‘Irish Mike Madden, I presume. Just kidding, pal. But now you know how it’s going to feel. A little taste.’
Mike is winded as though gut-punched. His eyes are suddenly bloodshot and his hands shake.
‘Where are you? Where?’
‘I am in the dunes above Ballyvaloo, looking down on a lovely little cottage. Smoke coming out of the chimney, a light in the window. Sure it’s like a fucking postcard. It’d be an awful shame to lob a mortar on to that thatch.’
Mike gets his wind back. ‘You are dead! You hear me? Deceased. You know who I am? I will fucking . . .’
Corporal Tommy Fletcher chuckles once more, this time rolling into a fully fledged laugh that overloads the phone’s tiny speaker, breaking into crackling static. He keeps laughing until Mike shuts the hell up.
‘You finished, Mike? Hey, I understand. You’re a good son, a tough guy. But listen to me, Mike. You’re in over your head now. Before Sergeant McEvoy carried me out of a war zone, I did some time in the Rangers. That’s special operations to Joe Public. I’ve buried more bodies in the desert than you’ve had blow jobs from your hookers. I leave one coded message on a website and a hundred guys are on a plane to New Jersey. We will bury you so deep that you’ll be sleeping with the dinosaurs. I can do things to your mother that will make her curse your name. You want that, Mike?’
‘I could track you down,’ Mike says weakly.
Fletcher laughs. ‘This is the army, Mikey. We’re right here. You don’t need to track us down. Listen, Sarge, I don’t think he’s getting it. What say I take a thumb from the old lady, maybe an eye?’
I tick-tock my head, thinking about it. ‘No. I think Mike gets it. He’s top man in a big operation here. You don’t get to be top man by being stupid. Am I right, Mike?’
Irish Mike is having a hard time dealing with the situation. It’s affecting his entire being. The power of speech seems to have deserted him and his head is bulging in places where bulges should not be. He’s snorting like a bull in the ring and his hands are raised, strangling an invisible person.
‘Am I right, Mike?’ I prompt. ‘Or do I tell my corporal to proceed?’
‘You’re right,’ says Mike dully. ‘This doesn’t have to go any further. I think we can call it a day.’ He lifts a hand, finger crooked to scratch his scalp.
‘Nu-uh, Mister Madden,’ admonishes Zeb. ‘No scratching. You want scars, is that it?’
‘You’re right, of course. No scratching.’
I speak clearly into the phone. ‘Did you get that, Tommy? Stand down.’
‘Say again? Was it stand down or go to town? Because I can go to town on this old lady right now.’
‘Stand down, you crazy bastard. Do not hurt Mrs Madden.’
‘Okay, Sarge. Copy. Keep tabs, though, right?’
‘That’s a roger,’ I say. Military speak always unsettles civilians.
‘I’m off for a pint then, if there’s no shooting to be done. Talk to you tomorrow?’
‘Tomorrow and every day.’
Tommy hangs up and I fold the phone into my pocket.
‘You see how it is, Mike.’
Mike is dazed now, arms dangling by his sides, eyes heavy-lidded.
‘Yeah, I see. What do you want?’
I roll slowly to my knees, and from there make the mammoth transition to standing upright.
‘This is not a shakedown, Mike. All you have to do is go home. It’s as simple as that. Everything else stays the same. Zeb does your check-ups, I pay protection and I’ll even throw in Vic’s debt. Everyone’s as happy as they can be without true love.’
‘I’m not happy,’ moans Zeb. ‘I got fucking shot.’
I hoist him up by the elbow. ‘You needed to get shot. This is all your fault.’
‘Who you talking to? Real Zeb or Ghost Zeb?’
I really hope Zeb develops post-traumatic amnesia. Maybe I should give him a few more of his own pills.
Mike is working his fists, like he has walnuts in there. ‘Okay. We’re out of here. This never happened. One word of this around town and I got no choice but to take action.’
My jaw is hurting now and I feel like taking a pop at Mike to speed him on his way, but I hold back.
‘Fair enough.’
‘I want my Lexus back.’
‘I’ll drive it over tomorrow.’
‘With Vic’s debt, plus interest.’
These guys and their interest.
