The Death Of Ronnie Sweets Part 1

THE DEATH OF RONNIE SWEETS.

And other cases from the files of Bryson Investigations.

By Russel D McLean.

INTRODUCTION.

By Sean Chercover.

I first met Russel McLean in 2005, at a c.o.c.ktail party in Chicago. My wife is from his neck of the woods (approximately), so I was one of the few in the room who could understand his accent, and he seemed to have no trouble understanding mine. More important, despite hailing from different continents, we soon discovered that we shared many favorite books and authors, and I started thinking: This guy's all right...

Then he vomited on my shoes.

They were really nice shoes, too. But Russel didn't miss a beat. He wiped his mouth, looked me square in the face and deadpanned, "That was charming."

Yeah, this guy was definitely all right.

He followed with some words about a mushroom allergy and the nibbles being served at the party, and I pretended to believe him but I figured it had more to do with the free booze being served.

Turns out I was wrong. I've been out drinking with Russel a few memorable times since, and he holds his booze just fine. Does his country proud, in fact.

Three years after our inauspicious introduction, Russel's first novel, THE GOOD SON, was published and I approached it with no small measure of trepidation. Sure, he was a nice guy, but that didn't mean he could write. Thankfully, I was wrong about that, too, and needn't have worried. THE GOOD SON and its sequel, THE LOST SISTER are both stellar works, and J McNee quickly became one of my favorite Private Eyes in modern fiction. Moreover, Russel D McLean quickly became one of my favorite crime writers in Scotland, or anywhere else for that matter.

If you've read his novels, you don't need me to tell you how good he is. And if you haven't, then my bet is, after you read this collection of short stories you'll rush straight out and get your hands on them.

Because what you hold in your hands now is something very special. Like Raymond Chandler's early stories from the pulp magazine Black Mask, these are not only great stories in their own right, but represent the very genesis of what was to come in the novels.

Sam Bryson is clearly the prototype for J McNee, and the stories exhibit such a sharp and honest voice it's hard to believe they were written by a man in his early 20s. They are dark stories sometimes very dark but that darkness is balanced by both a dry Scottish wit and a genuine sense of concern for the people involved.

And that's what strikes me most. The careful attention to character. In these pages you'll meet cops and crooks and victims and losers, but no matter how small a part each plays, Russel invests in them, makes them people, not types, and they will stay with you long after you finish reading. Good and bad alike, they're all struggling with the human condition, and you will care about them.

In DAVEY'S DAUGHTER, Russel writes: "...in a world like this, any chance of redemption or resolution or even the smallest of happy endings is a minor miracle. Cause enough for celebration."

This collection is full of minor miracles. A true cause for celebration.

Enjoy, -Sean Chercover.

Sean Chercover is the multi-award winning author of Big City, Bad Blood and Trigger City. Visit his website at http://www.chercover.com.

THE DEATH OF RONNIE SWEETS.

(Alfred Hitchc.o.c.k's Mystery Magazine, June 2004).

DAY ONE.

Twenty-nine is not old.

At least, that's what I keep telling myself I'm not the tallest guy in the place, I suppose, but I certainly feel the oldest. There's a guy next to me who must be at least eighteen, but has the baby skin of a fifteen year old despite being about six feet tall.

The girls look older, but in a childish way. They look at least eighteen, but capable of being fifteen.

The band is good; loud, raucous rock belted out with the enthusiasm and arrogance of youth. If I was a few years younger I'd be down there mos.h.i.+ng with the best of them at the front of the stage. These days, however, I just want to be back at my apartment, having a quiet drink and reading a good book.

Okay, maybe hitting twenty-nine is getting old.

Some girl sidles up to me. She's drinking from a bottle of blue vodka-imbued alcopops. She mouths, "Hi," to me, and says, "You here on your own?"

"I'm meeting someone," I say. That's true enough.

"Aye? Someone special?" We're doing the special kind of talk that's reserved for nightclubs only: shouting in a conversational tone.

