Disaster Inc

by Caimh McDonnell

  Freddie dinged and the Irish dude’s plate spun up. She delivered it to him at the counter and picked up the hot pot of coffee, topping him up without asking, for fear of another tea-based meltdown.

  He nodded his thanks. “Much appreciated. And sorry about earlier. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

  “That’s alright, sugar. I been where you are. In fact” – she leaned in conspiratorially – “I ain’t gonna give you the twelve steps speech, but how’s about a couple of aspirin?”

  “You’re a wonderful woman.”

  “You ain’t so bad yourself, although, no disrespect, you might want to ease up on the sauce a little.”

  “Madam, I assure you, I am never going to drink again – and this time I mean it.”

  Marcy gave him a wink and moved down the counter to go find her purse with those aspirin.

  The Irishman lifted his knife and fork, a look of determination on his face.

  The bell over the door dinged and Marcy looked up.

  Two men.

  The first thing she noticed were the ski masks.

  The second thing she noticed were the guns.

  Chapter Two

  “Everybody, be cool – this is a robbery.”

  The two men wore ski masks: one dark blue, one red. The blue ski mask covered the head of a taller guy, maybe six-foot-three, his black hoodie failing to conceal his muscular gym body. The red mask guy was considerably shorter and slighter of frame. They were standing in the doorway, each waving a handgun around.

  Red stepped into the centre of the room. “Any of you fucking pricks move and I’ll execute every motherfucking last one of you.” Then he gave an excited giggle.

  Marcy stepped back from the counter and put her hands in the air. This wasn’t her first rodeo, although normally the cowboys didn’t quote Tarantino movies.

  Isabella flinched as the blue mask moved behind her so he could see Freddie in the kitchen.

  “You. Hands where I can see ’em. Hands where I can see ’em! Don’t do anything stupid.”

  Freddie moved slowly out from the kitchen and stood with his hands above his head near the register. “Alright, man – take it easy.”

  “Who else is back there?”

  “Nobody.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Look around; we ain’t exactly rushed off our feet.”

  Freddie was a big guy, six-six and muscles with it. He didn’t work out, he just worked. Marcy knew he did a warehouse job four days a week too, and some other stuff she didn’t ask about. Not that Freddie spoke much. Mister Choi said that he put him and Marcy working together as, between them, they averaged out to two reasonably talkative people. Freddie wore an apron over his wife beater and cargo shorts, it being too hot in the kitchen for much else. Fat burns speckled his bare upper arms, the black skin turning purple in places. You could also see the scars of the shoulder operation that’d cost him a football scholarship and his shot at having other people make him breakfast.

  The guy in the red ski mask was scanning the room again. “Hands in the motherfucking air, yo. Don’t make me ask again.”

  Marcy looked around. Soccer Mom and her husband had their hands obediently held up in the air. The Mexican mother had grabbed her son and was using her body to shield him from the men, while still holding one trembling hand up in an effort at compliance. Isabella, the trucker and Miss Lonely Hearts held their hands up too, as did the squirrely guy, who was almost cowering under his table as he did so. The old timer in the back booth was, against all probability, fast asleep. Either that or he was dead. Everybody else had their hands in the air. Well, everyone except…

  “Didn’t you hear me?”

  The short guy pointed his gun at the Irishman, who sat at the counter, calmly shovelling baked beans into his mouth.

  The man swallowed. “I did, yeah.”

  “So, put your motherfucking hands in the motherfucking air, motherfucker.”

  “Jesus fella, you’d really want to work on your vocabulary.”

  The man spiked a couple of mushrooms with his fork and calmly put them in his mouth.

  “Are you for real?”

  The Irishman belched and then patted himself on the chest. “No offence, lads, but I’m not that intimidated by arseholes in balaclavas. I come from the country that invented the concept.”

  The taller one shouted down the counter. “You see the guns pointed at you, dipshit?” Marcy noticed the guy spoke with a Boston twang and then tried to stop noticing. In this situation, noticing stuff could get you killed.

  The Irishman calmly sliced off a piece of fried egg. “Ara, big deal. You’re in America, champ – land of the free, home of the armed. Everybody’s got a gun. D’ye really think you’re the only ones in this room packing hardware?”

  Marcy watched as the two men in masks glanced at each other before looking around the room again.

  The Irishman continued talking, never turning from his food, speaking around mouthfuls. “There’s that jumpy little sod over there; he’s either got a piece or he sold it for whatever is making him so jittery.”

  The squirrely guy spoke in a squeal. “I ain’t got nothing, nothing, nothing – straight up.”

  “Well,” continued the Irishman, “if you can’t trust a junkie, who can you trust? You got a woman travelling with a kid; she might’ve brought along a little protection.”

  The Latina lady said nothing, her eyes wide with terror, but she shook her head furiously.

  “Father Time in the back there – Vietnam vet, maybe? Bet he’s packing, all set to shoot the next unlucky gobshite that cuts him up in traffic.”

  On cue, the old man grunted softly in his sleep. So not dead then.

  “Now there’s a man who could sleep through artillery. The young girl travelling on her own. Be daft if she wasn’t packing something.”

