Heartland, page 5
–So he wants to talk about sports, is it now? That’s what it’s come to now – you all got that? We’ve been waiting for over two hours for Begley – and all he wants to do is talk about sports. I’m sorry, Mr Campbell, but somehow I don’t get it.
–Just making conversation is all, explained Red, with an exaggerated nod, just a conversation about sports and games. Games and sports. That’s all, Mr Hackett. But if you are of a mind that you don’t want to talk about that particular subject, then that is perfectly fine by me.
A fragile silence began to descend.
Before Wee Hughie Munley, seeming almost jubilant, stuck his rosy face in between them and ejaculated:
–Look, fellers, listen up now lend me your bunnies for a second. For this, right now, is all I got to say. That, whatever differences there might have between certain of us individuals in the past, at the end of the day there is only one thing that all of us here got to remember. And that is – that, very shortly now, this whole unfortunate darned thing is a-gonna be over. Why, swear to God, it’ll almost be like it never happened at all. So I’ve said my piece. Now if you gents don’t mind I think His Majesty Hughie Munley, he is going to help himself to another little drink …
As his banty frame and little baby face went turtle-nodding towards the bar and immediately caught the barman’s attention – with Mervyn unfolding his arms as he twinkled accomodatingly and leaned across the counter.
–Do you know who our barman reminds me of fellers? I heard Red Campbell call out across the room, seeing as I am something of an authority on country music according to Mr Hackett, I would have to say that he reminds me of nobody so much as Charlie Rich, that good old silver-haired Southern gentleman singer. Man, when you look at him sideways, he sure does resemble that old American eagle …
As Mervyn ‘Charlie Rich’ tapped his thumbs and smiled down at Hughie.
–Mr Munley, sir, your wish is my command. So what’s this drink of yours gonna be, if I may be so bold as to inquire?
–Another shotta jungle would be my pleasure, said Hughie, nodding enthusiastically, slapping his small pot belly, that would make me sure as hell happy. You want anything over there, Red?
–Nope, don’t think so.
–’Bout you fellers – what about the twins?
As The Runt belched vigorously, piercing the air with the uplifted cue, rifting loudly as he swayed from side to side, before finding support on his brother’s proffered shoulder. With those bloodless podgy faces, the pair of them looked like they hadn’t eaten in weeks.
–Our father Trampas McHale died in the old times, fighting for Glasson, The Runt continued, quite out of nowhere, and that’s OK. But me and Shorty, we’re a different generation. And now after what happened to Mr Monroe there ain’t nothing left anymore for us in Glasson. So, listen up and hear this, for this is for certain sure. That when all this is over, me and him we’re going to America – heading Stateside to see our Uncle Wylie …
Looking all around him, staggering clumsily.
–Breaker 1-9, Breaker 1-9, this here’s a Rubber Duck. Are you receiving me, over?
–10-4, we got you loud and clear, Rubber Duck, c’mon back!
–Tell them where he lives, our fella. Go ahead – tell them. OK?
–Saginaw, Michigan, that’s where our father’s brother the famous Uncle Wylie lives. And where he got the best and biggest wrecking yard in that there county. To which they come from all over.
–Yes, Saginaw, Michigan – it’s class, real class, Shorty squealed. Nearly as good as Kalamazoo …
–Kal-a-ma-fucking-zoo, yelled The Runt, all them places that they got out there. Glasson, hah? It ain’t nothing …
–For sure as hell not now it ain’t. Not now that Kentuckyland and WW are gone.
–Look out, Uncle Wylie’s wrecking yard and all of America too – for here we come. And with them diesel brakes squealing and our smokestacks blasting, we are gonna be Kings of the Road.
With the pair of them launching into a crazy, intoxicated, arm-flailing buck-dance before eventually landing in the middle of the table.
