The Mammoth Book of Best British Mysteries (52 page)

Monty nods. “That’s Leon.”

“Then we’re all acquainted.”

“How much you give him?”

I squint at him. He’s stalling. “What’s the problem, Monty?”

“Ain’t no problem at all, man.”

Except he’s looking over my fuckin’ shoulder.

I turn, get the picture in Hi-Def.

Leon’s quit shifting his weight, coming down on me full-bore. Got this crazy-ass chimp face on him, grin to grimace, like he’s playing heel in his own private smackdown. Hands
outstretched, but I knock the lunge out of him. Grab his head, bring it to mine solid – stamp the sidewalk as I do, force of habit. Another collision, Leon totters back. Reach for his skull,
grab what I can of his hair. Adjust the tape on my fingers, sneak the razor out.

In the trade, they call it a blade-job. You need to sell a pillowstrike, you cut yourself. One time I caught a gash so bad, I made a 0.7 on the Muta Scale.

Leon tries to jerk, makes me dig an artery. I let him go as he squeals and bleeds like a chiselled pig.

He ain’t the only one bleeding. I spin at a spike in my leg, see something drop to the ground as I turn and grab Monty. Motherfucker’s heavy, but I reckoned he’d carry it slow.
No more bullshit: sometimes you got to close the fist and fuck somebody up. I tear into Monty, drop him to the concrete. The sidewalk opens his head at the scalp. I put my foot in his ribs, then
pull back when the pain in my stuck leg is too much.

Hearing screams melt into hoarse breath now. Monty rolls onto his back. A blood bubble appears in his open mouth, pops when his lungs are empty. Look over at Leon, he can’t see through the
blood in his eyes. Curled up like a fuckin’ baby on the ground. Sounds like he’s crying.

I look at the ground: Monty’s weapon, the one he stuck me with. It’s a boxcutter.

Another word we use in the trade:
kayfabe.
Means fake. Some jobber threw for real, tried to hurt you, that was breaking kayfabe. You didn’t do it unless you wanted your
fuckin’ papers.

These two: kayfabe fuckin’ dealers, no stones to back ’em up. Broke roles ’cause they reckoned me another crackhead cracker.

Thinking now, picturing these two hanging out with their pipe-hitting pals: “That whiteboy wrestler, Babyface – you remember that motherfucker? He came round my shit wanting
rocks
, man. Me an’ Leon, we fucked that boy
up.
”

“This fun to you?” I say. “You having fun, boys? ’Cause you want some more, I’ll stretch both you motherfuckers blue.”

Leon whines.

“That’s what I thought.”

Look at me now, you think I’m FUBAR. Lean and old, holding my fuckin’ leg like it’s gonna drop off. It’s why they don’t recognize me. Been a long time since I was
the ultimate face in the Federation. But then, I was Babyface. The crowd
popped
at me, man. I put so many heels to the mat, I was a fuckin’ hero. Spin out a running DDT as a finish,
hear twenty thousand people calling my name.

The ladies shouting: “Nobody puts Babyface in the corner!”

Got the men: “That Babyface ain’t for crying!”

Hear it now, the applause like a fuckin’ rainstorm.

And then wait for the lightning to strike. The Attitude years, hearing the cheers turn to jeers, the crowd turned vicious. They need a hero like they need a bag on their collective hip. I go up
against Stone Cold, I do my gimmick – rip my T and throw it to the crowd – but they ain’t having it. They throw my T back. Faces are victims, there to be stomped. Some turn heel,
some leave the business to sell used cars. I take flop on flop, pin on pin. Do whatever the bosses tell me ’cause I’m a good worker and I believe that people’ll want their heroes
back some day.

They don’t.

Clean that from my mind as I limp over to Monty and see if he’s legit. Sure enough, the guy’s been holding. I pull two baggies of vials out of his pockets. He whistles as he
breathes, tries to speak, but he don’t put up a fight. Go to Leon, get my money back and more besides. Leon’s hand clamps over mine.

I bend two fingers till they snap. Leon finds the breath to scream again.

“Hush up, Leon. Listen. You know Vince?”

Leon shakes his head.

Course he don’t know Vince. That’s what I call him. Reminds me of my old boss. It don’t matter what he’s called, though, ’cause the point’s the same:

“Vince says you deal on this corner, you gonna get fucked up. You feel me?”

