Her Last Call To Louis MacNeice (2 page)

‘What shop does them?’

She gave a toss of her head.

‘Don’t be a horse’s ass. Ontology is the primary element in metaphysics, you know that I guess.’

‘On … wot?’

‘It’s the ontological dilemma. What really exists as opposed to that which appears to exist but does not.’

‘I appear to have lost you.’

‘Gimme another shot of that Scotch.’

I did and asked,

‘OK, so let’s say you grab this Ph.D. – it qualifies you to do what?’

She shrugged, it caused her breasts to move forward and I felt something move myself.

‘Oh I guess I’ll probably still be stealing but at least I’ll be able to look into the soul of the store detective.’

‘Shit, don’t bother. I already did and it’s a wilderness. Not a place you’d want to visit.’

‘Very deep Cooper. Tell me, are you a winner?’

‘Fuck knows, depends who’s keeping score.’

‘I’m serious here guy. I don’t want to know from losers, you gettin’ this. I’ve been nickled and dimed to death.’

‘Hey … lady, get a grip, look around you, am I hurting here?’

‘What … this proves what exactly. That your taste is way up your ass … and an automobile that ain’t worth shit in the city.’

That was about it, I’d had it. Put down my glass, time to fold her tent. But she stood, came to me, said, ‘Fuck me rough.’

Before I could reply, she put her hand on my crotch, pulled the zip down, took a grip of the action. She purred, ‘Oh you’re ready to pop.’

I was … and in a little while, I did. She was sitting astride me and gave a slow smile, said, ‘I’ve a piece of you now, you’ll never ball any other broad … you hear me?’

‘What’s this … post-coital aggression?’

‘It’s the truth, remember you’ve been warned.’

I didn’t know how to answer this so I didn’t. She rolled offa me, said, ‘You grab some Zzzzz’s and I’ll wake you with a blow job. You’ll come to, so to speak. Sound good?’

Yeah, well it didn’t sound too bad so I grabbed the shut-eye. Dreamt too, of pigeons and breaking glass and store detectives shouting ‘It’s a fair cop.’ Bert was there too but I don’t really recall what he was doing, save sweating.

When I woke, she was gone. Was I disappointed. Well, my body wanted her but my head roared
THANK
FUCK
FOR
THAT
.

A note was propped on the coffee table. Not a note, a bloody manuscript. Jeez, maybe she’d left me her thesis and how long had I slept. Checked my watch, I’d been out four hours … What? The note consisted of long manuscript pages. I read the first.

Hi lover,

You’ll have slept well. Certainly you’ll have slept long as I added a little something to your drink. I felt you were a tad tense, as you English might say. You’ll find it left you parched so I only drank half your juice.

She was right, I went and got the OJ … swamped it. Read on:

Took me ages to locate the goddamn phone but I guess we both know I already have your number. In my rummaging, I found a sawn-off shotgun and an automatic pistol. How dangerous is this neighbourhood? I confiscated them. Just kidding big guy … lighten up, these are the jokes. And I also discovered boxes of money. Naturally, I skimmed some bills off the top ’cos it’s what I do.

I’ve put down some Louis MacNeice as your education begins
NOW
. Pay attention, I’ll be asking questions … and
WHERE
ARE
THOSE
ESSAYS! Can you smell me offa you … you’re all over me you stallion, you well-hung colossus.

Whoops, here’s my cab. Hate to
heat
and run but … later … yeah,

Your Cassie                

‘Fuck me,’ I said.

Went to check the wardrobes and sure enough, the shoe boxes were open, she’d helped herself to a very generous wedge (of bills). The pistol was gone. So now the bitch was armed. I already knew she was dangerous.

Made some strong coffee and had a shower. Took a hard look at myself in the full-length mirror and didn’t relish what I saw. Sandy hair already thinning out, hooded brown eyes and a poor nose. My mouth was like a thin compressed line and even in laughter, it didn’t improve a whole amount. Deep ridges down the side of my nose as if they’d been cut. But I had good teeth and worked at keeping them. I was five feet ten inches tall and had exercised for a lotta years. The muscle still held but it was loosening. A pot belly was beginning to shape and fuck, nothing could impede its progress … lest I stop eating … yeah. The booze didn’t help but I wasn’t about to get that concerned. Did Jack Nicholson care?

I dressed in old Levi cords, so faded they could have got a pension and wow, were they comfortable or what. One more wash, you know, they were history …
sayonara
and good night.

