by Ken Bruen
“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 über-fucked now.”
Über-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 señoritas.”
“Sí, 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.”
Christy slapped his own forehead to get the ideas flowing. “Okay. Start screaming!”
“What?”
“Look!” shouted Christy. “PJ’s alive!”
Little Mike screamed. Christy answered the phone.
“Y’ello.”
Warren sounded pissed off. “What the fuck’s going on up there, PJ? Haven’t you finished with those two muppets yet?”
Mike screamed again, getting the idea. Camouflage.
“Two minutes, Mister Warren!” shouted Christy.
“Yer not, like, doing anything, are ye? You know, ’cause if you are, make sure to video it, son.”
“Will do, Mister Warren.”
“Jesus, that fucker can scream. Is that the one with the makeup?”
Christy was wounded. “Shut up, you ugly motherfucking wankstain! Not you, obviously, Mister Warren.”
“Obviously.”
“No, it’s the other one. The one with the big cock.”
“Yeah, whatever, just hurry it up. I’m a bit jumpy down here with the night safe bag. You know what the urchins around here are like. No fucking respect.”
“On my way, Mister Warren.”
Warren hung up, so he could hold onto his money with two hands. Christy dropped PJ’s phone back into the dead enforcer’s pocket.
“Cheers, brother,” he said automatically.
Little Mike took deep whooping breaths. �
��Jesus. Screaming’s not easy.”
Christy peered out the flat window. “Warren is below in the car, on his own. With the day’s money. Imagine the time we could have in Waterford with that.”
Little Mike knew the look on his friend’s face. “You’re not planning something, are you? Because you know how your plans turn out.”
“PJ’s dead, isn’t he?”
“I hope that’s not the case for the defense, because he killed himself. Nothing to do with you. Dumb fucking luck.”
“Myaark,” said PJ, falling forward from the sofa. His arm came free with a sound like an oyster being sucked out of a shell.
Christy and Little Mike screamed like school girls and ran straight out the door.
“Arm, fuckaaark!” moaned PJ behind them. A bit less dead than previously believed.
In the corridor Christy was blessed with an idea. Rather than go through the usual discussion rigmarole with Little Mike, he decided to act on his own initiative. After all, Batman occasionally decided to go on missions without Robin. Or he used to, until that bastard Joker came along. Now he had no choice in the matter. Christy pulled out his phone, composing a text on the run. He sent it to every runner in the building who had made drops for him over the past months.
Bllx n BMW sez Man UTD r shite, read the message.
In seconds doors were whipped open and enraged Manchester United fans spilled onto the balconies. They howled like hyenas, pouring down the stairwells. Twenty fearless, immortal little fuckers headed straight for Warren’s car door.
Christy waved his phone. “I got it too. Some fucker in a BMW hates Man United. Out the front. Big fatheaded cunt.”
Little Mike copped on for once, but felt he was being left out. “He said that Andioni fucks pigs. And, eh, sucks shit through straws.”
One urchin stopped. He was wearing an Andioni jersey. “I heard about the shit thing. It’s homeopathic, for the squirts. It’s not his own shit.”
Little Mike faltered, then came back with: “Yer man in the BMW says it is his own shit.”
“Cunt!” spat the urchin, disappearing down the stairwell in a red-and-white flash.
Christy and Little Mike held back, allowing the sea of miniature hooligans to flow around them. Several hands dipped into their pockets, but came out empty. It was like a couple of sharks being nibbled by cleaner fish. If the sharks were scared shitless.
It took a couple of minutes to make it down to the surface, and by then Warren’s Beamer was being pelted with everything light enough to throw. A couple of boys had kicked over a few wheelie bins and were firing rotten vegetables.
Warren was not taking it well. He opened the window a crack.
“Fuck off home, ye blackguards!” he roared through the gap, his comb-over separating from his skull. “Don’t you know who I am?”
The boy in the Andioni jersey hopped up on his bonnet. “Yeah, Mister. You’re the cunt who sucks shit through straws. Your own shit.”
The boy apparently could not produce a shit on command, but he could certainly have a slash. He undid his fly and pissed in lazy arcs across Warren’s windscreen. The wipers sloshing most of it back onto his own trainers did not seem to put him off.
Little Mike and Christy were circling around the back, giggling.
“Warren will do his nut. He’s not used to this kind of abuse.”
“Serves him right. Him and his fucking tests.”
Warren, as predicted, did his nut. He struggled from the passenger seat, waving a large pistol.
“Now who sucks shit? You fucking cockroach.”
A few warning shots, thought the drugs-and-porn video baron, just to send these monkeys back to their tree. The reports echoed off the apartment block walls, scattering boys like frightened birds. Except unlike frightened birds, they only scattered as far as the nearest cover, then peeked over for a look at the gun.
Warren, with his flapping hair and Louis Copeland suit, mistook this curiosity for newfound respect.
“That’s more like it!” he shouted, waving the pistol. “Now you’re getting the idea. Nobody fucks with me on my own doorstep.”
One boy yawned. Several more hooted. These were old lines. Rendered impotent by dozens of straight-to-video films.
Christy and Little Mike were thrilled with all this lack of respect. They would have been joining in themselves if they hadn’t been sneaking up behind the car.