Leon’s eyes get to slits.

“You know me,” I say. “I’m a
good
guy. That’s why I didn’t fuckin’ kill you. When you get yourself stitched, you remember that. And pass it on to
Monty.”

I turn my back, go to the rental.

Every time playing out the same shit in my head.

I go to the car, there’s gonna be a gun. These guys, if they’re real dealers, they’ll have a fuckin’ piece between ’em.

Welcoming the gun,
hoping
for it. Some fuck wants to put this Old Yeller out his misery, they can go right ahead. I seen that movie a million times and I know. Don’t matter what a
good dog Yeller was. Once you get bit by the fuckin’ wolf, you’re a short time dying.

Ain’t gonna happen with these kayfabe motherfuckers. Small time. Stick me with a boxcutter instead of shooting me. I check the leg situation as I get in the car: if I was still fighting,
I’d be fucked. ’Cause the damage don’t matter – you have to do what your bosses tell you to do. Vince is the same. He wants me to fuck somebody up in Detroit, Baltimore,
Cleveland, fuckin’
Anchorage
, I do it. He got some wide-ranging business interests and a lot of ants trying to make off with his sugar.

Start the engine. The rental coughs. I check the count on the cash. Couple thou, should be good for gas.

And enough rocks in these bags to last me a while.

Vince wants me to hit a corner in Atlanta tomorrow night. Don’t know if I can do that with my leg, but I’ll see how I feel after I hit the stem.

’Cause right now I need something. All us jobbers do.

Ken Bruen

“I should have married Johnny Cash.”

The cop was taken aback. Of all the things he expected her to say, this was never on the table.

He looked at her, the dishwater-blonde hair, the hard mouth, the slight, jagged scar along her cheek and the air of exhaustion she exuded. The coffee he’d sent out for was before her and
she moved her manacled hands to take a sip, the Styrofoam cup tilted back, and he glimpsed very white teeth. He had her statement before him and if he could just get her to sign the goddamn thing,
he might beat the gridlock, get home to supper before eight. His partner had gone for a leak and the tape recorder had been shut off.

She raised her hands, asked,

“Y’all could maybe take these off for a time?”

He could see where the metal had cut into her wrists and angry welts ran along the bone. He said,

“Now, Charlene, you know I gotta keep you cuffed ’til booking is done.”

She sighed, then asked,

“Got a smoke?”

He had a pack of Kools in his suit pocket, for his wife, shook his head, said,

“No smoking in a Federal building, you know that.”

She gave him a smile and it lit up her whole face, took twenty years right off her. She said,

“I won’t tell if you don’t.”

And what the hell, he took out the pack and a battered Zippo. It had the logo, “First Airborne.” He slid them across the table and she grabbed them, got one in her mouth, cranked the
lighter, the smell of gasoline emanating like scarce comfort. She peered at the pack, Menthol, asked,

“What’s with that, you’re not a pillow-biter are you? Not that I have
anything against Gays but I can read folk. I’d have you down for a ladies’ man.”

He nearly smiled, thinking,

“Yeah, right.”

In his crumpled suit, gray skin, sagging belly, he was a Don Juan. What was it his daughter would answer . . .
Not.

She wasn’t expecting an answer, said,

“Years back, I was working one of those fancy hotels, still living high on the hog, and I ran the bar. Guess who walked in, with his
band?”

Her eyes shining at the memory, she continued,

“The Man in Black, he’d done a concert and they dropped in for a few quiet brews and some chicken wings.”

Foley was impressed. He liked Cash, except for that prison crap he did, and in spite of himself, asked,

“No shit, the Man himself?”

She was nodding, the smoke like a halo around her head, said,

“I couldn’t believe it, I never seen anyone famous, not, like, in real life. I gave ’em my best service, and in
those days, I was hot, had some moves.”

Foley nearly said,

“You still do.”

But bit down and wondered where the hell his partner had got to. Probably gone for a bourbon, Shiner back. He’d return, smelling of mints, like that was a disguise. He asked,

“You
talk to him, to Mr Cash?”

“Not at first. I was getting them vittles, drinks, making sure they were comfortable and after, I dunno, an hour, Johnny said,

‘Take a pew little lady, get a load
off.’”

She rubbed her eyes, then.

“He had these amazing boots, all scuffed but, like, real expensive, snakeskin or something, and he used his boot to hook a chair, pull it up beside him.”

