Free Her Last Call To Louis MacNeice by Ken Bruen

right?’
    Took a hit of the coke and it was sweet, I’ll give it that, even the ice.
    ‘Might I sit down – I’m Cassie’s brother.’
    I finished the food, pushed the debris away, said, ‘You’re here for the shoplifting, I believe the season’s started.’
    ‘I need your help.’
    ‘What’s your name?’
    ‘Let’s call me David.’
    ‘Wot – all of us?’
    ‘Mr Cooper – oh yes, I know who you are. You may be the only one who can help her.’
    ‘Sorry pal, I’m up to me arse in aggravation, plus – no offence but that lady’s beyond help.’
    ‘No no no! She’s obsessed with you and you can use that to persuade her to return home. We can get treatment.’
    ‘Hey David, you deaf or just stupid. I said – I didn’t say – hey maybe we’ve room to negotiate.’
    ‘I know where you’re coming from Mr Cooper. But it’s not a choice thing, she’s volatile and, OK, I’m going to play straight with you. I believe she may have pushed a woman under a train in New York.’
    ‘What … jeez … Laura …’
    ‘Laura? Who’s that? The woman was my fiancée. Cassie doesn’t like people close to her – loved ones – she doesn’t share.’
    I couldn’t take it in. What was running through my mind was this family who looked like stars – Letterman and Sarah Miles. I asked, ‘Who do yer parents resemble – Bogie and Bacall?’
    And he laughed. ‘They’re Mom and Pop Diner, Mr and Mrs Ordinary, Citizens of Nerd City. You getting this?’
    The door of the restaurant was kicked in, the three Yahoos came dribblin’. In their late twenties, they’d the uniform of denim jackets, combat trousers, scarves and filthy trainers. If grunge was gone, they hadn’t heard. The personification of the urban hooligan to be found on every High Street, more common than litter and as nasty as tax. Intimidation is the party tune. Amid guffaws, obscenities and horseplay, they collected their grub and sprawled at the table next to us.
    Naturally. This is your life! I said, ‘The ambience at Burger King isn’t to their palate.’
    And now began the obligatory food fight, flicking fries and buns all over. He said, ‘Gotta hang a right.’
    And was up and over to them. He put both hands, palms outspread on their table. This put a thug to his left, to his right, and directly facing him. His accent seemed like a roar.
    ‘Hi guys.’
    ‘Wotcha want fooker … Yank fooker.’
    Course this led to a wild repartee and chorus.
    ‘Yeah, the fook you want wanker.’
    ‘Are you guys the real thing – lager louts’ (he pronounced it lowts) – ‘we’ve got broadcasts on you back home.’
    ‘Fook off wanker – put me shoe in yer arsehole – how d’ya like that then eh. Want yer fookin’ teeth up yer backside, yah wanker?’
    He stood back, gave a huge smile and charaded a light bulb going off over his head, answered, ‘I know that word – you guys are implying I’m a self-abuser – have I got it right? But let me demonstrate what it is I actually do with my hands, OK?’
    He bent slightly, then shot out both elbows to crash into noses left and right, then gave a bounce, gripped the table and headbutted number three. The sound of bones crackin’ was loud. He pulled back and came over to me, asked, ‘How’d I do?’
    ‘Lemme put it this way – can I buy you a drink.’
    As we got out of there, a round of applause followed us. I’d say it did wonders for Letterman’s ratings.

    We went to The Swan on Bayswater Road. I wanted away from my own manor. I ordered Scotch and he had Scotch rocks. I asked, ‘You’ve got some moves, where’d you learn ’em?’
    ‘Marine Corps.’
    But he was staring at the painting behind the bar and the barman said, ‘This pub has been here since Bayswater Road was a lane leading from the Courts in Uxbridge to Marble Arch.’
    When David showed no recognition, the guy continued, ‘Marble Arch, or as it was then, Tyburn, where they hung ’em! The condemned man and his escort