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:
“Oh, God, Danny, I’m so dreadfully sorry... I mean I never... I wouldn’t, oh sweet Jesus, me and my big mouth. Oh God!”
Danny excused himself, went to the bar. The barman slowly brought his smirk to the counter.
“A large scotch, please.”
“Don’t let her catch you, eh.”
Danny said nothing, took the drink, and walloped it home.
It shook him. He said,
“Same again.”
“If you want my advice, sir.”
“I don’t, what I want is the same again. Can you do that, eh?”
He could.
Danny brought the second drink to the table. Nora asked,
“Do you know Annie Lennox?”
“Why?”
“That’s the song. Heaven’s above, how did you know?”
“Whoa hey, hold the phones lady... before you get hyper on some ESP garbage or unspoken communication, I was only asking a question, alright... so let’s calm down.” Hurt washed her face and she took a sip of the sherry. Then she said quietly,
“I was only going to say there’s a line in her song that goes, ‘Why can’t I learn to keep my big mouth shut.’ Do... do you know it?”
“I only know old songs. I only like old songs.”
They said little after that and Nora drove him to the Oval. As he was getting out, she gave him a slip of paper.
“That’s my phone number, if you... well, anyway... you’ll know yerself.”
He said goodnight. Almost immediately, a man in his late 30’s approached.
“Wanna score, got some quality stuff?”
“Yea’... got any speed?”
“My man, I got it all. More variety than Boots, and no prescription required.”
They moved into a small lane, lined by railings. The man produced an envelope and began to spill coloured capsules into his palm.
“Let’s see... speed-o... hmmm... downers, quals, dexies... ah, yea’.”
And he dropped some. He bent down quickly and Danny grabbed his hair. With all his force, he slammed the man’s face against the railings... once, twice... and a third, and then let the man slide to the ground. Danny bent and rummaged through his pockets, took a bundle of money and two more envelopes. As he walked away, he stopped and went back to lean over the groaning figure, said,
“My man, do you have the time?” and removed the man’s watch, a heavy, silver Citizen. He liked the irony of that brand name.
As he headed home, he hummed The Commodores,
“You’re once,
you’re twice,
three times a lady.”
Richie came by early, a smaller black man in tow. But anyone appeared small next to him. They both sported the reversed baseball caps. Danny felt hungover and his side ached. He went to make tea. Richie introduced his friend as Roy.
Elvis was extolling the “wonder of you,” and Roy said,
“Got any rap?”
Danny said it was tea or nowt. He made a mountain of toast and plonked it all down on a small table. Roy bit into the toast, he was on his third slice when Richie slapped his shoulder.
“What the fuck wrong with yo’ man... this be the man’s breakfast... wotcha gonna do... and take dat cap off man, jeez... where you been?”
He snatched the cap from Roy’s head.
“But ye be wearing yo’ cap, Rich.”
“Am I eating de toast, you see me eating de toast?”
Danny marveled anew at Richie’s rapid register of accents. He’d throw in a toff amid a swelter of Jamaican. Richie turned to Danny.
“So, my man, what’s shaking?”
“Not a lot, Richie... just doing it.”
Roy took a tabloid from his jacket, unfolded it and held out the front page.
“Some bro’ bin sticking it to the street people.” The headline read,
“Vigilante strikes twice in
one evening.
Four seriously injured.”
Danny put down his cup. Richie said,
“Dat de kind of crazy shit you likely to pull, eh, Danyell... you probably rooting for this dude.”
“You think he’s wrong?”
“I think he’s fookin’ crazy, that wot I be thinking and I think he be a fascist, too.”
“Come on Richie, a fascist?”
“Yea, them Vigilantes, today they come for him, tomorrow they be coming for you... Them dangerous mut Danyell, you all listen to ole Rich here. I see them fascists in de prison, all tattoos and patriotism.”
Danny looked at his watch, his Citizen watch. He was unfamiliar with its weight.
Roy’s eyes shone.
“Nice piece of watch, bro’.”
Richie had an odd expression, said,
“Man could be mugged for a piece like that.”
Danny smiled.
“Oh, I don’t think so, Richie, I don’t think so at all.”
“Roy, how about you start the car, seeing is yo’ all had ’nouf toast, n’all.”
Roy put his cap on, fixed it fussily in it’s reverse position, said,
“That Elvis, sure can sing, yea... I’d like to hear him rap.”
Richie stood, looked round as if he expected someone.
“Danny, I gots a problem, need to ask you a favour.”
“O.K.”
“I gots this package, I can’t keeps it at my crib so...”
“Should I ask what’s in it?”
“No... no, Danyell, bests be you don’t.”
“Let’s have it, then.”
Richie produced a brown paper sack, and gingerly handed it over. Danny took it with both hands, it was sealed with brown tape and weighed like a pound of sugar.
“I come by in a few days, take it offa yer hands, how that be?”
“That would be fine, Richie.”
“O.K., my man, you take care now, huh,” and he grabbed Danny in a bear hug. “You no beauty Dan-yell, but you alright.”
“Excuse me.”
“That an old song, that be your Boss, Bruce Springsteen, see, I be listening out for you, always.”
After he’d gone, Danny did what he’d see in a hundred movies. He ripped open the bag, put his index finger in, tasted.
“Well, it doesn’t taste like sugar,” he said.
It had a bitter kick-back. Danny considered it for a moment then went to the toilet. He upturned the bag and watched the white powder spill into the bowl, then he flushed.
“Nobody will find it there,” he said. He most hoped it belonged to Roy, he didn’t like Roy at all.
Danny had to forgo his exercises as his side was too painful. A little worrying this, as he had to be in shape for the events. The lack of these exercises also allowed his memory to kick into gear.
From a blind corner came the words of “Honey”. One of the great schmaltz records, everyone derided it as pure slush and yet it was a massive hit. Twice. It was on its first massive upswing when Danny met Katie and she’d hum it to them, half-in-earnest. Danny frequently called Darcy, “Honey II”.
He wondered what Nora would make of it. A long time ago he’d thrown out the record, with the photos. Danny went to the West End. As he strolled through Leicester Square, he marveled at the amount of event candidates. A nigh feverish hunting ground this would be.
Entering the record shop, he was stunned at the poster for the current hit-makers. Who were these people, he’d never heard of any of them. So ‘O.K.’ he though. ‘I’m out of touch. I’m over 40, but this was a complete alien world.’ He moved to a counter.
“I’m looking for a honey,” he said.
“Excuse me?”
“Honey, that’s h-o-n-e-y!”
“Sorry, sir, this is a music store, there’s a chemist two doors down. Or you might try our cafeteria on the third floor.”
The girl turned away. Danny wanted to hit her.
“It’s a song... from 1968 or so... by a guy called Bobby Goldboro.”