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:
“Anything to do with the Dow Jones?”
“What? Dow who... are you pissed?”
“No... And no, I dunno what a dip is, should I?”
“It’s what the English call a pickpocket, you know, a Jimmy light-fingers.”
“O.K.”
“Well Ford, I got dipped... over sixty notes. What do you think of that?”
Ford didn’t think much of it one way or the other. All he knew was, it would cost him. In fact he felt he was about to experience exactly what it was to be dipped by phone. Right now he wasn’t in to the mood for Dalton.
“So, Ford... Ford, are you there? Hello?”
“Yea.”
“I wonder if maybe you could let me have seventy-five?”
“Seventy-five!”
“Just kidding. Lighten up Ford. Seventy will do grand.”
“I’ll be in The Kings Arms around eight. O.K.?”
“What am I supposed to do till then?”
“You’re always telling me you’d have been a gifted actor, that you missed your vocation.”
“Jeez, so what?”
“So, act outraged,” and Ford put down the phone.
Then there was Grace. A lovely name for a woman, and a lovely lady she was. You could put music to this. Ford wished he had. On one bright and shiny day he won on the horses. He’d noticed a horse called “Vikki’s Way” was entered at Redcar. On a whim and a prayer, he put a tenner to win... and it did. He’d gone into Ladbrokes in Piccadilly Circus. The horse paid nine-to-one, minus tax. Ford was stunned. He had a fist of tenners. Something special to remember. He did a wee jig on the street.
Fortnum and Mason caught his eye. Why the hell not? A high English tea... cream buns and crumpet... ah! He really wanted a drink but he could do that later and seriously. In he went. The staff intimidated him, and it was crowded. On the verge of fleeing, he spied a table with one person. “Go on, it’s a day for gambling,” he urged. This was a fine looking woman here. Too late to gallop.
“Excuse me. Er — might I sit... Is the table free?”
She looked up. Blue, blue eyes and my, oh my, a face close to beauty. Around thirty. In there!
“Is it free? Now, mm... There is a vacant place, but I’d hazard a guess and say it’s far from free. Not here!”
Wouldn’t you know it? A comedian. What a wit! He sat anyway. Ford was very uncomfortable. So much that he ordered coffee and felt a distinct freeze. From nowhere a devil-may-care mood took hold, laced lightly with rage. A caff, that’s all. For all the snotty trappings, it was just a caff. But the treatment wasn’t quite over.
“And how would sir wish his coffee?”
You could cut glass with the smirk. Ford looked up. God! He’d be brawling in a minute. The woman sat and watched Ford. Enough already!
“I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you bring it in a cup, then if I feel maybe I’d like a bucket later, I’ll get back to you. The coffee came quietly. Ford didn’t think the attitude improved a whole lot but he sure felt better. Way, way better.
“You’re losing your hair,” she said.
Follow that! Ford couldn’t. For starters it was true. Boy was it true? Every morning the mirror taunted, “Hey, you got so bald, where did all your hair go?” He had sandy, loose hair. A whole lot looser these days. Gloried be, some mornings there seemed to be more hair on the brush than on his head. A wig would never be a solution. His mother said a thousand times, “See a man with a wig, you see an ejit.”
Pithy but effective. You hoped for a high forehead and the kindness of strangers. Not today. Was she all in it, he wondered. I mean, would you say to a person, “Hi, how come you’re so bald?” or “I see you’re missing a few teeth there, missus.” Come on!
She had a hoity-toity voice with an underlay of America.
Ferocious combination. Ford looked at his coffee: could they find smaller cups?
“Don’t sulk, you’ve a strong face,” she said.
There isn’t a man in the world who wouldn’t swap a strong face for a head of hair. Ford ran a series of snappy rejoinders all of which sounded flat. Oh tonight, he’d have a veritable trove of crisp replies. He said, “You’re all in it, are yah? Firing on all cylinders I mean?”
She looked startled, then smiled.
“You’re Irish?”
Following this lady’s thought process was very unnerving. She continued, “I couldn’t understand a person coming here... for coffee.”
“Well, I didn’t think they’d give me Guinness.”
“I don’t think they’re fond of me as it is.” She laughed again. “I’m Grace,” she said.
Ford considered, then went for the brogue.
“And tis graced I am myself to meet thee.” Not bad. Not great, but he was new to this.
“Are you American?” he asked.
“Hey, very sharp. I though my Fortnum and Mason accent was foolproof. I’m from Wisconsin, and for a while there I had a limey husband.”
“Lousy?”
“Yeah, that too. No, Limey. Like English. Cecil. Cecil’s my husband,” she smiled deeply here. “Hey, I like saying that. Back home, you call a guy Cecil, you better reach for a weapon... and be carrying something a little more lethal than an attitude. But he’s a story that needs at least three bourbons for lubrication.” Ford considered. How dangerous could someone called Cecil be? Realistically, how much?
“What’s your name?” she asked. “I mean, if you’re buying me a drink, it helps. I’m not saying it’s essential, but I’m curious.”
“Ford.”
“That’s it, Ford? Blunt and macho. Well, no shit. Don’t fool with this dude. Ever read Ford Madox Ford?”
“The Good Soldier?”
“Way to go, course you Irish have some sort of lock on writers, am I right?”
Did this require an answer? Ford didn’t think so.
“Let me pay for this,” Ford suggested, and she agreed. After he paid he stood with a vague smile, looking at the bill.
“Something wrong, Ford?”
“No.” He was thinking this place has brought the “dip” to a professional level. They walked up Charing Cross Road past 84, and Grace said she’d sure like to have met Helen Hanff. Grace knew a small pub off New Oxford Street and they went there.
The barman said, “Hi, Grace,” and Ford thought, “Oh yea?”
“How do you feel about sour mash?” she asked.
“Is that like sour grapes, or bitter spuds?”
“Droll, Ford. Let’s drink Stateside liquor. They got ’em all here.”
“Hey, Tommy, you want to bring us some sour mash and make them big suckers. On the rocks.”
Tommy wanted to, and did. He was in his fifties with a lopsided leer. He showed his teeth a lot, which was a mystery. The teeth were not so much stained by tobacco as blitzed. Lashings of Old Spice didn’t disguise the fact that Tommy had sampled some sour mash himself, and not long ago. Judging by his smile, maybe he’d drank the Old Spice.
“You’re a doll,” Grace said.
The barman didn’t strike Ford as such unless The Brothers Grimm had designed some.
“You know why I like this place, Ford?”
“The ambience?”
“Good word, been reading Improve Your Word Power, in the Reader’s Digest, I’d say.”
She walloped back the drink so Ford did the same and nearly went through the wall.
“Arr... gh!” he cried.
“Old Kentucky Mule Kick,” she said. “Tommy, get your ass in gear. I like this place ’cos they got a juke box. Wanna play?”
“Any Waylon Jennings?” he asked, still dazed by from the bitterness of the sour mash. Sour, it was the pure bitterness of Lucifer.
She looked at Ford as more mule-kickers arrived. She said, “Lemme guess, it’s the wailing you like?”