Best Served Frozen (The Irish Lottery Series Book 4)

by Gerald Hansen

  “Wer company be's called Slim Jed Jerky, and we sell beef jerky,” she waved a hand, robot-like, at the stand, “ as if ye couldn't tell.”

  She was putting on the accent she used so that Americans could understand her, something vaguely transatlantic, slurring words in that American way with her thick Derry accent, halfway between Ireland and Tennessee. It was the voice she had used for Vera Claythorne.

  “Now I'm gonny sing ye a wee song someone wrote about wer wile tasty beef jerky. I hope ye enjoy it.”

  I surely don't. She took a deep breath. From somewhere up above, the music from the jingle rained down into the studio. As the investors jumped, startled, Ursula realized she was scared, or was it embarrassed, to sing the jingle, just like she had been in the studio when they recorded it for the radio. But she imagined she was in the choir at church and it was really Ave Maria she was belting out. In a voice more suited to praising good than selling goods, her voice rang out:

  It's jerky! It's jerky!

  It's Slim Jed Jerky!

  It's brown and flat,

  Yeah, brown and flat,

  And believe you me, it won't make you fat!

  They're chewing, chewing, chewing it

  From Milwaukee To Albuquerque!

  Get yours today, and chew those blues away!

  It's brown, yeah, I know it's brown,

  but it'll chew the blues away!

  It's jerky! It's jerky!

  It's Slim Jed Jerky!

  Yee-hay!

  A silence, stunned. All on the platform exchanged glances. Then,

  “Horrible presentation!” bellowed Billionaire. “Horrible packaging! Horrible clothing! Horrible jingle! Horrible people! Get lost!” He sat in his chair sideways, as if the sight of them made him sick. He looked down and fiddled with his iPhone.

  “I'm agree,” sneered Foreign. “Do not like 'is brown and flat.' And no understand this...bif jeeky. Dreadful. Get lost!”

  Ursula jerked under the lights. She hadn't expected applause, but two immediate eliminations? She was still smiling, but her voice was sharp, and she was shocked as she heard herself yell back, “How the flimmin hell can ye say that?!” She was fuming. It was as if they had attacked one of her children, no, all three. “What sort of investors do ye think youse are? Ye've not even tasted wer flimmin beef jerky! And ye've not heard Jed speak yet. Jed? JED?!”

  Ursula marched to the stand, and it was here she realized she should have left her handbag in the Green Room. But she didn't know who might chose to rummage through it while it lie there unattended. She didn't want to put it on the studio floor, as it looked dirty and the circus troupe had stood there before them. She slipped it from her shoulder and let it dangle from her elbow. She grabbed the tray. There were little plates with pieces of jerky wrapped, so they could see the packaging (Louella had designed it), and unwrapped, so they could try it. There were also napkins.

  “Ye're gonny sample wer jerky if I have to shovel it down yer throats meself!”

  “Ooohh! Feisty!” Mean trilled as she strode towards the platform. If he wasn't warbling, he was trilling. But he took a plate. Ursula was relieved to see they all did, though they nibbled tentatively, a bit fearfully, as if she and Jed were selling dog food.

  Billionaire spat his nibble out and said,“Leathery. Salty. Disgusting.”

  “I break my tooth.” Foreign.

  “Youse're already out, so I don't know why ye even bothered snatching the plates outta me hand like that. Do they not feed ye round here? And I'll have ye know, most of wer customers love em and come back for more. Again and again and again. Repeat business, it's called.”

  Female, Playboy and Mean's faces were lighting up with surprise as they chewed.

  “Remarkable flavor!” Playboy said.

  “Delicious!” From Mean. Ursula almost choked.

  “I'm usually vegan,” Female said, wiping the corner of her lip with one of the napkins and taking another bite, “but this is delightful! There's something...some taste...I can't quite place it...that makes...”

  “Yer tongue dance? Aye, that's me special ingredient. A secret, so it is. Ye've not heard about wer business yet! Don't ye wanny hear the numbers? Doesn't that be what ye're interested in? Wer numbers?””

  Playboy, Mean and Female leaned forward, their notebooks clutched in their hands, their mouths still chewing. The tide had turned, even though the 90 seconds were long gone. Even Foreign seemed to be reconsidering.

  “I not really break tooth.” He ate another strip.

  “And here was me thinking ye told us to Get Lost.” She arched her eyebrows pointedly.

  “Okay, you can cook,” Mean admitted. “But, yes, let's get down to the numbers. What's the cost of customer acquisition? What percentage of the market does your biggest competitor have? What does it cost to make a package? How much do you sell it for? Wholesale? Retail? What are your sales for the past three years? What were your profits, gross and net? Before and after taxes? Your total revenues? Do you pay yourself a salary? If so, how much? What are your projections for the next three years? Gross and net? Do you have other shareholders? What percentage do they own? What's your EBITA?”

  “Me what?”

  Mean rolled his eyes. “Earnings before interest, tax and amortization expenses. Come on, now!”

  “Amorti...?”

  “That's too many questions for the poor woman at one time!” Female said.

