by Declan Burke
‘Frank? Why should I give a shit about Frank?’
‘You mightn’t,’ Mirror-Madge said. ‘But there’s thirty years that do. I mean, those thirty years, they’re hanging around in time-limbo, purgatory, because they were wasted. Lived empty. Y’know? Shot through with Valium, Prozac, you name it, Frank prescribed it. You should hear those thirty years scream, Madge.’
‘I want Frank to die.’
‘Yeah, but enough about you. What’re we going to do about Frank?’
Rossi
‘Narcolepsy,’ Rossi said.
‘Can happen any time,’ Sleeps confirmed, ‘anywhere. You don’t even have to be tired.’
‘Tired? You’re asleep half the fucking day.’
‘It’s not proper sleep. Mostly it’s like you’re sleepwalking.’ Sleeps thought about that. ‘You never wondered where I got the name?’
‘I got better things to do,’ Rossi growled, ‘than give a shit about where people got their fucking names.’
The Volks parked up in the shadow of a big oak fifty yards back from the wrought-iron gates, giving Rossi a good view of the apartment block, the bushes outside with the Jackie Chan leaves. Karen’s window to the front, a light on behind the lowered shades.
‘What I used to do,’ Sleeps said, ‘this is when I’m still getting gigs as a wheelman, I’d boot up on crystal meth. Be wide awake, for days, shit, it was hard fucking going. You can die, y’know? From not getting your forty winks.’
‘You don’t mind me asking,’ Rossi said, ‘with all the nodding off and all, how you thought of wheelman for a career. I’m only asking.’
‘When I was at school? They kicked me out. Sent me off on this training scheme, forklifts. How to reverse with the load up, all this shit. The first day, the guy running the scheme gets everyone to try and lift a pallet, these sacks of cement on it. We’re all pulling on a corner of the pallet, pretending we’re trying to lift. The guy says, “See that? The world will always need forklifts.”’
‘And?’
‘I’m trained, man. It’s what they trained me for. Driving.’
‘Forklifts,’ Rossi said, shifting his weight from one buttock to the other, grunting even before he felt the stabbing in his shaft. He took a hit off the jay and held it down. ‘So when’d they move you up to, y’know, the getaway mopeds?’
‘Hey – I took one nap, okay? A few zeds. Always happens after I’ve had a jab. And you told me, no sweat, you know where she lives. So what’s the problem?’
‘The problem,’ Rossi began, then shook his head. Christ, where to start? Rossi depending on some zombie fucking forklift jockey, a diabetic to boot, to keep him close to Karen, the Ducati. Rossi had his eye on the underground parking lot with the sliding gates; the Ducati was in there, he could nearly smell it.
First, though, Rossi’d be needing to root through Karen’s apartment, see if he couldn’t stumble across the sixty grand, his sixty grand. Plus, the .44 – Rossi, it was a matter of principle, of ethics, wasn’t giving up on the Mag.
‘By the way, Rossi? This con you’re running? The advice centre?’
‘FARC, yeah.’
‘That’s just it. There’s something you should know.’
‘What’s that?’ Rossi said, opening the door to take his second piss in an hour, Rossi paranoid about letting pressure build up on his stitched shaft.
‘There’s already a FARC.’
‘You’re kidding. Who the fuck’re FARC?’
‘Colombians. Leftist rebels, they’re into coke, all this.’
‘Fuck.’ Rossi thought fast. ‘What d’you think, will they want points?’ Thinking, shit, that was the pope and the Colombians already, all he needed now was the Revenue taking a bite out of his ass.
‘Unlikely. But there’s every chance they’ll, y’know, blow you sky-high for taking the piss.’
‘They’d blow up a charity?’
‘These boys are hardcore, Rossi. I mean, they’re jungle-fighting the CIA, mortaring whole fucking towns, assassinating nuns and shit. You think they’d draw the line at a charity?’
‘I wouldn’t. I mean, if I had their fire-power.’ Rossi handed the joint across. ‘Duck-ass this one and you’re walking home. And get thinking about a new name.’
He went behind the Volks and got down on his knees before unzipping; the first time he’d tried to piss standing up, the pain had been so bad he’d fallen down, letting go all over the trousers, the pink chalk-stripes glowing up red. This time there wasn’t much more than a dribble. He got back to his feet, zipped up, went around to the passenger door, eased in slow.
