A Fifth of Bruen: Early Fiction of Ken Bruen
- Автор: Бруен Кен
- Год: 2006
- Язык: английский
- Год: Busted Flush Press
- ISBN: 978-0-9767157-2-6
- Жанр: Триллеры
Электронная книга - «A Fifth of Bruen: Early Fiction of Ken Bruen». Краткое содержание книги:
Job, complete, the priest took off. I stood over Padraig and couldn’t find any last words of enlightenment. I felt the last of the hangover, and that might have been the most fitting tribute. O’Hanlon put his shovel down and began to light a pipe.
“You knew the client... did you, Dillon?”
“I did...”
“Well, like the priest said, we bring nowt into the world and that client sure as spit didn’t bring anything out... how’s the job?”
“Monotonous. How did you get into this line of work?”
“It’s a corporation job, so I’m secure. I like the hours. In winter it’s a whore’s ghost to put a shovel in the hard ground. We have to get it heated first. Did you know Rod Stewart was a gravedigger once?”
I didn’t. I fought the inclination to inquire if O’Hanlon sang. I was afraid of the answer. That O’Hanlon was over fifty wasn’t relevant. I think. He was in the grip of his dream.
“And that fella is worth millions, Dillon... millions... with blond women fighting over him morning, noon, and night.”
“You never know, alright...”
O’Hanlon nearly embraced me for the breath of my vision. “That’s it... you’ve said it all there... you have to be ready... you’d never know who’d show up in a graveyard...”
I left him spinning out his dream. I phoned Marisa, and icicles hung on the line. She agreed to meet me at The Weir for lunch. I debated returning to the flat to collect the Dylan Thomas reading by R. Burton. Presents seemed a travesty right then. The wren boys, dressed in colorful rags, were calling house to house... hollerin’ and shouting. A group of them saw me and in nigh chorus chanted, “How’s she cutting, Dillon?”
I wisht I’d know.
The Weir was deserted. I ordered a tomato juice. I think I hate the stuff. As ill as I was, it made little matter. I was glaring at it when Marisa breezed in. In fur. A new mini-length coat. She turned her cheek to be kissed. Not being Halian, I passed on this.
“Will you drink something?”
“Yes, Dillon... a g & t... and sour. Seasonal Greetings wouldn’t be entirely amiss.”
“What happened to your voice. Did they give you a vocabulary for the Christmas. Nobody talks like that... or are you pist? Does ‘g & t’ mean gin?”
The look. I got the gin and a tonic.
We sat for combat.
“Just who do you think you are, Dillon? You stood me up over Christmas... and you don’t have the decency to give me a present... even some perfume. My father says you tried to suggest he belonged to Alcoholics Assembly—”
“Anonymous... that’s Alcoholics Anonymous,” I said.
“For Godsake, who cares. I think you care more for that old wino than you do for me... I don’t think I can take much more of this.”
“Do you like tomato juice?”
“What?”
“I’m gonna let you have that tomato juice there... okay and I’m going to go now...”
“If you leave now... it’s... it’s over... I’m warning you.”
I had the feeling she’d use that line. Why does it always sound more sad than threatening. I got up and left. I thought a bit about the stranger in the fur and the new voice. Who was she? No one that I thought I’d ever get to know. It wasn’t till a lot later that I realized I was now the possessor of the Dylan Thomas record. I didn’t expect I’d be playing it a whole lot. But you never knew. I was glad I hadn’t drunk the tomato juice, for I was far too ill for that. Control is over-critical these days.
I was reading The Crock of Gold and even Stephens was failing to rally me. A bottle of scotch stood on the fridge. A stand off. Course the scotch held all the shots... punned or otherwise. The sun was over various horizons... yard-arms... and I kept postponing the inevitable.
The door-bell went... insistently. I opened the door to a complete stranger. A tall blond guy... over six foot and built like trouble. The kinda face women said was too pretty. I don’t follow that but he had that expression; he’d heard the women say it too. In his left hand was a brown paper bag... a bottle. Mebbe muggers did house calls. The clothes belied that. Rich knacker-ish. A worn suede jacket. Quality worn. A maroon sweat shirt that never heard of Traders, and the faded jeans that cost cash money for that fade. Was it on mesself or did he have a tan. In Ireland? At Christmas...?
“Yeah...”
“Are you Dillon?”... an accent to match the jacket, money ill-disguised.
“Yeah...”
“I’m Raoul... Marisa’s brother...”
Sure. He had the cut of her. What I thought was... he’s gay... what does he want. I ran my reactions slow.
“Piss off” or “So...!” or “What do you want...?” or “Hoppit...”
I was kinda fond of the last one. It would get the job done and it had a ring to it. I said, “Come in.”
He handed me the bottle. Inside, I looked at the label. Glenfiddich... m... m... mph. Pull out the oul mugs... they were on active duty these days. I tried to run the number, “Well, I’m not drinking alone,” but it didn’t float. I poured freely, gave him the mug.
“If this is sippin’ whiskey... just don’t tell me... alrite.”
“Oh right... you’re probably wondering why I’m here.”
“I was wondrin’... about a friend of mine... Padraig.”
“Well, Marisa asked me to come... am... I wanted to meet you as I’ve heard some fairly diverse opinions on you. Marisa says you love a lot of literary things...”
“I dunno if I would put it like that. It happens that things which make sense to me happen to fall into the literary can... well, sometimes—”
“My father says you’re never sober.”
We took this as a cue and had us some Glenfiddich. Not bad at all. I figured he was figuring me. So we let that dance about a bit. My stomach had howled initially... now it was working towards a purr. I was chugging up that road to some recovery.
“—I ran into Robbie last night, and he says you cheated him outa £20—”
“And a meal...” I said.
“Yeah... and Ted... you know him?”
“I’ve met him... his earring anyway.”
Raoul smiled. It looked real enough.
“Ted says you’re a psychopath...”
“M... m... m... I dunno how much of that I would want to be denied. Psychos get fast service in pubs.”
Smiled again, and he reached for the bottle. Poured some more of that good stuff.
“Marisa seems keenish...!”
“Did she tell you about the funerals?” I asked.
Now he looked uncomfortable. But there was a limited range of places to look. He looked at me. I had his attention... and of course... the bottle.
“She did... she said it’s what you do most. So, you see, I’ve heard a lotta... diverse reports.”
“Lemme ask you something... why on earth would you call to visit a drunken psychopath who steals money and likes funerals... are you mad is what I want to know—”
A guffaw... threw his head back and roared laughin’. Sure, how could I not like this guy. I sloshed in more drink. I was way past recovery. Indeed, I was into the area of having answers. A very drunken place. That takes big drinks.