eBookFirst Edition (First Edition)
Available on Compatible NOOK devices, the free NOOK App and in My Digital Library.
Related collections and offers
Overview
London Boulevard is a masterful work of double-dealing and suspense from Ken Bruen, one of the great crime writers of our time.
Now a major motion picture starring Colin Farrell and Keira Knightley, written and directed by Oscar-winning screenwriter William Monahan of The Departed.
When Mitchell is released from prison after serving three years for a vicious attack he doesn't even remember, Billy Norton is there to pick him up. But Norton works for Tommy Logan, a ruthless loan shark lowlife with plans Mitchell wants nothing to do with. Attempting to stay out of Logan's way, he finds work at the Holland Park mansion of faded movie actress Lillian Palmer, where he has to deal with her mysterious butler, Jordan. It isn't long before Mitchell's violent past catches up with him and people start getting hurt. When his disturbed sister Briony is threatened, Mitchell is forced to act.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781429985789 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | St. Martin's Publishing Group |
| Publication date: | 03/26/2024 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 290 |
| Sales rank: | 1,017,210 |
| File size: | 455 KB |
About the Author
Ken Bruen (b. 1951) is one of the most prominent Irish crime writers of the last two decades. Born in Galway, he spent twenty-five years traveling the world before he began writing in the mid 1990s. As an English teacher, Bruen worked in South Africa, Japan, and South America, where he once spent a short time in a Brazilian jail. He has two long-running series: one starring a disgraced former policeman named Jack Taylor, the other a London police detective named Inspector Brant. Praised for their sharp insight into the darker side of today’s prosperous Ireland, Bruen’s novels are marked by grim atmosphere and clipped prose. Among the best known are his White Trilogy (1998–2000) and The Guards (2001), the Shamus award-winning first novel in the Jack Taylor series. Bruen continues to live and work in Galway.
Read an Excerpt
London Boulevard
By Ken Bruen
St. Martin's Press
Copyright © 2001 Ken BruenAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4299-8578-9
CHAPTER 1
I learnt this in prison. Compulsive is when you do something repetitively. Obsessive is when you think about something repetitively.
'Course, I learnt some other stuff too. Not as clear-cut.
Not as defined.
The day of my release, the warden had me up for a talk.
Bent over his desk, he kept me waiting. His head over papers, a model of industry. He had a bald patch, like Prince Charles. That made me feel good. I concentrated on it. Finally, he looks up, says,
"Mitchell?"
"Yes, sir?"
I could play the game. I was but a cigarette away from freedom. I wasn't going to get reckless. His accent was from up north somewhere. Polished now but still leaking Yorkshire pudding and all that decent shit. Asked,
"You've been with us now for?"
Like he didn't know. I said,
"Three years, sir."
He hmmphed as if he didn't quite believe me. Riffled through my papers, said,
"You turned down early parole."
"I wanted to pay me debt in full, sir."
The screw standing behind me gave a snort. For the first time, the warden looked directly at me. Locked eyes. Then,
"Are you familiar with recidivism?"
"Sir?"
"Repeat offenders, it's like they're obsessed with jail."
I gave a tiny smile, said,
"I think you're confusing obsession with compulsion," and then I explained the difference.
He stamped my papers, said,
"You'll be back."
I was going to say,
"Only in the repeats,"
but felt Arnie in The Terminator would be lost on him. At the gate, the screw said,
"Not a bright idea to give him lip."
I held up my right hand, said,
"What else did I have to offer?"
Missed my ride.
What the Yanks say. I stood outside the prison, waiting on my lift. I didn't look back. If that's superstition, then so be it. As I stood on the Caledonian Road, I wondered if I looked like a con, ex-con.
Shifty.
Yeah, and furtive. That too.
I was forty-five years old. Near 5' 11' in height, weighed in at 180 pounds. In shape, though. I'd hammered in at the gym and could bench press my share. Broken through the barrier to free up those endorphins. Natural high. Shit, do you ever need that inside. Sweat till you peak and beyond. My hair was white but still plentiful. I had dark eyes, and not just on the outside. A badly broken nose near redeemed by a generous mouth.
Generous!
I love that description. A woman told me so in my twenties. I'd lost her but hung on to the adjective. Salvage what you can.
A van pulled up, sounded the horn. The door opened, and Norton got out. We stood for a moment. Is he my friend?
I dunno, but he was there. He showed up, friend enough. I said,
"Hey."
He grinned, walked over, gave me a hug. Just two guys hugging outside Her Majesty's jail. I hoped the warden was watching.
Norton is Irish and unreadable. Aren't they all? Behind all the talk is a whole other agenda. He had red hair, pasty complexion, the build of a sly greyhound. He said,
"Jaysus, Mitch, how are you?"