‘We’ll give it another hour,’ he said. ‘If they’re not out by then, they won’t be coming.’
And got a little snore in return, Sleeps with his chin on his chest. Rossi swore and plucked the joint from Sleeps’ fingers, fired it up. Then saw the flashing blue light pulling in behind the Volks that could mean only one thing.
Frank
Frank dumped more bourbon in his glass, splashed in some ginger ale, staggered across to the stereo. Trying to remember who he was listening to. Puccini, it sounded like. Or maybe Mozart; earlier on, he recalled, he’d had a hankering for Die Fledermaus.
But, no, it was definitely Italian – shit, was it Verdi? He squinted down at the title on the record, the LP revolving on the turntable, Frank getting dizzy, vision blurring, shit, the whole room was spinning now….
He staggered, bumping up against the stereo, scratching the vinyl. The needle wound up in the middle of the record making a wuhf-wuhf noise that sounded none too operatic to Frank. By then, though, he had other things to worry about, bouncing as he was off the stereo cabinet onto the desk and jabbing the phone with a wayward elbow before ricocheting away again to stumble on the edge of the carpet and sit down, hard, jarring his spine.
Frank sat there awhile listening to the wuhf-wuhf, trying to remember when he’d decided to sit down, and why he might have wanted to sit on the ground when there were so many plush armchairs dotted around his study. Although, the way the armchairs seemed to be shimmying, Frank reckoned he was probably safer on the floor.
He noted that the heavy jolt hadn’t cost him a drop of the ginger-bourbon, then drank it off fast in case he wasn’t so lucky the next time. He burped loudly, tasting stale cigarettes, bourbon and cheap pizza, then heard a voice, faint and tinny: ‘Who’s this?’
Frank looked up and around, expecting to see Gen, but he was alone in the study. ‘Hello?’ he ventured.
‘Who the fuck is this?’
Frank, who vaguely remembered the story of Samuel from the Bible, Samuel hearing the voice of God, scratched divine intervention off his list of possible sources for the intrusion. ‘It’s me,’ he said tentatively. ‘Frank.’
‘Oh Christ,’ said the tinny voice, Frank hearing it from somewhere above his right ear. He untangled himself and made a desperate lunge for the edge of the desk, grabbing the receiver that lay on the blotting pad, then slumped back onto the carpet, horizontal, saying: ‘Terry? Did he ring?’
‘I already told you. He rings when he rings.’
‘So why’re you calling?’ Frank said, bewildered.
‘You rang me. Despite express fucking warnings to the contrary. So this better be good, Frank.’
Frank realised he must have hit the redial button when he elbowed the phone. But, accident or not, and now the opportunity was there….
‘Terry, I just want to clarify somethi ––’
‘We’ve been through this already, Frank. What’d I say?’
‘You’ll have me killed?’
‘Christ no. Why do that and be out twenty grand good faith? Okay, yeah, we might call around and break your knees, I’m not saying we won’t. Then again, we might not. As long as you’re making vig every month, why would we want to put you out of business?’
‘Vig?’
Terry sighed. ‘I hear what you’re saying, Frank. You’re not, if this thing fucks up, entirely responsible. S
o what I’ll do is, worst case scenario, I’ll split the vig. All I’ll call in is two. But don’t go spreading that around. Word gets out I’m doing two for twenty, it’ll be Black Friday all over again.’
‘Two?’
‘Two grand, Frank. Per month, every month. Whenever you want to pay off the capital, the twenty grand, come talk to us and we’ll see what we can work out. Okay? Now – ring this number again, I’ll personally come around and feed your balls to the guppies.’
‘But I don’t have guppies.’
‘I’ll bring the guppies, Frank.’
Click-brrrrrrrrrr….
Doyle
‘You’re leaving? But it’s only twelve-thirty.’
‘I could do with an early night,’ Doyle said.
‘Couldn’t we all,’ Sparks said, smacking her lips. ‘Plus you’re pining for cuddly Ray.’
‘I never said he was cuddly.’
‘Saturday night, they’re all cuddly.’
