Plugged

Dan-Mac-Evoy,

Kicked Victor Jones’ goddamn ass!’

He abandons the song’s structure for the last line, but nevertheless his efforts earn him an enthusiastic round of applause.

‘Okay,’ I say, forcing a smile. ‘Okay. I thank you, Jason. The Village People thank you.’

More laughing. Marco tickles Jason in the ribs, which opens my eyes about a couple of things.

‘For tonight, we do everything as normal. Except the booths; no more hands-on in the booths. Anyone has a problem with that, talk to me later. Also, anyone working off a debt, you don’t owe me a dime, so from now on we all get paid.’

A couple of smiles from those no longer in the hole, but the hands-on girls don’t seem too thrilled.

‘If you get the opportunity to piss off Victor Jones, do not take it.’

‘Too late,’ chortles Jason, accepting multiple high fives. High fives? Christ, these guys are happy.

‘Don’t take it, because I don’t know how legal that poker game was.’

‘Legal?’ says Jason. ‘Vic’s been rolling girls for years back there. How legal was that?’

This is a good point.

‘You know any good lawyers, Danny?’ continues Jason.

Sure he does, says GZ. ’Cept Danny here has a tendency to get lawyers shot dead.

Marco trots across the floor, bearing a large Jameson on a scarred martini tray.

‘Here you are, Dan. You earned it.’

I accept the drink gratefully. The Irish whiskey is smooth going down, but has an aftershock like a jolt from a defibrillator.

‘Back to work everybody, enjoy the new management while it lasts. I need to think for a while.’

Brandi positions herself at my side. ‘That’s right, people. You heard the boss: back to work. We need to negotiate the booth action.’

Looks like I have a second in command.

First thing I do in Vic’s office is to kick Brandi out; the second is to rip down the porn. It’s not that I find naked women offensive; it’s just that I prefer the real thing. Also the pictures remind me of the previous occupant, and all the acts he claimed to have performed with the various club employees. Not images you want popping into your head in the course of a work day. Plus if Vic does manage to legal me out of here, I would like out of sheer vindictiveness to mess up his system as much as I can before he does it.

I don’t know how Vic got anything done. His work surface is a jumble of magazine towers, burger cartons and wadded foil wrappers. There’s a trash can in the corner that looks like it exploded some time in the nineties, and the window blinds are streaked brown and yellow from decades of cigar smoke.

I wipe the boss’s chair off and sit down, and that’s about as far as my plan extends.

Adjust the chair.

It’s a nice touch. I lower the chair six inches so Vic will get an unexpected little shock. Little nuggets like this keep a man going.

So sit down, and then what? Payrolls, overheads, rent, booze orders, cash deposits.

My transplanted follicles are begging for a scratching, something Zeb forbade me to do.

I didn’t employ five students and spend eight hours separating your follicles to have you scratch the little bastards out again. No touching for a month.

Hands flat on the table, I tell myself. Do not touch the new hair. It’s hard to believe how difficult not scratching is. I’ve waded through plenty of hard and distasteful tasks in my careers, but right at this moment, keeping my palms glued to the desk ranks right up there with any of them. Including latrine digging in the Lebanon.

I try to focus on something else, and the first thing that pops into my head is: Keerist almighty beep.

What did Sofia mean by that? Where did the beep come from? There was no beep mentioned the first time around. Where the hell do you even hear a beep these days? Maybe there was a car passing by.

Or maybe. . Something almost occurs to me, but I don’t let the thought materialise fully in case there’s something to it. I can deal with this eventuality if it becomes a possibility.

I follow the cable across Vic’s desk and unearth the phone beneath a pyramid of ledgers. There’s no one at the number I’m calling. Of course not, it’s my own number. I count the rings until my answer machine cuts in, then punch in my password.

One message.

Hey, guy. Doorman guy. Listen, you probably don’t remember me, you get schmucks all the time, right? Keerist almighty, I hate machines. Okay. Anyway, listen. . Oh, this is Jaryd Faber, by the way, the lawyer you ejected last night. Deservedly so, I might add. I got your number from Vic, and the thing is that I enjoy Slotz, the club, shithole though it may be. Passing a few hours with the cards and the babes. I don’t want to give that up, so I just wanted you to know that I smoothed things over with Vic, what a prince, and I’m back in. In case you see me before you see him, no need to throw a punch. What do you say, let bygones be bygones? Live and let live. Maybe I can buy you a drink or a new suit. Okay? We straight? No hard feelings. I hate saying fucking sorry for anything, but there it is. Accept it or not, you should be fucking delighted by the way, if you knew who I was and what I could do to you. Keerist almighty.

Then the tape runs out and there’s a beep.

Keerist almighty beep.

I hold the phone at arm’s length, like it’s lied to me.

Sofia heard my answerphone. Faber was never at the apartment. I set the cops on the wrong man.

He was the right man for the cops, says Ghost Zeb. Just the wrong man for killing Connie and trashing your place.

And he’s dead now. It’s my fault.

No arguing with that.

So who did kill Connie? Who wrecked my apartment?

A shadow falls across my face and I look up.

‘Well it’s about time,’ says Irish Mike Madden. ‘I’ve been chasing your pale arse all over town.’

CHAPTER 12

Irish Mike stands framed by the doorway, like it was built for the purpose. He is a big man, huge, with whiskey veins popping in his nose and cheeks. His teeth are crooked and cracked from a hundred bar fights and he smiles broadly, displaying them like medals. He sports a soft fisherman’s cap, worn rakishly to one side with a shamrock pin on the peak. And when he speaks, his accent is more Hollywood Irish than a living dialect.

Irish Mike. A Mick who has never been to Ireland. An immigrant who never emigrated. A plastic Paddy who learned all he knew about the old country from grandma’s stories and Boy’s Own.

‘Daniel McEvoy,’ he says gently, shuffling into the room, like a crooner about to break into a number. ‘A hard man to find.’

‘Not for my friends.’

Madden is all leprechaun charm. ‘Are we not friends then, Daniel?’ His eyes are dull green, and his skin reminds me of a plucked chicken.

I am too old for this.

‘Cut the shite, Mike. What do you want?’

Mike chuckles fondly. ‘Shite. I like that.’ He leans against the wall and it creaks. ‘I want the money you owe me.’

Groan. He isn’t even here for me. I’m a bonus.

‘Vic owes you money, not me. He owes me money too, but out of respect for you and your organisation, you