  “Ye think I'm poor?”

  “No, I meant—“

  Playboy jumped in. “Are they made offshore?”

  “On an island, ye mean?”

  “No, in a different country.”

  “Are ye asking because of me accent?”

  “No, I'm asking because I want to know.”

  “Made in wer scullery.”

  “Your where?”

  “Wer kitchen.”

  “What's 'wer?'”

  “Our.”

  “Who makes them?”

  “Me husband does all the work, slaving over the oven and all that.”

  “And your husband...?”

  “This is him, standing here.”

  “And you?”

  “I clean that oven every month, so in a way I help make em too.”

  “Where do you sell them?”

  “All over.”

  “All over where?”

  “The area.”

  “How big is the area?”

  “Very big.”

  “What's your target demographic?”

  “Eh?”

  “Who do you think buys them?”

  “People who eat.”

  “When did you start making them?”

  “Two years since.”

  “How many employees do you have?”

  “Me, Jed, Jed's brother and his wife.”

  “Do they own it with you?”

  “Aye.”

  “What?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why aren't they here?”

  “They're couldn't come.”

  “Where are they?”

  “In the hospital.”

  “How come?”

  “Car crash.”

  Ursula was breathless. It was as if she and Playboy were volleying back and forth on the central court at Wimbledon and it wasn't raining! These were questions she could easily answer. Oh, his eyes were so lovely, the types that turned down at the corners, making him seem like they were always smiling. How she loved eyes like that— And...was that something in that left eye of his, or was he winking at her?! She felt her waistline shrinking, she was suddenly Slenderella, breasts marvelous, hair Vidal Sasoon chic. She touched it in the back and—

  “What are your margins?” Playboy asked.

  Ursula's ball slammed against the net.

  “I—” The ball bounced on the grass. She had always thought margins had something to do with typing. Jed had told her they meant something else. Exactly what, she couldn't remember. A ball boy scooped it up.


  “He...he...”

  She pointed at Jed.

  “About timmme!” Mean thrust himself into the exchange. “Just who is this he he? Tell me, Ursula, dear, does the cowboy speak?”

  “Er, I...”

  “We really haven't heard much about the numbers, I'm afraid,” Female said. “And if we don't...”

  Their attention shifted from Ursula and they all stared at Jed. Even Billionaire. Jed's voice was apparently more interesting to him than his iPhone. Ursula turned and stared at Jed too. Pleading with her eyes. She wrung her hands.

  Mean snorted. “I think we've given you amateurs enough airtime. Time to bring on the real entrepreneurs.”

  “If there are any,” Billionaire said. He had turned again in his seat and inspected his watch. “After the load of crap that's been wheeled on stage tonight, I've lost all hope. Where do they get these idiots from? I think we need to fire the casting director. I'd yell Get Lost at you two losers again, but it doesn't work twice.”

  “Jed's loads to tell youse! Come on, Jed! Wake up! Wake up!”

  And Billionaire appealed to his fellow investors. “Come on, guys. Put these pitiful wannabes out of their misery. Tell them to Get Lost!” He leaned over Foreign and addressed Mean. “I thought you were supposed to be the mean one. You're making me look bad. Why haven't you ripped them a new...”

  “She looks like my mom. I can't help it.” Mean sighed. “Entertaining. Delicious. Buut, yeah.” He seemed resigned, and Female and Playboy were nodding their heads in sad agreement. Female put down her notebook. Mean shook his head in sorrow as he said, “Ge—”

  CHAPTER 23

  “Million pound girl, you a boss, I like the way—”

  The music was wrenched off the market-wide speakers. There came a clearing of a throat, then “Attention shoppers! Just a wee reminder, we've a big sale coming up next weekend! There'll be 70 pee off some of yer favorites here at the market. Make sure youse mark it on yer calendars! And another thing. If youse could all evacuate the area; there's been another bomb scare. The Filth's on their way to the scene, so if youse know what's good for ye, ye'll be running, not walking, to them gates. Ready, steady, go, muckers!”

  Many in the world might think the Troubles were a thing of the past, the tear gas long since evaporated, but still the fear of terrorist activities lingered in Derry. And some bombs did occasionally surface to interrupt the daily shopping and the soccer games, hiccups, a terrible, violent past reinserting itself even as time marched forward and Derry struggled to look toward a future. There had been bomb scares in the postal sorting office, the chemist's and the bus depot so far that year, and though they had only been scares and this market wasn't a postal sorting office or a chemist's or a bus depot, anything was possible. In fact, did Unattended Item + Derry's Past = Probable Bomb? Definitely maybe.

  “Get me up offa the ground, ye eejit! Themmuns is gonny trample me!”

  The gin bottle skidded away, the crisp packet disappeared under a rampage of soles. Fionnuala's face was crushed against the pebbles and detritus on the ground. The handcuffs bit into her wrists. She flinched in fear again and again. Filthy trainers and boots clomped inches past her earlobes, shrieks filled the air above her. As the shoppers fled, it was maybe more the threat of the coppers than an explosion of Semtex that had them screaming and scrabbling over one another, the cause of the gridlock of screaming human bodies at the gate. If the past was anything to go by, Fionnuala suspected the drunks and druggies outside, magnets for any type of excitement, were rising en masse and pushing past the throngs clambering out so they could get into the market for a look see.