“He’s going to see us,” hissed Mike. “We need a distraction. Will I get me lad out again?”
Christy pointed across at the flats. “No. I think we’re all right for a distraction.”
PJ was stumbling out the door like a zombie, swinging his knife before him like a blind man’s cane. His bad arm looked like it had been dipped in crimson paint.
“Mistaaaark,” he groaned.
Warren was shocked. “Fuckin’ hell, PJ. You didn’t go and shove your entire arm up someone’s arse, did you?”
Christy and Little Mike didn’t hear the reply to this unusual question, because they were in the BMW and reversing across the car park. Warren—fair play to him—reacted quickly enough, putting several rounds into the windscreen.
Mike stuck his head out the side window. “Bullet-proof glass, asshole. Yer always going on about it.” He then withdrew his head sharpish as another bullet whistled past his ear.
Before they pulled onto the road, Christy saw Warren hurl his empty gun in their direction. Not wise. The urchins were on him in under a second, stripping him like piranas on flesh. PJ didn’t fare much better. He got a swift kick in the bollocks and his wallet lifted.
“Ah, Jaysus,” said Christy regretfully. “We forgot PJ’s wallet.”
Mike had the night safe bag open on his lap. It was filled with wedges of banded notes.
“We’re made, Mike,” hooted Christy when he saw the cash. “There must be thirty grand in here. Maybe forty. We can live like kings on this in Waterford. Those señoritas love fellas from the big city. We’ll be like Bono and the Edge, brother.”
They pulled away from the flats, flashing everyone they thought they might know. In minutes, they were on the motorway heading south.
Christy was already lost in the dream. “Come tomorrow and we’ll be topless by the pool. Sipping cocktails in the sunny southeast, a girl on either side and one in the middle.”
Little Mike’s phone rang.
“Hello. Mike here.” He winked at Christy. Another thirteen-inch call. “Yep, it’s true. I have it right here before me. Could use a little TLC, as it happens … Uhuh … Really? Well, I’m sure we could work something out.”
Mike covered the mouthpiece with a hand.
“Any chance we could make a stopover in Castledermot?”
BLACK STUFF
BY KEN BRUEN
ART: skill; human skill or workmanship.
Then you got a whole page of crap on:
Art
Form
Paper
Nouveau
—ful
Like I’ve got the interest.
Jesus.
I was in the bookshop, killing time, saw the manager give me the look. That’s why I picked up a book, a goddamn dictionary, weighing like a ton, opened it to the bit on art. Glanced up, the manager is having a word with the security schmuck.
Yeah, guys, I’m going to steal the heaviest tome in the shop.
Check my watch, Timex piece of shit, but it’s getting late. Tell you one thing, after the job, first item, a gold Rolex. The imitations are everywhere but the real deal … ah, slide that sucker on your wrist, dude, you are home.
Cost a bundle, right?
The whole point, right?
On my way out, I touch the manager’s arm, the wanker jumps. I go, “Whoa … bit nervous there, pal? Could you help me?”
He has bad teeth, yellow with flecks of green, a little like the Irish flag. He stammered: “How, I mean … am … what? ”
“Dictionary for Dummies, you got that?”
/> His body language is assessing me and wanting to roar, “Nigger!”
Man, I know it, you grow up black in a town like Dublin, you know.
He pulls himself together, those assertive training sessions weren’t blown, he gets a prissy clipped tone, asks, “And who would that help, might I inquire?”
“You, buddy, you’d really benefit. See, next time a non-Caucasian comes in, you can grab your dummy dictionary, look up … discretion … and if that helps, go for it, check out assumptions, too, you’ll be a whole new man.” I patted his cheek, added: “You might also search for dentistry, Yellow Pages your best bet there.”
I was in the snug in Mulligans, few punters around.
A guy comes in, orders a drink, American accent but off, as if he’d learned it, says to Jeff, “Gordon’s on the rocks, splash of tonic.”
Then: “Bud back.”
Jeff gives him a look and the guy offers a hearty chuckle, explains, “I mean, as well as, guess you folk say … with it … or in addition to?” Was he going to give the whole nine?
He got the drinks, walked over, sat at my table, asked, “How you doing?”
Like every night in the city, some asshole does the same Joey Tribiani tired rap. I didn’t answer. Instead, I peeled a piece of skin on my thumb. He said, “You don’t wanna inflame that, buddy.”
Wanna?
So I asked, “You a doctor?”
He was delighted, countered, feigning surprise, “You’re Irish?” Not believing it, like I’m black, so come on. I nod and he takes a hefty slug of the gin, grimaces, then: “How’d that happen?”
I still don’t know why but I told him the truth. Usually, who gives a fuck?
Sean Connery said, tell them the truth, then it’s their problem. My mother was from Ballymun, yeah, Ireland’s most notorious housing estate. Fuck, there’s a cliché: She’d a one night stand with a sailor.
How feckin sad is that?
And not a white guy.
He asked, “So, was it, like … tough, am … ?”
I let that hover, let him taste it, then did the Irish gig, a question with a question. “Being black, or being fatherless?”
He went, “Uh huh.”
Noncommital or what?
I said, “Dublin wasn’t a city, it was still a town, and a small one, till the tiger roared.”
He interrupted: “You’re talking the Celtic Tiger, am I right?”