‘Screw your interest, Mike. The rates are too fluid with you people.’
Mike nods slowly, trying to find some closure. This is a long-term arrangement, but a man like him needs the final word. Otherwise he may just say screw it, kill the both of us, get a black armband and wear a hat for the rest of his life.
The gang boss takes two steps towards the back door, then hesitates. He turns back, settling the soft cap over his head of scabs. From the look on his face I’d say he’s thought of a few final words.
‘My mother is an old woman,’ he says. ‘She could go at any time. After that there are a few cousins but I could give a fuck about them. So the clock is ticking, laddies. When Ma dies, I’m coming after you.’
Those are pretty good words.
CHAPTER 13
I call Deacon from outside the store. She’s at the hospital with a guy on the door.
‘So how you doing?’ I ask, wasting a few seconds on politeness.
‘I’m fucking freezing,’ she replies. ‘I got enough morphine in me to cheer up the Rolling Stones and I’m still cold. I’m gonna lose a finger to frostbite, McEvoy. How about that for a happy ending?’
‘Sucks,’ I say, nodding in sympathy like she can see me. ‘You okay to dial the office?’ And I lay out some thrown-together story about masked raiders.
‘Let me get this straight, McEvoy,’ she says, and I can almost hear her teeth chatter as she tries to grin. ‘You just happen by your friend’s store late at night and find him tied to a chair with a bullet in his shoulder. This is worse than your last effort about me busting out of the freezer.’
‘Yeah, Detective. Shocking, ain’t it? An Irishman who can’t tell a story.’
‘Dan, we’ve been through some shit, and you did me a solid with that tension screw.’
‘And saved your life those times.’
‘And the lifesaving, sure. But I’m a cop first and foremost and I am watching you, man. I don’t know how a fascinating and talented individual like yourself stayed off my radar for so long.’
‘I’m a quiet guy, Detective. From now on, I’m back under the radar.’
Deacon laughs. ‘People like you and me, Dan, trouble sniffs us out. Maybe you can hide out for a while, maybe even a few years, but eventually someone needs to be saved or someone needs to be killed.’
‘I’m out of those businesses.’
‘That’s right. I hear Daniel McEvoy is a club owner these days.’
‘News travels fast. It’s temporary.’
Deacon sighs, and I guess she’s thinking about her ex-partner.
‘Everything’s temporary, Dan. I’ll use my good fingers to expedite the 911. An ambulance should be with you in ten. See you real soon.’
‘Thanks, Ronnie. I’ll call you.’
Zeb has somehow managed to give himself an injection of something while I was outside negotiating with the cavalry. He sits pale under a flickering strip light, eyes rolled back in his head and blood-slick shirt sticking to his chest.
‘Zeb?’
Nothing. Whatever he dosed himself with is doing the trick.
‘Man, you look like a poster for a horror movie.’
‘Screw you, Dan.’
Still a few marbles in the jar, then.
‘What was in that shot?’
Zeb’s irises roll down like slot-machine bars. ‘One of my own concoctions. I am feeling no pain, Dan. You see the ponies?’
‘The ambulance is coming. Sirens and lights, the whole nine yards. The medics will want to know what you
took.’
Zeb smiles and bubbles burst in the corner of his mouth. ‘I took as much as I could, Dan. Being shot is no joke. This blackmail thing was my worst idea ever.’
I beg to differ. ‘No. That she-male last summer was the worst idea ever.’
‘Don’t knock it,’ says Zeb, then his eyes roll back in his head.
I wheel Zeb and his chair outside just as the ambulance pulls into the lot. A paramedic jumps out of the moving vehicle like he’s auditioning for Quentin Tarantino.
He grabs me by the forearm. ‘Did he take any drugs?’
‘Take your pick,’ I say, nodding towards the store’s sign.
The paramedic pokes around Zeb’s wound. ‘Is he allergic to anything?’
Zeb? Allergic to drugs? Funny.
‘Not so far.’
‘He’ll live,’ pronounces the paramedic after a cursory examination. ‘But it’s going to be a rough night.’
‘Good,’ I say, then go inside to get my boots.
Slotz is doing good business by the time I get back. Jason is parading the street, chatting with the university beer crowd.
