Zeb hiccups and blood rims his gums. ‘Course fucking not. Do you see any cameras? It only occurred to me later.’
I grit my teeth. ‘And when did you tell Mike that I had the disk?’
Zeb wheels himself backwards. ‘Two days, Dan. For two days I swore that it was all a lie. Two fucking days with the teeth-punching and the head-banging against the wall. Some fucking warehouse in Ackroyd. There’s pieces of me all over that shithole.’
‘Then you told Mike that I had it.’
‘Yeah, I said that.’ Zeb’s chin drops to his sternum. ‘What else could I do? You’re a tough Irish motherfucker, Dan. I knew these whiskey gangsters couldn’t drop you. No way. You’d kill them all and save me. It was my only hope.’
This is a lot of talking for a man with broken bones and missing teeth, and Zeb collapses into a spasm of wet coughs.
‘Idiot,’ I shout at his shuddering frame. ‘For eight hundred years all we Irish have had is our pride, and you try to strip it away from a dangerous man.’
Zeb spits blood and a tooth. It sits like an iceberg in the sunset sea.
‘A mistake, Dan, I see that now. But don’t let me die here. Work something out. Play the Celtic card.’ Zeb is crying, wringing his hands.
The Celtic card. I do have one up my sleeve. Maybe.
The front door booms as a forearm is repeatedly bashed against it. Lights flicker with the force. I’m guessing that the five minutes are up.
‘To hell with both of you,’ calls Irish Mike Madden. ‘To hell in flames.’
Orange flickers beyond the blinds. Could be a cop car; more likely a makeshift torch. Mike is going to burn us out.
I rack my brain for the thread of an idea. Something to reel sanity back in. Nothing. Just more lunacy.
Concentrate really hard and teleport. Dig an underground tunnel. Call the cops.
‘Brite-Smile,’ says Zeb.
Bright smile? Or Brite-Smile. Of course. Go through the dentist’s where I deposited Steve. I’m a little embarrassed that a punch-drunk surgeon came up with that before me.
I take two steps towards the jagged hole before the breeze chills the sweat on my forehead. There’s someone in there.
Then a voice. ‘Steve’s out cold. McEvoy took his gun.’
Steve? No way.
Irish Mike calls from outside: ‘We got the exits covered, McEvoy. You try to run and you’re dead.’
Maybe on my own I could make it, but not hefting Zeb.
I tap a finger on my temple, trying to focus. ‘Okay, Mike. You win. Let’s talk.’
Close quarters is my speciality. But I need to get them close before I can be special.
Irish Mike mulls this offer over for a minute. ‘Very well, laddie. Throw Steve’s gun next door, and your shoes too, then go stand in the corner.’
Shoes? What’s that all about? What does he think, I’m a sole ninja?
I toss the Colt through the hole, and my boots, then traipse into the corner behind Zeb, feeling like a naughty schoolboy. I bet Mike would be an arsehole to work for.
‘Pussy,’ says Zeb, his voice barely more than a whisper. ‘I held out for two days.’
If his ear was not crusted with blood and mucus, I would smack it.
‘You shut up or pass out and let me handle this.’
‘Yeah, maybe you can take off your pants. That’ll teach ’em.’
Zeb never lets up. At least when he was in my head I didn’t have to look at him.
And that is my best friend. Christ.
Irish Mike comes in the back door, flanked by two of his lieutenants. One is hobbling and the other is sporting a nose that wouldn’t look out of place in a boxing ring. Mike himself wears a sunburn of anger. A little less cocky, though, I think. They shuffle slowly forward through the blood tracks and the supplement boxes, never taking their eyes off me. A third heavy appears at the hole in the wall, squinting down the barrel of a machine pistol.
Mike swallows and gags. ‘You prick,’ he says, gingerly massaging his throat. ‘Who hits people in the neck? What kind of person are you?’
I don’t answer. What’s the point?
After a minute’s scowling, Mike is done feeling sorry for himself.
‘I’ll live, I guess.’ He lights a cigarette with a long wooden match, sucking hard, bending the flame. ‘So, McEvoy, where’s the disk?’
Zeb is whimpering softly; maybe he has the right idea. There are three criminals pointing weapons at us and I don’t have any good news for them. We are flanked in a small room with no hope of escape except if these people are sufficiently dim to relax their guard again.
‘Here’s the thing, Mike. There is no disk. Never was.’ I can’t resist rapping Zeb’s crown. ‘This gobshite tried to bluff you, then dragged me in when negotiations turned painful.’
Mike conducts with his cigarette. ‘Yeah, see that’s what the doc told me shortly after he told me there
‘Trust me, Mike. I’m Irish.
Mike reaches under his soft cap, scratching his head. ‘That’s touching, laddie, the Irish connection, but you know as well as I do that the Gaels have been cutting each other’s throats for centuries. It’s gonna take more than that. So what else have we got in common?’
‘We got that itch,’ I say, pointing a finger.
Mike whips his hand down like he’s been slapped by a nun. ‘What itch? What the hell are you talking about?’
‘Is that what this is all about? Irish Mike Madden got some new hair and he’s feeling a little sensitive about it.’
‘Fuck you,’ shouts Mike, then dissolves into a racking cough. Those neck jabs really take it out of a person.
‘Come on, Mike. This is the twenty-first century. Surgery is a positive thing. It shows you care about your appearance. A hair transplant today is like a barber-shop shave fifty years ago. If you can afford it, do it.’
‘’Zactly,’ mutters Zeb. ‘That’s what I’ve been saying.’
It is exactly what he’s been saying. I’m just regurgitating the spiel that Zeb sold me.
‘No one cares, Mike. You know how many Americans had surgery last year? Have a guess; go on,
The beefcake on Mike’s left blushes a little, then points his gun at my forehead.
Mike pulls himself together. ‘Yeah? What would you know about it?’
‘I know about it,’ I shoot back. ‘Because I have that itch too.’ It’s time for the cap to come off. I try to do it nonchalant, like I show people all the time. I peel off the hat and stand there in all my transplanted glory.
Mike squints a little, then beckons me forward under the light. I oblige, tilting my head so the shorter guys can get a look.
‘I gotta say,’ the boss says finally, ‘that’s not half bad.’
‘You should have seen him six weeks ago,’ grunts Zeb. ‘Fucking cue ball. Now those hairs will fall out before they grow back, but it gives you an idea.’
‘Still itches a little.’
Zeb is obviously getting his second wind. ‘It’s all in your head. The itch doesn’t last for more than a week. Mike is legitimately itchy; he has the scabs from two thousand lateral cuts. You’re just a fruitcake.’
Mike pokes his scalp gingerly. ‘It’s driving me crazy. I wanna shoot people all the time. Last Wednesday, I almost smacked my little girl.’
I try to appear shocked, as though knowing Mike as well as I do, little-girl-smacking would be totally out of
