Free Merrick by Ken Bruen Page B

regarded as rude but for the
    Indians, pure curiosity.
    He gasped, said
    ‘This is a month’s wages, you risked your life for this?’
    I said, truthfully
    ‘I liked the kid, a lot.’
    He touched my shoulder, said
    ‘Ryan, for a white eyes, you have many Indian traits.’
    Didn’t elaborate.
    ‘Come.’
    Led me over to a large coal brazier, I wondered about the Fire department. Crow handed
    me a plastic bag, said
    ‘Dried cedar sprigs, sprinkle them on the coals.’
    A woman behind him handed him a fan, he put it in my hands, said
    ‘Eagle wing, wave it over the coals.’
    Fook, I did.
    Crow spoke some words as I did so. I should have felt like a horse’s arse but it seemed
    right. He threw a pair of moccasin’s on the coals, said
    ‘Cloud Dancer will not be barefoot because you give him those.’
    Okay?
    A little later, Crow handed me a huge steak sandwich, fries on the side, laughed, said
    ‘It’s not Buffalo, it’s to soak up the booze.’
    I said
    ‘I’d have eaten Buffalo.’
    He gave me a long look, said
    ‘That I true believe my friend.’
    I’ve no idea when Shona came, took my hand, said
    ‘There is a room below the loft.’
    I said, no idea what this meant
    ‘There is?’
    She laughed, those Indians sure laughed a lot, said
    ‘We need to make love, to celebrate Cloud’s Dancer arrival among his tribe.’
    Worked for me.

…………………………FRIENDLY FIRE.

In The Bronx, above a dry cleansers, the hot dog vendor was trying to explain to his
    Russian backers, what went down, the encounter with the large man. The most vital
    talking he’d ever do. Fail to convince them and he was sauerkraut. A friend had told him
    ‘Borrow twenty five grand, the vig will be about two hundred a week. But in six months,
    you’ll be free and clear, own the business yourself. The Russians will provide the cart,
    get the meat etc. cheap. Never ask…………….never what’s in the meat and don’t eat the
    things, ever. Oh, do not fuck with those guys, give them their money every week, they
    will protect you but screw with them, you’re dead. Nobody, not even Russians fuck with
    ……The Russians.’
    And he’d been right on target, even ahead. Until………….
    One Russian stood behind him, Mr. Silent, he never spoke, just looked at you with cold
    eyes. The other, in front, classic interrogation technique. He had a scar, like lightning
    running all length of his face, on the right side. It looked like it had been high lit by blue
    ink. Not re-assuring, such a memorable scar would have made most people in his
    business worry about ID. That he knew this would never happen was too frightening to
    contemplate. He led the vendor through the events again. Then pushed,
    ……………………………the man was there
    …………………every day?
    Why? To what? Stare at the sky. The workers in the sky./
    Why?
    You don’t
    ………………………………………….know?
    He described the man again and again. Scarface, stepped back, grabbed a bottle of Stoic
    from the table, drank from the neck, then handed the bottle across the vendor to Mr.
    Silent.
    The vendor could have done with a heavy slug of it himself. He wasn’t offered. Sweat
    was cascading down his face, though the room was icy. Scarface rattled off a volley of
    Russian to the other.
    Who grunted.
    The vendor didn’t know had a death sentence been passed. Scar face bent down , stared
    into his face for over two minutes. The vendor was afraid to speak. He’d learned to only
    answer questions, never volunteer them. Amazing how one solid punch to the back of the
    head brought you up to speed on the etiquette of torture.
    Finally, the deathly stare was over. Scar face stood up. Wrote something on a piece of
    paper.
    Said
    ‘You can go.’
    The vendor wanted to ask if he was to continue business and realized, of course. They
    wanted paying. Scarface pushed the note at him said
    ‘New place to sell, until we say.’
    He got to his