Ken Nazareth

“Ken Nazareth is a motherfucker.”

That’s a quote. You ask anyone about Ken Nazareth and they’ll reply in a similar manner. Maybe not the same words but the meaning will be the same.

Ken Nazareth is bad news,

Most of it is based on hearsay, rumours, stories and tales. Passed from criminal to criminal but with one underlying fact.

Ken Nazareth is real and he’s a badass.

It’s hard to find anyone that has actually worked for or with him. Good reason. People die around Ken Nazareth. Sometimes by accident, sometimes by design but people die. Ken Nazareth has been pulling jobs for the last decade in that time only four people live to tell the tale.

Ken Nazareth doesn’t have a speciality or even a preferred type of job. He’s proficient at most things. He’s robbed banks, kidnapped daughters of powerful men, assassinated good and bad people, he’s a crack-shot marksman, has great hand to hand combat skills, is able to hack computers and can whip up a mean penne al pollo.

Last month Ken Nazareth was arrested, convicted and sentenced to death by electrocution. Fast trial. They want this guy taken care of.

Tonight is the night. Party starts at midnight.

The chair is being prepared; the tests have already been undertaken. The viewing gallery is filling up with cops, lawyers, judges, journalists and people that Ken Nazareth’s destruction has touched.

In his holding cell, Ken Nazareth eats his final meal. His hair has grown long and curly and he hasn’t shaved for a month so his chin looks similar.

His last meal. He chose a roast dinner with potatoes, both boiled and roasted, carrots, peas, sweet corn and three slices of beef next to a Yorkshire pudding. Gravy used generously. He has a glass of pineapple juice and a pot of tea that he’ll drink after his meal.

Ken Nazareth accepts his fate. He’s not pleaded or begged in fact he’s barely talked at all. He knows his crimes. He knows that he deserves what he has coming. He has taken lives it is only right that they take his.

He finishes his meal with a mouth full of beef and wishes his mother had cooked it. It was of a carvery standard but for a last meal, disappointing. He thinks of his mother briefly.

Ken Nazareth sits back in his chair, belly full. The pineapple juice has gone and the tea is poured. He sips and tries to ignore the American tea taste. He misses English tea. The Yanks can call it English all they like but it’s not.

Ken Nazareth finishes his tea with a sigh and as the cup touches the table the cell door opens and the guards have brought a priest. Ken Nazareth looks up and sighs deeper.

“Its okay, Father, I’m fine. Don’t let the surname fool you.” Ken Nazareth speaks with a Welsh accent.

The priest nods. “I will pray for you regardless, my son.”

“If you really want to. Put in a good word, like.”

The priest crosses himself and is escorted away by one of the guards. The other guard looks at Ken Nazareth with a squint. “You gonna give me any trouble, boy?”

“Haven’t so far, have I? Pal.”

The guard smirks and nods, enters the cell and collects the trays of food on the table. Ken Nazareth watches with his hands behind his head. The guard places the trays on a trolley outside the cell and locks up.

“About five minutes.” The guard wheels the trolley away,

“Take your time. No rush.”

Five minutes later Ken Nazareth is being escorted down a long corridor with a guard either side to steady his limping walk. They pass cells of people destined for a similar fate as his own. They offer unexpected words of comfort, words of strength. Words that they hope they’ll hear when their time comes.

Soon enough Ken Nazareth is led into a small circular room with one hundred and eighty degrees of plastic flexi-glass in front of him and one hundred and eighty degrees of electric death behind him. Behind the glass is a gallery. Chock full of people bearing witness to the demise of Ken Nazareth.

He is sat in the chair of impending death in the dead centre of the room, this viewing auditorium. His wrists and ankles are fastened with belts and buckles. Gel is pasted to his temples and the fluffy cotton wool like conductors placed.

Ken Nazareth is quite calm. Eyes forward. He looks into the gallery and doesn’t recognise anyone. He can pick out the cops and the journalists. He can see the curled mouths and venomous snarls of the family members. He lingers on one face that seems out of place. They lock stares. The man smiles slightly and nods. Ken Nazareth, for some reason nods back.