  Miss Lonely Hearts shifted in her seat. If Marcy was giving out prizes, she’d been winning least terrified looking. Well, apart from the snoozing old guy and, of course, the man who wouldn’t shut up.

  “Then,” continued the man who wouldn’t shut up, “you got the big fella – trucker, I’m guessing?”

  The big guy’s face was an alarming shade of red and he was rubbing his hand on his chest in a way that worried Marcy. She felt bad enough about the heart attack he had coming without having to be present for it. “You better believe he’s packing, and it’s either on him or he’s regretting leaving it in the cab right about now. And as for the staff” – he winked at Marcy – “they don’t even serve tea. Back home, if you tried that, you’d have to be armed. As for the Jetsons over there…” The Irishman glanced over his shoulder for the first time. “Well, who knows what their deal is.”

  “Would you shut up,” hissed the soccer mom. “Just let them get on with robbing the place.”

  “I’m only making conversation.” The Irishman slurped a sup of coffee and grimaced.

  The man in the red balaclava stepped towards the Irishman. “Put your goddamned hands up now. This is a robbery, bitch.”

  “Ah, but it isn’t though, is it?”

  The red balaclava glanced back at his compatriot. “What?”

  “A robbery. It isn’t one. Look at your shoes.” He said it in a tone of voice that implied no other explanation was required. Marcy would’ve sworn blind that the Irishman was yet to turn around enough in his seat to have even seen the guy’s shoes. He dipped a slice of toast into his egg yolk and crunched it into his mouth. Marcy took a step further away from him. It’d be her damn luck that someone would go to shoot this lunatic and catch her instead.

  Blue raised his voice. “Alright, asshole, enough. I’m giving you to the count of five and then I’m shooting you in the head. One…”

  The Irishman calmly cut up one of his sausages and addressed himself to Marcy instead of either of the men. “No offence, but this place makes what, a few hundred bucks a night, at best?”

  Marcy found herself nodding. “We bank on t
he early breakfast crowd.” She clamped her hands over her mouth. Her mamma had always said her inability to keep quiet would be the death of her.

  “Two.”

  “Exactly, so there’ll be feck all in that register right now. Which raises the question…”

  “Three.”

  “Why is a guy in designer leather loafers, which look to be worth a few grand, robbing it?”

  Despite themselves, the whole room looked at Red’s footwear.

  “He’s got a point,” said the soccer mom’s other half.

  “Shut up, George,” snapped his wife.

  Marcy jumped as George unexpectedly slammed his fist down onto the table. “No, I won’t, Janice. Doctor Steinberg said I should be allowed to express myself.”

  “Fair play to you, fella,” said the Irishman. “Whatever this is, it’s not a robbery. So, if it’s all the same to you, I’ll finish my breakfast.”

  “Four!”

  “I’m sick of this loud-ass Scottish motherfucker.” Red stomped across the room towards the Irishman. “You are going to be…” Red raised his gun-holding hand aloft, as if he were about to pistol-whip the Irishman on the back of the head.

  What happened next, happened fast. So fast that Marcy spent the next few days trying to piece it together over and over again in her mind.

  The pot of steaming hot coffee that’d been on the counter suddenly wasn’t. It was in the Irishman’s hand, its contents being hurled into Red’s lap.

  Red yowled in pain as the boiling hot liquid made contact. He dropped his gun, sending it skittering across the floor. Marcy watched it thump against the base of an empty table and stop.

  When she looked back, the Irishman was up and standing behind the screaming Red, the coffee pot having been thrown into the air. He grabbed the back of Red’s mask with his right hand as the other hand appeared at his neck, pressing the fork into it.

  The coffee pot smashed onto the floor.

  Instinctively, those in the room that were able had dived for whatever cover they could find. Marcy cowered back against the serving area; she could feel the heat of the metal against her lower back.

  “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus!” screamed Red. Despite the fork to his throat, his entire attention was focused on his own groin area, trying to tug the soaking material of his chinos away from it.

  At the far end of the counter, Blue now had his gun pointing at the Irishman and shouted to be heard over his compatriot. “Let him go!”

  “The feck I will. This fork is jammed right up to your pal’s carotid artery, the one that pumps blood to the brain. A jab of my wrist and he bleeds out on this floor in under sixty seconds. What in the hell? Would ye stop wriggling!”

  The last bit wasn’t directed at Blue, it was directed at Red, who, ignoring the fork pressing against his neck, had undone the belt of his chinos and dropped them to the floor – quickly followed by the boxers underneath. “My balls are burning!” His voice was now a tearful whimper.

  The Irishman leaned forward and looked over Red’s shoulder. “OK,” he said, “well, that just happened.”

  “Let him go or I’ll shoot you in the head!”

  The Irishman bobbed around behind Red while still keeping the fork firmly jammed to his throat.

  “Jesus, you’d have to be some shot from there.”

  Blue took a step forward. “Ex-Special Forces, asshole.”

  The Irishman’s voice carried a lilt of joyous mockery to it. “Sure you are, and this fella is Captain America, that’s how he’s standing here with his boiled bollocks hanging out.”

