Free Her Last Call To Louis MacNeice by Ken Bruen Page A

would have a final drink here. See, that’s what the painting shows.’
    ‘One for the road.’
    The barman gave a sour laugh.
    ‘Didn’t have to worry about being over the limit, know wot I mean.’
    David looked him full in the face, said, ‘I believe I catch your drift.’
    Enough with the history I thought and moved us to a table, said, ‘Cheers.’
    ‘Whatever’
    ‘So David, what do you do?’
    ‘I’m a poet.’
    ‘Wot?’
    ‘Ever listen to Stevie Nicks?’
    ‘Not unless it’s absolutely unavoidable.’
    ‘She said – “they are poets of nothingness”.’
    ‘Are you any good?’
    ‘Well, there isn’t anyone good enough to know if I’m hot or not.’
    ‘You should meet the Doc, he’d know. But a poet – bit like being a shepherd in London.’
    He took out a pack of Camels, a Zippo, cranked it, blew out a batch of smoke, coughed, said, ‘Hits the goddamn spot I think.’
    ‘I thought Americans were violently anti-nicotine.’
    ‘I like one of your writers, the Martin Amis guy, one of his characters wants a cigarette even when he’s smoking one.’
    ‘Sounds like madness to me.’
    ‘Hey, what I did say – I said I was a poet – did you hear me say I was sane, did I run that by you. Amis reckons cigarettes are a relaxant and writers are the great un-relaxed.’
    ‘David, I could give a toss whether you smoke through your arse.’
    ‘Whoa, testy – I’m only making conversation here, OK’
    ‘What about yer sister, wot am I to …?’
    ‘Lemme play a hunch here – you did her a good turn?’
    He laughed loud, said, ‘I imagine John Dillinger said similar as he walked outa the Bijou Theatre and into the guns.’
    ‘I’m not Dillinger.’
    ‘And heavens-to-Betsie, neither was Warren Oates but go figure. I made a shit-pile of bucks back in the manic ’80s when Ginko was hoodwinkin’ Wall Street. But heck, what have I got to show for it – a crazy sister, some property, and a heap of bad poetry.’
    ‘You’d be different poor?’
    ‘I probably wouldn’t admit to the poetry. Next time she gets in touch – and she will – call me, any hour. Hell, call anyway, how would that be. Here’s my card.’
    ‘Aston Towers.’
    ‘Yeah, impressive huh?’
    As we left, he said, ‘My old man, he was like … fifty-five when they had me. Yeah, on his deathbed he said, “Sorry I was old.”’
    I didn’t know how to respond so I said, ‘Just like my old man.’
    ‘He said the same?’
    ‘No, he said … Argh …’
    Thought of something, then thought … check it out. Called, ‘Em … David … Dave, wait up.’
    Calling your own name, you feel like a horse’s ass. He had the same thought as he answered in a high-pitched voice, ‘Yes David.’
    Shades of Tiny Tim and other obscenities.
    ‘Cassie’s daughter, wot’s the story.’
    He shook his head. Not good, said, ‘There is no daughter. She had an abortion when she was nineteen … a botched job. After, she began exhibiting signs of psychosis. Then she invented a daughter and to explain her absence, she added abduction, not by aliens but Moroccans. Hardly an X-File but certainly spooky.’
    I said more to meself, ‘No Ariana.’
    He gave me a playful puck to my shoulder. Jesus, I loved that! And said, ‘No more eagles either but is that really such a bad thing.’
    I said, ‘She needs help.’
    ‘Yo … Mister Cooper … didn’t I just run that by you … didn’t I just goddamn park in that space … pay attention … alright.’
    And then he was gone.
    Of all the things I was doing then, paying attention was definitely not one of them.

    I didn’t head for home till late in the evening. Turning from Clapham Road, coming along Ashmole Estate, I saw the fire engines. The entrance to my street was cordoned off but I could see the blaze clearly. My house was in full flame and I thought, ‘Jeez, lucky I removed the guns and ammunition else it’d have taken out at least three firemen.’
    I parked and walked towards the