"Out."
He took that on board, then slapped my arm, said, "Out ... that's a good one. I like that ... Let's go. Prison makes me nervous."
We got in the van, and he handed me a bottle of Black Bush. It had a green bow. I said,
"Thanks, Billy."
He looked almost shy, said, "Aw, it's nuttin' ... for your release ... the big celebration is tonight ... and here ..." He produced a pack of Dunhills. The lush red luxury blend. Said,
"I thought you'd be gasping for a tailor made."
I had the brown paper parcel they give you on release. As Norton started the engine, I said,
"Hold on a sec." And I slung the parcel.
"What was that?"
"My past." I opened the Bush, took a long, holy swallow. It burned. Wow, did it ever. Offered the bottle to him. He shook his head.
"Naw, not when I'm driving."
Which was rich, him being half in the bag already. He was always this side of special brews. As we headed south he was rabbiting on about the party. I switched off.
Truth is, I was tired of him already.
Norton said, "I'll give you the scenic tour."
"Whatever."
I could feel the whiskey kicking in. It does all sorts of weird shit to me, but mainly it makes me unpredictable. Even I can't forecast how it will break.
We were turning from Marble Arch and, of course, got caught at the lights. A guy appeared at the windshield and began to wipe it with a dirty cloth. Norton yelled,
"These fuckin' squeegees, they're everywhere!"
This guy didn't even make an effort. Two fast wipes that left skid marks on the glass. Then he appeared at my window, said,
"Four quid, matey."
I laughed, rolled the window down, and said,
"You need another line of work, pal."
He had long, greasy hair down to his shoulders. His face was thin, and he had the eyes I'd seen a hundred times on the yards. The eyes of the bottom-rung predator. He leant his head back and spat. Norton went,
"Aw Jaysus."
I didn't move, asked,
"You got a tire iron?"
Norton shook his head,
"Mitch, Jesus, no."
I said, "OK."
And got out.
The guy was surprised but didn't back off. I grabbed his arm and broke it over my knee. Got back in the van, and the lights changed. Norton revved fast, crying,
"Oh God, Mitch, you crazy bastard. You're out ... what? Ten minutes ... and you're at it already. You can't be losing it."
"I didn't lose it, Billy."
"What, you smash the guy's arm, that's not losing it?"
"If I'd lost it, I'd have broken his neck."
Norton gave me an anxious look, said,
"You're kidding ... right?"
"What do you think?"
CHAPTER 2Norton said, "I think you'll be surprised at the place I found for you."
"As long as it's near Brixton."
"It's Clapham Common. Since you've been ... away ... it's become trendy."
"Oh shit."
"Naw, it's OK ... Anyway, a writer guy got into heavy schtook to some moneylenders, had to do a runner. Left everything: clothes, books ... you're set."
"Is Joe still at the Oval?"
"Who?"
"Big Issue seller."
"I don't know him."
We were coming up to the Oval. I said,
"He's there. Pull over."
"Mitch ... you want to buy the Big Issue now?"
I got out, walked over. Joe hadn't changed. He was disheveled, dirty, cheerful.
I said, "Hi, Joe."
"Mitchell ... Good Lord, I heard you was doing a stretch."
I handed over a fiver, said,
"Give us a copy."
We didn't mention the change. He asked,
"Did they hurt you in there, Mitch?"
"Not so's you'd notice."
"Good man. Got a smoke?"
I gave him the pack of Dunhills. He examined them, said,
"Flash."
"Only the best for you, Joe."
"You'll have missed the World Cup."
And a whole lot more besides. I asked,
"How was it?"
"We didn't win it."
"Oh."
"There's always the cricket."
"Yeah, there's always that."
THREE YEARS in prison, you lose
time
compassion
and the ability to be surprised.
I WAS nigh amazed when I saw the apartment. The whole ground floor of a two-story house. And it was beautifully furnished, all soft pastels and wall-to-wall books. Norton stood behind to gauge my reaction.
I said, "Christ."
"Yeah, isn't it something? Come and see more."
He led me into the bedroom. Brass double bed. He threw open the wardrobes, packed full with clothes. Like a salesclerk, Norton said,
"You've got your
Gucci
Armani
Calvin Klein
and other bastards I can't pronounce. Get this, the sizes are medium to large."
"I can do medium."
Back into the living room, Norton opened a drinks cabinet. Full too. Asked,
"Whatcha fancy?"
"A beer."
He opened two bottles, handed me one. I asked,
"No glass?"
"No one drinks outta glasses anymore."
"Oh."
"Sláinte, Mitch, and welcome home."
We drank. The beer tasted great. I indicated the place with my bottle, asked,
"Just what kind of a hurry was the guy in to leave all this?"
