Ken Bruen - Rilke on Black

Im not a criminal.

Ive done my share of dodgy things but they managed to slide under the legal line. Then I kidnapped a man, a black man. Even criminals despise this branch of the business. It smacked of cowardice and worse, stupidity.

To add insult to clich, I did it for a woman. I dont even think I liked her a whole lot but I sure adored her.

I was working as a bouncer. I didnt wake up one morning and think I must become a bouncer. I didnt think God whispered it. But I sure look the part. Im six foot, four inches, weigh sixteen stone and I look mean. Shee, Ive behaved mean in my time but its not part of my nature. It could have been as my father is a drunk. Always was. A very vicious drinker. Alcohol didnt turn him that way, it just fuelled the process. My mother lit out for Bradford when I was seven. Thats where she probably still is and I reckon thats penance enough.

Dad was a Hitler. At fourteen I was big and most of all, I was ready. He slapped me in the face for some infringement of his manic code and I grabbed his wrist.

Its over, I said. Do that again and Ill kill you.

And it was over. The final slide for him had begun. Hes a wino now. No frills or hard luck story, he lived bad and peaked. At the bottom of Shaftesbury Avenue, theres a small island surrounded by theatres. A drinking school have their patch close to the traffic. Maybe they like to hear it roar. Some days I think Ill have a stroll down that way. See what plays are on and see my old dad. As lead player on the island. No doubt he sings, dances and intimidates.

The Old Connemara Shawl.

That was his favourite. I dont think I know another. So I visualise a visit there, surprise him mid-verse. Two solid fist blows to the side of his head will rattle some memories. It would not wipe out the years of waste but it certainly would feel fine.

I have a transit van. It looks like shit and Im glad of that. Our local thieves have more taste. But wow, does it go. The engine is souped to an insane level and Ive done a lot of work on it. Id been doing Moves and Removals when I got the bouncer job. I met the owner in a Clapham pub. His club, Lights, was nearby. Wed fallen into one of those semi-friendly beer chats. Hed told me who he was and Id told him precious little. He said, My doorman got nicked today. Drops me right in it.

Thats a pisser.

You look as if you could handle yourself. Done any of that kind of work?

Does it require a shit? As Ive never done anything that needed that. Ive done work that might have needed jail if thats any indication.

He gave a hearty laugh. The sort they teach you on nightclub trainee courses. It means only Watch your Wallet.

Thats a plus right enough, in fact it should be compulsory... if you dont mind my saying so... and I mean this in the best possible way, you look like a thug... no offence.

I gave the laugh a try... and said, None taken.

My nose looks broken, or as if it should have been. I keep my hair cut real close to the skull and a dose of acne left a riddled complexion. A nondescript mouth. Thats according to a woman I knew. I dont smile much. Thing is, the true thugs Ive run into smile all the time. I guess cos they know whats coming next.

I got the job and even worse the suit, a dress one at that. A clip-on tie that comes off if grabbed. I was good. I kept trouble to a minimum and hardly hit people. Rarely hard at any rate.

I was polite and that in South-East London. That might be the best arsenal of all. I dont have much schooling but Id been trying to educate myself.

The Readers Digest... Improve Your Word Power.

Id sweated over that, chewing the words... fighting the shame, clawing towards clarification. To my shame, Id begun to slip my vocabulary into use. Blame the suit.

Until!

One evening a well-dressed couple tried to enter the club. They were very pissed. But their accents... ah... the BBC World Service. I was trying to explain it would be better for them to call it a night. And I chanced the description inebriated. He laughed and she roared.

Oh Gawd Cecil, is there anything more contemptible than a chimpanzee in a suit trying to sound educated.

I might have let it go. Deep shame might have seen to that. But he took a swing. I dropped him fast and took her arm, whispered, No darlin... thats not contempt... contemptible is to kick a man when hes down.

Then I force kicked him in the bollocks.

Dex is a psychopath. I read about that type in the Readers Digest and he fits all the buttons. He lives across the road from me. Late one night after Lights I saved him from a beating. Outside his house two guys were raising welts on him. I stepped in and they took off. He said, I owe you big guy, and Dexy always pays off.

As he brushed himself off I got a closer look. He was short and wiry, sandy hair and the face of a teenager... he was thirty-eight then. Maybe boyish might apply but I dont think he was ever a boy. His eyes were grey and though they looked right at you, you felt they saw something entirely different. Not anything youd want to see. I asked if hed like a drink and we crossed over to my home. A one up, one down basic house with a basement. I keep my gym equipment there. I poured some Scotch and he got comfortable in my armchair, said, Chez toi.

Whatever.

Im Dexy... after Dexys Midnight Runners... remember them?

Not off-hand.

Big numero uno with Cmon Eileen.

Missed that one. You were in the band, is that it?

Hey big buddy, I dont reckon you miss much. Am I right... am I on the old money there. Fuck no, I wasnt with the band, I used to take dexedrine, a lot of them evil suckers.

I nodded. Seemed he was still taking something fairly lethal. My measure perhaps. He drained the Scotch, held up the glass.

Yo partner. Hit me again with one of them piledrivers. So, have you got a handle, amigo?

Handle?

Yer name. Jeez... whats this tight-mouthed act, fella? I aint going to quote you, you can risk more than a monosyllable. Go for it guy, try one of them full sentences.

I didnt even have a twinge of irritation. I thought he wasnt firing on a full tank. I said, Nick.

Now thats a mans name. No friggin frills. Just out and out plain label. How about I call you Nicky, how would that be?

His accent was all over the shop. From American through plumminess to Irish. And always in the shadow of South-East London. I poured some more Scotch, said, Im too set in my ways to call a grown man Dexy... OK. So Ill settle for Dex and how about you call me the name I told you I had.

He gave a huge grin. Not a pretty sight.

I like it... yeah Nick and Dex the deadly duo. Sharp... youre a sharp dude... I can tell youll need watching.

He leapt to his feet and patted his stomach.

Not an ounce of fat... Im in shape old buddy.

I dunno if theres an answer to this but he was looking round the room. The pile of Readers Digests were painfully visible.

Not a dentist are you Nick?

Next he moved to the music system. Id always planned on laying in some classical albums for show. Just go down to the market and buy a shit-load of culture. Mikados and stuff, fluff in some Concertinas and Allegros. What I had was Country and Western. An awful lot, a mini Nashville. I was beginning to gauge Dex a little and he didnt disappoint me. He gave a rebel yell and said, I get it, youre a Rod-eoo star. Not the best town for it but I guess you took a wrong turn somewhere. No worries pal, Ive taken a few of those myself.

He selected Reba McEntire and put her on... loud.

I said, Why dont you just make yourself right at home, how would that be. Dont stand on ceremony.