–I don’t mean to spoil the party, interjected Mervyn, but in the circumstances I don’t think, maybe, that that kinda behaviour’s appropriate …
–We’re sorry, called The Runt as he windmilled his arms and dusted himself down, I’m real sorry Mervyn and so is my brother …
–That’s OK. It ain’t no problem, Mervyn replied, returning to his business behind the counter.
As Sonny Hackett warned both brothers to go easy.
–It’s just that we don’t want no cops coming snooping around.
Then both boys sat back down, clearly well on the way to being hopelessly out of their heads, staring in silence straight ahead of them, like orphans.
As Sonny went wandering over in the direction of the Rock-Ola.
–I’ll put me on another little record, I reckon. That, you reckon, meet with your approval, barman?
–That is absolutely one hundred per cent, nodded Mervyn, because I know you ain’t gonna be playing it loud. On account of I’ve had it set on low right from the get-go, from before you all came in. Just in case ha ha. You know what I mean? Just in case of the law – yeah you got to be careful and keep it right down.
–Well, hell if you ain’t the canny old customer, laughed Sonny, sometimes I think you’re way ahead of us all, old Mervyn. You reckon, when it comes it, that maybe that’s in fact the case? Charlie Rich, you good old boy?
–Maybe, smiled Mervyn, I guess maybe.
Then he cracked his hands together.
–Hey, Sonny cried, here’s a thought. Would anyone maybe care for a little tune by Elvis? Yep, anybody fancy a few bars of the King?
Nobody replied.
As Sonny just stood there, with his elbow angled on top of the machine, whose neon pastels flowed across his swarthy face.
Not making a sound as he stood there, rapt in thought.
Before, all of a sudden, seeming to change his mind, his expression twisting grotesquely as he sat back down at the table.
He couldn’t think of anything he fancied, he announced.
–I thought you said you were going to put on Elvis, Red Campbell said.
Sonny glowered.
–What? he said. What was that you said just there?
–I thought you said you were going to put on Elvis. I thought you said you were going to put on the King.
–Is that what you thought? replied Sonny Hackett, bringing his two thumbs together as he thought for a moment, gazing hawkishly in Red’s direction.
–Is that what you thought? Well, it just so happens that I’m not, you see. And that is where you went and got it wrong. Because, like I say, I changed my mind.
Then he hit the table another severe blow.
–Where in the name of fuck is he gone – where has Tony Begley got to? Because he swore to me that as soon as he was finished all his work he’d be down– and now look …
And he might have been an aged version of the early King himself, as he went over and stood by the window once more, with the collar of his black leather jacket pulled up, and the oily wing of his forelock hanging down.
–You know, began Hackett, you know as sure as I’m standing here I could never – not really – ever figure him out. Tony Begley, I mean. Even when it looked like things were going good for him, you still couldn’t be sure. One night in particular, I’ll never forget it. All of us were drinking in the bar with WW and he kept on saying to me: you think there’s something wrong with me? Tell me honestly, straight up, Sonny – look in my eyes and tell me. Do you think, maybe, there’s something amiss? Because if you want to know the truth, all of my life there have been pressures on me, Sonny. Pressures that I do not need. I don’t mind you knowing this. I don’t mind telling you because the way that I figure it, you and me is Glasson kindred. Then what does he do, right out of the blue, starts singing with his eyes shut tight and I swear to God I’ve never seen in the world seen anyone look happier. As he kept on talking about the most wonderful lady he’d ever known in his life. She’s the foundation I lean on, he told me. Without her love and affection, all my life’d have been nothing, he said.
Even from the rafters you could see the blue of the veins in Hackett’s forehead.
As he swung around and gasped, clenching and unclenching his fists.
–You’re a lucky man, Tony, I said – you really are. Because that’s all any man ever could have want in a woman – one to whom he is going to be wed, at any rate.
He looked pasty and unwell as he passed directly underneath me, resting his forehead against the wall.
–And I swear to God I thought he was going to hit me – I really did, fellers. Standing there staring at me, patting his hair like he was trying to calm himself down. You want to know what he said? Who said anything about being wed, he says.
