Her Last Call To Louis MacNeice by Ken Bruen

example, we don’t insist on ceremony or titles so much. You needn’t call me Father, you can call me Pat.’
    ‘Why on earth would I wanna do that?’
    And he hadn’t a reply. His smile dissolved, so I gave him a playful push, a forceful one, added, ‘Hey, lighten up Padre, that’s a little repo humour. Isn’t God after all, the ultimate repo man.’
    And left him to it.
    No doubt he could work it into a sermon. Very little got by him save the invention of dry cleaning. He’d had the shiniest black pants I’d ever seen, from pure wear. Made of Terylene, remember that. The sheen accessorised the spit in his soul.

Chapter 1
Guns
    A s I left the funeral, I near said festivities and maybe that was more accurate. Doc grabbed my arm, ‘You’re leggin’ it already.’
    ‘Yeah, I’m funned out.’
    ‘Oh, that’s rich Cooper.’
    ‘Was there something?’
    ‘Hardware. We’re gonna need some shooters right – the guy fell thru but I got another address. Here, you go arm us.’
    ‘But this is in Islington.’
    ‘What, you think they only sell guns in Kilburn?’
    ‘Bad fuck to this – I dunno this guy.’
    ‘He’s expecting you.’
    ‘Wonderful, thing is what’s he expecting from me?’
    ‘Cash, lotsa cash.’
    ‘How novel.’
    But Doc had already turned away. Father Cleary was calling. I wanted to go to Islington about as much as I’d want an evening with Quinn. Traffic was light and I got over there in jig time. The day’s repo was the Renault Espace Turbo Diesel. A sort of double retake as the company was recalling them, to install a fuse in the engine’s diesel pre-heating system. Heat sometimes damaged the wiring harness. What I did was be careful. Enough heat going down already. Couldn’t find the house for ages. Saw a size nine and toyed with asking, ‘Know where the gun dealer hangs his shingle?’
    Then bingo! Got outa the door and locked it by remote from the pavement. It gives that ‘ping’ so beloved by yuppies everywhere. Shit, all I needed was the cellular and I’d be the total asshole. Rang the doorbell – the door opened a crack.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Are you Joseph?’
    ‘Who wants to know?’
    ‘Look, I feel ridiculous saying this but Doc sent me. He forgot to give me a password, his secret service training ain’t what it used to be.’
    ‘Come in.’
    Nice clean house, not a gun in sight. Nice clean gun dealer too. Joseph was in his mid-twenties, crew cut and Miami Vice casuals. Loose shirt, pants and, we hoped not loose-tongued. He had a corduroy face as if someone sat on it and it didn’t bounce back. Dark eyes with fire. Doc hadn’t mentioned the guy was a dance short on his card, light on the feet. Not yer screaming queen but it was there. He gave me the smile, puts lots of teeth in it, asked, ‘See something you like?’
    The accent was Kensington muted. Let you know he had class but not pushing it. I said, ‘You’re a bit young.’
    ‘How many gun dealers have you met?’
    ‘Son … how many would I want to?’
    He let it settle, then decided to take it lightly. Or else … shoot me?
    ‘And how is the good doctor?’
    ‘Keeping well. Keeping stum more like.’
    ‘Some refreshments?’
    ‘Whatever.’
    ‘Let us then to the penthouse.’
    He wasn’t kidding. Upstairs was the Heal’s catalogue come to life. I liked it a lot, said, ‘I like this a lot.’
    He locked eyes, weighed the consequences then went for it, ‘Killer.’
    I settled in a couch that had the personality of a hypnotist, whisperin’, ‘Sleep, you’re getting drowsier and drowsier.’ Joseph said, ‘I have some vodka here, has the personal approval of Yeltsin, thus quality.’
    ‘I thought he went for quantity but yeah, give us a belt of that.’
    He did, then, ‘Yasseu.’
    ‘Only yesterday I despatched a beautiful Ruger SP-101, a true work of art.’
    I didn’t know if regret or admiration was expected so I gave neither. Concentrated on the drink, it tasted cool and cold, a gentle kick