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:
Have you got that or do you need time to spell vigilante.”
“Don’t hang up... O.K.... I’m putting you through right away.”
A sound of muffled voices, banging receivers and vicious obscenities, then,
“This is Baker... hello.”
“Mr. Baker, I wanted to give you major advance notice of a big event.”
“And when might that be? I gotta tell you, pal, the story’s near finished already.”
“In three weeks, on May 1st.”
“Not some sort of lost commie, are you? Look, why don’t you meet me, give me an exclusive. We’ll put some jizz back in this... people are bored already.”
“Not of Royal fascination... eh, Baker?”
“Any chance of your being ‘Squidgy’... I mean you don’t have to be, just claim you are. We could work up a front page there. Di and the Vigilantes, now she moves papers.”
“You’ve been told.”
Danny went through his records, found Buddy Holly and turned him to full volume.
“I guess it doesn’t matter anymore.”
He sang along with Buddy. It was an old recording, but Danny reckoned those Crickets sounded fine, yea’... just fine.
That night a bone-exhausted Danny fell into bed. His father shot briefly into his head. He knew where the grave was, but he’d never been to visit, and, if there was an afterlife, where was his father now?
Aloud, Danny said,
“If there’s any justice, and I fear there isn’t any, he’s, I hope, where he deserves to be.”
And just before he slept, he muttered,
“Hot enough for you, is it?”
The Brandon Estate is notorious, even by South East London standards. Coming up the Kennington Park Road, it’s merely obscured by the park, but you turn it, and it seems to jump in your face.
The police refuse to accept there is any area in London that’s a “no-go” for them.
“This, after all, is not Northern Ireland.”
Not yet.
Thus as they deny their refusal to enter any district, they add quietly,
“Except for Brandon, of course.”
It’s already huge reputation was solidified when poll tax collectors were literally strung up. They didn’t die but they never returned either. Social workers refer to it as a “black hole” in the field of community care. Others simply call it, the black hole. Almost anything illegal is available there, and legend has it that even the hardened villains are apprehensive about using it as a hide-out.
The whole of the ground floors are a bazaar of drug dealing. The basements are a shooting gallery, for junkies and shooters. A tight-knit band of dealers move merchandise to and from the ground floor.
Richie was accepted there, though on a tentative basis. He’d brought Danny there on two occasions. Whether as protection or education, Danny hadn’t asked. Colour is not an issue, as to your intentions, they better be vouched for.
Danny’s years on the building sites had given him an eye for planning and lay-out.
All of the next morning, he laid out charts and designs of the estate. The detail of the concept was soothing to him, He almost felt like he was working again. What would have helped most was Richie’s collaboration, but Richie knew he couldn’t ask him. Richie’s help would have been invaluable on every level (of the operation) but he’d have had to tell him what the “event” was.
“No,” he said, “no, Richie’s out.”
He sang quietly as he worked,
The risks would be enormous. He had no illusions on that. But he was determined on a simple plan, and, if he didn’t pull it off, then he’d be a permanent resident on Brandon. Once, in his reading, he’d found a proposition in Part 4 of Spinoza’s ethics. He’d copied it down. It had found its significance now, he thought.
“A free man
thinks of nothing less than death
and his wisdom
is a meditation
not of death
but of life.”
Standing, he stretched, and ran the lines over again.
“Time to chill out, Richie... eh?”
The Buddhists believe you can measure “a man’s wealth by what he can do without.”
They’d have had an interesting concept in Frank Norton. He was a “getter.” Not a go-getter as his parents might have wished. Whatever you could want that wasn’t available legally, then, provided you had the cash, Frank would get it. He didn’t ask questions save one,
“How much are you willing to pay?”
Years ago, he, Danny and Richie had had a few drinks together. Then they’d gone to see Wall Street. A scene in the movie has Marty Sheen say,
“I never judge a man by the size of his wallet.” Frank had laughed out loud, and said,
“Fuckin’ Hollywood, what do they know.”
They’d gotten curry take aways and walked along by Waterloo.
Before they parted, Frank had touched Danny’s arm, whispered,
“You ever want anything on the QT, you give Frank a bell, you know what I mean... nod to the wise, eh.”
Danny knew alright.
Now he certainly needed some items and decided to test just how good Frank was. He phoned, and a cautious Frank agreed to meet him in the pub in a few hours.
En route, Danny decided to sit in the park and get his yarn ready for Frank. Another fine April day, and all the park benches were taken by winos or pensioners. A young woman in a grey track suit had a bench to herself. She looked familiar, but he couldn’t place her. He decided to go for it.
“Is this seat taken?”
“Well, what do you think?”
“What do I think, I think it’s impossible to elicit a civil answer in this town.”
“Solicit... is that what you said?”
He sat and remembered her. The hooker from the other evening, she of the killer-bimbo outfit.
“Mislaid the American accent, did ya?” She laughed and said,
“I know you, the guy who never pays for it, right?” Danny stretched out his legs and took a good look at her. Without her working gear, he estimated her age to be early 20’s. Blonde, streaky hair, button nose, blue eyes, and a cupid mouth. Not pretty, but in there.
She returned his look.
“You’re in fairly good shape for an older guy.”
“Yea, but in shape for what. Have you a name?”
“Nikki... spelt NIKKI.”
“Hey, I don’t want it tattooed on my arm, just to throw it into the odd sentence. Aren’t you a bit wary of strange men?”
“Honey, I can’t afford that luxury.”
“No, I mean... you should be more careful.”
“You’ve got nice eyes.”
“Ever see a photo of Ted Bundy?”
“Who?”
“Never mind. Look Nikki, I’ve got to go.”
“Wanna have a drink with me, tonight?”
Danny was amazed. Whole blocks of time went by and it seemed as if he was invisible to women. Now they were all over him.
Before he could answer, she said in a world-weary tone,
“Forget it, wouldn’t want to socialize with a working girl... right?”
“I’ll have a drink with you.”
“What... oh, great. I’ll be in the Cricketers at eight... Is that good?”
“Remains to be seen... you be careful, Nikki.”
She gave a look of pure devilment.
“Isn’t that what condoms are for?”
Danny had arranged the meeting in The Mitre, a pub favoured by the building trade. He had to push his way through to the small booths at the back. Frank Norton was already there. A thin man, nearing sixty, he exuded a mix of energy and furtiveness. A sharp, thin face had pit lines, but the eyes showed deep intelligence when they smiled. His clothes suggested he’d just walked off the site. In fact, he hadn’t worked on one for years. But he liked the image.