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:
And she put her hand to his face, kissed him easily.
She lifted the napkin and the locket fell from the tray.
“What’s this?”
“It was my mother’s, and... well, I’d like you to have it.”
“But, Danny, I can’t... your mother.”
“She’d have wanted you to have it.”
“Is this her... the photo...”
“Or the Chancellor... it’s a bit faded.”
“No... no, I can see you in her.”
Danny thought that was fair enough. A sort of poetic justice.
“You’re a good man, Danny. I’ll take care of it... and you... if you’ll let me.”
He walked her to her car and promised to ring her for the weekend. The love making had done wonders for his body.
He felt as if he’d had an interior massage.
When he got back to the flat the phone was ringing. Richie.
“Yo, Dan-yell, what’s shaking?”
“The usual.”
“You got my package safe?”
“Where no one can reach it.”
“Yo’ the man, Danyell.”
“So they say.”
“I send Roy later to pick it up... that bro, he eat or drink anyfink... sorry ’bout the toast. I’ll catch up soon my friend.”
“O.K. Ritchie.”
Danny took the envelopes he’d liberated from the dope dealer and spilt the contents on the table... a feast of pills. Next, he got a razor blade and a plain sheet of paper. Each capsule he slit and let the contents gather on the paper. He thought about Nora, her expression as she examined the locket. He thought of the lines from Flaubert,
“I shall only tell the truth,
but it will be horrible,
cruel and bare.”
Boney M were having a revival, and he hummed “The Rivers of Babylon” as he worked. When he’d finished, he poured the powder in a large, plastic beaker and added a drop of Crème de Menthe. Next, he put a heaped spoon of coffee and then two sugars... and began to stir. STIRRED WELL,
“Like the Greeks make,” he said... and immediately came the “Beware of them bearing gifts.”
“Yea,” he said, “that too.”
Finally, he added two fingers of brandy and put the lot in the fridge.
“Allow to cool,” he whispered, “for a moment of resentment.” Then he settled down to wait.
Roy came late evening. What appeared to be a frenzied tea cosy sat on his head. A pink track suit proclaimed, “Boyz N’ Hood.” The prerequisite high tops with the laces undone.
Danny completely unnerved him with a huge show of welcome.
“Roy, great to see you, come in... sit down.”
He nearly said, “I missed you,” and thought he’d better get a grip.
“Yo’ got my package, man... I’m in a big hurry. Gots a man to see.”
“Hey, buddy, you’re Ritchie’s friend, then that makes you MY FRIEND. You’ve got time for a quick drink.”
A sly grin from Roy.
“Always got time to drink, man.”
“You’ve heard of a Rob-Roy. It’s a cocktail... well, lemme give you a dynamite drink they call F. Y. Roy.”
“FROY...?”
“Yea’, that’s near enough. Might taste a bit sweet to start.”
“Oh. I likes ’em sweet... young, too.”
Danny thought, “You’re a funny man, Roy, real class sense of humour.”
He handed Roy a mug, and with his own mug... toasted him.
“Cheery pip... down the hatch in one.”
Book III
As Danny helped Roy behind the wheel of his car, he had to actually turn the ignition for him. The package was full forgotten.
“Wot... wot de name of my drink, man?”
Before Danny could answer, the engine turned over and they took off. He’d rehearsed telling Roy the name all day... now he said it quietly after the departing car.
“An F. Y. Roy... gettit, a fuck you... yea’... you drive careful now, you hear.”
A weak spring sun was doing its best to break through. Danny thought he’d sit in the park and marvel that the sun would attempt to shine this late in the evening. He knew darkness could only be minutes away, and the dinner bell to sound for predators.
Barely had he sat than a young woman approached. She was dressed in what Time Out described as killer-bimbo power-gear. Micro-short mini, sheer stockings, and the vicious spike heels.
She smiled.
“Wanna get laid?”
Danny wondered anew why half of London was attempting to talk American.
“I’ve been laid.”
“Not like I do it, Honey.”
“No. You do it for money, right? I didn’t have to pay for it.”
She gave a loud laugh.
“Oh, you paid, Honey, in one way or another, you always pay.”
“You might be right. Gotta go, but thanks for your input.”
He considered ringing Nora, but felt he had had enough communication for one day.
Danny had overlooked an irony he would have relished.
The influx of American was something he constantly derided. Yet, he himself was an exponent of a uniquely American concept,
The “Vigilante”
and worse.
as “folk hero.”
He slept late the next day. Rising, he felt still the afterglow of Nora. It sparked a small light in his soul where the darkness had so reigned. Selecting Roy Orbison, he showered and shaved in near buoyant mood. Roy O’ sang,
He joined in the chorus,
Opening the front door, he jumped back. Richie was standing there, silent and grim.
“Jesus Christ, Ritchie, you put the heart sideways in me. How long have you been standing there.”
“Long enough. I could hear you singing to your records, be a happy morning for you, I figger.”
“So, are you coming in or wot?”
“Yea’, I comes in.”
Agitation came in waves from Richie... and something else too... something Danny had never for from him, hostility.
“What’s up, Richie, you want some tea or coffee?”
Only later did Danny realize that as Richie spoke, he’d dropped all the accents, not a hint of patois nor a flavour of Irish. Even the clipped British inflexion was absent. His voice was plain and cold.
“What time was Roy here?”
“In the evening, it was still bright, in fact, the weirdest thing... the sun tried to shine. Don’t you want coffee or something?”
Roy Orbison was now “Running Scared.”
“You want to turn that shit off Danny, I need you to hear me.”
Danny considered it, but decided to let it slide.
“O.K.”
“And Roy left here... with the package?”
“What the fuck is this, Richie... are you interrogating me... I turned off the music but don’t get ahead of yourself? Yea, he had a drink... he was very hyper... as if he was something... and, yea, he left... with the friggin’ parcel... wot you think, I flushed it down the toilet?”
They were facing each other, and violence hummed all round. Richie climbed down.
“Yea’... sorry, bro’. Roy hit the roundabout at the Elephant and Castle at over 90 miles an hour. The car was totaled and him too. I’ve been telling him, don’t mess with that stuff. Thing is... that package, it been bought and paid for. I was like... a courier. You heard of The Yardies?”
“No.”
“North London gangs, use shooters and no messing round. Scotland Yard was so concerned they set up a special task force just to deal with them.”