‘Like any of those,’ Doyle said, point across the bar at the group of guys clustered around the juke. Sparks checked them out: four of them, wearing stripy shirts and Chinos, clutching bottles of import beer.
‘Student doctors,’ she said, ‘don’t qualify.’
‘Except, inside the club? That’s what you’re looking at. Guys who still want their toast soldiers cut without the crusts.’
‘Harsh,’ Sparks observed, ‘but probably more than fair.’
‘Anyway, I’m working tomorrow. You don’t mind if I scoot off?’
‘Of course I mind.’ Sparks nodding across at the rest of the crew on the other side of the table, their heads together, hair being flicked, the girls copping the eye from the interns at the juke. ‘This lot wouldn’t score on a fucking oil rig. Plus, I’ve seen better dancers in bouncy castles.’
‘I’ll make it up to you,’ Doyle promised. ‘Next weekend, we’ll rip it up.’
‘Unless by then you’ve tracked Ray down and blackmailed him into pushing your knees up around your ears.’
‘I’m disappointed to hear,’ Doyle said, standing up, ‘that you think it’d take blackmail.’
‘Bring a gun,’ Sparks called after her. ‘Just to be on the safe side.’
Making for the cab-rank at the top of the street, Doyle heard the guy coming, one of the stripy-shirt brigade, she’d caught his reflection in the closing door as he followed her out. The guy calling: ‘Hey? Yeah you, the gorgeous one.’
So she stopped and turned to face him. He sauntered up with a wide cheesy grin, about to make Doyle’s night with an offer she couldn’t refuse. ‘I was just wondering ––’
‘Don’t.’
His smile barely wobbled. ‘But you don’t even know what ––’
‘Whatever it is, it’ll be some bullshit designed to get your rocks off. Am I right?’
‘Jesus, I was only ––’
‘Only five-six, I’d say. Sorry, stud. I like ’em tall.’
The guy squaring his shoulders now, puffing out his chest.
‘Don’t sweat it,’ Doyle said. ‘Napoleon was a midget too.’
The smile long gone by now. ‘Sorry,’ he said, harshly. ‘Looks like I made a mistake.’ He turned to go, then turned back. Doyle tensed. But all he said was: ‘Good manners cost nothing.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I said, good manners cost nothing.’
Doyle fumbled in her bag, flashed her badge. ‘I’m a cop,’ she said. ‘I don’t care if you’re Dirty Harriet,’ the guy said defiantly. ‘Manners are manners.’
Doyle, on the verge of karate-chopping the guy to the shoulder, grinding his face into the concrete, heard herself say: ‘Yeah, maybe you have a point there at that.’
Then took his number, saying she’d ring in a few days, she had a job she needed to finish up first.
‘That’s cool,’ the guy said, Doyle impressed by the way he wasn’t fazed she was a cop.
‘A word of advice,’ she said. ‘You want to chat a girl, do it when she’s in the mood. If she’s already left, she’s probably not in the mood anymore.’
‘I hear you,’ he said, sauntering off, hands in pockets.
Doyle got in a cab thinking, okay, he’s no Ray, but maybe things are looking up. Then realised, the guy being five-six, five-seven at a stretch, he’d be looking up too, at Doyle. So she crumpled the number, tossed it out the window.
Rossi
One cop stood on the pavement, the peaked hat pushed back on his forehead, hands on his hips. The other one rapped his knuckles on the driver’s window. Rossi leaned across Sleeps and wound down the window, wincing at the burn in his groin.
‘Whaddya want now?’
The cop, leaning in, wrinkled his nose. ‘Sir, you’re parked on a double yellow line.’
Rossi sucked on the cigarette he’d lit to cover the smell of herb. ‘It’s Saturday fucking night and you’re handing out parking tickets?’
‘The law never sleeps, sir.’
The other cop got a bang out of that one.
‘Yeah, well,’ Rossi said, ‘that’s your problem right there.’ He jerked a thumb at Sleeps. ‘This guy’s got, he calls it, narcolepsy. Fell asleep ten minutes ago. So we pulled in.’
‘You pulled in after he fell asleep? Sir, driving a vehicle under the influence of sleep is considered undue care.’
The other cop damn near slapped his thigh.
‘He got tired,’ Rossi explained, ‘said he needed a few zeds. So he pulled in. Then he fell asleep.’
