Dispatching Baudelaire E-Book

Ken Bruen

• Herausgeber: The Lilliput Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2004

Beschreibung

Throughout his life accountant Mike Shaw has played it safe, kept his head down, and avoided risk. His girlfriend Brenda is a secretary. Their idea of a night on the town is to visit the local pizza parlour. But when Mike meets Laura in a bar off The Strand, their lives are irrevocably changed. Small, sexy, smart - and utterly dangerous - Laura instantly spellbinds Mike and leads him into a world of moral depravity, dominated by the sinister presence of her powerful and rich father, Harold Benton. Dressed in safari suits, dining in West End restaurants, Benton drinks only the best of wines and whiskies, imitates Richard Burton, and quotes French poet Baudelaire at every opportunity. He is also without conscience, on a hell-bent mission to mould others to his likeness. Dispatching Baudelaire is about what can happen to the blandest of men when he is seduced by money, power and sex. As we follow Mike on his journey to the heart of darkness, we come to discover that there are few more dangerous animals than an Englishman off balance. Set against the paranoia of early 1990s post-Thatcher London, this is yet another addictive page-turner from Ken Bruen, author of the bestselling Vixen, The Guards and The Killing of the Tinkers - and one of the critically acclaimed greats of modern crime and suspense fiction.

Leseprobe

Dispatching Baudelaire

KEN BRUEN

THE LILLIPUT PRESS

DUBLIN

Contents

Dedication

Author's Note

Epigraph

Book 1

Book 2

Copyright

For Roger Durham –

doctor, author, publisher and,

of course, rugby referee

Author’s note

Baudelairewas written in the early nineties when London was still recovering from the Thatcher years: her shadow loomed large over the city. If you had to reach for a description of the spirit prevalent then, paranoia would fit best. The money-men in particular were jittery, still reeling from the crash of the eighties, and once you throw certain drugs into the mix, you get serious nerves. The price of cocaine had skyrocketed and money, well money was the prime motivator, as in most encounters.

White-collar crime was the topic of ferocious dinner parties. I wanted to explore what might happen to the “safe” professions if they were seduced by the usual suspects:

money,

sex,

power,

take an accountant and lure him down the meaner streets, see how he’d fare. I wanted to question how solid, how safe was the blandest of our citizens. Throw Baudelaire into the mesh and you’ll tilt those scales in any era. There are few more dangerous animals than an Englishman off balance.

Ken Bruen

New York, January 2004

But after time

we soberly descend

a little newer

for the term

upon enchanted ground.

Emily D.

Book 1

“YOU HAVE A MEAN FUCKIN’ MOUTH.”

That’s the very first thing she ever said to me. Nice, eh! And I don’t, I mean, OK I tend to compress my lips a bit, but that doesn’t make it mean. Not really. I do that to hide an over-bite. So sure, my teeth aren’t the shine-in-the-dark model, but they’re hardly green. But whoa, hold the phones, this makes me sound defensive … and I’ve nothing to defend, but let’s leave that for now.

Anyroads, as they say inCoronation Street, that’s how I met her. In The Nell Gwynn off The Strand. It was chock-a-block in there. She’d squeezed in beside me at the bar and hey presto, she’s bad-mouthing me, if you’ll excuse the pun.

To describe her, as she was then, that very first moment, how she looked, not how she was, because she kept the two rigidly separate. She was small with jet black hair. Later I learnt she put darkener in it. Light blue eyes with fast intelligence. A snub nose and yes, a generous mouth, full lips and good teeth. Very thin and it seemed, no chest. Her skin was pale with a sheen of … I don’t know, it appeared to pick up the light. That sounds daft, but that’s how it looked.

Sexy, yes. From the beginning, that was all over her. She wasn’t even especially pretty, but some mix in there made you want to climb on, forever.

“You’re not a policeman?”

“Good Lord, no.”

“You have the eyes of one, dull and blatant. But you do have a name?”

I hesitated, not because I didn’t want to tell her. I was fairly offended by the eyes remark. I’d always thought they were my one solid feature.

“How terribly English,” she said, “you can’t say as we haven’t been properly introduced. Well, pardon me … Yo, bar-person, double vodka before Tuesday.”

“Mike,” I said.

She gave a brief smile.

“Solid and reliable, Mike … good old rigid Micky eh. You’re not fibbing here and it’s really Harry – yeah, you look like a Harry, dirty Harry.”

Her drink came and she said,

“Give Harry another … reason I ask if you’re a policeman is I’m a bit wired, been doing the old nosy candy.”

