as it gets. What a fire that would have been.

  I said,

  “The fucking stuff’s bound to be cursed.”

  “Don’t swear, Stephen.”

  Even then, she was herself. And realising what she said, she began to laugh.

  Then she got real serious, said,

  “They say if you laugh at the dead, you’ll soon join them.”

  I felt one of those cold shivers walk up my spine, tried to shrug it away, said,

  “That’s a pishrog, you don’t believe in all that old superstitious crap, come on.”

  She hand her arms round her shoulders, hugging herself as if she was freezing, said,

  “I don’t know what I believe, I just don’t see me ever spending that money.”

  I went to her, put my arms round her, tried,

  “Sweetheart, you’re the one who told me money has no conscience, you’re a banker, remember, cash is simply a means of escape.”

  She bit her lower lip, said,

  “I don’t think there’s any escape from this.”

  Thinking of the life Siobhan had, I roared,

  “You bastards.”

  I felt now as I felt then, a shuddering rage, a cold fury that those bastards can, with such ease, destroy the life of a child. Alcoholism had blighted mine, — Tommy, well, he never had a chance, the euphemism a broken home had broken him. His feigned indifference was the sad remnant of a spirit shattered in all the ways that matter.

  Was I angry?

  You fucking betcha.

  As I drove, the radio played Emmylou Harris with her lost song to her lost love, Gram Parsons, “From Boulder to Birmingham.” I simmere
d with ferocity.

  The Browning was in the glove compartment, I reached, took it out, understood how guys “go postal,” why they climbed a tower and began open season. My skin was burning, my American skin? I squeezed the butt of the gun till my hand ached and the fingers grew numb. A spirit of

  vengeance was in the atmosphere and I was woven into it.

  Hitting top speed, blew along, encapsulated in a case of sheer agitation. Christ, if the highway patrol pulled me over, it wasn’t going to look good. As the miles ate away, I intoned the mantra I’d adopted, the promise I’d made to Siobhan, I’ll mind you, and oh god, I could see, as if she were in front of me, the elfin face she had when I said that, her total delight in the pledge.

  I wanted to grab Stapleton, gouge his eyes out, there wasn’t torment imaginable that would satisfy me.

  The scene of me butting him with the gun and the question . . . why, oh why hadn’t I followed through, shouting over the radio,

  “In the name of all that’s holy, why didn’t I kill him?”

  Sweat was cascading down my shirt and I eased off the pedal, let the pistol slip to the floor, began to climb back. If I arrived in Tucson like that, he’d eat me alive.

  A colder place, I needed to get to that acre in my mind where the flame burned but with cooler heat. I pulled over, counted down from one hundred, got my heartbeat slowed. Took a time, but went from hyperventilation to a zone, if not of peace then less agitation, muttered,

  “Okay.”

  Pete Hamill wrote of Frank Sinatra: “What Sinatra evokes is not strictly urban. It is a very particular American loneliness — that of the self adrift in its pursuit of the destiny of ‘me,’ and thrown back onto the solitude of it’s own restless heart.”

  I hummed a few bars of “Under My Skin” and was, if not consoled, at least distracted.

  “The private terror of the liberal spirit is invariably

  suicide, not murder.”

  — NORMAN MAILER

  AFTERWARDS, Dade could never quite fit the sequence of events in his mind. The quantities of dope and booze ingested didn’t help. An air of slow motion, of not being part of it, clung to his assembly of the facts. It had started good.