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Punk Ken Bruen |
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Don’t give me shit about ghosts Things that go bump in the night The fuck are you kidding? I’ve seen enough monsters walking round to give any tough guy nightmares and the sooner they got put in the ground, the better When I hit sixty, I got out, ……. my line of work, you kill people for a living, it takes it’s toll and you know what, it was getting stale, kind of lame, no buzz there no more. Sure, it was a regular gig, I’m not bitching, let’s get that clear from the off, I want to whine, you’ll know. But I had the bucks stashed, nice little investment plan and figured, enjoy. My roots are Irish, I’m not saying it helps to be a Mick in the killing business, we don’t have the edge in it, ask the Italians, but I like to think I brought certain poetry to my work, an artist if you will Truth to tell, and I always tell the truth, I cant abide a liar, give me any scumbag, don’t care what he’s done, he fronts up, I can cut him some slack but a liar, whoa, don’t get me started, the thing is, I was getting slow, the old reflexes were zoning out. And I just didn’t have the taste for it, you got to love what you do, am I right. Don’t read me wrong here, you listening, I didn’t love killing……..I’m not some psycho. I relished the details, the planning, and the clean efficiency of despatch. My Mom was Irish, came over on the boat, got a job as a cleaning lady and then met my old man, all he ever cleaned was his plate. She was from Galway, reared me to stories of The Claddagh, the swans, the old streets of the what used to be a Spanish town and the music, ah, the wild mix of bodhrans, uileann pipes, spoons, fiddle, and the keening voice. Jeez, she’d a grand voice, hear her sing…….Carrickfergus, fuck, that was like a prayer in action. She was real hot on religion, mass every Sunday, confession, the whole nine Get this, my old man was an atheist, believed in nothing, especially not work, he wasn’t violent, just feckless, found a woman who’d pay the freight and let go. When I was 17, big and okay, a little mean, I slung his ass on out, him whining “Where am I going to go?” I said “Try the track, you spend most of your life there anyway.” My Mom would have taken him back, Irish women, that demented loyalty, but I was running the show then and she was real proud of the money I was producing. I heard he got him some other woman in Canarsie, like I give a fuck Good riddance I’d done my first job for Mr Dunne, he’d told me “Kid, I got a guy giving me lots of grief, you got any ideas on that?” I did The guy is in the East River Mr Dunne never asked for details, just handed me a wedge of serious change, said “You’re my boy.” I was He used me sparingly, a full year before he had another problem and I took care of that too. Automobile accident. Grimaldi’s was the place back then and he took me out for dinner there, said, handing me an envelope, “Get a good suit, we’re putting on the Ritz.” He talked kind of odd but I respected him The staff there, falling all over him and he said “See kid, this is juice and you…….you’re my main supply.” I was mid bite on the biggest steak I’d ever seen and swallowed it sweet, asked “Really?” He was drinking wine, lots of it, I never cared for it, give me a cold one, I’m good, and a nice shot of Jameson to round out the evening, what more do you need? He said “See, I don’t have to do a whole lot now, I hint……..you want the kid on your sorry ass and presto, the problem’s gone.” He ate a half mountain of mashed potato, awash in gravy, then said “You’ve a dark future ahead of you kid but you need to be real careful.” I pledged I would. And I was My Mom got sick last year, the cancer, and on her last night, she took off her wedding band, the gold Claddagh, put it on my finger, croaked “Go to Ireland for me gasun (son)” I tried to give her back the ring, me heart was torn in a hundred ways and she near screamed “I worked for that piece of gold, you think I’m letting it sit in a box in the cold ground.” It’s on my right hand, the heart pointing out, means I’m on the lookout I’m not Women talk I don’t do talk My last job, I don’t really like to dwell on it, it was before Mr Dunne got his, a two bit loan shark gutted him, left him spilling his mashed potatoes all over East 33rd and Second. Mr Dunne has summoned me, looked bothered, said “Frank, I have a real delicate situation.” I was no longer the kid, had moved too far along for that. He lit a cigar, his face serious, continued “There’s a teenager, seventeen years of age, name of Gerry Kane, he’s knocked up my niece and is fond of hitting her, I want him brought to his senses, nothing major, you understand but he has to understand how to behave, you reading me?” I had thought I was It went south, badly I’d given him a few slaps, the way you do and the punk, he pulled a knife Can you fucking believe it? A knife…… On me? Didn’t he know anything