“Your Love Is the Place I Come From”

– TEENAGE FANCLUB

I NOTICED a slight tremor in his hand and that was a worry. His finger could squeeze involuntarily. I stood up, the leather protesting, Juan shouted,

“I tell you to move, motherfucker?”

The drink was in my left hand, carefully, no sudden movement, I put it on one of the boxes, asked,

“You ever read James Lee Burke?”

“What?”

“Or Andrew Vachss, you read at all?”

The barrel was moving left to right, spittle at the corner of Juan’s mouth, he wanted to use it, asked,

“The fuck you talking about?”

I sighed, explained,

“Great writers, thing is, they both have an expression for a guy like you.”

His tongue was darting in and out of his mouth, like a Galway eel, slippery, wet, and mainly repugnant, he was explosive, shouted,

“Like me, they know me, they put names on me, I put a cap in their heads.”

I stayed absolutely still, my whole body language presenting no threat, said,

“Burke calls you a meltdown, and Vachss, he’d have you down as skel.”

He didn’t get the meaning but he sure as hell got the implication. As the insult registered, it was time to act. The British army, in training, they beat you up, vomit you out. One of the very first lessons you learn is how to disarm a man. Vital if you’re headed for the streets of the Ardoyne. It’s an action so simple, so beautiful, it’s close to art.

Right foot forward, pressure on the left, palm of the right hand fast and straight, left zooming in to slap the gunman’s head as his weapon sails above his head. Here’s the best bit, you allow him a moment to wonder,

“What the fuck just happened?”

And as he begins to ask, “How’d he do that?” You give him a ferocious kick in the balls.

Add,

“Don’t ever point a gun at me.”

That’s the macho bit.

On the Plains of Salisbury, a desolate acre of desperation, a thousand times I’d be put through that routine. Most nights I went to bed, I could hardly breathe because of the pain in my balls. Teach a man through his genitalia, he’s a real fast study.

Juan was writhing on the floor, a litany of Spanish prayers leaking from his mouth. Usually as the groin pain recedes, you break the nose or two fingers, keep them focused, but I wasn’t flashy. Picked up the gun and my drink, sat on the edge of the table, said,

“The way that leather creaks, it’s a bastard to sit in.”

He fixed his eyes on me, hatred like the proverbial coals, tried to speak but hurting, his manhood in his throat, a gargle was the best he could manage.

He gargled.

I was tapping the barrel of the gun on the rim of the glass, an irritating sound, said,

“We’ve got us, what you gangbangers call, let me see, yeah, a situation.”

I hadn’t decided on whether to kill him but I was giving it some consideration. Maybe meant two for one as I’d probably have to off Ramon, too. His vocal cords were finding a level and he tried,

“You going to keel me, you think you have the cojones?”

Credit to him, he dragged up some saliva, with a massive effort, spat, not a whole bunch but it reached the floor, so I shot him.

Gut shot first. Get the serious pain started, raised the sights, aiming at his Adam’s apple, saw a British army colonel demonstrate that one time. Takes the apple right out the back of the neck. He’d used colour slides to show the aftereffect, looks like you took a combine harvester to it. Juan was in too much pain to grasp the story.

Changed my mind.

Stood up, said,

“You keep it in your pants amigo.”

Out on the street, before anything else, I dumped the gun in a grate then hailed a cab. At the hotel, I moved fast, got my gear packed, then down to the desk, the clerk, surprised, asked,

“You’re leaving us, Mr. Blake?”

“You got it.”

As he booted up the screen, he persisted,

“Was everything to your satisfaction?”

I acted like I had to think about it, then,

“Hunky dory.”

He smiled, said,

“David Bowie, right?”

“Yeah, whatever.”

Another cab. My mind locked down, locked tight. So much for plans, I’d wanted to stay in New York longer, reimmerse myself in the way of life. Not that America is New York, but as a launching pad, it’s pretty good. Get that dialogue down, ensure the smooth transaction of the money through Siobhan. And take a block of time to grieve for Tommy. I was never going to get over him but had hoped I’d find a level of acceptance.

What’d I do?

Shot the one friend he had.

Nice going, Steve-o.

The driver asked,

“What airline, buddy?”

I said the first thing came into my head:

“American.”