A rubber mouth guard in placed in his mouth to stop him biting his tongue. Not for his benefit. Less clean up for the guards later that way.

Tomorrow the people will say they saw the death of Ken Nazareth. Cops will talk about his crimes. Criminals will share tales of past jobs. Journalists will write of his exploits and the public will read but everybody will be totally unaware of one really quite important fact.

A hand hovers by the switch.

The man in the chair is not Ken Nazareth.

Pancakes at 23.03.

It was a little after eleven in the PM when the waitress finally took my order. The place was empty and there were only three other people in the café. Dunno what took her so long. By the time she came over I’d already studied the egg encrusted laminated menu three times. I knew what I wanted so I told her…

“Pancakes with bacon and maple syrup. Home fries on the side and a coffee. Please.”

The broad looked at her watch, shrugged and scribbled the order down on that little notepad of hers. She would have been pretty in her prime but her prime was long ago. Too many graveyard shifts in places like this have taken their toll in her face. She’s probably not as old as forty but that’s what she looks. She scurries off behind the counter and passes the order to the chef and boy, do I hate using the word ‘chef’ for the fella. A guy can’t help the looks he was born with but you can stop yourself looking any worse. The waitress returns quickly with the coffee, spilling most of it into the saucer, and in some kind of accent tries to strike up a conversation…

“You look like you are carrying some weight on those shoulders, Sugarpie.”

I smile weakly but politely with a shrug and take a sip of the coffee. It burns my lip but I try not to show it. Not well enough it seems. She chuckles on her way back to the counter. Sounds like a blocked drain with hiccups.

“Could say that…”

Twelve hours ago I was a different man. Stu O’Neil, wheelman extraordinaire. As of now, according to the ID in my pocket my name is Lawrence Irvine. Yeah, Lawrence. Christ…

They share a lot of the same characteristics Stu and Lawrence. Same height, same weight, same taste in women. In fact there’s not a whole lot different apart from Larry’s bad black dye job, which still smells a bit funny, and a week old beard. I always grow a beard before a job because of a scar I have on my jaw line. I hate it though. Itches.

Ten hours ago I was part of a three man team that successfully ripped of a van carrying hundreds of thousands of dollars scheduled to be destroyed. These new bills are better quality apparently so the older notes are being phased out. The banks have been holding on to them and today was the day that big wads of them were being sent out to the incinerator.

We got the info from a guy on the inside for a couple of C notes.  We then got the drop on the van but then one of our guys felt like dropping one of the guards with a .22 to the throat. This is what happens when someone hires a relative three days out of prison on to the team. In this case a nephew. I don’t ever take a gun to a job. As a driver there’s no real point carrying anyway but if you got a gun the option is always there to use it. I remove that option.

There is always another way.

Eight hours ago, for reasons I still don’t fully understand I was set up to take the fall for this shit situation. Rather me than the boss having to explain to his sister why her number one son is back in lock up I guess. I’ve been driving ever since. I pulled over to fill the car up and saw the café. My stomach grumbled a message and here I am obeying.

I have no idea where I’m heading to, least of all what I’m gonna do when I get there. The only thing I know how to do is drive so what does that leave? Drive a cab? Not exactly what I’m used to but I don’t need to worry about that for a while. The bag full of money at my feet solves that problem. It’s also a reason why they won’t let me go. They’ll chase.

Here’s a free lesson for you. If you’re gonna screw a fella over and leave him out to dry for a murder he didn’t do, don’t leave a bag with at least two hundred grand (twenty K lighter after paying for the ID) in the back seat of his car. Chances are he’s gonna run. And if he’s a wheelman, he’s gonna run fast.

The waitress brings over the pancakes and I tuck in as soon as the plate hits the table. Took me years to feel right about eating a meat with pancakes. The maple syrup helped change my mind. Can’t get enough of the stuff now.  I’m chewing my third mouthful when I see the headlights of a car pulling into the car park. It pauses and parks. Two men get out and look at my car. They turn their heads to the café. I recognise who it is by the outline of their heads. Who else could it be anyway? I’m sat in the window so they must be able to see me too.