Hackett shivered a little and then just stood there, saying nothing.
–WHO SAID ANYTHING ABOUT BEING WED? he said.
He looked at the floor.
–I’ll never forget it as long as I live, he said.
After which Sonny Hackett sat down, not uttering a word, as he reached across, stonily, to get at the bottle of jungle.
Chapter 6
Kentucky Fry
–That pair of imbeciles should never have been brought near the place at all, do you hear me, not at all, Wee Hughie complained. What in the name of God are they doing here anyway – who’s idea was it? That’s what I’d like to know.
–Spike your scrake, for who are you to go around mouthing about imbeciles anyway? So maybe save your breath for one of your famous jokes. Because their father was the hero of Glasson County once upon a time and they’ll be cut from the same cloth, you’ll see. So the idea is that they’re gonna be bled. That’s the thinking, pure and simple – we’re gonna break ’em in, same as happened to us in our time. Yep, in the exact same way as, in the old times, each and every one of us had to learn how it’s done. Because, now that WW is gone, what we are gonna need more than ever is them as has the gall to, once more, fight the tiger. These hills need fresh meat and plenty of it. Hardened up, that’s what they gotta be – for there’s way too many daisyboys dodging about.
Sonny Hackett left down his drink and folded his arms, choke-holding the chastened Hughie Munley. Before turning to scrutinise the sickly looking twins.
Just a single look would have been more than enough to tell you how far gone both McHales actually were – for like everyone else they had been drinking most of the day to anaesthetise themselves for what they knew was coming.
Shorty’s eyes rolled as he repeated, once again:
–Tell them everything there is to know about Uncle Wylie, our Runty. Do it.
–I sure as hell will, hollered the Runt, I sure goddang will do that, bro. Because Uncle Wylie says that over there they got canyons and timberwolves. Now that’s a mountain country. And us suckers, what we got over here? Hills that got no right to even think about going by that name. See, Uncle Wylie lives in the proper upcountry – with white lightning and blood-red suns. Coyotes, fuck.
His eyes went swimming back in his head.
–That’s the truth, ain’t it, Barney Grue? Huh? You tell them that what I’m saying here is fact.
But Big Barney Grue wasn’t listening to a word he said. Completely ignoring him as he paced up and down, kicking out wildly at the sawdust as he bit his knuckle.
Before returning, preoccupied, once more to the window – pushing down the slats and leaning over to peer out into the night.
–Any sign yet? queried Hughie. Any indication of you-know-who?
–Nope, replied Barney, nothing so far.
–Hey, shouted the Runt, hey there, listen up. Because way back in the fifties or some of them times, that old Uncle Wylie he worked awhile in the Mississippi State Prison. Ain’t that right, Shorty? Tell them what they call the electric chair down yonder.
Shorty McHale blankly shook his head.
–I don’t know what you’re talking about, he said, I don’t know nothing about chairs.
–Sure you remember it, our feller. So come on!
–The electric chair? Is that what you’re saying? That the one you’re talking about?
–Yeah. Like I said. So tell them – tell them what they call it in Mississippi, USA.
His brother shrugged.
–The chair, maybe. Maybe just ‘the chair’, he suggested.
–Well that is where you are wrong, our feller. Because what they been calling it this past fifty years or maybe more is – yep, Old Sparky.
–Old what?
–Old Sparky, that’s the name they got on it, our feller – and you know it. Sure, the name that they got on that chair. Sparks. Sure as a jackass likes his briars, that is the name it goes by. And would you like to know something else about that chair? Why, they’ll tell you that the very second that lever’s pulled, you can smell your own flesh beginning to fucking roast!
Red Campbell flicked a cigarette butt which struck Shorty smack on the ear. Then he leaned over and glared directly at them.
–Now you listen to me, both of you – if you don’t wise up, the both of you, and quit this dumb fool talk, then I swear by Christ … !
But he didn’t say what it was he might do.
–Running off at the mouth, he growled sullenly.
–Way too much, Big Barney agreed.