I reply, "No," but my words are drowned out as the band on stage finishes their song and the crowd goes wild. She holds a second before asking me to repeat myself When she gets my words, she says, "Are you gonnae buy me a drink, then?" I look at her for a second and think that she's quite attractive. She has long dark hair, worn loose, with a dyed stripe of white down the right side. The effect is intentionally s.e.xy. Her eyes are a watery blue and she's dressed in black, the uniform of goth that seems to be overtaking the rock scene these days.

I would say yes, but there's something about her that bothers me; I can see her as somebody's daughter. There's that age thing at work again. I really feel like I don't belong in places like this anymore.

"No," I say. "Sorry."

She gives me a look that says, "Sod you, then," and goes off to find some other prospective fella.

I stand alone, holding my pint. It's in a plastic gla.s.s, but that's pretty much a given in a Dundee club. Ros, my girlfriend, always used to laugh when I told her that the Scots can turn nearly anything into an offensive weapon. She comes from America, where the crooks are more sloppy and less inventive with so many guns close to hand.

The band starts up again, the lead singer having just hurled some abuse at the audience. He's a tall, lanky kid with traces of acne still on his face. He's got a powerful voice, though, imbued with just the right att.i.tude that you believe every word Not that I'm a musical expert, mind you. Although if Waterman can get paid for the c.r.a.p he creates, I guess I have just as much chance.

I stand on my own and listen to the music, letting my body find the beat, my head bobbing in time to the ba.s.s that throbs through the floor and up into my feet. The singer growls at the crowd: I lick my lips in antic.i.p.ation, Sweet, honeydripping, dulled sensation.

I'm in limbo, no need for fear; The Devil cannot find me, hear?

A G.o.dd.a.m.ned lie, A liquid sin, Open mouths let the Devil in.

Not that many of the kids here are listening to the words. Most of them are the skate-kids, that new generation of half goth, half hip-hop, all a.r.s.ehole. I asked one of them why they listened to Marilyn Manson once, and he said, " ' Cause, like, he's guid tae skate tae." Moron! Mind you, its not like I can find any reason to listen to the androgynous a.r.s.e. Maybe it is all he has going for him; "good to skate to" might look good as a quote on the cover of his new alb.u.m.

And finally, halfway through the song, Jimmy's at my side, hopping away to the beat with a stoned expression on his face.

I lean down to his level-he's one of the few guys in the universe even shorter than my five-six-and say, "Lets go somewhere a wee bit quieter, aye?"

There's a bar just off the main club floor. It's not exactly quiet, but you've got a better chance of hearing what other people say to you. The band's music still drifts in, but it's a wee bit more muted.

Small talk, first, before business, it seems. As soon as we can hear each other, standing out in the bar, Jimmy says, "The American weather must hae agreed wi' you, then. Got a bit of a tan, Sam."

It had only been a week since me and Ros had got back over from seeing her family in Florida.

I nod and try to turn the conversation to business. I say, "You're stoned right now aren't you?" He nods, flas.h.i.+ng white-to-yellow teeth at me. "Listen, do you know a kid called Ronald or probably Ronnie Sweets?"

"Chewitt, aye, I know him."

"Chewitt?"

"That's what the lads call him. I dinnae ken why, likes. Think it's a sweetie reference."

"Could be," I say. I'm not that old that I don't remember Chewitt sweeties. I used to love the adverts with the G.o.dzilla monster chewing up the London scenery until he could get his claws on the sweets. "When was the last time you saw him?"

"Two nights ago?"

"You sure?"

"Aye. What's he done that you're after him?"

"I'm not after him. I'm after the poor sod that's going to be facing an a.s.sault charge."

"Whit?"

"Someone staved his head in the other night."

"Aw man, that's tragic!"

"Sure is," I say. I'm watching Jimmy for any reaction. I have no doubt in my head that he doesn't know what's going on. I know for a fact that he didn't do it. Ronnie Sweets wasn't a big man, but he could have taken on Jimmy no problem. And in any case, Jimmy isn't the violent type. The foolish type, maybe, but not violent. His friends and contacts, however, are an entirely different matter.

"I thought the police would be conducting an investigation."

"They are," I say. "But Mr. and Mrs. Sweets don't think they're treating the matter as seriously as they could. They have their work cut out at the moment with this drugs crackdown that Dundee City Council promised. So I'm doing some of my own digging on their behalf"

"Aye, sure." He grins, and says, "I'm a wee bit like Fozzie Bear, aye? Ken, the wee black man in that American cop show?"

