I began to feel better. Artificial sure, but didn’t care where the recovery came from. You couldn’t say things were so much slipping away from me as in a full gallop. I tried to focus, said, “What had you in mind?”
“You won’t like it.”
“Jeez, wouldn’t that be a novelty... What?”
“Whack her.”
“Whack her... like terminate with extreme prejudice. What kind of a movie do you think this is? An English version of Wise Guys... and you’re who... Joe Pesci?”
He gave a disappointed shrug.
“Aw, I kinda saw myself in the De Niro role... but OK... Joe Pesci is good.”
I stood up, steadier... getting there.
“Go home Dex, leave this to me.”
“No can do ole buddy-mio. The Dexter’s got roots.”
He sauntered into the kitchen and began to set the breakfast table, shouted, “Settings for three I presume?”
The brandy kicked in and I landed in the twilight zone between health and death. It’s like living behind glass or I guess what the Catholics call Purgatory. They usually have a word for pain.
I went upstairs. Bonny was dressed, the black outfit looked sad. Is there owt as pathetic as last night’s glad rags, like a disco in the morning light. I pulled out a raincoat, said, “An old raincoat will never let you down.”
“What?”
“Rod Stewart! Don’t worry love, you’re going home. I’ll call you a cab... no, no... don’t say anything. I’ll call you tonight.”
I was rummaging in the cupboard when she whispered, “How could you?”
No reply to that, then or now. I found my old black hold-all and tested it’s weight. Yeah, holding heavy. Back downstairs I rang a cab and heard the toast pop. I would see Dex flip the toast like a pizza. He was whistling... sounded like “Fernando.”
I brought the bag into the kitchen, asked, “Are you familiar with Ecclesiastics: ‘A man’s dress tells you what he does... and: A man’s work tells you what he is.’”
Dex, unsure of where this was going, quipped, “Intimately... words to live by.”
But always a game participant, he added, “Shoot the men in suits.”
I unzipped the bag and he ventured, “A run before brekkie. How wise, help distil the quart of brandy you had. They’ll smell you coming, eh?”
God, I was glad he was enjoying it.
“Dex, you know what I work at, hell, you even know where I used to work. But you’ve never actually seen me work. Let’s remedy that right now.”
I pulled out a baseball bat.
“This beauty here is the Louisville slugger and if you listen carefully, you’ll hear a whoosh.”
I put everything behind my swing, all the brandied ferocity and swept the breakfast things across the kitchen.
“Did you hear it, did you catch the whoosh... no, pay attention, you can’t miss it.”
He’d backed up against the wall...
I took another swing and crushed the toaster.
“I think you heard it that time. Breakfast is cancelled... OK? Now let’s all stop fucking around. We’ll collect the money and that’s an end to it... esso es claro.”
He nodded.
When the cab came, I paid him in advance. Bonny never spoke, just staring dead-eyed ahead. Not that I expected gratitude for covering the tab. I was still operating on her money as it was. Dex took off soon after and he hadn’t a whole lot of repartee either.
Back inside I lay on the sofa and wondered what had become of Harry Worth.
S.O.S. claro... my old man used to shout. Esso es claro. Is it clear?
“Yeah, loud and fuckin’.”
He’d been a merchant seaman and that was the sole thing he’d learnt. Not about drinkin’, he’d picked that up before he left. I smile to think he finally got to school, a drinking one. They’re a movable feast but mainly the school has a West End location. Sometimes he’s leader of the pack, other times he is the pack. The very last time I saw him he was shouting that he’d never stop drinking until the last hostage was free. But just in case, he added a rider, “Or as long as there’s even a hint of a hostage being taken.”
Dex came by a few hours later with a lemon, a bottle of tequila, a pack of Marlboro.
“Peace offering,” he said.
“Why not?”
“I was going to bring bagels and styrofoams of coffee... have us an American time, especially as you tend to be armed and dangerous in the kitchen. No need to go in there again.”
He had a Brooklyn accent to match.
“So why the tequila?”
“I thought fuck Plan A for a game of soldiers, let’s get loaded.”
At long last I could slip in a wee anecdote. I said, “John Wayne said that tequila hurt his back.”
“His back!”
“Yeah, every time he drank it, he fell off the stool.”
He didn’t seem too impressed. But fuck, I’d been sitting on it for years. How often does the chance to slide that into a conversation occur?
We sucked the lemons, knocked back the tequila and even had the hit of salt. We were almost cordial. Dex even had a worn zippo to complement the Marlboro. He said, “I went to see Alex la Igliesia’s debut, Acción Mutante.”
I couldn’t fix a connection so said unsteadily, “He’s a Mexican?”
“Never heard of him, did you? Not a name bandied around much in the Clint Eastwood fan club. Even you’ll have heard of the Spanish film maker Pedro Almodóvar.”
I hadn’t.
“Christ, just how thick are you... only kidding buddy. Have some more tequila. Well Almodóvar financed this pic as he believed in it... now the raison d’être for this cinematic excursion. There’s a spoof TV bulletin in it about a kidnapping. The ransom demand appears like figures on a scoreboard.”
“You’re thinking of the ransom?”
“Flunked out again Nick. I was thinking about lezzies.”
“Lassies?”
“What... now you’re hard of hearing... lemme spell it out for you... l-e-s-b-i-a-n-s. Last night I read Ann Bannon’s I’m a Woman.”
I couldn’t fly with his rapid-fire-changes of topic. Mostly I wanted to ask him why but I was afraid he’d tell me. I said nothing and he began to quote from the story: “I know most of the girls in here, I’ve probably slept with half of them. I’ve lived with half of the half I’ve slept with.
“I’ve loved half of the half I’ve slept with.”
He waited for my response.
“You lost me at the very first half.”
It was like he hadn’t heard me, either way... he could care less.
“The best bit, Nicky, this chick who’s talking... she turns to her mate and says, ‘What does it all come to? You know something baby? It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. You don’t like me and that doesn’t matter. Someday maybe you’ll love me and that won’t matter either.’”
I noticed he was wearing cowboy boots. They were stiff in newness. Welcome to Marlboro country. He lit a cigarette, the only sound being the heavy clunk as he shut down the zippo.
“So Nico, you’re a bit of a cowboy... yeah, give me yer Western verdict.”
“Well, Dex, there’s a point to all of it.”
“Naturellement, you heard the end line.”
“Run it by me again.”
“Nothing matters... not a cussed thing... that way you can’t lose. It’s all just a Spanish movie... not main-stream.”
“Yeah,” I said.
After he’d left, the tequila in my system called out for music. I no longer had Hank Williams as the cop had “borrowed” those. I thought he had taste as well as cheek.