Plugged

by Eoin Colfer

  ‘No, Sofia . . . Mrs Delano. This is not me. I mean, I am not Carmine.’

  Then something unexpected. She slaps me in the face, hard. I actually rock back on my heels.

  ‘Pull yourself together, Carmine. How many lives do you think we get? I’m forty years old next summer, and this is my last second chance. You going to break my heart again?’

  I can’t do it. I should, goddamn me, but I can’t find the strength. ‘Okay, Sofia.

  Okay, I get it.’ I stroke her cheek tenderly. It’s easy to do. Natural. ‘No broken hearts tonight. I want to do it slow, take things easy. We got time, right?’

  She blinks, uncertain, as though offering sex to this man Carmine is all she knows how to do.

  ‘Time?’

  ‘Yeah, time for romance?’

  ‘Ro-mance?’ The word hiccups in her throat. ‘You want romance?’

  ‘Sure. A man can change, can’t he?’

  ‘I . . . I guess.’

  Whew. A reprieve, though a big, insistent part of me doesn’t want a reprieve.

  ‘Good. Great. So, Sofia, you got anything to drink?’

  ‘I got some cough syrup. And some coffee.’

  I react to ‘coffee’ like it’s the holy grail. ‘Wow. Coffee, that would be awesome.’

  Definite overkill. I use the word awesome about as much as I use the word bling.

  Sofia stumbles to the kitchen on sea legs, a bewildered smile cutting through the lipstick.

  ‘Carmine Delano asking for coffee. My husband certainly has changed. Maybe you dumped some of that macho baggage you’ve been lugging around, along with the hair.’

  ‘It’s temporary,’ I blurt, wanting to please her now. ‘The hair. It’s growing back.’

  Sofia pours two mugs from the machine. ‘Hair, no hair. Doesn’t bother me, baby. So long as I have you. It’s been hours since you left. I was starting to think I did something wrong.’

  Hours? More like years.

  ‘I . . . uh . . . I had some business to take care of.’

  Sofia pushes me gently to the settee, deep brown leather, squeaks when I sit. A man could get used to relaxing in a promo sofa like this. Smells of Italian food and perfume.

  ‘Business? Like that naked bitch downstairs? Same old Carmine.’

  I absurdly defend myself. ‘That woman was a detective. She was trying to kill me.’

  Sofia eyes me archly. ‘Uh-huh. I bet she had good reason. I know what you are, Carmine, all about your dalliances.’

  Dalliances. First time I’ve heard that word since Ireland.

  Drinking and dalliances. That’s you, isn’t it? That’s your entire goddamn life in a nutshell.

  Mother shouting that at my father, and him laughing. Scratching his chin with one hand and swiping the air with the other, trying to catch an invisible fly.

  ‘Dalliances, eh?’ he’d twitter, then do a little mocking fairy dance. ‘Was this before or after the croquet?’

  Back to here and now, but I’m shaking a little. ‘No, Sofia. No dalliances. It’s only you. You’re the only one for me.’

  It’s easy to say and it would be easy to mean.

  Sofia glows; she sweeps her blonde hair aside, eyes downcast like a twenty-year-old bride.

  ‘You mean it, baby? You mean it this time?’

  ‘I do.’ I take her hand and place it on my chest. ‘Feel my heart and tell me I’m lying.’

  If my heart could speak, it would say that my every word is a lie. Her husband is gone and he better stay gone, because if he comes back I might just have to kill him.

  Sofia places her cheek beside her slim fingers. ‘It’s a strong heart, Daniel. Strong enough to protect me.’

  ‘No one’s going to hurt you now, Sofia. That guy, the Keerist almighty guy, he’s gone for good.’

  ‘Kee-rist almighty beep,’ whispers Sofia, then falls asleep just like that.

  Kee-rist almighty beep? says Ghost Zeb. What the hell does that mean?

  I decide to think about that later; for the moment I’m thinking about how Mrs Delano just called me Daniel.

  The human mind has layers, Simon Moriarty once told me. Some of them know what’s going on. Some of them don’t.

  I really must call that guy.

  So I do, call the guy, next evening over a late late breakfast before I head out to work. I’ve had eighteen hours’ sleep and three square meals and I feel like it’s time to solve some of my problems.

  ‘Hey, Doc. It’s Daniel McEvoy.’

  Silence on the other end for a few moments, while Moriarty opens his mental filing cabinet.

  ‘Daniel? Daniel bloody McEvoy. A blast from the past. How are you doing, Dan? Not too well, I’m guessing.’

  I allow my gaze to drift out the window. There’s a light drizzle coming down silver though the streetlights. Looks nice, like movie rain.

  ‘Well, I’m noticing how nice the rain’s looking, if that means anything.’

  I hear the sound of a Zippo wheel spinning and it brings me back ten years.

  ‘Noticing rain? You are truly screwed, my boy. Nine out of ten serial killers start paying close attention to meteorology just before they cut loose. By the way, you do know it’s two in the morning over here. You’re lucky I was up carousing.’

  I’m smiling into my phone, a sucker for the old accent.

  ‘Whatever, you arsehole.’

  ‘Gobshite.’