I continue to eat my pancakes and home fries watching them as I do so. Ten minutes later I’m all done and they’re sitting on the hood of my car. Waiting. I grab some cash from the bag and drop a bill and a healthy tip on the table. I swipe a handful of napkins and wipe the sticky syrup off my hands. I notice that my hands have patches of black dye on them. Can’t expect a thorough job in the bathroom of a service station.

Walking down the steps to the forecourt I clutch the bag to my chest and keep my eyes on the fellas in front of me. The one guy, Frank is level-headed, cold but sensible it’s the other guy that’s the problem. Little Robbie. Little on the fact that he’s so damn big. He was just tall when he went inside the joint. He’s come out built of stone with a testosterone injection. That’s what three years of lifting weights and taking it like a man does. They get off the hood and I’m relieved that Robbie hasn’t left a dent.

With outstretched arms Frank comes towards me, talking of a misunderstanding. I stop, still holding the bag to my body. I can see the gun in his belt. Even without seeing it I knew it was there. Little Robbie is blasé enough to be holding his .22 in his thick folded arms. Frankie and I shoot the shit for a few minutes until, characteristically, Little Robbie gets impatient, decides that this is “bullshit” and starts shooting the shit out of me.

There were three shots. One went wide, another hit the bag, came straight through and tried setting up residence in my shoulder. I fell back, fumbling, to the floor. The third shot hit Little Robbie in the chest. Dead centre. He looks at the expanding red puddle coming out of his chest and with a face like I’ve told him wrestling is fixed…

“What’s this bullshit?”

Little Robbie drops to the floor on his knees like a tombstone before falling face first into the gravel. When I bought the ID earlier today I thought it prudent to pick up a gun of my own. Seemed wise. These guys didn’t expect me to have a gun. I was counting on it. Just because I choose not to carry doesn’t mean I don’t know how to use. Frank goes for his gun but sensibly stops when he realises that mine is trained on him. His hands go up and he plays nice. Friends.

I shoot Frank in the face.

I’d seen first hand what these guys are capable of and there was no way I was gonna be able to just walk away. Had I let Frank go I would see him tomorrow with more guys. It had to be done. I guess I was wrong all these years. Sometimes there is no other way. So now I really am a killer. I think on it and decide that I’m okay with it. Under the circumstances. If nothing else this malarkey buys me time. Time is good when you move as fast as me.

It’s been quiet for a few minutes when the waitress comes out to see what’s going on. She sees the dead hoods on the ground and holds a hand to her mouth. I almost did the same when I saw all the blood on my car. Where am I gonna clean that off? She looks at the gun in my hand and backs off. I shake my head and tell her not to worry…

“If they were standing instead of me you’d all be dead by now.” She gulps. Almost theatrically.  I look down the road. “People will come looking for me. Just tell them the truth.”

I toss the bag into the passenger seat with a grunt. I’ll need to get this wound looked at but I have a quick look. It’s clean enough from what I’ve seen in the past. It’s passed through which is good. I grab those napkins from my pocket and stick one in each end of the wound. Maybe the maple syrup will keep them stuck in place. I ask the waitress for her apron. She unties it and hands it over. I thank her as I tear at it and wrap the material it around my arm, tight, to help stop bleeding. It’ll do for now. I linger by the door for a second longer…

“Great pancakes by the way. Really great.”

The waitress actually smiles and thanks me as if she made them herself. I get in the car, start her up and drive west keeping an eye open for a 24 hour car wash or a pharmacy or a cop. I know people out West. Hmm… Maybe I should drive East… I scratch my face. Maybe I should shave my beard now.

It’s a long drive to wherever, plenty of time to figure out who I am now.

Tooz.

Only two weeks in and Tim had already broken his first new years resolution: Don’t kill anyone.

That’s Tim there, sitting on the stool at the far end of the bar. He’s killed before but that’s work, business.  Comes with the territory. This time it was different.

