Dublin Noir

Little Mike unzipped, rummaged, and flopped.

Christy had seen it before, but still spared a moment to look.

“Thirteen?”

“Yes, thirteen. Fuck off, begrudger.”

“You know, those school rulers have two sides. Centimeters and inches.”

Little Mike brandished his weapon. “You couldn’t even see the ruler, mate.”

PJ was coming. Each footfall firm and confident. He wanted to be heard. Fed on the fear. His legend grew larger with every step.

“Shit, I dunno, brother,” said Christy, and it was his plan.

Little Mike’s phone rang. He managed to answer without fumbling.

“Yes. This is he… It’s true what it says, amn’t I looking at it…”

“Mike!” hissed Christy, tapping his watch.

“Ah, yeah. Listen, let me get back to you. We’ll have text.” This was Little Mike’s standard hang-up line. He claimed to have thought of it himself.

Mike opened his knees wide, so that his langer would be framed by the gap between his legs. For first impressions a boner would have been good, but not likely.

“Okay, ready?”

Christy raised the piece of wood, making sure the nail was pointing away from him.

“Ready. This fucker’s dead.”

A split second later, PJ kicked in the door. He was mildly surprised to see Little Mike before him with his large langer swinging in the breeze, so he mashed it with his boot. And there was Christy, skinny, red mop, tracksuit, waving a piece of furniture at him. PJ caught the plank and reversed it into yer man’s face. Two down. No sweat. He brushed a section of the sofa with a sticky fabric roller he always carried, and sat to wait for the boys to stop screaming.

Christy was the first to get a grip.

“We’ve no candles.”

PJ toyed with his bleached goatee. “Your mascara’s ruined. You want to get the waterproof kind. My lady says Revlon is the best.”

“Thanks,” said Christy automatically. There was a red circle in his forehead where the head of the nail had hit him. He looked like he’d been shot.

Little Mike was still wailing, trying to massage some life into his penis. “You don’t know what you’ve done,” he sobbed. “You don’t know who this is.”

PJ rolled his eyes, like a culture-vulture faced with atrocious opera. “Well, I’m guessing that’s the legendary thirteen inches I’ve been reading so much about. You sure you weren’t using a metric measuring tape?”

“Might have been,” said Little Mike. That’s what fear does to a person.

PJ linked his fingers, cracking the knuckles. “So, anyway. Christy boy, you stole from Mister Warren.”

Christy tried the tell the truth strategy. “One can of Fanta. I forgot where I was.”

“Yeah, well, whatever. The closed-circuit camera caught you in the act. So I’m here to make you pay.”

“What’s a can of Fanta? About a yo-yo?”

“Exactly right. Plus a million euros robbing tax. So if you can give me one million and one euro in cash, right now, I am going to walk out of here and not cut his mickey off and stuff it down your throat.”

Little Mike started to cry.

“Little Mike?” said PJ, giving Christy a moment to consider the offer. “That’s like an ironic name, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” sobbed Mike. “Like Little John in Robin Hood was a huge bastard.”

PJ took a lock knife from his pocket, flicking out the blade with his thumb. “Guess what they’ll be calling you from now on?”

“What?”

“Mike,” said PJ, grinning.

His grin grew to a hearty laugh. This was PJ’s favorite kind of joke, one pertaining to a brutality he was about to inflict.

He raised a meaty hand, slapping it down on the sofa arm. This was unfortunate, as Christy had earlier pulled out the wooden plank under the foam. One nail had come out with the plank, the rest had stayed in because they were faced the other way.

PJ’s arm sank through the slit in the foam and onto half a dozen nails.

The blood drained from his face and began coming out his arm. Orange foam turned red and soggy.

“Heaaaarrgh!” said PJ, who had been trying to say help, then lost the run of his brain.

Little Mike was a nice young fella, really. “Jesus Christ. We’ve got to help him!”

“Blooaaargh!” screamed PJ. More mangled words.

Christy pulled him back. “No. Help him and he’ll kill us. How’s your mickey?”

Mike examined it gingerly. “I need ice. And a splint.”

“There are no bones in your dick.”

“Maybe not in your dick.”

Blood fountained like a fountain of blood. Christy and Mike were showered with sticky droplets. Little Mike picked up an empty cigarette box to reveal a blood-free rectangle below.

“Look,” he said. “Remember blow-painting in school?”

They talked about art for a while to take their minds off PJ’s screaming. The enforcer tried to free his arm from the nails, but he’d waited too long and hadn’t the strength. You could see it in his face, that he didn’t believe what has happening.

“But I’m PJ,” he muttered, when he could get a sentence together. It was all he said before passing out.

Christy poked PJ’s shoulder and got no reaction. “This is worse than the Fanta,” he pronounced.

Little Mike was checking his mickey again. “There’s a Nike swoosh on me lad.”

“I think he’s dead. We killed PJ.”

Little Mike coiled his member and zipped it away. “No, Christy, he killed himself. It was an accident.”

PJ looked dead. His entire shaven head was the color of his bleached goatee, and his tongue lolled out like a movie drunk. Amazing how quickly it could happen. Half a dozen nails in the wrong place.

“Warren will blame us anyway. We’re uber-fucked now.”

Uber-fucked was one of Christy’s sayings, which he claimed to have made up himself but had actually heard it in a blue movie.

Little Mike experimented with walking, cowboy style.

“Okay, so let’s get the hell out of here, before the next wave.”

Christy straightened his tracksuit, which was his equivalent of packing.

“Okay. We might have a few hours before Warren susses anything. Maybe we could get out on the ring road and hitch a lift to Waterford.”

Mike grinned through his pain. “Chill with the senoritas.”

“Si, muchacho.”

Christy was smiling a bit wide, so Mike said, “I’m grinning through my pain here, so don’t get too fucking happy.”

“Sorry, brother.”

PJ’s phone rang. It was a customized tone to the tune of Chas ’n’ Dave’s “Rabbit.”

“Warren!” said Christy and Little Mike simultaneously.

Christy followed the ring to PJ’s jacket pocket and pulled out the phone.

“The new Nokia,” said Mike admiringly. “Nice one.”

“I gotta answer it,” said Christy. “If I don’t, Warren will shoot some other wanker over here.” He danced around with the phone, as though it were on fire. “I’ll pretend I’m PJ. I have a deep voice like him.”

“My arse.”

“You do it.”

“I wouldn’t know what to say. I’m no good under pressure.”