I pulled on a hooded black sweatshirt, to accessorize my hooded eyes, it read ‘I’M A GAS’. Yeah, just couldn’t stem the humour, I was a real fuckin’ comedian.

Completed the outfit with a pair of battered moccasins that whispered, ‘I love your feet … I love you.’

Sure felt like it. Put some gel in my hair to get that wet look. When you’re forty-two years old, you’ll try any gimmick. It made my hair look wet which I guess is the point. I hoped for that crumpled Don Johnson effect but I got close-call wino. Tried that American voice again, roared
ENOUGH
ALREADY! And went to read the MacNeice piece.

‘Without heroics, without belief
I send you, as I am not rich
Nothing but odds and ends a thief
bundled up in the last ditch
for few are able to keep moving
they drag and flag in the traffic
while you are alive beyond question
like the dazzle on the sea my darling.’

Hey! Are you getting this? Here’s some more purely as introduction.

‘The bullfight, the fanderillas like
Christmas candles
And the scrawled hammer and sickle
It was all copy – impenetrable surface
I did not look for the sneer beneath the surface
Why should I trouble,
an addict to oblivion
Running away from the Gods of my own hearth
With
no intention
Of finding Gods elsewhere.’

You don’t get it Cooper do you … I know you don’t but, by Christ, you will. Here endeth the lesson, memorise the underlined pieces. Auden gave some lines to MacNeice, I think they had you in mind. I’ll sign off with them.

‘Shall I drink your health before
The gun-butt raps upon the door.’

I put down the sheets, drained the coffee and said, ‘Memorise! Kiss my ass.’

The Doc was saying, ‘I keep breaking out in spots … spots like Croydon, Norwood, and bloody Brixton.’

The pub was packed and he was in full flight. What they call a two-fisted drinker and he drank in a similar fashion. A big man, six feet two inches, near 240 pounds and a lot of it was muscle. He kept his head shaved to the skull and it all added to his bull appearance. But startlingly blue eyes, a broken nose and full mouth. He was dressed in a white tracksuit and of course, the Doc Martens, polished to a frenzied spit. I met him in prison, he’d been in and out of Pentonville more times than the postman. I’d been convicted of
GBH
… which was OK … if they wanted to call it grievous bodily harm, I wasn’t arguing the toss. A mugger had hopped on my back down in Waterloo and I’d tried to kill the fucker. In fact, I was sure I had done as I gave it my best shot. I hadn’t done good in the nick, I couldn’t get the rhythm … and would you want to. In fights all the time, I could learn the words but I couldn’t catch the melody. That’s when I met the Doc and he showed me the score. Why a huge Irishman became my solution is one of those odd events that defy analysis. Our friendship continued in the straight world and we went into business together.

He’d taken advantage of the Open University to attain his ‘O’ Levels and went all the way through to take a B.A. in Literature. It demonstrated, he said, not so much how smart he was as the length of time he’d been inside. I reckoned if anyone knew the MacNeice dude, it was him. Our business brought in a lotta cash but fuck, he needed it. The man loved to spend.

This evening, he’d thrown an impromptu party in our local as his team had bought a new player. Fuck knows, they needed to. What he’d done was put a grand behind the bar and ya-hoo, it was open season … party time. He’d once said to me, ‘They don’t trust an educated Irishman, it’s like an uppity nigger.’

I said, ‘As maybe! But they get downright paranoid with a flash one even more. Do you have to be so blatant with the cash? I mean I’ve heard of conspicuous consumption but this is friggin’ rubbin’ their noses in it.’

‘Ah Cooper, me oul segotia, you worry too much. You can’t take it with you.’

‘Yeah, but you’re hell bent on letting every other bastard take it with him.’

‘You’re a miserable sod, why are the English so cautious?’

‘’Cos we have to deal with you flamin’ paddies is why. We’ll have to pull another job sooner than planned.’

I caught his eye, signalled the corner booth, our office of sorts. Wading through the crowd, he was pumping hands, yelling hello, home is the fuckin’ hero. His face was awash in sweat and his eyes alight. Threw an arm round me, asked, ‘How’s it cutting, yah worry guts?’

‘Sit down Doc, I need to talk.’

‘Uh-uh, you got a girl in trouble?’

‘Just listen OK, can you fuckin’ do that, take five minutes off from the hearty hail-fuck-well-met, can you.’

It lashed him, his eyes lost their light a moment, as if a candle had been blown out, I said, ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean that but I need your undivided.’