And it got away from me, first time ever, I lost it, big time, they say I scalped him and other stuff I’m not making excuses, trying to justify me own self or nothing but I’d been doing a lot of speed, you think you can just kill people and get by on the odd brew with a Jameson chaser Grow up He had the most amazing blond mop of hair, like Brian Jones before the swimming pool and wait till you hear this, he was seventeen, right? And on his right arm, was the tattoo, Semper Fi………the little bastard, I had my buddy buy the farm in Desert Storm and this piece of shit, this thrash, this nothing, was wearing it……for fashion? That section of skin, I threw in a dumpster on Flatbush The shit hit the fan, naturally and maybe it was just as well that Mr Dunne got diced by the loan shark. I was finished in the biz. So, I made my move, liquidised my assets, sold my Mom’s house and flew to the West of Ireland Rented a little cottage in Oranmore, a beautiful village on the outskirts of the city. There’s a little river runs right by my window and get this, you can fish it, got me some nice trout and cooked the suckers me own self. My cottage looks just like the one in The Quiet Man and the locals, they’re real friendly, the one place in the world where they love Yanks. They’re not too nosy, I go to the local on a Saturday night, buy for the house and they like me a lot, well, they like my dollars Same difference. They even try some matchmaking, a widow named Theresa, she comes round after the pub on Sat and I give her a workout, she thinks I’m very quiet but her, she could talk for Ireland, and does I like to read ……you’re going laugh to your socks off but I read poetry, that guy Yeats, the fucker had it………sings to me, there’s a small bookstore, mainly second hand stuff and they keep any poetry for me. I’m getting me an education I was reading…….A terrible Beauty…. Jeez, like some awful omen that I had that marked with my Mums memorial card when …….when …….how do I describe the beginning. I had a log fire going, the book on in me lap, a wee drop of Jameson by my arm when there was scratching on the door……….I figured some stray dog. I opened the door and no one there, then noticed a small envelope on the step, took it inside, reckoning it was another invite to some local event. Tore the flap and inside was a single sheet of paper with the words………. Semper Fi Okay, so it knocked a stir out of me I’m not going to argue the toss But I’d been down this road When I arrived in Ireland, before I got this cottage, I had to stay in Galway, in a hotel, no hardship there, but the city, it was like mini America……..Gap, Banana Republic, McDonalds, all the teenagers talking like hybrid rejects from The O.C. And in the pubs, on tap, freaking Millers, Bud, Pabst……….the fuck was going on? And then I saw him, the blond kid, working the stick in a pub on quay St…….the spit of Gerry and he smirked at me…….like he knew………said “You’re a Yank…..been there……Dunne that…….” Unnerved me, fuck, gave me a shot of the tremors but I was lucky, a local skel, a bottom of the pond dealer, hooked me up to my beloved speed and once I got that in place, I knew what to do Scalped him Yeah, see who Dunne that? I have his blond hair in my trunk And figured that was that Now this Who was fucking with me and why The next Sat night, I’m in the pub and Dolan, the owner, a smarmy schmuck, asks “You met Gearoid?” What? I couldn’t even pronounce it, one of those dumb Irish names that you need to be German with a bad lisp to say, so I went “Who?” He smiles, indicates a group of young people drinking, yeah, bottles of Bud, Tequila chasers and I see the Brian Jones look alike, Dolan says “That’s him, he’s got his own band…….named Punk………he’d hoping to get to America, you might give him a few pointers.” I got the fuck out of there, leaving a full pint of Guinness on the counter. I was back home, draining a double Jameson when Theresa came round, all concern, Dolan had told her I took a turn and she was fussing, like a freaking hen, the speed was hitting max in my blood and the Jameson was whispering to it, not whispering anything good. I asked “That nephew of his, Garage……is it?” She laughed, the dumbass Yank , mutilating the accent, and I tell you, I don’t take mocking real good, she said “Use the English form.” My teeth were grinding, I could hear them and I near spat “Gee, I would if you’d share it, is it like a secret or something?” She shot me a look Me…………. Shoot me a look? Was she fucking kidding, you don’t give me looks, unless you’re packing something more lethal than bad attitude, but then, she changed course, like women do, said “Gerry, it’s Gerry.” I dropped my glass, Jameson leaking into the rug and she’s fussing, searching for a cloth, I roared “Leave the fucking thing, is that his name, are you jerking my chain?” She put her hands on her hips, barked “Don’t swear at me mister, my late husband, God rest his soul, he never swore at me and I’m not going to let some……..” I