He don’t look much like a Tim with his broken nose and scarred knuckles but that’s the name his parents gave him (God, rest their souls). He’s been called plenty of things by plenty of people but the name that sticks is ‘Tooz’ on account of his famed one, two jab in the ring. Yeah, a boxer. Middle-weight. Looked the look but couldn’t walk the walk.  Spent more time on the canvas than Van Gogh.

So what’s a guy like Tooz doing in a dive like this? Three nights ago a robbery went south, shots were fired (but not by him) and people on both sides of the law went down with red on the floor. Tooz has been driving away ever since. He knows people here, good people. Three days of zzz’s in the back of his car left him in dire need of a bed and a drink. Not necessarily in that order.

And that’s where we find Tooz now, sitting on the stool at the far end of the bar unaware that in ten minutes he will have killed again.

The door opens and a slight girl but big where it counts is bundled in by a skinny guy wearing unfamiliar gang colours. Quite the ruckas. She’s pushed down onto a seat and told to wait.  He disappears into a back room leaving the girl making hand signs at his back. She spots Tooz and slowly saunters over.

She sits next to him at the bar. He can smell her blend of perfume and cigarettes but doesn’t turn away from his drink. She says a few things and he shakes his head. She says a few more things and he shakes his head. She touches the scars on his fist and he pulls away, looking at her for the first time. She’s not drop dead but for a guy like Tooz, she’s plenty good enough.

He feeds her a line and she takes it with too much enthusiasm.  Tooz doesn’t notice or if he does he doesn’t care. He’s tired and it’s been too long since he got some. She whispers a whisper into his ear. His mouth twitches in a smile of sorts but he shakes his head and taps his watch. He shows her an open palm – five minutes. He orders another drink plus one. She takes a sip and hits the bathroom to powder her nose.

The door of the bar opens again and in strolls a couple of fellas wearing tracksuits. One of the Tracksuits calls out. Tooz turns and greets them with a strong handshake. Brief conversation. Tooz hands over a roll of green and gets a key in return.

A scream. Gang Colours reappears with a handful of the girl’s hair. He yells as he drags the girl, her heels scraping up splinters off the wooden floor. They speak fast in a language that Tooz doesn’t know but he does know that she’s pointed him out. Gang Colours’ eyes widen. He pulls a piece and pops two into the chest of each tracksuit. He goes for a kill shot but hears the click of empty. Closing the distance between them in less than two seconds Tooz floors Gang Colours with a left hook. Then it gets messy. Blow after blow, crimson and teeth.

He hears words. Muffled, background noise. Repeated. Not English. ‘Fratele! Fratele!’

A hand grabs Tooz by the shoulder. He spins with a right hook and watches with horror as the girl flies, into that stool at the far end of the bar with a dull, wet smack. Tooz watches as a blood halo appears and the light leaves her eyes.

Tooz surveys. Gang colours lives, barely. Two guys in tracksuits, dead with holes where their chests used to be and a dead girl. He shakes his head. Years from now he’ll find out that ‘Fratele’ is Romanian for ‘brother’.

Hell of a way to break his first resolution. And the second – don’t get involved with strange women.

Tooz sighs and takes the roll of money back out of a tracksuit pocket. He peels off a couple of notes, drops them on the bar and leaves. Gets in the car and drives. Just drives.

‘Today Was A Good Day’

Today was a good day.

I have tubes in my arm and wires in my chest and hourly ‘check he’s alive’ visits but today was a good day.

I saw my family, my daughter. Hate her seeing me looking like this but… I need… I need to see her before I…

No. Today was a good day.

We coloured in pictures and talked about school and ‘I spied’ until she said ‘B’ was for ‘bruises’.

I have lots of bruises. I’ve had lots of injections.

“When are you coming home Daddy?”

I feel dizzy and nauseous as my heartbreaks but somehow I smile and lie to the only good thing I’ve done in my life. “Soon,” I say, “soon.”

I only saw her from six till eight but it should get me through the night. Better than whatever it is that drips into me but I keep hearing her unwittingly torturous words,

“When are you coming home Daddy?”

<drip>

“When are you coming home Daddy?”

<drip>

“When are you coming home Daddy?”

