Plugged

‘And you’re not her husband?’

‘No. I’d remember.’

‘Okay. I hate to diagnose on the phone, but it sounds like she’s de-lusional.’

‘You think so? Holy shit.’

Simon chuckles. In the tiny speaker it sounds like he’s gargling tar. ‘Okay. I’m remembering you now, McEvoy.’

‘What can I do?’

‘Don’t shatter her illusions too harshly. You could do irreparable damage. Play along for the time being, until you can get professional help.’

‘That could be tricky.’

‘Tricky how?’

‘I think Sofia could turn violent. She’s been hurt before.’

I hear Moriarty drag deep on his cigar. ‘Christ, this is so unprofessional. Look, Dan, if you care for this woman, get her into treatment. Use some pretext or other, say it’s marriage counselling.’

‘Marriage counselling. Nice one.’

I am about to fold Macey Barrett’s phone when Dr Moriarty asks a question.

‘And what about you, Daniel? How are you?’

‘Cracked knuckle, maybe.’

‘Mentally, smartarse.’

How am I? There’s a question. I’m carrying around my best friend in my head. I’m obsessing about my hairline and I am giving serious consideration to entering a relationship under an assumed name.

‘Yeah, I’m fine, Simon. Really.’

I can hear Moriarty’s pen clicking on the other side of the Atlantic. ‘You’re lying to me, Daniel.’

‘You sure?’

‘Yes, I’m sure. It’s all Doc-Moriarty-arsehole. Then suddenly it’s Simon. You’re trying to gain my trust by humanising yourself. Textbook stuff.’

‘I am human, Simon.’

Another chuckle from Ireland. ‘Not to me. To me you’re nothing more than a few stripes on a sleeve.’

I realise that I like this guy and that it would be good to have a beer and not discuss my various hang-ups, fixations and neuroses.

‘I suppose I’m trans-parent to you, Doc.’

‘Absolutely.’

I take a deep breath, realising that there is no way to say what I am about to say without sounding a little section eight. ‘Okay, Doc. I have this friend.’

‘Really? You have this friend who can’t get an erection and could I make the prescription out in your name?’

‘No. Not like that. I have this real friend whose personality lives in my brain.’ Shit, there, I’ve said it.

‘You’re just having conversations in your head, playing devil’s advocate with yourself; everyone does it.’

‘No, it’s more than that. He’s a real presence. He doesn’t follow the rules.’

‘You have rules for your imaginary friends, Dan?’

‘Hey, I’m pretty sure that you’re not supposed to mock your patients.’

‘When you send me a cheque, you can be my patient.’

There is no point trying to outsmart this guy; he does it for a living. So I forge ahead.

‘Usually these devil’s advocated internal conversations happen when I want them to. They’re kinda vague and in the background. But this guy, Zeb, is here all the time, distracting me, poking his nose in. Then, when I actually need some advice he disappears.’

‘Is he there now?’

‘No, Zeb doesn’t trust doctors.’

‘I see. And what does the real Zeb do for a living?’

‘He’s a doctor,’ I say, smiling.

I hear Simon’s pen clicking half a dozen times, then: ‘You’re not a dummy, Dan, even if you pretend to be. You know this guy Zeb is just a part of you.’

‘I guessed as much. So no need for a straitjacket yet.’

‘Not so long as you’re in control. Lot of your murderers swear the voices told them to do it.’

‘Don’t worry, Zeb has been urging me to kill people for years. I’ve ignored him so far.’

‘So far. Maybe I should write you a prescription. A couple of gentle antipsychotics could do you the world of good.’

I know some vets who took antipsychotics. Every one of those guys thought Tweety and Sylvester were hilarious.

‘No thanks, Doc. I think I’ll pass on the meds. I need my wits about me right now.’

‘Whatever you say, Sergeant. Keep tabs on yourself then, if such a thing is possible, and if you find yourself sawing bodies into pieces on the suggestion of this Zeb voice, then drink a fifth of whiskey, put yourself to sleep for eight hours and call me in the morning.’

‘So I’m your patient now. Should I send you a cheque?’

It’s Moriarty’s turn to snort. ‘Yes, that’s it, Dan. You send me a cheque.’

I hear another voice in my ear. A bed-rumpled female.

‘Come on, Sim-o,’ says the woman, not a patient, I’m guessing. ‘You can’t stop in the middle.’

‘I better let you go,’ I say.

‘One of you better,’ says Simon, and hangs up.

Ghost Zeb comes out from beneath the synapse bridge he was hiding under.

Shrinks, he says, and I can feel his shrug like a cool bottle of beer rolled across my forehead. Witch doctors, every one of them.

Cloisters’ seedy street isn’t too obvious as these places go. On New York’s 8th Avenue you know exactly what kind of street you’re walking. The flashing billboards and windows stacked high with lingerie-clothed mannequins never let you forget it. The smell of lust rises from the pavement and the door handles are coated with grease and guilt.

Cloisters doesn’t have so much in the way of billboards and guilty handles. We have three gentlemen’s clubs that you wouldn’t know were there unless you knew they were there, with nothing but a small neon sign, square of red carpet and a velvet rope to drop a wink to those on the lookout. There are eight casinos in Cloisters, each one marked by a sign that city regulations restrict to a size slightly larger than a pizza.

After my transatlantic phone call, I take a brisk walk through the rain to the bus station to pick up my savings, then cross town to the strip and announce myself at the casino door.

‘Ta-dah,’ I sing, spreading my arms wide.

Jason gives me the diamond-fang smile. ‘Hey, Dan, buddy. Where the hell you been? Fucking Ireland or some shit? Seriously, Victor lost his nut here yesterday. Fired your ass in absentia.’

This is bad news, but I was expecting it. You don’t pull a no-show on Victor Jones and expect him to let it slide. Victor never lets anything slide.

That fucker wouldn’t let anything slide at a baseball game.

I chuckle. Zeb made this pronouncement one night after Victor cut off his tab.

Jason is not expecting a chuckle in response to his litany of doom. ‘I respect your balls, Dan. Chuckling and shit, showing up here like it’s business as usual after missing a shift, but you’re gonna have to pull some hocus- pocus outta your hat for Victor. You feel me?’

I envy Jason his ability to confidently use phrases like you feel me or off the hook, another of his favourites.

‘Okay. I better get inside and grovel.’

Jason cracks his neck, which always makes me wince.

‘Come on, Jason. I hate that. Do you want to give yourself arthritis?’

‘Sorry, Dan. I’m aggravated. We got no customers yet, so Vic’s rolling a couple of the new girls.’

Rolling the new girls is not as bad as it sounds.