The Book of Virtue by Ken Bruen Page A

of Disadvantage.”
    Booze, mental illness, violence.
    But books?
    Never.
    So what the hell was this beautifully bound edition about? I opened another page at random.
    Got
    â€œA book must be an ice axe
    To break
    The seas
    Frozen inside our soul.”
    I was rattled.
    If he could quote that, and, Jesus wept, have applied it to his own self, where the fook did that leave my dark finished portrait of him?’
    Resolved to run it by Cici.
    She was
    Brady’s babe, in every sense.
    Twenty five years of age with the experience of fifty, and all of them dirty.
    And ruthless.
    Concealed behind a stunning face, she had that rarity, green eyes, and a mouth designed by a Playboy deity.
    She was a simple girl at heart, really.
    All she wanted really was a shitload of cash.
    And, like, before the spring.
    Her beauty was of that unique stop-you-dead variety.
    Worse, she knew it.
    Used it.
    Sure, I was banging her. If you live a cliché, then that’s the most lame of all. But, see, I could talk to her, I think. And,
    Get this:
    She read.
    Our club catered to the young punks, reared on the movies Casino and Wise Guys.
    They spoke a mangled Joe Peschi, convoluted by snatches of Travis Bickle.
    Books? Nope.
    They didn’t know from kindle to National Enquirer. But Cici, she’d have a book running alongside her vegetarian Slurpee. Her latest was titled, Ethics of the Urban Sister.
    I shit thee not.
    So, she seemed to know stuff. Couple that with an old soul glint in her amazing eyes and you had, what?
    Sensuality with knowledge.
    Late February, New York was colder than my old man’s eyes.
    An hour before the club opened, we were having the usual hassle:
    Chef on the piss
    Waitresses on the whinge
    And a mega tab from an old guy in one of The Families who no one had the cojones to ask,
    â€œYo, fook head, you want to like, settle your freaking bill?”
    Translate
    Me.
    As in having to ass kiss and somehow get some major green from the dangerous bastard.
    Cici was down with the young guns’ lingo,
    Was explaining to me the essence of
    â€œToo school for cool.”
    And the extreme irrationality of adding NOT to a statement. Like
    â€œI’m happy.”
    Dramatic pause,
    Then,
    â€œNot.”
    Fook on a bike.
    But the word that annoyed me beyond coherent belief was the universal reply to seemingly any situation.
    Like
    â€œYour wife was killed.”
    â€œâ€¦ Whatever!”
    Or, even good news:
    â€œYou won the State Lottery.”
    They go
    â€œâ€¦ Whatever.”
    Drives me ape shit.
    My old man was dead five months then. Okay, five months and change.
    So, I counted. You betcha. Joy can be measured.
    Cici had, in a drunken moment, told me that Brady kept a mountain of coke, and a ton of cash, in his apartment. She was laying down the seed of a plan.
    Scotty had been dead three months.
    We cherished the hour before Brady showed. Cici had taken my music faves on board. We had a ritual down. She’d ask,
    â€œCaf Corretto?”
    Basically the Italian version of a pick me up. Caffeine with Jameson.
    The tunes: U2, with “Bad.”
    The Edge proving he was indeed the owner of the driving guitar.
    Lorena McKennet, with “Raglan Road.”
    Vintage regret. The Irish legacy.
    The Clash, with “London Calling.”
    Because they rock, always.
    Gretchen Peters’ “Bus to San Cloud.”
    Pining in beauty.
    We were midway along when the door whipped open and Brady blasted in. Heavy-set, muscle and fat in contention. A squashed-in face with eyes that never heard of humor.
    His opener:
    â€œTurn off that shit.”
    Meant we’d have
    â€œBorn in the USA.”
    Ad nauseum.
    And add ferocity.
    His crudity always managed to reach new depths of offense.
    Like,
    â€œBitch, the office. I need servicing.”
    Cute, huh?
    Scotty.
    My best and, in truth, only friend.
    The ubiquitous them , whoever the fook they be, say,
    â€œThe difference between one friend