The cop staring Rossi down. ‘Okay,’ he conceded, ‘I’m not smelling any alcohol. But I’m getting something. You want to tell me what that might be?’
‘It might be him,’ Rossi said. ‘I mean, the guy ate three chilli cheese-dogs, a double curry-chip, earlier on.’ The cop grimaced. ‘But it might be, too, my condition you’re getting.’
‘Condition?’
‘Manic depression.’ Rossi tried to recall some of the phrases he’d learned inside, greasing up the shrink for some early release. ‘Severe mood swings,’ he hazarded.
‘You can smell mood swings?’
The other cop gurgled.
‘I mean, the treatment, the doc prescribed it, is a marijuana cigarette.’ Rossi pronouncing it marry-jew-anna. ‘Taken in moderation.’
‘I see. And this doctor of yours, you can tell me where I can find him.’
‘Sure. He’s in Paris.’
‘Paris.’
‘He’s a specialist. I mean, for depression. And, I think, toxic shock.’
‘Sir, would you mind stepping out of the car?’
The cop raised his head, made a smoking gesture to the guy on the pavement. Rossi shook his head in despair, how fucking cruel is life; dropped his cigarette into the ashtray and got out slow, assumed the position against the car.
Then, it was Rossi’s luck, the security gates across the way rattled back and the Transit swung out, turning up towards the roundabout so Rossi couldn’t see who was in the cab. He said to the cop, the chortler patting him down: ‘Seriously – I’m just out, three fucking days. You think I’d be stupid enough to be carrying something?’
‘Yep.’
The cop ran a practiced hand up the inside of Rossi’s left leg, then all the way down the right, skipping, Rossi was relieved, his groin. Rossi watching the first cop coming back from the squad car, the guy throwing this casual swagger.
‘Tell me again, sir, how come you just happened to be sitting here.’
‘The guy felt tired. Ask him. He’s the fucker was driving, not me.’
‘Less of the foul language,’ the chortler told Rossi. ‘I won’t remind you again.’
‘Okay,’ the first cop said, ‘if Rip van Winkle here ever wakes up, we’ll ask him how come he got tired around this spot in particular. Also, we’ll want to know where he was about one-thirty this afternoon.’
Rossi winced, knowing what was coming.
‘When,’ the cop continued, ‘this car was stolen.’<
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Rossi nodded. ‘Hold up,’ he said, bending down and leaning into the car, fishing the still smouldering cigarette from the ashtray. He popped it into Sleeps’ ear, then ducked back out of the car again, nodded at the cop. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Go on.’
Ray
‘Know who’d get a bang out of this?’ Ray said. ‘Anna. Am I right?’
Karen nodded. ‘That’s the general idea, yeah.’
Ray looked back across the clearing from the wooden jetty. ‘Place like this, you’d think it’d be going cheap. I mean, the state of it.’
‘It’s the lake you’re paying for, the view.’ The lake limned with moonlight. ‘And it’s not just the cottage. There’s three acres goes with it.’
‘I know. But still, I don’t know.’
Ray working hard to keep it all together. He’d expected Karen to blow her top, sitting her down on the couch to tell her about Madge, first making sure he was between Karen and the cutlery drawer; waiting for her to erupt, throw slaps, left-handed side-kicks, the works – except Karen’d listened in silence, glowering, arms folded.
When she was sure he was finished she’d said, in an even, dead tone: ‘Three times, Ray. I asked you, be honest, three times in a row, and you lied straight to my fucking face.’ Then, the killer: ‘Of all people, you should know how three-in-a-row feels.’
So Ray’d skipped the last confession, the bit about the Belgian truffles, figuring it’d keep for another day. The twist in Karen’s lower jaw giving her face a sinister cast while she chewed on her lower lip. Then she stood up, saying: ‘Okay, come on. Get your coat.’
Bringing him way out into the sticks, up around the lake, Ray wondering if she wasn’t planning to stick him and dump the body where it’d never be found. Ray, when he first caught a glimpse of the cottage on the shore, did a double-take – no doubt about it, it was the place he’d seen in Terry’s portfolio, Ray starting to wonder again if Karen and Terry weren’t somehow hooked up.