"A big hurry."
"Won't the loan shark want some of it?"
Norton smiled, said,
"I've already had the choice bits."
It took me a minute. Blame the beer. I said,
"You're the moneylender?" Big smile. He was proud, been waiting, said,
"Part of a firm — and we'd like you on board."
"I don't think so, Billy."
He was expansive.
"Hey, I didn't mean right away. Take some time, chill out."
Chill out.
I let it go, said,
"I dunno how to thank you, Billy. It's incredible."
"No worries. We're mates ... right?"
"Right."
"OK, I gotta go. The party's in the Greyhound at eight. Don't be late."
"I'll be there. Thanks again."
CHAPTER 3Briony's a basket Case. A true, out-and-out nutter. I've known some seriously disturbed women. Shit, I've dated them, but up against Bri they were models of sanity. Bri's husband died five years ago. Not a huge tragedy, as the guy was an asshole. The tragedy is that she doesn't believe he's gone. She keeps seeing him on the street and, worse, chats to him on the phone. Like the genuine crazies, she has moments of lucidity. Times when she appears
rational
coherent
functional
... then wallop. She'll blindside you with an act of breathtaking insanity.
Add to this, she has a beguiling charm, sucks you in. She looks like Judy Davis, and especially how Judy Davis appeared with Liam Neeson in the Woody Allen movie. Her hobby is shoplifting. I dunno why she's never been caught, as she does it with a recklessness beyond belief. Bri is my sister. I rang her. She answered on the first ring, asked,
"Frank?"
I sighed. Frank was her husband. I said,
"It's Mitchell."
"Mitch ... oh Mitch ... you're out."
"Just today."
"Oh, I'm so happy. I've so much to tell you. Can I make you dinner? Are you hungry? Did they starve you?"
I wanted to laugh or cry.
"No ... no, I'm fine ... listen, maybe we could meet tomorrow."
Silence.
"Bri ... are you still there?"
"You don't want to see me on your first night? Do you hate me?"
Against all my better judgment, I told her about the party. She instantly brightened, said,
"I'll bring Frank."
I wanted to shout, "Yah crazy bitch, get a grip!" I said, "OK."
"Oh Mitch, I'm so excited. I'll bring you a present."
Oh God.
"Whatever."
"Mitch ... can I ask you something?"
"Ahm ... sure."
"Did they gang rape you? Did they?"
"Bri, I gotta go, I'll see you later."
"Bye, baby."
I put the phone down. Wow, I felt drained.
* * *
I HAD a sort through the wardrobe. When you've worn denim and a striped shirt for three years, it was like Aladdin's Cave.
First off I got a stack of Tommy Hilfiger out. Put that in a trash bag. All that baggy shit, maybe Oxfam could off-load it. There was a Gucci leather jacket, nicely beat up. I'd be having that. Lots of Hennes white T-shirts: the type Brando immortalized in On the Waterfront. The guys in prison would kill for muscular American T-shirts.
No jeans.
No problem.
Gap khaki pants, a half dozen. A blazer from French Connection and sweatshirts from Benetton.
I dunno if that guy had taste, but he sure had money. Well, loan- shark money.
There was a Barbour jacket and a raincoat from London Fog. No shit, but I'd be a con for all seasons. Odd thing was, not a shoe in sight. But was I complaining? Was I fuck. I had a pair of shoes.
Took a hot shower and used three towels to dry off. They'd been swiped from the Holiday Inn so were soft and friendly. What I most wanted was another beer, but I knew I'd better cool it. The evening ahead would be liquid and perhaps lethal. I needed to at least arrive soberish. Took a quick scan of the books, one whole wall devoted to crime writers. Spotted
Elmore Leonard
James Sallis
Charles Willeford
John Harvey
Jim Thompson
Andrew Vachss.
And that was only the first sweep. Phew! I might never go out. Just bury myself in crime.
I put on a T-shirt, khaki pants and the leather jacket. Checked it out in the mirror. No doubt I could pass for a Phil Collins roadie. Thought — "If I'd money, I'd be downright dangerous."
CHAPTER 4Walking down Clapham Common, a woman smiled at me. I knew it was the jacket. There's a transport café in Old Town that used to be the business. It was still there. The type of place if it's not on the table, it's not on the menu.
For an ex-con there can be few greater pleasures than to eat alone. Grabbing a booth I luxuriated in just having it to myself. Knew exactly what I'd order.
The carbohydrate nightmare, neon-lit in medical overload. Like this:
Two Sausages
Mess of Bacon
Fried Tomatoes
Eggs
Black Pudding
Toast
Pot of Stewed Tea
Oh yeah.
In the booth next to me was an old codger. Eyeing me. He had the face and manner of a "character." His name would be Alfred.