cut her off, demanded “”Why he’s here?” She was thrown, asked “What……..he’s on holiday, he has a band he……” “I know about the fucking band, I asked you why he’s here.” She gathered up her coat and the groceries she’d brought for our meal, said “Well, I know when I’m not wanted, I’ll return when you soften your cough mister.” After she was gone, I poured some Jameson, chanced another hit of speed, needed to think……. The kid in Galway, when I’d done him I’d been confused, because when I lifted his sleeve, there was no tattoo, none. I went to my trunk, unlocked the heavy Yale on it and pushing aside the blond hair, I took out my knife, the blade honed to wafer thin perfection, shouted out loud “Let em come, I’m so fucking ready.” Later, I chilled, thinking, I’d over reacted, new country and all, those spuds and the Guinness, that shit knocked you on yer ass. So I calmed a bit, was even able to read some Yeats, selected a poem at random………..The Stolen Child Fuck, isn’t that what the Irish love…….that irony they go on about……..I laughed out loud, laughed till the tears ran down my face, the knife sitting snugly in my lap. Next few days were without incident, but I kept the knife in my jacket, I was easing down a notch but I was getting antsy, I was ready, they could send all the Brain Jones they liked, I’d take em all, see if I wouldn’t Changed pubs though On the other end of the village, was a more modern place, I preferred the traditional one but what the hell, killers cant be choosers. Sitting there over my pint, Bushmills as back, the Jameson was obviously not agreeing with me, a tiny hint of speed in me blood, reading the Irish Independent, lots of reports on Iraq, I skipped them. Then a feature on a new movie about the life of Brian Jones, speculating that he’d been murdered. A shadow fell across me, I looked up to see Dolan’s nephew, sweeping the blond locks out of his eyes. He was wearing faded flared jeans and a black sweat shirt with the logo Harvard hurts Like he’d fucking know? He asked “May I join you for a moment?” His accent had that quasi American uplift, as if everything terminated in a question, if he asked me about The Mets, I’d pop him in the goddamned mouth. I said “Why not.” He slid onto the stool opposite, never taking his eyes off me, asked “Get you a jar?” Least he hadn’t called it a brewski…………yet. His sleeves were rolled down and I couldn’t see his arms, his left wrist had all those multicoloured bands they collect, the barman brought him over a bottle of Bud, packet of chips, or crisps as they call them here. No glass, he drank from the bottle, cool as the hippy choker round his neck. He raised the bottle, said “Slainte.” I raised my pint, said “That too.” His mouth had that half smirk going, as if the joke was known to everyone but me, I asked “Help you with something?” He drank noisily, I hate that, all gurgle and no finesse, he belched then “Me and me band, we’re going Stateside and I was wondering if you could hook us up with the names of some hotels in the Village, Like Greenwich Village, we’re going to try for a gig at The Fillmore.” Good luck I said “The internet, your best bet.” Something dark flitted briefly across his face and he tossed his hair, said “I thought you might know someone who, like, you know, would open some doors for us?” He wanted to mind fuck, I’d gone rounds with the best of em and left em in the dumpster ,……. so I could play……..said “Kid, my age, most people I know, they’re dead.” Didn’t faze him, he signalled for another brew, said “Ah, tis a pity but shure, never mind, t’was worth a shot.” The speed hit a wave and I before I knew it, I asked “Show me your right arm” “What?” I kept my voice steady, said “You’re not deaf, you heard me.” He stood up, gave me his tough guy eye, said “Jaysus, you’re not all in it, you need to get a grip buddy.” He was waving away the barman and the ordered drink, I said “I’m not your buddy.” He moved to the counter and joined some gaggle of girls, I could see them glancing over, laughing out loud Man, jeering, that’s all they’ve got, like that rates on my radar. I finished my drink, made my way out and grabbed his arm, whispered to him “Hair today, gone tomorrow.” I stopped sleeping, I wanted to be ready lest someone leave something at my door, I slugged the Jameson, did some of the speed, read Yeats a lot but he’d stopped talking to me, the music was gone Must have been a week after, I saw a poster for the band…….Punk, last concert before the American tour In the local hall. The way I have it figured , I’ll wait in the alley behind the venue, get him on his way out,………. No, better, follow him home and do the business Then I’ll get to examine his arm at leisure The tattoo’s going to be on there, isn’t it? I don’t doubt that other blond punks will show up but I’m real easy The trunk has lots of room Maybe I’ll try another poet, you think?
The End
Copyright(c) 2006 by Ken Bruen
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