Plugged

I did not wanna see. You bring cash out in the open air for more than five seconds outside a club and someone is gonna start a fight.

‘No, sir. Keep it in your pocket.’

The man ignored me, as was to become his habit, flashing a roll of fifties that could have plugged a rat hole.

‘You know what this is?’

I put a little pressure behind my fingertips, enough to back the man up a step or two.

‘I know what it is, sir.’

‘No, sir. You do not. You think you know.’ The drunk tapped his nose like there was a great secret stashed up there. ‘This here is a couple of silicone boobies and a tummy tuck. Sweet job too. If you let me in, I’ll give you a grand. How about that? One thousand dollars just to step aside.’

I stood my ground, not because I couldn’t be bought, but because this guy thought he could buy me, if that makes any sense.

‘Sorry, sir. Put your money away.’ And then the guy looks me in the face, possibly to plead or up his offer, and something pings between us.

‘Hey,’ he said, wagging a finger. ‘I know you.’

And then I had him. The pasty complexion, the eyes a little shiny. The doctor guy, from the Lebanon.

But what I said was, ‘No. I don’t think we’ve met.’

Zeb stood back and spread his arms wide like a ringmaster introducing himself.

‘Hey, it’s me. Dick-fat guy.’

He kept talking like I didn’t have enough information. ‘You know, that militia man, his cock exploded in battle. I’m a national hero.’

Which is about the strangest collection of statements I’ve heard before or since.

I sleep till four in the afternoon and roll out of bed feeling surprised and grumpy, which is a hard combination to keep going. Four o’clock. The day is dying and I don’t even have shoes on. And this room is a shithole, and why did I not do some tidying up all that time I was lying there thinking? Shaving calms me down as per usual. Eyes open is often a bad time. A moment’s blissful ignorance, then life comes crashing in. And today, life is about as bad as it’s ever been.

I nick myself with the blade and watch a blood bead roll down my neck.

Connie, I think. No more weekends. No more you.

After shaving, I take some of my anger out on the wall, using a breeze block that was part of my shelving unit to bash a hole in the Sheetrock. I pull out a Kevlar backpack wedged between the joists. My weapons bag, four years behind the plaster. Dust flakes stick to my sleeve, I brush them away and head for Chequer’s Diner, which is becoming my unofficial HQ. Dust flakes I’m noticing now? I must have too much time on my hands.

The sun has faded from red to white and I’m having a lord’s breakfast. Pancakes, bacon, sausage, stack of toast and six cups of coffee. I’m awake now, let me tell you.

The waitress, Carmel, comes over with my change and is a little surprised by me asking for yet another refill. She bumps my elbow with her thigh.

‘I had you figured for a fitness guy, Dan. You lose a competition or something?’

‘Life’s too short,’ I tell her. ‘Maybe I’ll take up cigarettes too.’

Carmel laughs. Sounds like a motor turning over. I’m guessing she’s a cigarette gal herself.

I have a plan of sorts.

You gonna save my life? asks Ghost Zeb.

No. You I’m gonna put on ice for the time being, but this guy Faber, I need to do something about him before he makes a hole in my forehead.

Ghost Zeb is sulking. Yeah, maybe if we’d spent a weekend in the sack, I’d be top of your list.

It’s a fair point.

So, the plan. I phone in an anonymous tip, something vague about Faber and his little run-in with Connie, then I watch and see how the attorney jumps when they question him.

Ghost Zeb is incredulous. That’s it? That’s your entire plan? Why don’t you just wish upon a star while you’re at it?

Ghost Zeb is turning out to be as much of a pain in the arse as his corporeal self.

Corporeal. This one rookie in the barracks used to confuse it with corporal ten times a day, until someone explained the difference.

I suppose it doesn’t matter how you come by information as long as you remember it.

Oh. And no one gets hurt. Too badly.

No one decent at any rate.

I slide a couple of dimes out of my change and head for the phone booth in the corner.

Ghost Zeb is so pissed that he almost stays at the table without me.

I dial the CDP desk from the booth and ask for Detective Deacon specifically, because Goran is sharp; she’d nail me in a second.

‘What?’ snaps Deacon when she picks up, like I’m interrupting her conference call with Commissioner Gordon.

‘You working the DeLyne case?’ I ask, doing my best Nu Yawker.

‘The what case?’

‘Connie DeLyne. The Slotz hostess.’

‘You mean that stripper?’

‘They ain’t no strippers up in there.’ My accent is gone down south, last century too.

‘Yeah, that hostess is one of mine? Who is this?’

‘This is by way of a ’nonymous tip-off, which I believe is police vernacular.’

I’m playing around now. I shouldn’t. A friend is dead, another missing, but in times of stress I can’t help myself. Sometimes I giggle like a girl. It’s embarrassing.

Deacon sighs, writing the call off. I bet they get a hundred cranks a day. ‘Do you have information pertaining to the DeLyne case, sir?’

‘I got something good for you, miss.’

‘That’s Detective.’

‘They let ladies be detectives now? That right there explains a lot.’

Come on, Sergeant. You don’t have time for this. Pull yourself together; this is not a sixth-grade prank call. Seymore Butz? Anyone?

I hear something creak. Deacon must be squeezing the phone pretty tight.

‘That’s a poor attitude you have there, sir.’

I disguise my giggle with a cough. ‘Take it easy, Detective, only trying to help.’

There are a few moments while Deacon pulls herself together; she’s probably whispering you’re a professional over and over. ‘So help. I’m getting old here.’

‘I was in Slotz a few nights ago, sir. .’

‘That’s miss, motherf. . Remember? Detective, female.’

‘Sorry. You got kind of a deep voice. I like that personally.’

Deacon breathes deep through her nose. ‘Do you have any pertinent information whatsoever, sir? Hold up, is this Randy? Are you dicking me about, Randy?’

I don’t know who Randy is, but I’d love to meet him.

‘I ain’t no Randy. You want this information or not?’

‘Yeah, give it up. But if this is Randy, I’m gonna have your balls in a sling. . sir.’

‘Okay, miss. . if you is a miss. I was in Slotz and I seen Connie beefing with this guy.’

‘What guy?’

‘A lawyer guy. Name’s Faber. Jerry Faber, or maybe Gary.’

I hear scratching. Deacon is writing this down. ‘You overhear anything specific?’

‘A little. How he was gonna kill her. She was gonna pay. Stuff like that.’

Deacon is taking notes now, you bet she is. ‘You heard him say he was going to kill Connie DeLyne? Those