‘Where you gonna go?’ he asks a group of guys sporting shorts and calf tattoos. ‘Every other street in this town is dead. You gotta curfew or something?’
He spots me shuffling down the sidewalk. ‘Hey, hey. Bossman. You all straight with Irish Mike? I was worried.’
I try to smile, but my jaw feels like there’s a steam iron inside it. ‘All sorted. He’s a sweetheart when you get to know him. What are you doing out here? Hustling?’
‘It’s a new day, Dan baby. New management is good for all of us.’
Management? I don’t like the sound of that.
‘I don’t know, Jase. Payrolls and overheads. Figures give me a headache.’
Jason flashes me his diamond grin. ‘You are such a pussy, dude. I can install some small-business software on your computer. That shit will take care of everything, even pay your taxes, you feel me?’
‘I feel you,’ I say gratefully, resisting an urge to add dawg. ‘What do you know about business software?’
‘I took a couple of semesters in Dover. Picked up a few things. We create a file for everyone and the computer can even print their paycheques if you want. We can use it for inventory too.’
I feel a weight lifting. ‘You are promoted to business manager, Jason. Get yourself a blue suit and take that diamond out of your tooth.’
‘I don’t do blue,’ says Jason. ‘And the diamond is me, man.’
‘You’re still hired. How soon can you get that software?’
‘Soon as now, Dan. All I need is the internet and ten minutes. Shit, I could probably download it on my phone.’
Some good news. I feel like crying.
Inside the club, nothing much has changed. I realise I was expecting something. Not bluebirds and fruit punch, but maybe a less oppressive atmosphere. No Vic cruising the floor throwing a jaundiced eye over everyone’s shoulder. No lights off over the back booth. But it’s same-old same-old. The atmosphere is fake-cheery and the girls are nothing but tired.
Marco is the only ray of hope, polishing glasses like they were diamonds.
‘Working hard, Marco?’ I say to the little barman, pointing at the Jameson bottle over his head.
He pours me a large one. ‘You ever see Jason so happy? He’s out on the street selling this joint. That boy is on fire.’
I decide to make Marco’s night. ‘I promoted him to business manager.’
Marco flaps at me with his rag. ‘Get the fuck out. You did not.’
‘Yup. True as God.’ ‘You won’t regret it,’ beams Marco. ‘Jason will work himself to death.’
I take a sip of whiskey, feeling it slide down my throat smooth as mercury.
‘Have a word with him about the diamond. I have a feeling he listens to you.’
And I leave him open-mouthed, wondering if their secret is out.
I was hoping that the booth would be empty by the time I finished my drink. No such luck. One of Brandi’s Catwoman boots is protruding from the gloom, and something is squeaking, hopefully the upholstery. This Brandi issue has to be sorted out sometime; it may as well be now. Get all my confrontations over in one night.
The booth has its own light switch under the table’s rim, and I flick it without warning. First thing I see is a pale bloated stomach; second is Brandi down in the shadows, writhing like a snake.
The guy with the stomach jerks so hard he bashes Brandi’s head on the table rim.
‘What the . . .’ His eyes focus and he sees me there, looming over him, best grim look in place. ‘Cop? Tell me you’re not a cop?’
‘This is a respectable club, sir. No contact allowed.’
Brandi surfaces, rubbing her crown. ‘Jesus Christ, Dan. What the fuck? I mean, what the fuck?’
I try to shame her with a look, but Brandi is impervious. ‘The booth action is done. Finished. We talked about this.’
She tries the old kiss-ass routine. ‘Come on, baby. A girl’s gotta eat.’
Now it’s my turn to be impervious. ‘Maybe, but she doesn’t have to eat that.’
Belly-guy has lost the urge. ‘Hey, listen, you two have got some kind of employment dispute, why don’t I give you some space to work it out? Communication is so important.’
I cock my head, waiting for a trademark Ghost Zeb comment. Nothing. The ghost is gone. Reunited with his wounded self in St John’s hospital. Alleluia.
‘Yes, sir. Why don’t you tuck yourself in and try your luck at the tables.’
‘I believe I shall,’ says Belly-guy, formal with relief.
Brandi watches her john skip around stools in his hurry to get away from me.