<drip>

Yeah. Today was a good day…

The Sober Soup Slurper and The First Date…

It’s strange that I keep coming to this restaurant. If I was to analyse it I would say that it reminds me of who I used to be. When I was a better man.

I’ve been sober… just over a year now. Fourteen months or so.

Okay, okay, there was a lapse but apart from that…

Then, I look up to see her walk into the restaurant where I am slurping my soup de jour on my ‘table for one, please’. The restaurant that we shared many tables. Calling it a restaurant is kind. It’s more a posh café. Reasonably priced for reasonable food.

She, unlike me, isn’t alone. There’s a man with her. Good looking bastard too in a 1950’s sales executive kinda way. Looks like the type of guy used to advertise Brylcreem back when people used Brylcreem.

I run a hand pointlessly through my product-less hair, clear my throat nervously & call out to her, waving & wondering what the hell I’m going to say.

My heart sinks when I see her true smile fade replaced by a smile I recognise as patient & polite but still, she approaches. Warily, but she approaches, bless her. After everything, she really doesn’t have to.

We small talk for a minute or less.  Pleasantries mainly. She acknowledges the change in me. Tells me I look good, healthy. I think she means it. I return the compliment.

I spoil it then by asking about a dinner one night. She stiffens & answers the question by saying that it was good to see me. I open my mouth to say something else, anything else but nothing come out. Instead I watch her walk back to her man friend & on to her reserved table with my mouth open.

She said I looked good, healthy.

I watch her sigh & then smile at the Brylcreem guy.

I did this for her. I did it for us. I’m different now. I’ve changed. I promised I would & I have. Can’t she see that? Doesn’t she even care?

I watch his never worked a hard day in his life hand touch her hand & my insides knot & the room gets very hot & short of air.

I abandon my soup de jour, drop too much money on the table & leave without looking back. I can’t.

I’ve not felt this thirsty for fourteen months or so.

 ————————————————-

I’ve been to this restaurant often over the last five years but not so much in the last fourteen months or so. Bittersweet memories.

Restaurant… We had always referred to it as a posh café.

Ben holds the door open for me as we enter which is unexpected. We work together but in different departments. He works in sales & has badgered me for a date for years. I’ve always declined but last week I took part in a charity raffle at work & my prize was a date with Ben. Very suspicious. He’s a good looking guy but I’m simply not interested.

I’m removing my coat when I hear my name being called by a voice I instantly recognise. My heart jumps & sinks at the same time. I turn & see him sitting alone with just his soup for company. He waves shyly just like when… No. Stop it, I tell myself.

But he does look different.

I ask Ben to wait with the Maitre D & I walk over slowly. Composing myself the entire way. Deep breaths.

The smile on my face feels heavy & fake.

Up close he really does look good.  A lot healthier than when I left him. His eyes are bright & focused. At the end he wasn’t the man I loved & planned to spend my life with. But here, now. He looks like he did. His eyes…

I tell him he looks good. He smiles & says the same to me. He then asks me to dinner & my heart pounds with fear as all the memories of a six year relationship come back at once.

The sea shell he gave me from our first date. The first kiss. The engagement ring. The 4 am drunk phonecalls. Losing his job. Threatening to hurt me.

He hurt me alright. Inside, I’m broken. I’ll never mend.

And all the apologies & all the promises to change & all the ‘one last chances’…

I tell him that it was good to see him & my broken heart breaks a bit more. Will it ever mend?

I return to Ben & we’re shown to our table.

I can feel him looking at me but I don’t look up. I can’t. Ben says something that I don’t hear. I smile politely & he puts his hand on mine. I look up to see the table empty & the door swinging shut.

He’s gone.

I feel my heart ache.

The Reason I Hate Winter.

It’s just after seven AM, Christmas is around the corner. The sky is dark save a star or two. The moon hides behind clouds but shows his beaming face every once in a while. I’m sat on an icy bench in the cold, white snow, staring out at a frozen lake. I’m wearing a thick coat, a scarf, thermal hat and gloves but still I shake. The cold has little to do with it. It’s coming from inside of me.

