Ronelle is strapped on the trolley, white as a marble statue, frosted like a birthday cake, parked carelessly in a forest of frozen carcasses.
Not now, Zeb. Really.
The buckles holding her down are cold and unnecessary. The detective is alive, but weak as a newborn and vibrating gently with the
‘Don’t get any ideas, Ronnie,’ I tell her. ‘Just warming you up. No funny stuff.’
I move around the trolley and bump it over to the door with my hip so I can peek through the window. There is an emergency intercom set into the wall, and I lean over to press the switch with my forehead. Noise floods the freezer like a wave.
The porthole is frosted with crystals and streaked with grease, and it feels like I’m watching the outside world on an old gas-tube TV.
Four men have crashed into the kitchen beyond, securing the room for the arrival of the fifth. These men look good, but not great. Not ex-military, that’s for sure. There are holes in their positions that a five-year-old basketball player could dribble through.
Still. In their favour, they have a pretty fair selection of guns between them. Mostly automatics, but I spot a couple of old-fashioned revolvers too.
‘We’re better off in here,’ I whisper to Deacon, who has one eye open and is glaring at me like I’m an alien.
‘McEvoy,’ she chatters, much to my relief. ‘I was wrong. We gotta call it in now.’
Now we gotta call it in?
‘No need for that. The cops are coming soon, one way or another.’
Outside, a man trots into the room like he’s coming on stage in Vegas. A big guy, face a road map of burst corpuscles, soft cap pulled down over one eye. I know who this is. We’ve had text.
‘Irish Mike Madden,’ I whisper to Deacon, who has managed to crank the other eye open.
‘Where’s my gun?’ is her response to this news. Reasonable in the circumstances.
‘Not here. Be quiet.’
Deacon wants to object, but she’s out of energy for the moment and it is all she can do to scowl at me.
Mike Madden does a little shuffle along the carpet, all the time smiling, and comes to a stop with an arm- waving flourish.
‘Counsellor,’ he says to Faber, who is doing his damnedest not to fall down.
‘M. . Mike,’ he stammers. ‘Mister Madden. What are you. . What brings you here?’
I love these guys. Still holding on to the civil facade when there’s men dying or dead in the corridor.
Mike taps his chin, like he has to think about Faber’s question.
‘One of my guys is missing, laddie,’ he says finally. ‘I sent him on a job to a pill shop and he never came back.’
Faber straightens his tie, breathing a little better. This is all a misunderstanding.
‘Mike. I know this is your town, everybody knows it. I would never. .’
Madden talks right over him. ‘I sent him to a pill shop. And here you are with a couple of barrels. Full of pills, are they?’
‘Not your pills. Not yours, Mike. How stupid do you think I am?’
Mike sighs, like the truth makes him sad. ‘Money makes people stupid, laddie. That’s life.’
Faber scoops a handful of blue pills from the open barrel. ‘Steroids is all, Mike. Just steroids. Not your territory. No profit in them hardly.’
‘Is that so?’ Mike dances across to the barrel, casually slapping Faber’s final guy on the cheek on his way past. ‘Let’s have a little look-see.’ He tips the barrel, sending thousands of blue pills bobbling across the floor. Faber pulls one foot up, like it’s piranha-infested water coming his way.
‘Whaddya know. You weren’t lying. Just pills is all.’
And suddenly Madden’s smile disappears. ‘Open the other barrel, counsellor.’
Faber is a smart guy. He gets it then.
‘Oh, Christ. I see. There’s a. . I got an explanation for you. Probably. .’
Mike pulls out his cell phone, navigating through the touch-screen menus.
‘So I’m enjoying a late-night bottle of Jameson with my little colleen, when this text message comes through.’ He tosses the phone to Faber, who lets it drip through his hands a few times before he gets a grip. ‘Read it for me.’
Faber reads it to himself first, and whatever blood is in his face drains out of it.
‘Jesus,’ he breathes. ‘Oh God.’
‘Out loud!’ roars Mike, suddenly on his tiptoes. ‘Out loud, you crooked ginger bastard.’
He clicks his fingers and one of his guys drops Faber’s man with a single shot. The man dies quiet, sliding down the wall with no change of expression.
Faber drops the phone and starts crying.
‘Pick it up.’
This is difficult for Faber to comprehend. All his life he’s been talking people out of trouble, and now suddenly here’s this immovable object.
‘Pick up the goddamn phone.’
Faber falls to his knees and has to clasp the phone in both hands before he can steady it enough to make out what’s on the screen.
‘Now, if you’d be so kind. .’
And Faber reads the message in a hitching voice, filled with fear and phlegm.
‘I’m in a barrel at The Brass Ring. Bleeding real bad. Faber did this. .’ The lawyer stops, unable to finish.
‘And. .’
‘Please, Mike. I didn’t do this.’
‘Read the fucking rest of it.’
Faber takes a few deep breaths. ‘It says. . It says. .’
Mike can’t wait any longer. ‘It says:
Faber makes a desperate appeal for his life. ‘There’s this guy. On the floor back there. Covered in his own shit, probably. He did this. All of it.’
Mike makes a big show of looking around. ‘Nope. No shit-covered mystery guy. You’re in the dock for this, counsellor.’
‘But he was there. You have to believe me. I’m telling you the truth.’
Mike sighs. ‘This is a whole lotta hoopla for not much there-there.’
I suppose if you’re as powerful as Mike, what you say doesn’t always have to make complete sense, though the
‘Open the barrel, lads.’
Two of Mike’s men yank on the lid until one of the teeth gives; the rest relinquish their grip and the barrel yawns open like a lazy crocodile. They pat around in the surface pills for a while until Mike grows impatient for his big moment.
‘Tip it,’ he commands.
‘Don’t. Please.’ Faber is begging. Maybe that should give me some satisfaction, but it doesn’t. Staying alive is all I want out of this.
Mike’s boys put their shoulders into the barrel and it teeters past the point of no return, bouncing and skittering across the floor, spilling out a fan of pills and the corpse of Macey Barrett. He comes to rest at Madden’s feet, pools of blue pills in his eye sockets and mouth.
Faber screams and screams like he’s seeing his own death, which of course he is.
‘Oh, please,’ says Irish Mike in disgust, and suddenly there is a gun in his fist.
Faber holds up his hand to ward off the bullets, but Mike has already pulled the trigger. The bullet takes off Faber’s pointing finger, then continues, barely deflected, into the attorney’s heart.