'Course, everyone would love him. Alfred would have his own corner in the pub and his own pewter tankard.
He'd be a holy terror to a new barman.
My food arrived, and he said,
"That food, son ... you know where it comes from?"
Without lifting my head, I said,
"I've a feeling you're going to enlighten me."
That startled him, but not enough to stop him. He said,
"Big fellah like you, you should have a feed of potatoes."
I raised my head, looked at him, said,
"Old fellah like you, you should mind your own business."
Shut him down.
I tried not to wolf the food. Now that I was out, I was going to have to readapt. When I finished, I went and paid. On my way out, I stopped by Alfred, said,
"Nice chatting with you."
Walked down to Streatham and into the bank. I wasn't sure how much money I had, as they don't send statements to prison.
What they should do is send bankers there.
I filled out a withdrawal slip and got in line. It was slow, but I knew how to kill time.
The cashier was friendly in that vacant money way. I handed her the slip; she ran it by the computer, said,
"Oh."
I said nothing. She said,
"This is a dormant account."
"Not anymore."
She gave me the look. The leather jacket wasn't cutting any ice. She said,
"I'll have to check."
"You do that."
A man behind me sighed, asked,
"Is this going to take long?"
Gave him a bank smile, answered,
"I've absolutely no idea."
The cashier returned with a suit. He was Mr. Efficiency, said,
"Mr. Mitchell, if you could step over to my desk."
I could. I sat and looked at his desk. A sign proclaimed
WE REALLY CARE
He did bank stuff for a bit, then,
"Mr. Mitchell, your account has been dormant for three years."
"Is that against the law?"
Ruffled him.
Recovered,
"Oh no ... it's ahm ... let's see ... with interest you have twelve hundred pounds."
I waited. He asked,
"I take it you wish to reactivate the account?"
"No."
"Mr. Mitchell, might I suggest a prudent reserve? We have some very attractive offers for the small saver."
"Give me my money."
"Ahm ... of course ... you wish to terminate your account?"
"Leave a pound in it ... 'cos you guys care so much."
I got my cash but no warm handshake or cheerful good-bye.
You have to ask yourself how much it is they really care.
PARTY TIME. I'd had a nap and woke with a start. My heart was pounding and sweat cascading down my back. Not because I thought I was still in prison but because I knew I was out. The guys in the joint had cautioned me,
"Nothing's scarier than being out there."
Which I guess is why so many go back.
Aloud I vowed — "The fuck I'm going back."
DID A hundred sits, a hundred presses, and felt the panic ebb.
The kitchen was stocked with provisions.
No porridge, thank Christ. Had some OJ and bad burnt toast. There was a microwave, and I zapped some coffee. It tasted like shit, which was exactly what I was accustomed to. Did the shower stuff and skipped shaving. Let that three-day beard kick in.
What's the worst that could happen?
I'd look like George Michael's father.
Slapped on a Calvin Klein deodorant. It said on the label, no alcohol. Gee, no point in having a slug, then.
Sat for a moment and rolled a smoke. Had the craft down. Could do it with one hand. Now, if I could strike a match off my teeth I'd be a total success.
Took a cruise through the music collection. Oddly, for such a state-of-the-art place, the guy hadn't joined the CD revolution. It was your actual albums or cassettes. OK by me.
Put on Trisha Yearwood. A track called "Love Wouldn't Lie to Me."
Listened twice.
I'm from southeast London. We don't use words like "beauty" unless it's cars or soccer. Even then, you better know your company real good.
This song was beautiful. It stirred in me such feeling of
yearning
loss
regret.
Shit, next I'd be missing women I'd never met. Maybe it's a "being in your midforties" thing.
I shook myself, time to rock 'n' roll. Put on the Gap khaki pants — very tight in the waist, but hey, if I didn't breathe, I'd be fine. A white T-shirt and the blazer.
Looking sharp.
Like a magnet for every trainee mugger.
The album was still running, and Trisha was doing a magic duet with Garth Brooks.
Had to turn it off.
No two ways, music will fuck your head nine ways to Sunday.
CHAPTER 5What you regard as a small, isolated incident sets off a chain of events you could never have anticipated. You believe you're making choices and all you're doing is slotting in the pieces of a foreordained conclusion.
Deep, huh!
I took the subway to the Oval. The Northern Line was at its usual irritating best. Two bedraggled buskers were massacring "The Streets of London." I gave them a contribution in the hope they might stop.
They didn't.
As soon as they finished, they began it anew. Coming out at the Oval, Joe was there with the Big Issue. I said,
(Continues...)
Excerpted from London Boulevard by Ken Bruen. Copyright © 2001 Ken Bruen. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.