Ken Bruen - The Hackman Blues

BRADYS BAD FUCKED

I wrote it on the bedroom wall, in yellow day-glo marker. Nice colour, blended well with the years of nicotine. So, okay. As the Yanks say, I fess up, or closer to home I put my hand up, guv. I havent taken my medication for the past week. If I couldnt go a few days without the lithium, I was in deep shit. Thus the wall message. Id gotten the job ten days earlier and it entailed a whack of pub crawling. Booze and medication is the worst of songs. Sing that!

A job of pure simplicity. Find a white girl in Brixton. Piece of cake. What I should have done is doubled my medication and lit a candle to Saint Jude maybe a lotta candles.

Jack Dunphy is in the building game. To hear some of them tell it, he is the game. Leastways he used to be, all over southeast London. Whats known as a plastic paddy. Third or fourth generation down the pike and as English as toast. But could shovel the brogue as the occasion demanded. A flash git too. Liked to show hed the dosh. Word was, hed married a game-show hostess and hit the top of some minor B list. A name among the could-ave-beens.

Hard bastard. Odd stories surfaced of punters getting done with baseball bats and the blow-torch. Anyway, not a fella to fuck with. I knew him for years on a vague basis. The, How you doing? dance. Bags of brief enthusiasm and no follow-up. If you never met again, how much would you be hurting? Like that.

So, I was a little surprised when he offered to buy me a drink. The local bookie got married and there was a knees-up in the backroom of the Greyhound. My sometimes pub next to the Oval tube station. I was standing at the bar while a karaoke merchant mutilated That Loving Feeling.

Paul, whatcha drinking?

Yeah, he gave it the best south-east London twist. To put me at ease?

Im all right.

Go on then, ave somefin. Yo barkeep, couple of double scotches before Tuesday.

I gave him the full look. He was the spit of Henry Cooper, but Our Henry with a bad drop. Dressed in a good suit, handmade shoes, and washed to a sheen. No electric razors or Bic disposables for this guy. It was the barbers chair and an open razor job, then the face hand-massaged to a rosy hue. Hed tip good too, ask about yer missus and frame yer balls if you crossed him. A villain with communication skills.

The drinks came and he nodded, picked one up, indicated I should do likewise. I did but put it down, untasted, and he said:

Cheers Paul. Best of British, eh?

Its not Paul.

What?

My name its not Paul.

That threw him. He was a man who prided himself on information. But he rallied.

Shit Im sorry, could have sworn...

I had some scotch, it tasted okay, like hope.

He put out his hand.

Lets start over, Im Jack Dunphy.

The thought flashed, Who gives a flying fuck? but I let it slide. I was taking my pills. I was mellow and I shook his hand. The grip was solid, let you know he was a man of integrity. You get one of those tight with sincerity shakes, watch your wallet. I didnt have any more of the scotch.

Its Tony... but most people call me Brady.

He reached for the lighter touch:

But what do your friends call you... eh...? Call you Tone?

No.

A silence for a bit, not a problem for me, then:

Look Tony, Ill be upfront here...

Watch that wallet.

Ive been told youre dependable and... that you could help me.

I reached for the lighter touch too, said:

It depends.

Took a moment, then he laughed... badly. A laugh a long way from his eyes.

Oh I get it, yes very droll. The thing is Tone... Tony, I need to find a woman.

I ran the gamut of replies:

(1) What, you think Im a pimp?

(2) The game-show run out of juice? or,

(3) Join a lonely hearts club.

Wittily enough, I opted for, What?

My daughter, shes gone missing.

Did you contact the Old Bill?

He gave me a look reeking in Do us a bloody favour, and said, Its not a police thing. Those fucks couldnt find peace.

I wasnt sure what to think, said, Im not sure what to think.

Shes twenty, shes my only child. I think shes in Brixton. She was up at Cambridge reading English and just dropped out. I need someone discreet to find her. Rosie, the missus, is going frantic.

Ill need a photo, some personal details.

He took a large manila envelope from his jacket, laid it on the bar, said:

Its there... and cash... you need more, you call me... anytime.

The package looked thick, fat with readies, I guessed. No cheques with this outfit.

He nodded at my drink, asked, You dont like whisky?

Oh I like whisky, I just dont like that one... barkeep, give us a couple of Jack Daniels Old Number 7.

The bar-guy was well pissed at having to locate this, did a production outa finding the bottle. I couldnt have given a toss. Finally, the drinks appeared.

Jack said, Expensive tastes, I see.

I tapped the envelope with one finger, said, Reckon I can afford it. Cheers.

We drank. He knocked it back. A moment, then his eyes watered and he gripped the bar, croaked: Jay-sus!

Tennessee drinking whisky, burns like a bastard, you got to sip it... see? I sipped and gave a tight smile. He wasnt pleased.

You could have said.

Cmon Jack, are you a man to be told what to do?

Bear that in mind, you and me will get along.

A woman had replaced the karaoke and was doing a passable rendition of If Its The Last Thing I Do. Sounded like Tammy Wynette via Peckham. Close to home.

Jack asked, Youre thinking I look like someone, right? People are always noticing the resemblance... go on... have a shot.

Could I say Henry...? I figured not. Said, Erm... Its on the tip of my tongue...

He was like a child with a secret, could wait no longer.

Ill give you a hint... Bite The Bullet.

Yeah... a horses ass, but lied: Erm... missed that one.

Gene Hackman!

What?

When I give that tight little smile, when Im fucked about... see...?

Oh God, he gave me a demonstration. It was horrible, truly fucking horrible. I had to blame the Jack Daniels... had to...

He asked, Want me to do it again?

No... its uncanny... quite unbelievable, youve a real talent there.

Just then I caught the eye of a young guy across the bar. Long blonde hair, T-shirt, the requisite 501s... he smiled.

I said, Gotta go... Ill be in touch.

He put out his hand, gave me another of those manly grips. Gripped me solidly for a time. He said: I think Ill have some more of that Tennessee... do you think?

You do that... oh... and Gene...

He loved it.

Yeah?

Sip it... okay... nice and slow.

When I got the young guy back to my place, thats exactly how I took him.

Next morning I opened my eyes to see the guy preening in front of the wardrobe mirror. Dressed only in white Y-fronts, he was rivetted by his image. A lot to be held by. His body was lean and muscular, of the gym-smoothed variety. Sun-beds featured too, as hed a light tan all over. My own body looked a wreck.

Catching my eye, he winked and asked, See something you like?

One of us does.

This got the blank look and, What?

I got outa bed and yeah, wouldnt you know, my joints creaked loudly.

The guy moved his hands along his chest, asked, Would you like a little wake-me-up?

Id like two things.

He gave me a practiced sensual look, ran his tongue across his top teeth. Rough beginning to a day, rough trade indeed. He near whispered, Anything... any amount.

Coffee and your ass outa here.

He got dressed as I made the coffee. Id run outa whitener so it was black and bitter like Brixton, according to the Metropolitan Police.