She touched her face, self conscious, said,

“I didn’t have the scar then, still had some dreams. Jesus.”

Foley was a cop for fifteen years, eight with Homicide and he was, in his own cliché,
hard bitten.
There wasn’t a story, a scam, an excuse, a smoke screen he hadn’t
heard and his view of human nature veered from cynical to incredulity. But something about this broad . . . a sense of, what . . .? He didn’t want to concede it, but was it . . . dignity? A
few months later, a Saturday night, his wedding anniversary, he’d taken his Lottie for clams and that white wine she loved. Had a few too many glasses himself – that shit crept up on
you – and told Lottie about the feeling and Lottie had gotten that ice look. He wouldn’t be having any lovemaking that night; she hissed,

“You had a shine for that . . . that
trailer trash?”

His night had gone south.

And c’mon, he hadn’t got a thing for Charlene, but something, her face now, in the middle of the Cash story, it got to him, she was saying,

“I sat down and Mr Cash, he asked me
my name, I done told him and he repeated it but with an S . . . like . . .
Shur . . . leen.
He had that voice, the gravel. Luckies and corn whiskey melt, give a girl the shivers, and then he
said,

“That’s a real
purty
name . . . how he said ‘pretty’.”

She massaged her right wrist, the welt coming in red and inflamed. She said,

“I had me a leather thong on my wrist. My Mamma done give it to me, real fancy, little symbols of El Paso
interwoven on there, and I dunno, I saw him look at it and maybe it was the heat, it was way up in them there 90s, even that time of the evening, and I took it off, said,

“Can I give you
this?”

“His boys went quiet for a moment, the long-necks left untouched and them fellers could drink. He took it, tied it on his wrist, gave me that smile, sent goose bumps all down my spine,
said,

“Muchas gracias, señorita.
”

“Then I noticed one of the guys give a start and I turned and June Carter came in, that bitch, full of wrath. Dame had a hard on so I got my ass in gear, got back behind the bar. They
didn’t stay long after, and Johnny never came to say goodbye, that cow had him bundled out of there like real urgent business. The manager, he come over to the bar, paid the tab and gave me
one hundred dollars for my own self. What do you think of that, one hundred bucks, for like, real little service?”

Foley knew hookers. For fifteen minutes, they’d be lucky to get thirty and change. Charlene’s face got ugly, a coldness from her eyes, mixed with . . . grief? She said,

“I was
on a high, floating, my face burning, like I was some goddamn teenager, and not even that Carter cunt . . .”

The word was so unexpected and especially from a woman, that Foley physically moved back, reconsidered the handcuffs. Charlene finished with,

“I was cleaning the table, them good ol’
boys sure done a mess of wings and long-necks and there . . . in the middle of the table, sliced neatly in half, was my Mama’s wrist band.”

A silence took over the room, she fired up another Kool, taking long inhales like she was stabbing her body, her eyes like slits in her face and she said,

“When I’d be clearing up,
I’d been humming,
I Walk the Line.
”

Years after, Johnny came on the juke, the radio, that tune, Foley would have to turn it off.

Go figure.

When Foley’s partner got back, minted almighty, his face with that bourbon glow, he brought some sodas and if he noticed the cuffs were off, he let it slide, turned on
the tape recorder, asked,

“You grew up in El Paso, am I right?”

Charlene gave him a look, a blend of amusement and malice, said,

“Cinco de Mayo.”

He looked at Foley, shrugged, and Charlene took a slug of the soda, grimaced, asked,

“No Dr Pepper?”

Then,

“Damn straight, between Stanton and Kansas, you get to the bus station? . . . Turn right on Franklin, walk, like maybe a block-and-a-half? . . . Little side street there, we had us
our place, me and my Mom, near the Gardner Hotel. That building is, like, eighty years old?”

Foley’s partner gave a whistle, said,

“No shit?”

Like he could give a fuck.

Foley was pissed at him, felt the interview had gone downhill since he had joined them. Something like intimacy had been soiled, and he had to shake himself, get rid of those damn foolish
notions. Charlene stared at him, asked,

“I know he’s Foley. Who are you?”

“Darlin’, I’m either your worst nightmare or your only hope,
comprende, chiquita
?”

She tasted the insult, the loaded use of the Spanish, then said,

“
No me besas mas, por favor
!”

He didn’t get it, said,