She is furious; anyone with ten minutes’ elementary body-language studies could see that. Her bottom lip is pushed out like a segment of blood orange and her cocked hip is sharp as a guillotine.
‘Problem?’ I enquire mildly.
Her eyes flash and she wants to claw my eyes out, but Brandi is the consummate survivor.
‘No problem, Dan. We got a few bumps, that’s all. Not even bumps . . . implants.’ And suddenly her breasts are wrapped around my arm. Took all of four seconds for her mood to swing.
‘No bumps,’ I say, flexing my bicep so her boobs pop off. ‘The booth is closed. Now, you go do your job.’
I wasn’t sure I could flex enough to dislodge Brandi, but I did and it was cool. I leave her wobbling and stride towards the office.
The phone is buzzing when I reach the desk in Vic’s office, but I let it ring out. I need a minute to put my pieces back together. My jaw throbs and my knuckles ache and I realise that I should have raided Zeb’s painkiller stash.
I crank Vic’s chair down a few more notches and settle back until my head touches the wall behind me.
My office, my desk.
That’s it. Crises over.
Now I need to take stock of what’s happened. A lot of new things have come into my life and I don’t know which ones I want to keep. One thing is for certain, as soon as Zeb is back on his feet I am going to knock him on his arse. After that, I need to get my head straight, then take a few days’ rest with nothing on my mind but food and drink.
My eyes begin to close and I don’t fight it. The familiar sounds of chips clicking, glasses clinking and gamblers moaning in the casino beyond are almost like a lullaby.
Relax, I tell myself. Irish Mike is off my back for the moment. Okay, the Sofia Delano situation needs a little work, but it’s not life-threatening.
Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth. Breathe in balls, breathe out pussy, as the marines say, though I always thought that came off a little ambiguous.
Getting there, nearly calm now.
The phone rings again and I nearly fall out of the seat. I slap the receiver out of its cradle.
‘What? What now?’
Ronelle Deacon’s laugh is like whiskey and cigarettes. ‘Management too str
essful for you, Dan? You cracking up already?’
I blink myself alert. ‘It’s been a long night, Detective. A long week.’
‘I sent a couple of uniforms over to your friend’s store. Quite a mess. Or to quote Patrolman Lewis, Big motherfucking hole in the motherfucking wall. A couple quarts of blood too. You wouldn’t know anything about that?’
‘Not a thing. I arrived after the fact. Zeb was the only one bleeding.’
Brandi slinks in the door, making full use of her stripper training; every movement is choreographed. I see where this is going. I’m in for a full-on booth negotiation.
‘Dan,’ she purrs. ‘We need to talk, baby.’
I raise one rigid finger. In a minute. I am not good at multitasking, especially when there are people involved.
‘Yeah, that’s what I thought,’ continues Deacon. ‘And you didn’t see anything, right?’
‘Not a thing but my friend bleeding.’ I decide to use a little distraction technique. ‘Come on, Ronnie. It’s too late for work. Why don’t you check out of that hospital and come on over here for a few drinks? I’m in good with the management. You still got nine fingers, right? More than enough to pick up a beer.’
‘Maybe when I solve this murder I’m working on from my sickbed. Woman killed outside Slotz; maybe you knew her?’
My stomach lurches. Connie. How could she have slipped my mind even for a moment?
‘Anything I can do?’
Brandi is tapping her forearm. She doesn’t like to be kept waiting. I grit my teeth and focus on the handset.
‘I got some more news on the murder weapon,’ says Ronnie quietly; maybe there are nurses hovering. ‘I thought I could run it past you since we have such a special relationship; unofficially of course, as I am technically off duty for the foreseeable . . .’
‘It was some kind of a blade?’
‘No. We got some metal fragments from the wound. Too soft for a blade. Maybe a tube, like the tip of an umbrella. With some kind of glittery substance on the shaft. That ringing any bells, McEvoy?’
‘Nothing pops out at me.’
‘Me neither. This makes it a spur-of-the-moment thing. Our murderer could be anyone now. Could be staring us right in the face.’
Brandi sits opposite me and swings her legs on to the desk, crossing them at the ankles. Her boots shine like gloss paint.