Plugged

Sometimes I repeat stuff. People think it’s because I’m stupid, but really it’s because I can’t believe what I’m hearing.

The guy goes for option A.

‘What are you? A parrot? A fucking retarded Oirish parrot? Kee-rist almighty.’

This is probably the way it goes in the office for this guy. He doles out garbage and people take it. I’m guessing he’s the boss, or close to it. Only the boss or the mail guy can not give a shit how they look to this extent and get away with it. Suit and spectacles that could have been stolen from Michael Caine circa 1972, and of course the Styrofoam ring of ginger hair.

‘No, sir. I’m not a parrot,’ I say, nice and calm, like I learned in doorman school. ‘I’m the head of security and you touched the hostess, whatever way you want to dress it up.’

The guy laughs, like he’s got an audience. ‘Dressing things up is what I do, Mister Daniel Head of Security. That’s my motherfucking business.’

He says motherfucking all wrong, like he learned it from the TV. It doesn’t sound right coming out of his attorney’s face.

‘It’s your motherfucking business?’ I say, saying the word like it should be said. I learned it from a Romanian mercenary working for the Christian militia in Tibnin. Anghel and his boys would tool past our camp most days in their beat-up VW, stopping to strike deals for long-life milk or pasta we’d traded from the French garcons. I liked Anghel okay; he never shot at me specifically, his whole head was a beard and I appreciated the way he said motherfucking.

Only one carton, Paddy? I give you perfect good mozzerfokken hairdryer.

Made it sound real; the double z. So sometimes if I want to make an impression I say it the Romanian way. Often it’s enough to confuse a guy, put him off his stride.

But not this guy. The ginger monkey is seriously unimpressed by my double z and proceeds to make his second mistake of the evening that I know about. He steps up to me, cock of the walk, like I don’t have eight inches and fifty pounds on him.

‘What is this parrot shit?’ he says, and believe it or believe it not, he taps me on the forehead. ‘You got a goddamn plate in your head? Kee-rist almighty.’

I am surprised by this tap on the head but also happy, because the guy has touched me now.

‘You shouldn’t have touched me, sir,’ I say sadly. ‘That’s assault. Now I got to defend myself.’

This takes the wind out of his sails. Being an attorney this jackass knows the letter of the law regarding assault. He is aware that now I got the right to put a little hurt on him and claim I felt threatened. I practise my threatened face so he can visualise how it will look in court.

His pointing finger curls up like a dried turd, and he takes a couple of steps back.

‘Now listen. You lay one hand on me. .’

He can’t finish the threat, because I got a free shot and he knows it. At this point I would dearly love to take that shot and put this attorney out of everyone’s misery. But Connie’s got her kids in the creche and the last thing she needs is a court appearance hanging over her head. Plus the courtroom is this guy’s arena. Before the judge he’s a gladiator. I can just see him, jumping around like a little ginger monkey, pointing like there’s no tomorrow. And in all honesty, my threatened face ain’t all that hot.

So I say, ‘How much money you got in your wallet?’

The guy tries a little bluster, but I’m giving him an out and he knows it. ‘I don’t know. Couple hundred maybe.’

Bullshit he doesn’t know. Attorneys and accountants always know. Generally they stash little wads of notes all over, in case they get stuck with a pushy dancer or hooker later in the evening. This guy probably knows how much cash his sick momma has rolled into her tooth jar.

‘Gimme three,’ I say. ‘Gimme three hundred for the hostess and I won’t have to act in self-defence.’

The attorney physically flinches. ‘Three hundred! For a lick. Kee-rist almighty.’

He’ll go for it. I know he will. The alternative is explaining to his high-roller clients how he got his face rearranged in a dump like Slotz, where we got mould on the carpet corners and toilets with chains.

The guy is fumbling with his wallet, like the bills are putting up a struggle, so I grab it, making sure to squash his soft attorney’s fingers a little.

‘Here, let me count that, sir. You’re shaking.’

He’s not shaking, but I want to plant the idea that he should be. This is not a tip I picked up in doorman school. The army shrink gave me a few conflict tips before my second tour.

It’s true I snag the wallet to hurry this whole thing along, but I also want to help myself to one of this guy’s business cards. It’s good to have details about troublesome customers. Let them know there’s no place to hide. Once I have his card, I can find his wife, and I’d like to see him try the taste defence at home. His monkey head would be on a plate and no jury would convict.

I count out six fifties and toss him his wallet.

‘Okay, Mister Jaryd Faber,’ I say, consulting the card. ‘You are hereby barred from Slotz.’

Faber mutters something about not giving a shit, and I can’t really blame him.

‘We thank you for your business and urge you to seek counselling for your various issues.’ Standard get out and don’t come back spiel.

‘You’re making a big mistake, Daniel,’ says Faber, something I hear so often they should carve it on my tombstone. ‘I got serious friends in this town.’

‘We all got serious friends,’ I say, and surprise myself by coming up with a mildly witty rejoinder. ‘I got an army buddy hasn’t smiled since Desert Storm.’

Nobody so much as acknowledges the effort and Faber mutters something else, possibly a fuck you. Still a little fire left in this attorney. I decide to extinguish it.

‘Take your ass home,’ I growl. ‘Before I hit you so hard you’ll be pressing charges from the afterlife.’

That’s not a bad line either, but it’s a little Hollywood. I’ve used it a dozen times and it’s all Connie can do not to groan when I trot it out again.

I crack my knuckles to make my point and Faber wisely decides to leave. He’s a bad loser, though, and tosses another two hundred at Connie from the doorway.

‘Here,’ he sneers. ‘Buy yourself a boob job.’

I fake a lunge and the attorney is gone, door swinging behind him. I feel like hurting this guy, I really do, but I know from experience that it won’t make me feel much better. So I swallow the instinct like it’s a ball of medicine and put on my funeral face for Connie.

‘You okay?’

Connie is on her knees, fishing for one of the fifties that has floated under the couch on the breeze of a flapping door.

‘Screw him, Dan. This is two nights with a sitter.’

I lever the couch with my boot so she can snag the note and avoid all the other crud under there.

‘Is that Al Capone’s missing rubber?’ I say, trying for some humour.

Connie sobs. Maybe it’s the bad joke; more likely it’s the last straw that this jerk Faber probably was, so I put my arm around her, raising her up. Connie is the kind of girl a man feels like protecting. She’s beautiful like she belongs in a fifties movie; Rita Hayworth hair that ripples when she walks like lava flowing down a mountain, and wide green eyes that still have some warmth in them in spite of a shitty job and shittier ex.

‘Come on, darlin’, he’s gone for good. You’ll never see him again.’

‘No one says darlin’ any more, Dan. Only in the movies.’

I squeeze her shoulder. ‘I’m Irish, darlin’, we’re different.’

Connie adjusts the polka-dot bikini that passes for a uniform in this place.

‘Yeah? Good different, I hope. That creep was bad different. What would you call a worm like that in Ireland?’

I think about this. ‘In Ireland he would be referred to as a galloping gobshite. Or a worm.’

Connie smiles a watery smile, but at least it’s something. Better than the despair in her eyes when I came in here.

‘Galloping gobshite. I like that. I gotta visit Ireland; I say it every year. Little Alfredo would love it, and Eva