Reed to watch Leon’s club, get a handle on the time they usually left.
Me to prepare the warehouse for our guest, get whatever might be needed.
We juggled round with this and Reed clapped Danny on the shoulder, said, ‘Yo’ Daddy be surprised to see his boy now, see what he be planning.’
Danny was feeling the drink, a pile of empty cans lay at his feet. I said nothing, kept my eyes on the weapons. A drunk is annoying, a drunk with guns is downright scary.
He had that tilt to his eyes, caught somewhere between maudlin and rage. I knew it, I’d been there if by a different route.
He said:
‘Lemme tell you about my old man. Remember Rawhide? That fuckin’ whip, jeez! He never missed it and every week as the credits rolled, they’d show that shot of the bloody ranch, he’d say, “Where do they get all them cows?” Every floggin’ week, same daft question.’
He closed his eyes and you had to figure he was back at the ranch. We didn’t know whether to laugh or just shut it.
So we shut it.
Then he jumped up, shouting, ‘That’s the gospel truth. Wait here, don’t move, I’ll show you exactly who he was...’
And off he went.
Reed said:
‘Do you think he’ll come back.’
‘Oh yeah.’
He did.
Carrying a letter, a battered worn, faded page, pushed it at me, said, ‘Go on then, see if I’m right.’
This is what it said:
Dear Daniel
By the time you red this, I’ll be dead. The cancer has spread and I have terrible pains.
You have been a bitter dissapointment to me son. Where did I go wrong? The shame of you being in prison killed your mother. I enclose her wedding ring tho you’ll probably sell it.
Before I go I want to help you. I advise you go to the Warden and tell him you’ve realised the error of your ways. Open your heart and he’ll help you. It’s not too late.
What could I say? I said, ‘Bummer.’
Gave it to Reed who read it, then asked, ‘Wha’ cho do with dee ring?’
‘Sold it.’
‘Ah!’
He opened a fresh brewski, had a mega swallow. One of those where you see the Adams Apple pump into overdrive. Quite ’orrible. The thirst he had, it wasn’t for booze, but was I going to be the one to tell him? Was I fuck!
He said:
‘Sundays! Everyone came round our house, uncles, aunts, neighbours and they’d all pitch in for the dinner. A chop, two veg, and roast spuds. Then they’d have a few drinks. Come evening, everyone would gather round the piano... wishing somebody could play it...’
I laughed out loud...
Then Reed said, ‘Fuck it, it don’t mean nothing... drive on.’
Danny smiled, said, ‘You’re my mates, my best best mates... let’s get a curry, watch a vid’.’
Reed was excited:
‘Yo’ bro’, let’s git The Domino Killings.’
‘What?’
‘Gene Hackman, he wastes on all.’
I said nothing and Reed asked, ‘Whatcha say my man, curry?’
‘And... a box of Dairy Milk.’
If it was good enough for Inspector Nolan, then who was I to argue? As the scene with Mickey Rooney was rewound, Danny said, ‘Yo’ Tone, how would it be if I give you a present of the Glock? It’s mostly plastic... lightest gun you can get.’
‘Naw... I’ll stick with what I know.’
Reed punched my shoulder.
‘Git with de ’90s bro, what’s de deal with de bat?’
‘It doesn’t jam... know what I mean?’
They didn’t.
If I were a man who appreciated irony, and most times I don’t, I’d have to note that both Danny’s cross and his weapon of choice were plastic. The moral being wasted on me. It’s like Madonna wears forty-seven crosses and Mother Theresa wears one. A person could draw deep significance here. Me, I reckon, Go figure.
Time was when I was fascinated by coincidence and psych’ books. A lethal combination. Ever come across Professor Karl Averbach? Not yer run of the mill TV pundit.
No.
He wrote an introduction to Freud’s ‘Future of an Illusion.’
‘Coincidence begets mysticism, which begets religion, which begets sin and retribution, which begets repression...
guilt
psychosis.’
See, I could figure this shit out.
Shrinks have their war stories too. They’re never happier than trotting out one of the standard yams about manic depres-sives.
It gets them hot.
Usually they go like this:
A man believes he is the second most intelligent person in the world. He doesn’t know the first.
Or the guy goes into a department store, charms the sales girl and buys every tie they have. Course he comes back later claiming he’s been conned. He has, but not by the shop.
The best book has gotta be ‘An Unquiet Mind’ by Kay Jamison. Not only is she professor of psychiatry at the John Hopkins Medical Centre in Baltimore, she is also manic depressive. This lady writes from inside the barrel of the gun. In her own words, she was ‘a raving psychotic.’
On one London spree she spent a small fortune on books because she liked the covers and magically, ‘Twenty Penguin books because I thought it would be nice if the penguins could form a colony.’
I understand that completely.
Recovering alcoholics call it identification. Me, I figure she was reading my mail. ‘Lithium,’ she said, ‘prevents my seductive but disastrous highs, diminished my depressions clears out the wool and webbing from my disordered thinking, slows me down, gentles me out.’
Oh shit, how I love the concept ‘Gentles me out.’
Fuck knows, I been all kinds of heavy duty attitude all my born life but I’ve never been gentle.
And yes... I do miss what I never had.
Ever get your cod ’n’ chips in newspaper? Cover them suckers in salt ’n’ vinegar like there was no such thing as nutrition, put yer face down in ’em and breath that scent... like the scores of childhoods you wish you had, like a love you’ve never experienced.’
But hey, I’m getting manic here. End of the day, they’re just chips and when you’re done, you ball the pops and sling it in a wide hook shot. Sometimes it hits the bin.
A Jewish sailor... trolling on New York’s Upper East Side said it best:
‘Oh Lord God of Abraham
Keep me Alive and smart—
the rest I’ll figure out for myself.’
10
Next day, I treated myself — had me a rent boy. Done him to the music of M-People. So what if I’m fifty plus? I still listen to what’s happening.
I didn’t get him off the street. I went through the classifieds in Gay Times, got one who was available on a mobile, for fuck’s sake and made house calls. He arrived at 4.30pm. All blond scraggy hair, torn jeans, ripped T-shirt and Armani leather jacket. Designer rough trade.
I offered him a drink, he said, ‘Got any mineral water, sparkling... with a hint of lemon.’
‘Sure.’
I poured it from the tap, added a shot of fairy liquid and figured he could imagine a lemon. Course he never touched it, they never do. Then he read the riot act.
‘No anal. No bondage...’
And I interrupted, said, ‘Hey, no talking.’
Had him quick, paid and we were all through by 4.55pm. I said, ‘Don’t call us, we’ll get in touch.’
Can’t help wondering if that’s where the term ‘bum’s rush’ derived from. I don’t regret too much. But I wished I’d told Jack the old story about Bonanza. How Lome Green, as a fifty-year-old had four sons who were all forty-five, each born to him by a different wife and worse, who had all died giving birth.