“You ever audition for Riverdance?”
Then into the office, two large rooms, with leather furniture, massive TV, and box upon box of electronic equipment. Juan indicated I should sit down so I did, in a leather armchair, the fabric creaking as I sat. Juan moved to a cabinet, pulled open the door. Bottles of booze, every brand you could imagine. He got two glasses, then kicked a mini fridge, shovelled some ice in the glasses, held up a bottle, asked,
“Tequila good for you, mi amigo?”
I could be wrong but I swear it had the worm in the bottom or was that Juan? I asked,
“Got seven and seven?”
I was John Cheever in the flesh, the suburban ideal, Juan squinted, went,
“Qué?”
“Segram’s and 7UP.”
It pissed him off, he held up the tequila like some holy relic, asked,
“You no like my country’s drink?”
The phony accent was getting on my nerves, urging me to go,
“The Bronx is a country?”
Yeah, drop that into the already loaded atmosphere, see how it jelled. I settled for Wild Turkey, on the rocks. Juan had his back to me as I took a sip, then he turned, the Walther in his hand, said,
“You cocksucker, you put the meat to my old lady.”
“Your Love Is the Place I Come From”
I noticed a slight tremor in his hand and that was a worry. His finger could squeeze involuntarily. I stood up, the leather protesting, Juan shouted,
“I tell you to move, motherfucker?”
The drink was in my left hand, carefully, no sudden movement, I put it on one of the boxes, asked,
“You ever read James Lee Burke?”
“What?”
“Or Andrew Vachss, you read at all?”
The barrel was moving left to right, spittle at the corner of Juan’s mouth, he wanted to use it, asked,
“The fuck you talking about?”
I sighed, explained,
“Great writers, thing is, they both have an expression for a guy like you.”
His tongue was darting in and out of his mouth, like a Galway eel, slippery, wet, and mainly repugnant, he was explosive, shouted,
“Like me, they know me, they put names on me, I put a cap in their heads.”
I stayed absolutely still, my whole body language presenting no threat, said,
“Burke calls you a meltdown, and Vachss, he’d have you down as skel.”
He didn’t get the meaning but he sure as hell got the implication. As the insult registered, it was time to act. The British army, in training, they beat you up, vomit you out. One of the very first lessons you learn is how to disarm a man. Vital if you’re headed for the streets of the Ardoyne. It’s an action so simple, so beautiful, it’s close to art.
Right foot forward, pressure on the left, palm of the right hand fast and straight, left zooming in to slap the gunman’s head as his weapon sails above his head. Here’s the best bit, you allow him a moment to wonder,
“What the fuck just happened?”
And as he begins to ask, “How’d he do that?” You give him a ferocious kick in the balls.
Add,
“Don’t ever point a gun at me.”
That’s the macho bit.
On the Plains of Salisbury, a desolate acre of desperation, a thousand times I’d be put through that routine. Most nights I went to bed, I could hardly breathe because of the pain in my balls. Teach a man through his genitalia, he’s a real fast study.
Juan was writhing on the floor, a litany of Spanish prayers leaking from his mouth. Usually as the groin pain recedes, you break the nose or two fingers, keep them focused, but I wasn’t flashy. Picked up the gun and my drink, sat on the edge of the table, said,
“The way that leather creaks, it’s a bastard to sit in.”
He fixed his eyes on me, hatred like the proverbial coals, tried to speak but hurting, his manhood in his throat, a gargle was the best he could manage.
He gargled.
I was tapping the barrel of the gun on the rim of the glass, an irritating sound, said,
“We’ve got us, what you gangbangers call, let me see, yeah, a situation.”
I hadn’t decided on whether to kill him but I was giving it some consideration. Maybe meant two for one as I’d probably have to off Ramon, too. His vocal cords were finding a level and he tried,
“You going to keel me, you think you have the cojones?”
Credit to him, he dragged up some saliva, with a massive effort, spat, not a whole bunch but it reached the floor, so I shot him.
Gut shot first. Get the serious pain started, raised the sights, aiming at his Adam’s apple, saw a British army colonel demonstrate that one time. Takes the apple right out the back of the neck. He’d used colour slides to show the aftereffect, looks like you took a combine harvester to it. Juan was in too much pain to grasp the story.
Changed my mind.
Stood up, said,
“You keep it in your pants amigo.”
Out on the street, before anything else, I dumped the gun in a grate then hailed a cab. At the hotel, I moved fast, got my gear packed, then down to the desk, the clerk, surprised, asked,
“You’re leaving us, Mr. Blake?”
“You got it.”
As he booted up the screen, he persisted,
“Was everything to your satisfaction?”
I acted like I had to think about it, then,
“Hunky dory.”
He smiled, said,
“David Bowie, right?”
“Yeah, whatever.”
Another cab. My mind locked down, locked tight. So much for plans, I’d wanted to stay in New York longer, reimmerse myself in the way of life. Not that America is New York, but as a launching pad, it’s pretty good. Get that dialogue down, ensure the smooth transaction of the money through Siobhan. And take a block of time to grieve for Tommy. I was never going to get over him but had hoped I’d find a level of acceptance.
What’d I do?
Shot the one friend he had.
Nice going, Steve-o.
The driver asked,
“What airline, buddy?”
I said the first thing came into my head:
“American.”
He launched into a rap about Iraq, about farmboys from Iowa and the heartland. Kids, he called them, dying every day in the rebuilding of that forsaken country. We got to the airport and as I reached for my wallet, he asked,
“So, what do you think of my solution?”
I’d never heard it, tuned out as I was, so I said, laying a ten on the fare,
“Can’t see how it would fail.”
He gave me a suspicious look but all he got was my neutral face, tried,
“The Jets choked, huh?”
Let him see I was a player but the wrong guy, he near spat, went,
“I follow hockey, them Bruins, outta Boston, that’s a game.”
Juan in the limo, between lines of coke had lectured me on American sport, said,
“Hockey is for bitches.”
I didn’t think I’d share this with the cabbie, so I said,
“You better believe it buddy.”
And he was gone. A valet asked if I needed help and I wanted to go,
“Do I ever?”
But waved him off, I found the ticket desk and the clerk asked,
“Where you headed?”
“When’s the next flight to Vegas?”
Why not. I was already on the biggest gamble of my life. He said,
“You’re in luck.”
And I nearly smiled, a flight was leaving in forty minutes, I said that’d be good and he asked,
“Round trip?”
“One way.”