I had no trouble at all believing this and then she slapped the counter, saying,

“That shit costs, you know. Orson Welles liked it so much he said if he’d a spare lifetime to waste, he would give it to cocaine.”

Is there an answer to this? Probably. But it wasn’t one I could come up with. You know you’re in deep trouble with a woman when you want to impress her. So I had some of my drink.

Now she inspected me. I’ll try to tell you what I think she saw. Not what I hoped she’d see. I’m 5’10” with a medium build, brown straight hair, brown eyes, an ordinary nose and you already heard about the mouth. Neat, I look neat and alas, not in the American sense. The sort of baby they very nearly forgot to deliver. And did definitely forget after. Good Lord, you’d think I wanted to be tidy.

What a horror. On my gravestone it will say,

“He died tidy.”

When they talk about the “public” I’m exactly who they see, however briefly. Christ, I’m verging on caricature.

“Mike … yo, Mikey, earth calling?”

“Sorry.”

“That is one black suit, how come you’re in a pub after two – skiving off the job, eh?”

“My mother died.”

She looked at me, not with concern or compassion, but with a sort of lazy interest. I mean she’d just met me, how torn up could she be about my mother?

“I’m sorry, Mike.”

“Oh, don’t be, that was five years ago.”

“What? You’re still taking time off? … Jesus Mikey, time to get a grip. The firm’s probably sold for fuckssake.”

“No … no, I only just told them. I kept her death quiet until now. I thought I’d keep it in reserve till I really wanted time off.”

She took a lofty wallop of her drink and said,

“Weird, what? You stashed yer old Mum under the bed and then hauled her out when you wanted a bit of a holiday. You don’t need cocaine, Mikey, it’s lockin’ up you need.”

As I mentioned, the pub was packed and a stout man in a pinstripe had been trying for service. He kicked against me and my drink spilled. She turned instantly, said,

“Hey, lard ass … yeah, fat face, easy with the pushing.”

“Are you addressing me, Miss?”

“Got stockings and suspenders on under the suit? … Yes, you do. I know you, let’s check it out.”

She moved towards him. He looked to me, but I wasn’t offering anything, least of all assistance. He pulled back and let the crowd help his escape.

I thought I’d go too and she asked,

“So, Mike, what work do you do?”

“I keep books.”

“Yeah, but keep ’em where and for what? … You’re good with numbers, right?”

“Ahm, yes … well, there’s a little more to it.”

“Try this number – 081-913-4897, you want a little freelance work, gimme a call.”

And she was gone. In pursuit of the pinstripe, I dunno.

Everybody has a Laura story. This was the beginning of mine.

I had wanted to ask her what she did. I’d have guessed an actress. My mother used to say, “All women act – with men around, there’s little option.” As it was, I’d have guessed wrong.

MY FRIEND BRAD IS A HOMOSEXUAL.

He says,

“Hell is to have missed your life,”

and he gives me a very direct look – I’ve played safe. No risks and thus no excitement. Just kept my head down and hoped it would soon be over.

In a posh moment, I’d admitted to Brad that I only wanted to be safe. He said,

“Michael, that’s not safety you’re talking about.”

“Yes it is.”

“Man, you’re talking dead. Ain’t no real safety till death. Even then …

“And if you don’t believe it,” he’d said, “take a stroll down Oxford Street. Only Phil Collins believes in the cheery lovable scamp.”

I’d asked what on earth Phil Collins had to do with it and got the reply,

“Or with anything else either!”

Brad is a teacher, a T.E.F.L., he says. Teacher of English as a Foreign Language. I’ve known him since childhood. We lived in the same street, went to the same schools. I’m not going to say obscene things like I’ve nothing against gays … or worse, the ultimate insult, “Some of my best friends are gay.” If you have to explain your friends, you aren’t one.

I called round to see him that evening. K.D. Lang was blasting from his stereo. I had to wait till she finished.

“And so it shall be.”

If I’d been seeking omens, might I not have listened to her. What I found instead was a lengthy song. Brad looks a bit like TAB HUNTER, and truth be told, he works at that. Why he should is a mystery. I always felt even Tab didn’t want to look as he did.

Another long delay for real coffee to be made. A fuss with filters and clear water. Then I told him the Laura story. I omitted the mean-mouth detail lest he agree with the description.

“Michael, don’t confuse crazy with interesting; she’s a lunatic.”

I was offended, but tried to hide it.

He said,

“You’re offended, aren’t you?”

“No, no, I value your insight.”