Nobody spoke for another two or three minutes.
–I seen this movie, said Shorty, are you listening, our boy? This film – I seen it.
–You seen a film. A film, what about?
–There’s this fellow screaming out there in the prison – going wah wah wah. All the time, yeah, wah wah wah.
–Wah wah wah?
–The whole fucking time. That’s what he kept on doing, over and over. Screaming. Screaming half the night and him stuck there inside the cell.
–What was he doing that for? What ’n the fuck was he hollering about? Tell me, our boy – what was this fellow screaming ab—
–Wah wah wah – all he kept saying, yep. All night. That, and: Mommy Mommy, where’s my Mommy …
–Mommy. Mommy! Where’s my Mommy?
–That was all. No more. Just that.
–Saying all he wanted was his mother?
–Asking them please to go and get her for him. Mommy Mommy, over and over. You want to see the face of him, bro.
–I’d let the fucker fry so I would. Let him sit there, I swear to God – I wouldn’t care. I’d let him sizzle like Kentucky Fry. Then I’d spice him up, like Colonel Sanders’ recipe.
–Colonel Sanders?
–The fellow with the suit and the white moustache. You can see him in Dundalk – laughing in the window, with his stick and white hat.
–Good call. That’s what I’d do too, agreed his brother, stumbling awkwardly and banging his head against the mantelpiece.
Still seeming unfazed as he cupped his hand and called out to the barman:
–You listen up here, Mervyn Walker my man. Because I got a question I would like to ask you!
–Go right ahead, replied the owner, rhythmically polishing a glass.
–OK then. You are a man that I know has been around. So tell me this – which would you say is the best place in the whole USA?
As, without a moment’s hesitation, the tall barman cursorily wiped his hands with a cloth and replied:
–Paragoul.
Staring off at the leaves brushing softly against the glass. The willow.
While Shorty frowned and slugged down another shotta jungle.
–Is that near Mississippi? he wondered.
–Couldn’t say, replied the barman drily. Can’t say that I remember, to be honest.
–Thanks anyway. Thanks, Mervyn. I appreciate you telling me that.
Shorty paused for a moment, deep in thought as he savoured the word.
–Paragoul, he murmured, shaking his head, Paragoul. Hmm.
As the Runt struck a pool ball and shouted across to his brother:
–I wonder would that be anywhere near our Uncle Wylie? Would you say that’s near our uncle’s place, our boy? Huh? Come on – I gotta know.
By now the rest of them reckoned they had endured enough – as a chair came screeching right across the floor.
And Sonny roughly grabbed a hold of Shorty. looking out from under his dark eyebrows and warning:
–You had better listen to me. You too, brother.
Shorty and the Runt said nothing, scowling resentfully as they slouched back across the floor.
And Sonny Hackett rose to his feet, striding towards the window as he hit the venetian blind.
–Where can he have got to, the greasy fucking freak? Why doesn’t he come when he says he’s going to? Does he think that any of this is easy for us?
Then a heartbreaking howl tore the air apart – spiralling from the depths of the outhouse next door.
Jody.
Chapter 7
Some Velvet Morning
Everything he’d been experiencing in the darkness of that tumbledown shack had been as bad as the days back in Whiterock, he’d written.
Lying there, broken and slumped in the gloom, plagued by the constant, steady buzzing in his ears.
And, if that wasn’t bad enough, at one point looking up to discover Red Campbell standing in front of him, smirking as he blew a cloud of smoke into his face.
The finest bareknuckle boxer in a generation – and this was what it had come to, in the end.
We’ll always be there for one another, he used to say, no matter what happens we’ll always be sure of that. The one way we might overcome what has happened to us – in the prison they called the Whiterock Orphanage.
Where no one had ever bothered taking the time to tell us anything about our backgrounds.
With everything we knew contained in the few bits and pieces that we ourselves owned – scraps of letters, a couple of grainy black and white photos – or ‘likenesses’, as they always used to call them in Glasson.