He launched into a rap about Iraq, about farmboys from Iowa and the heartland. Kids, he called them, dying every day in the rebuilding of that forsaken country. We got to the airport and as I reached for my wallet, he asked,

“So, what do you think of my solution?”

I’d never heard it, tuned out as I was, so I said, laying a ten on the fare,

“Can’t see how it would fail.”

He gave me a suspicious look but all he got was my neutral face, tried,

“The Jets choked, huh?”

Let him see I was a player but the wrong guy, he near spat, went,

“I follow hockey, them Bruins, outta Boston, that’s a game.”

Juan in the limo, between lines of coke had lectured me on American sport, said,

“Hockey is for bitches.”

I didn’t think I’d share this with the cabbie, so I said,

“You better believe it buddy.”

And he was gone. A valet asked if I needed help and I wanted to go,

“Do I ever?”

But waved him off, I found the ticket desk and the clerk asked,

“Where you headed?”

“When’s the next flight to Vegas?”

Why not. I was already on the biggest gamble of my life. He said,

“You’re in luck.”

And I nearly smiled, a flight was leaving in forty minutes, I said that’d be good and he asked,

“Round trip?”

“One way.”

Didn’t faze him and he punched out my ticket. Almost a pun there, I’d just punched Juan’s ticket. I paid by credit card, always the anxious moment. Was Siobhan as good as she claimed, was the money going through as smooth as she promised, he handed me a pen, asked,

“Sign here, please.”

I did.

Siobhan was on the money.

Security was even tighter on domestic flights. I joined a line of shoeless people, a man in front, turned, looked at me, said,

“You’re going to have to remove those, buddy.”

I nodded, took off my loafers, put my change, watch in my jacket, took that off, bundled them in a tray. The security people were grim-faced but kept the line moving, a woman protested,

“I’ve got film in here.”

The guard, patient, said,

“Then take it out.”

She started to complain, saying she was the mother of four grown kids, did she look like some . . . like . . . terrorist? Even I knew she was buying grief. Sure enough, after she stepped through the metal detector, she was herded to one side, given the full treatment. First, stretch out her arms, the hand detector all over her body, then, “take a seat, Ma’am.” The loaded politeness in the address, the easy intimidation through manners and then, raise her right leg, then the left. All done with deliberate slowness, my turn and as I stepped to the base, ZING. The guy said,

“Step back, sir.”

I did, was asked if I’d any other metal on my person, I touched my neck, said, “A medal.”

The guy nodded, motioned me through, he asked,

“That Saint Christopher?”

“No, it’s the Miraculous Medal.”

He stared at me, said,

“Irish, huh?”

“Yes, “sir.”

Bounce them manners right back, he said,

“That’s like a talisman, a good luck deal, right?”

Did I want to make a convert, explain the significance of the Mother of God? I settled for,

“She keeps us safe.”

And got a tired smile, he was in the security business, at the literal hands on end of the business, he said,

“Man needs all the protection he can get.”

Argue that.

I was going to say, a Walther PPK doesn’t hurt either, but you don’t mention weapons to those guys, especially when you’re almost clear, so I asked,

“You get a lot of hassle in your work?”

He rolled his eyes, like tell me about it, said,

“Some. The way it is, some folks get real uptight, but me, it’s my job, do it right.”

He was waving me by, added,

“What we do, they get difficult, we go real slooowww. . . .”

And winked, then,

“They move fast or slow, ain’t never no mind to me, I get paid by the hour, not the passenger.”

The American work ethic right there. The job gets done. Then he was calling the next passenger. Manners might not make the man but they sure as hell smooth the passage. I went to Starbucks, got a tall latte, added a little vanilla, get those flavours blending, then looked round the airport, most everyone had a coffee in hand, a caffeined world. No wonder the planet was jittery. I’d some time yet, headed straight for the music outlet, bought a Gretchen Peters CD, the new one, Halcyon, strapped on my headphones.

I got a seat near my gate, took a sip of the latte, began to listen to Gretchen, she soothes my soul. A track from years ago, what first got me tuned to her . . . “On a Bus to St. Cloud.” Such longing in the lyrics and, too, the awful loss that never goes away.

My flight was boarding.