Read Online Green Hell by Ken Bruen - Free Book Online Page B

student I think.”
    My radar beeped.
    â€œShe was . . . gutted. What’s the word? . . . eviscerated.”
    He looked as if he was going to throw up, rallied, shouted at the bar guy,
    â€œCouple of Jamesons, make them large.”
    He wiped his brow, said,
    â€œI tell you, Jack, like yer ownself, I’ve seen some ugly shit. You learn to shut off, like the nine-yard stare. You’re watching but you’re not seeing. Jesus!”
    I’m an Irish guy, we don’t do the tactile. Keep your friggin hands to yourself. Whoa, yeah, and your emotions, too. Keep those suckers, as they said in Seinfeld ,
    â€œin the vault.”
    But I reached over, gently touched his shoulder.
    â€œThe last bit, Jack, fuck, the final touch . . .”
    It didn’t register. He downed the Jay, let that baby weave its wicked magic, shuddered, then,
    â€œA six-inch nail was hammered between her eyes.”
    I thought,
    . . . Nailed!
    I spotted an East European guy across the bar. We had business in the past,
    Heavy,
    Risky
    Business.
    I indicated a meet with my right hand and he nodded. I said to Owen,
    â€œI need a minute.”
    In mid-narrative, he was jolted back to where we actually were, protested,
    â€œBut there is something else, Jack.”
    There was always something else and never—ever—good.
    â€œOne second,”
    I said.
    In the small smoker’s shed at the back, he was waiting, sucking fiercely on one of the cheap Russian cigarettes currently flooding the city. He shook my hand, said,
    â€œJack, my friend, you need some merchandise?”
    Over the years, that had mainly been muscle and dope.
    I made the universal sign of my thumb, trigger hammer coming down. He booted the cigarette, took out his mobile, spat some foreign command in a harsh tone, grimaced, clicked off, asked,
    â€œA Ruger, is OK?”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œOne box of shells?”
    â€œPerfect.”
    No money exchanged. That would be later, on delivery.
    Got back to Owen. He was literally wringing his hands, went,
    â€œJesus, times like this, I wish I still smoked. You gave up, didn’t you, Jack?”
    For an alarming moment I thought he meant it literally, like on life, but focused, shrugged, said,
    â€œNope, still smoking.”
    He cracked a smile at that, said—quoted a line from Charley Varrick ,
    â€œLast of the Independents.”
    Even Walter Matthau was dead, and recently the great Elmore Leonard. Deferring the final piece of Owen’s story, I told him how Leonard’s son called around to visit, saw his wife up on the roof clearing the eaves, asked his dad why she was up there. Elmore said,
    â€œBecause she can’t write books.”
    Enough with the stalling, I pushed,
    â€œYou had something else, Owen?”
    Owen said,
    â€œThe American kid you were friendly with?”
    Jesus, how long was he going to stretch it? I grilled,
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œThey’ve arrested him for the girl’s murder. As the Brits say, ‘they’ve got him bang to rights.’”
    I really believed I had lost the capacity to be shocked. The life I’d lived, I could no longer really tell the difference between a shock and a surprise. Like Owen’s Brits . . . I was flabbergasted, asked,
    â€œHow, I mean . . . ?”
    He caught my confusion, cut past it, said bluntly,
    â€œBloodied underwear was found under his mattress. Sick little fuck.”
    I finished my Jameson, hoping to blast the bile in my mouth, the acid in my gut, said,
    â€œHe didn’t do it.”
    For a moment it seemed as if Owen would punch me on the shoulder, swerved, settled for,
    â€œCome on, Jack, you liked the kid but, let’s face it, you obviously had no idea who he was or what he was capable of.”
    I stared straight at Owen’s eyes. Whatever he saw there, he flinched. I said,
    â€œYou know history, buddy. I’ve looked into the faces of
    Rapists,
    Psychos,
    Stone