The Hit by Patrick Quinlan

Having committed to uping my reading ante of this not very helpful genre: "crime fiction," I stumbled upon reviews of Patrick Quinlan on Goodreads. Browsed through the quite mixed reviews of his stable of books and decided to dip my toes in with "The Hit."

The book centres on two mismatched and Hollywoodised (I wonder if Quinlan wrote this in the hopes that a bored screenwriter would pick this up and think "Cha-Ching!"), bounty-hunters: Gordo who is fat, white and broke and Jonah who is black, fit and broke. The search for their bounty: a sick twisted rapist and murderer (who incidentally also happens to be in the top quintile for IQ) Forester, leads them to uncover a highly unbelievable plot involving a Vietnam Vet with what I can only say are "issues" and his determination to launch a domestic terrorist attack on a small caribbean island with a highly virulent form of Cholera. Too much, Patrick, WAY TOO MUCH.

To be kind, I would say that the context of the book: economic malaise in America, disconnected realities and a society which is unkind to drifters is very prescient and relatable. Quinlan writes in the here and now and not in some abstract time and period which readers might not relate to. His pace is also quite good, even though the more I read through it, the more ludicrous the plot became (including an impromptu romance between Jonah and the bored abused wife of the architect of the terrorist attack), I did enjoy the action.

Quinlan has written this for a very specific audience: Hollywood studios. Any studio could pick this up and turn it into a passable action movie. And therein is the let down. Readers want to be able to imagine: we don't necessarily want it all laid out on a plate for us. Give us some mystery for crying out loud, not everything needs an explanation. Quinlan spends far too much time explaining the background to the main characters than dealing with tightening up his plot and some of the intricacies. Elmore Leonard this ain't, it's just not "noir" enough to really justify some of the more generous reviews The Hit has garnered.

Ok for a lazy read.

She wasn't real.

I once knew a girl with eyes of steel. She had balls of steel and a heart of steel too. She looked like something regal, something ephemeral, something not quite real. I melted that heart of steel with broken promises and aspirations bigger than her or I.

We spent a summer of lovemaking, of dipping toes into ponds, eating pralines from each other's mouths. We spoke every hour; small innocuous texts which if unanswered would make us break into sweat. Tensions would mount until we could see each other again and take in each other, greedily, jealously, always with a little blood. 

She would cover my chest and neck in bites. People would giggle and ask "haha, are you 13?" She would fall into my lap like a ragdoll and fall asleep in my arms until dawn broke. She would slam doors and break mugs during fights and grip my skin in the throes of making up. She hurt my head with her frowns and pouts. She said “no!” often and loud.

That heart of steel disappeared one day, she stared at me and I looked away. She knew, I knew, I had won the war while she had won the battles. She waved the white flag and rubbed my feet. Those eyes of steel were no longer cold or hard, the heat she gave was too hot to bear. I burnt my hands, my feet, my heart and my soul.

She was never unreal, she was real. She didn't walk, she was forced to leave. She never cried. She remained silent and cold. Her eyes would see through me. She could see the hurt and the shame. She polished that heart of steel until it gleamed so bright, it would hurt your eyes. The heat had disappeared never to be seen again. In its place a wintry shower staked it’s place.

They say a mirror doesn’t lie. This one is throwing all sorts of truth back at my face. The girl with eyes of steel looks on from a distance. Arms folded, she’s cross and disappointed. She moves with stealth like a jaguar in the forest. Once or twice I see flashes of her steely gaze, too short, too momentary for a lasting reunion. I remember her at dawn. When the sun is breaking, that’s the best time to remember her neat little shape. On my lap, in my bed, she slept like a deer, never moving.

The day I loved my Baby.

The day I loved my Baby.

Wednesday 23^rd July was a scorching hot day. As I sat on the bus with Baby next to me, I looked out of the window and saw dirty snotty-nosed babies in battered pushchairs older than the girls pushing them. I looked at Baby, she smiled a toothless smile and scrunched her nose the way that she does. The bus was full of women with pot bellies round as perfect peaches, ready to deliver a new life. Some were red with the heat and exhaustion of the day, others were solemn faced and perturbed, perhaps with the anxiety of becoming mothers. My pregnancy came and went as fast as the sun rose and set on a short winter’s day. One minute I was hurling abuse at my boyfriend for using a year old condom, and the next; a brown slimy baby was at my side. She had dark dark hair and dark dark eyes. Eyes so dark, you could see your reflection in the deep chocolate irises. Even at a few hours old, all Baby did was smile at me. A strange knowing smile, I was never quite sure what to make of it. But I got used to it eventually.

I was half a mile up the road with two full shopping bags when I realized “I LEFT BABY ON THE BUS!!!!” I bent over myself and was sick. I had left my poor defenceless smiley baby on the bus and walked half a mile before realizing that I had left her. I took a few deep breaths and ran like the wind back to the bus stop I had got off at. My fingers fumbled manically as I tried to reach the police, my boyfriend, anyone who I thought could tell me just what the hell to do. As I approached the bus stop, I spotted an elderly lady in a fox fur stole and she had my Baby in her hands!!! I rushed with relief towards them and the lady smiled and handed her over to me. “You should be more careful my dear.” I nodded in shame and hurled Baby over my shoulder and walked off in disgrace.

Baby had the hiccups, I swirled her around, I said “BOO!” loudly several times, even turned her upside down and patted her on her back. This just made her giggle even more and made her hiccups worse. I sat down on a low wall in front of a posh gated house, just to catch my breath and let the sun dance on Baby’s face. She sighed and made noises like she was ready to go to sleep. I asked her “Are you ready to carry on?” Baby scrunched her nose and smiled. On we went. It felt like it was just Baby and I on a neverending red carpet. People who passed us looked on in admiration at Baby and I. Baby’s hair curled with perspiration and she looked in amazement at the fast cars that sped past us. When we walked under a tree with low branches and leaves, her small hands grabbed at the leaves. She was exhilarated.

Baby liked rap music. I blamed my boyfriend. When I was pregnant with Baby, he was forever playing Public Enemy and Dr Dre’s The Chronic album. Whenever she heard rap music, Baby would nod her head in time to the beat and wave her hands at a Dre bar. My rap was awful, but I would “spit a few bars” to entertain Baby.  I quietly muttered: Still not loving po’lice uh huh, still rocking my khakis with a cuff and a crease, still got love for the streets.” Baby laughed like a horse and threw her head back. Two builders working on a house watched my daughter and I laugh in the sun that day to Dr Dre. Baby, ever the showgirl, waved a small wave at the builders. One of them cocked his head at her and blew her kiss. He mouthed “She’s lovely babe,” to me. I nodded in agreement.

As the sun went down, Baby and I neared our final destination, her eyes opened and closed in half sleep, she was reaching out for the last rays of the sun with her fist clenching and unclenching. Before I opened the gate, I saw down on a lovely old wooden bench. Clearly it had been dedicated in memory of a loving son or father or grandfather or uncle. Or maybe even just a good friend. The name had eroded after many years of people catching their breath on the bench, young lovers kissing, women catching up with friends, a young mother with her sleeping baby.

I closed my eyes and opened them, Baby’s gravestone had an ever so small coating of dust from the heat of the day I supposed. I wiped the dust away with my palms and ran my fingers over the engravement. Baby was gone. I walked this walk every day with my Baby. One year old and neither I or her father had decided on a name so we just stuck to Baby. He had long gone now. To have children with someone else, children who grew up to love rap as much as he did. Baby loved rap from the day she had been conceived to the day her lungs breathed out her last breaths. That was the day when I realized that I had fallen in love with my Baby.