  “Fuck you,” said Red, with the kind of venom only roasted genitalia could bring. Marcy had been told before not to keep the coffee so hot, but it kept it smelling fresh.

  The Irishman leaned into Red’s ear and spoke in a stage whisper. “By the way, I’m Irish, not Scottish. You’ve no ear for accents.”

  Isabella was crouched down in front of the counter, out of Marcy’s line of sight. She yelped as Blue reached down and grabbed her by the hair, dragging her to a standing position.

  “Let him go or I shoot this bitch in the head.”

  Freddie moved towards Blue, but he was stopped dead by the gun being turned in his direction.

  “Back away – now!”

  Freddie stepped backwards, his hands once again up in the air.

  “So,” said the Irishman, “your play is to shoot someone I don’t know and get your friend killed in the process?”

  “Let him go, nobody dies.”

  The Irishman laughed a humourless laugh. “Oh, I seriously don’t think that’s true. Even if you don’t kill me, Burning Balls here strikes me as the type to hold a grudge. How did you find me anyway?”

  “What?”

  There was a long moment’s silence.

  “Oh for… you’re not here for me, are you? So, who are you after?”

  “I don’t know who the fuck you are but let him go now.”

  The Irishman shook his head. “If this isn’t a robbery, and it isn’t, and you’re not here for me… You’re here for something or somebody, that’s for sure.” He looked around the room. “Well now, ain’t this like an Agatha Christie book, only the twist is we’re all gathered around trying to guess who the victim is supposed to be.”

  Blue snapped. “Let him go or I shoot her…” Isabella yelped as Blue tugged more tightly at her hair. “And then I shoot him.” He pointed the gun at Freddie.

  “Really?” said the Irishman. “A room with, what, a dozen people in it, and you’re going to shoot the only two black folks?”

  Freddie turned towards the Irishman. “Hey, man, welcome to America.”

  Blue fired a shot into the ceiling. Isabella screamed and tried to run, only to be dragged back by the hair.

  “Everybody shut the fuck up, right now,” said Blue. “I’m done with this.”

  “Alright,” said the Irishman, “take it easy. It’s your lucky day. I’m not keen on the cops turning up either. You just walk out the door, then I’ll let the Boy Wonder here go and this never happened. Deal?”

  It was hard to tell behind the mask, but Marcy reckoned that Blue was at least thinking about it. They never did get to hear his response though, as the window behind him exploded.

  Chapter Three

  Marcy ducked behind the counter as the bullets started to fly.

  She was shocked as the Irishman dived over the top to join her, him being lighter on his feet than she would’ve expected.

  Marcy clamped her hands over her ears as, on the other side of the counter, shots rang out. A steady boom on one side met by a rat-a-tat rapid burst from the other. Glass smashed, plaster exploded, people screamed, the air stank of gunpowder. Then, suddenly, as quickly as it had started, the gunfight at Murphy’s Diner stopped.

  Beside her, the Irishman crouched on his haunches. He popped his head above the counter quickly, then down, then up again, then he stood properly. He offered Marcy his hand.

  “The coast is clear now, love.”

  Marcy stood and surveyed the scene of devastation. The glass was shattered in several of the windows, the gumball machine had taken a hit, covering the floor in its contents, and several of the pictures on the wall now had bullet holes through them.

  The old timer was still pulling the trigger on his Dirty Harry-looking hand cannon, despite the fact it was out of bullets. It click-clacked through empty chambers. “Did I get him?”

  “That depends,” said the Irishman. “Were you aiming for the jukebox?”

  The old man lowered his gun. “I can’t shoot a damn without my glasses.”

  They looked out the shattered windows as Red, with his ski mask still on and his pants still down around his ankles, hopped towards a sports car. In a screech of tyres, it zoomed away before hitting the brakes and reversing to pick him up.

  “Fecking amateurs,” said the Irishman. “Is everybody alright?”

  Mumbled assents issued from under tables and behind counter
s.

  “Ah, man, I’m hit, I’m hit!” It was the squirrely guy, red splattered across his battered windbreaker. Freddie ran over to him.

  “OK, take it easy. Where are you hit?”

  “I’m gonna die, man. Ah, fuck!”

  Freddie lifted up the guy’s T-shirt and then moved him around to look at his back, running his hand over him. Then he looked down on the floor and shook his head. “Damn junkie idiot.” He picked up a plastic bottle from the floor and held it aloft. There was a bullet hole right through it. “Ketchup, you dumb son of a bitch. Ketchup!”

  Freddie threw the bottle back down on the ground again.

  The trucker stood up on shaky legs. “Shouldn’t someone call the cops?”

  Marcy noticed the Mexican lady with her young son still strapped to her side, shaking her head furiously again.

  “Erm,” said the old timer, “I don’t have a permit to carry in this state.”

  “Yeah,” said Freddie, “no kidding. You can’t hit a damn thing. It’s a miracle nobody’s dead thanks to you.”

  “How dare you! I was defending myself!”

  Marcy watched as Freddie, fists clenched, took a step towards the old man.

  “Freddie!” said Marcy, stepping out from behind the counter. “You don’t want to do anything silly now, honey, do you?”