The lake, Carter Lake they call it, is a three minute stroll from my parents’ way too big log house. It was decided, not by me, that Christmas would be spent here this year. If I had my way I’d never come here again.

I hate this time of year.

I hate Christmas.

I hate the snow.

I hate the cold.

I hate winter and I hate this lake.

I flex my right hand and feel the dull throb in my wrist. It’s been there for fifteen years waiting for the first day of winter to arrive. When it does, I feel it and it brings my thoughts to here.

To this damn lake.

To fifteen years ago.

When I was young the lake, just like today, would freeze over causing great excitement in the village where we lived. All the local kids would attempt to skate without skates while the adults would place bets on what date the ice would finally thaw and crack.

I’d rarely venture onto the lake with my friends. I never admitted it but the truth is I was scared to. When my friends came calling I’d be ready with the excuse and nobody ever questioned how I ‘caught’ the flu every year.

The clouds drift above me, moving ever so slightly. The moon hides behind them again creating a dark, haunting shadow that lingers on the ice, changing shape.

It was two days after school broke up and three before Christmas day. We were running late for something that I can’t even remember now. Being eight years old I created a fuss, complaining and stomping around. When we were ready to go, I feared we were already late.

“Don’t worry,” my dad said with a smile, “It’ll be okay.”

He kissed my mother goodbye on the forehead like he always did and when we were at the bottom of the driveway he scooped me up onto his broad shoulders and walked fast, much faster than if I was on foot. I remember being happy and not caring if we made it or not.

When we got to the lake, a shortcut, I felt no panic. I was with my dad. I never feared the frozen lake when I was with him and we strode across. The times my dad lost his footing, skidding slightly, were met by my giggles of amusement and his deep chortle.

We were three quarters of the way across when the ice broke.

I was flung into the air and landed hard on the ice.  Automatically he threw me to safety. I remember the pain of how I landed and how thick the ice was. The ice was thick! So how did it break?

I saw a broken hole in the ice but not my dad. I rushed to the hole and screamed my lungs out. A dark shape floated towards me. Dad broke the surface gasping for air, he was grabbing for the edge of the hole, shaking uncontrollably. He tried to climb out but slipped down again out of sight. I thrust my arm in and grabbed at his arm and pulled. Pulled with every ounce of strength an eight year old child has trying to lift a soaking wet fourteen stone man.

My right hand was submerged in the freezing water so long that it eventually seized up and my grip was lost. He fell back into the water again and I fell backwards onto the ice. Seconds later he reappeared but only briefly. The frigid temperature was too much and hypothermia must have been kicking in by now. His lips were blue and he was making horrible sounds. Gasping and gagging, spluttering and shaking. Talking but not making sense.

Then, he looked at me. The shaking stopped through sheer strength of his will. He touched my chin with icy fingers and wiped away a tear from my cheek.

“Don’t worry,” my dad said with a smile, “It’ll be okay.”

The smile was broken by a coughing fit. He kicked to stay afloat but couldn’t. He sank down. One last time. I thrust my hand into the freezing water fishing around for him but my hand found nothing but mild frostbite. Screaming, crying, I sprinted back across the ice for home.

Within the hour all the emergency services had arrived. I remember thinking it strange that firemen were removing dad from the ice. As a doctor checked me over (concerned about my right hand) I overheard a cop talking about deep grooves, like from a sled, were cut into the ice and I heard an ambulance man telling someone, with a humourless chuckle, to be careful carrying the body in case anything snaps off.

I watched the ambulance leave still holding onto hope that he’d wake up. How often do you hear about people being kept alive in extreme temperatures? Like Han Solo. Carbonite, cryogenics… It’s all Movie talk. Fantasy. Besides, he drowned long before the cold would have set in.

He was gone.

So, I sit here by the lake that took my father but now takes his name looking at the spot where he disappeared pretending that the dull throb in my right wrist is him, tapping me a message. The same message every winter.

“Don’t worry,” my dad would say with a smile, “It’ll be okay.”

That’s the reason I hate winter.

Because I miss my dad.

Merry Christmas.