"Huggie Bear" I say, allowing a touch of annoyance to enter my voice. "I need some names, Jimmy."

"Who?"

"Who would kill Ronnie Sweets?"

"How would I know?"

I lose my temper, and with the hand that isn't holding my beer I grab him by the collar of his s.h.i.+rt and lift him off the ground. It takes a bit of effort, but the anger gives me strength enough.

"Who was his supplier?"

"His supplier?"

"He was using. His parents found a stash of dope in his room as well as a lovely little bong."

"Hey, man, thought you didn't have a problem wi' a wee bit o' hash now and again."

"Its not the hash, but the a.r.s.ewipes connected with the hash, Jimmy. I just want to talk to them, nothing else. And don't worry, I won't even mention your name."

He gives me a few names, hurriedly and worriedly. People are looking over at us, expecting-perhaps hoping, this being Dundee after all-that a fight is about to break out. It doesn't, and they look away when I let Jimmy back on his own two feet.

"You're gettin' a temper in your old age, Sam," he says, smoothing down his s.h.i.+rt.

"Aye," I say.

"What kind of reward do I get, then?" he says to my back as I walk out.

I don't dignify that with a response. He doesn't expect one, anyway. Jimmy and I have an understanding.

I walk past the band again on my way out. The singer is snarling into the microphone and the lead guitarist is doing some heavy guitar posing as he rips off complicated, impressive riffs.

Oh, he's awake! He cries himself to sleep; I sleep below, oh yeah, his pain is what I need.

It's what I need.

Walking out, my brain does images of Ronnie Sweets in a hospital bed with his face caved in.

I know one of the nurses up at Ninewells. We dated a few years ago and still keep in touch. But like everyone else I still keep in touch with, we seem to only talk when I have business.

Susie was the one who let me in to see what had happened to Ronnie Sweets. His parents-Kenny and Margaret Sweets-had described to me in as much detail as they could what had been done to their only son. But some part of me had to see what had really been done to the boy. Which is why, after Mr. and Mrs. Sweets left my office, I gave Susie a ring and asked her for a wee favour.

She let me in, grudgingly, to see the Sweets kid. I say kid, but he's twenty-one and in university studying psychology. He's in his third year and getting good grades. Apparently, he wants to become a clinical psychologist, getting his hands dirty by dealing with real people and real problems in as direct a manner as possible.

Right now, that smart career move is in real jeopardy. When you've seen enough beatings, your mind becomes accustomed to atrocity. When I stood at Ronnie's bedside, I didn't react so much as I observed. Whoever beat him wasn't professional. The bruises and gouges looked heated, almost improvised. It was pure accident that Ronnie got in as bad a state as he had. I was no psychologist, not in the way that Ronnie was training to be. However, I hoped that the amateur a.s.sault meant I was dealing with amateurs. It's easier getting them to confess to a crime; they're more likely to suffer from some form of guilt attack.

Ronnie was in a coma. Severe head trauma. You didn't need to be a doctor to see how they reached that conclusion. I hoped that he would pull through, but looking at that battered and broken body wrapped in white hospital bed linen, I didn't hold out much hope.

With images of Ronnie in mind, I do some phone book searches and get the first of the names that Jimmy gave me. I do the search from a public phone booth where they still have a copy of the local phone directory.

I'm across from a pub I used to frequent a few years ago when I knew the owner. I consider that maybe, after I copy down the addresses I want, I could have a quick drink. Just one or two. .

That's all.

DAY TWO.

I wake up fully clothed, lying on the floor beside my sofa. The carpet burns against my cheeks and I roll over onto my back. I look at the ceiling for a while before I find the willpower to stand.

The room wobbles a bit, but I get my balance after a moment. For a second, I think I might be queasy, but it pa.s.ses and I'm satisfied that I am not hungover.

I call the office and Babs, my secretary, answers. She says that Mr. and Mrs. Sweets called, just to check in. She asks if there's anything I want to tell them, and I state, perfunctorily that the investigation is currently ongoing and that there are some promising leads.