  ‘You sure you have a degree?’

  ‘You called me, Sergeant McEvoy. What’s your problem?’

  ‘Problems, Doc. Problems.’

  ‘Okay. Shoot, so long as you’re aware I’m billing the army for this.’

  Down the street a couple are arguing about something. She’s big on the hand gestures, waving like a windmill. Would I find that cute or irritating? Shit, I’m already irritated.

  ‘Okay. I’ve got this woman in love with me.’

  ‘Well done. Live long, die happy.’

  ‘No. She thinks I’m someone else.’

  ‘Ah . . . Well, sometimes secrets are a good thing. I know that general thinking says holding things in can be damaging, but some things are better kept to oneself.’

  ‘It’s more than secrets, Doc. She actually believes I’m a different person. Her husband, I think.’

  ‘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 re-membering 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.

  Okay. Maybe it is as bad as it sounds. Just different bad.

  Rolling the girls is one of Victor’s favourite pastimes, and he’s going to keep on doing it until one of the rolled girls goes crazy and spikes his Dom P with rat poison.

  This thought brings on a dreamy sigh.

  ‘Hey, Dan, you dreaming about Oirland again?’

  It’s Marco, the little barman, peeking out across the empty bar, smiling but not laughing because I’m a lot bigger than he is.

  Then he notices my bruised face and his smile shrinks a few molars. ‘Holy shit, man. What happened to you?’

  ‘I was dreaming about Oirland,’ I say straight-faced. ‘And this guy interrupted me, so we had a talk. You should see the state he’s in.’ I mime drinking through a straw in the side of my mouth.

  Marco wipes a glass like he’s trying to climb inside it. ‘You’re a funny man, Daniel. Hilarious. You know I’ve got a weak heart, right?’

  I cut him some slack with a soft smile. ‘I know, Marco. Victor’s in back?’

  Marco wipes harder, not happy with giving bad news to big people. ‘Yeah. Doing his favourite thang. He said to send you back if you showed up.’

  ‘Those exact words?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘Give it to me straight.’

  ‘What he said exactly was “If that Irish monkey-fucker shows up, you send him back here for a bitch slapping.”’

  My eyebrows shoot up to my hairline of old. ‘Monkey-fucker?’

  Marco almost disappears behind the bar. ‘Not my words.’ Then he gets brave. ‘I would probably have said leprechaunfucker, to tie in with the Irish thing.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s much better. Do me a favour, Marco. Pour me a large Jameson; I should be out in a minute to drink it.’

  ‘You got it, Dan,’ says Marco, reaching for the optic. ‘I’m gonna miss you, man.’

  ‘I’m getting fired, not dying,’ I mutter and head for the back room.

  The back room in Slotz is the only original part of the building. Nice little red-brick room with a row of head-height postbox windows. Vic installed a polished wooden bar in the corner that’s way too big for the space, and there’s an old green baize card table with brass corners wedged into the leftover room. This is where the real money is mad
e in Slotz. The back room has been running a high-stakes game since Prohibition. To hear Vic tell it, you’d think that every New York gangster from Schultz to Gotti had lost a bundle in here.

  When I push through the door, Vic is swizzling a green cocktail and treating a couple of teenage girls to a social studies lesson.

  ‘The entire room is living history. This table. This exact table is fifty years old.’

  The girls are nodding eagerly hoping for Vic’s approval; I on the other hand have decided not to beg for my job back. I have realised suddenly that without Connie, this dump holds zero appeal for me. So I do not have to listen to Vic’s shit for one more second.

  ‘Fifty years? Back home we have fast-food joints older than that. We have bloody walls older than this entire country.’

  Victor jumps. He was so into his spiel that he didn’t even notice me coming in.

  ‘What the hell?’ he stammers, for some reason grabbing at his purple bowler hat, like that’s the first thing a raider would go for. I notice that he’s wearing a bandanna under the hat, and another stuffed into his breast pocket. ‘McEvoy! You’re like a case of the clap. You arrive quiet, then flare up.’

  Brandi is in the room, hovering at Vic’s shoulder like the spectre of death in heels, so obviously she laughs. Victor’s got one of his cousins there too: AJ, a prize moron. Rumour has it that AJ once twisted a model Statue of Liberty up his arse, then tried to tell the ER doctor he sat on it in Battery Park.

  ‘You know a lot about the clap, Vic?’

  Victor sees my eyes then, and he knows I’m not here to petition.

  ‘You want to watch what you say to me, McEvoy. I’m connected.’

  I am so sick of this man. This is the man who ordered his surveillance discs wiped on the night of Connie’s murder, even though there may have been evidence on one of them.

  ‘Connected? Give me a break, Vic. Your fat arse is connected to that chair, that’s about it. Your brain isn’t connected to your stupid mouth, that’s for sure.’

  AJ is off his chair, baring his teeth, waiting on the word.

  I eyeball him good. ‘You better sit down, Lady Liberty, unless you got room for my foot up there alongside that statue.’

  Vic waves a pudgy finger. ‘Sit, AJ. This man could kill us all without breaking a sweat.’

  ‘Maybe you’re not as stupid as I thought.’