He sat down, took out a hankie, with his team colours, mopped his face, said, ‘Oh you meant it alright. But sometimes I’m afraid if I stop, I’ll never get motoring again, I keep bein’ afraid I’ll miss something. Anyway, fire away.’

I gave him a rundown on the day, covered near all. He looked into my face, asked, ‘Did you give her one?’

‘What?’

‘Did you ride her?’

‘Good Lord, why don’t you just come right out and ask me … why beat about the bush?’

‘Sounds like you beat around the old bush. So … did you do the business, give her a rub of the relic.’

‘Em … in a manner of speaking.’

He gave a huge laugh, threw back his head and went with it. Ever see or hear Dyan Cannon laugh? Yeah … the whole shebang, light on a dark street, like that.

‘Aw Jaysus Coop, you’ll kill me. The English are a race apart, what d’ya do, talk dirty to her.’

‘OK … OK … so … we had intercourse.’

‘Intercourse, what …? By the Lord Harry did ye study first … what goes where … after you dear … no, no … I insist … put it where you desire. No wonder ye like
Carry On
pictures.’

‘You’re a big help Doc.’

‘And lifted the pistol did she, the heathen bitch … bit careless were you?’

‘Hey, she slipped me a Mickey Finn.’

‘And you slipped her … OK … sorry.’

‘Have you heard of MacNeice then?’

Doc had done the English piss-take in a haughty law-di-daw. Now he switched to what I’d heard him call his West-Brit accent.

‘I come from an island, Ireland, a nation built upon violence and morose vendettas. My diehard countrymen like drayhorses, drag their ruin behind them, shooting straight in the cause of crooked thinking. Their greed is sugared with pretence of public spirit, from all of which I am an exile.’

I didn’t know was this Doc or MacNeice till he said, ‘He was like me, said,

“In short we must keep moving
to keep pace
or else drop into limbo
the dead place.”’

I threw up my hands.

‘What the fuck is this, everyone’s doing recitations, did I miss something. Who is this fuck.’

‘Take it easy Coop, I also do Yeats … how about a nice bit of Browning?’

‘Fuck off.’

‘’Course you crowd adore Rupert Brooke, all that romantic dying and heroism with a hint of buggery:

“And some corner of a foreign field
shall be forever England”

Yeah, well he got his wish, they bloody buried him in it. Let’s get a drink, I’m parched.’

Back to the bar and ordered double Scotches. Got on the other side of them, I said, ‘What should I do?’

‘Get shot of her.’

‘That’s it … for this I sat through poetry at eleven.’

‘Look Coop, we’re due to take that bank … wot … two weeks … we can’t afford complications, that woman isn’t a loose cannon, she’s a walking time bomb.’

‘Maybe we should postpone.’

He put down his drink, laid a big hand on my shoulder, said, ‘No can do old son, I need the cash.’

‘What else is new.’

‘Straight up … and you need to get that pistol back. Jaysus, all we need is for her to put a bullet in Bert.’

‘Bertr?’

‘Yeah, the fast food guy, if she’s as nutty as she sounds, she’ll go back. It’s what psychos do.’

Lisa, a barmaid, was collecting glasses. A friendly slip of a girl, I was always glad to see her. As she leant over, her breasts brushed my arm and she let the touch linger, her eyes locked on mine. Her perfume had a familiar scent … I asked, ‘What’s the fragrance?’

‘Poison.’

‘I don’t doubt it but what’s it called?’

‘That’s the name.’

It was what Cassie wore. Doc said, ‘She fancies you, that Lisa does.’

‘Leave it out.’

‘C’mon, get the cork outa yer ass. Bring her home, have a nice uncomplicated lass for once.’

‘Jeez, I haven’t the energy.’

‘Here, take this … it’s amyl nitrate, crunch that baby under yer nose, you’ll go like the clappers.’

‘The fuck’s going on. All day people feeding me poetry and dope or is that the other way round, dopes feeding me …’

‘Poetry, dope and rock ’n’ roll, like an Ian Dury song. Go on … go for it. Aren’t I yer doctor.’

‘You know I hate drugs.’

The sun through the bedroom window nudged me awake. I yawned, stretched, feeling
good.
Lisa woke and gave me a lazy smile. The door crashed open and Cassie was framed there, wearing one of my best shirts, screamed, ‘Oh you bastard, how could you … in our marriage bed.’

Lisa’s eyes were wide, she whispered, ‘You’re married!’