“Michael, when people ‘value your insight’ they mean, ‘Jeez, what did I ask this fucker for?’ ”

He turned up the volume on the stereo. Now K.D. was duetting with Roy Orbison for,

“Crying”.

Brad joined them for the very high notes. I sipped on the real coffee and found it bitter.

So I rang her.

And I taped the call.

I didn’t even know her name. I did instantly know her voice.

“Hello?”

“Yes … ahm, hello, I met you in a pub the other day … Good Lord, that sounds awful.”

“Which, that you met me, or …”

“Oh no, I mean I was glad to meet you, to have made your acquaintance.”

“Stop whining … OK, is there a point to this?”

“Yes … sorry … I … I wondered if I might take you to dinner, I’m … I …”

“The guy in the dead suit, yeah. I remember you want to get in my knickers, is that it?”

“I beg your pardon … That was not my intention … Good heavens, I don’t even know your name.”

“You don’t want in my knickers? Is there something wrong with you – are you gay? … Is that it? … Speak up … I’m Laura. And you’re Daniel if I remember correctly.”

“Ahm … Mike actually.”

“Mike, do I remember a Mike … well … wot the hell. This is Thursday.”

“Actually it’s Tuesday.”

“Hey, Mike, lighten up … These are jokes – if there’s correction to be done, I’ll handle that … Are we clear?”

“So, meet me in that pub on Saturday at eight. That was on the Tottenham Court Road, am I correct?”

And she hung up.

I hadn’t liked to say it was The Strand, but I worried about it. And worse, I was rampant.

*

I taped the call so I’d be able to hear that voice at my leisure. But I didn’t think I’d be able to take my own pitiful effort.

What I did was, I played it for Brad.

After, he asked to hear it again. But before I could do that, he roared,

“Christ, I’m not serious, it’s a movie cliché … to pretend I’m interested or something. What do you want, Michael, you want me to tell you she’s a little treasure, is that it?”

“I just wanted your opinion.”

“She’s a hooker.”

“Thanks, Brad, thanks a lot. You’d know a lot about women after all.”

I dunno if it hurt him. It was meant to.

He stood and said,

“You’re right about that. Idoknow a lot about them. Last I heard, straight men didn’t seem to have progressed much in their understanding of the female mind. But what about Brenda, eh, what aboutHER?”

There isn’t a whole lot about Brenda. She’s a nice person, in fact, she’s a tidy one. There isn’t a thing you could say against her. Or in fact, much you could say about her at all. Like me I suppose.

We’d been going together for two years, and going quietly. I know this sounds terrible, as if I hated her. After meeting Laura, I did think we were a match. Brenda was a secretary … and sensible … and sexless. When we went to bed, we thanked each other a lot. I dunno if that’s consideration or just English.

Do you know the actress Rita Tushingham? Now I don’t think she could be accused of being a beauty. Can you picture a plain version of her? That’s pretty close to Brenda. I didn’tevertape her voice. I didn’t want to hear her voice, even when I was with her.

A few months back, I’d gone on a shopping blitz. I dunno what possessed me, but instead of the usual dark jacket and slacks I’d buy twice yearly, I’d bought a pair of very faded jeans. The salesman kept calling me sir. The term loaded with a sneer.

“These are Levis 501. Sir will find them to be state of the art.”

Art?

For jeans. Just holding them in my hands made me weak. I wanted to quip, “Who bought the other 500?” But when I tried them on, the old me surfaced and I asked, oh God –

“Will they hold a crease?”

He gave a tolerant chuckle.

“Oh, Sir, how droll, very humourous. The modern man doesn’t iron his jeans. Creases are passé, oh dear me, yes.”

I wondered if the modern man had a less modern woman for the ironing. I’d love to tell my boss about creases. Crease him right up.

So I bought the jeans …andtrainers, and a beat-up leather jacket. I felt pretty beat up at the cost. The more bedraggled the clothes, the steeper the price. I’d obviously missed the revolution. Of course, I’d never worn them, good heavens no.

I wore them now. Brenda was already seated at our regular table at Pizza Hut. She was dressed as if at work. Her eyes widened.

“Michael, what on earth?”

“What do you think?”

“Well … it’s different, I’ll have to think about it.”

The waitress came, smiled that pizza smile, and asked,

“The usual?”

“Yes,” Brenda said.

“No,” I said.

Brenda gave me a troubled look. I turned to the waitress. “ Let us have our usual, but to go – can you do that?”

She could.

“Brenda, I have some nice wine at home, so let’s break the routine and have a picnic on the floor, a bit of a lark.”