  Maybe she passed out for a moment, another attack of her mystery illness. But then Fionnuala jerked awake in shock. From beyond the city walls, she heard the sirens winding down. There was a sudden grunting and whining from behind her, a strange, inhuman smell. A slab of dripping leather, hot to the touch, rolled against the knuckles of her bound fists. Fionnuala yelped. The bomb sniffing dog! Government cutbacks had reduced their numbers to one. She wriggled in the rubble, unraveled her fingers and tried to claw its nose.

  “Get that manky creature away from me! Fecking mingin, so it is! I'm gonny sue if it takes a chunk outta me with them fangs!”

  She struggled to move her body out of its reach. It was impossible. Fionnuala had seen the dog many times before; it was always being trotted out, the postal sorting office, the chemist's, the bus depot. It got older and older. She didn't know what breed it was, something smelly, black and menacing. Craning her neck, she caught through her tears of anger and fear flickers of the green cape-type outfit it wore on its back, not avocado like the wedding, more a fluorescent lime. It scampered around her torso, its claws digging playfully into her back. Then she felt it snuffling at the nape of her neck. Its cold wet nose tickled her skin.

  “Offa me! Get offa me ye, flimmin beast!”

  She knew it had an owner; she had stood behind him in the line at the Top Yer Trolly once and glanced with curiosity into his basket (three yogurts, a frozen chicken tikka pizza, a toenail clipper, Excite body spray and four 60-watt light bulbs). She saw his boots a foot away now, felt his presence staring down at her. And then there were more.

  “For the love of God!” she spat as ten or more other pairs of shiny black boots clunked towards her, moving in and circling her head. The bomb squad arseholes! “Youse've got it all wrong!” She struggled to free herself. She yelled as the dog snorted on her ponytails, which were splayed on the rubble, sniffed her forehead, licked the insides of her nostrils.

  “It's not me bag! I tell youse, it's not me bag! And as if I'd cart a bomb around in me satchel! Politics bore the shite outta me, sure! Youse'll see!”

  The dog turned around, wagged its tail into her face as if to taunt her, then scampered away. It bounded through two black boots, and tried to make its way towards her satchel. She could just see her bag if she arranged her neck and her eyelids a certain way, there on the ground, ten feet from her face.

  A stern voice above her barked, “Who've we got there, then? What traitor?”

  She roared and buckled her body as hands grabbed her under her armpits and hauled her upright. She kicked and screamed as she was pressed against the city wall, her hands captive between the stone and her bottom. She gasped. She would have backed into the wall, but she was already there. There were that many people—men!—surrounding her, she couldn't make sense of who might do what job, what branch of the hated PSNI they could belong to, glaring at her, hands poised for action, knuckles ready, filled with hate under the visors of their helmets and caps and in their blinding yellow vests and dark uniforms and even one in army fatigues, bristling with guns and ammo, crossed with straps that bulged with clunky, heavy hardware Fionnuala could only fear. She didn't know who they were, but she could guess their religion and it wasn't Holy Roman Catholic. The leader—she could see it in his hideous face—inspected her with suspicion and disgust as his fingers like bananas held her captive against the wall.

  “What've you got in the bag? What's in the bag?” His spittle sprayed against her face.

  Tikka Pizza was outside the group, holding the dog back as caution tape was being wound round the electronics stall, festooning it, with her satchel in the middle. As if her satchel, with Celine Dion's face smiling into a microphone (the Titanic side was leaning against wall; nobody could see that), as if Paddy's gift to commemorate their love were a harbinger of evil and destruction. More officers poured through the gates. Their outfits were bigger, their faces harsher. Uglier.

  Fionnuala began to plead to the leader and the minions who flanked him, “I'm trying to tell, ye, sir, I'm trying to tell youse all—” but her voice was drowned by an outburst of inhuman sounds from the opposite end of the alley, a gnarling and a howling that chilled her. She shot her head towards the soccer scarf stall. And screamed. A pack of feral mongrels burst out from underneath the stall and assailed the alley, spitting, barking, biting the air, c
lawing what they could, a few foaming. Roars from the uniforms joined Fionnuala's screams. Truncheons sprang open and whipped through the air as the deranged, flea-bitten dogs, patches of hair spouting from their skeletal forms, sped towards the bomb sniffing mutt. It whimpered and cowered behind Tikka Pizza's legs. He held his hands up in alarm as the dogs circled him like ravenous wolves, but—

  Thunk! Thunk! Thunk! The batons pounded down on their bodies.

  “Outta here!” “Clear off, ye bloody mutts!”

  Yelping and squealing, the mongrels skittered out of the gate and were gone.

  The leader roared into her face: “Do you see what happens when you play silly beggers? Do you?”

  Fionnuala would have crossed her arms if she could have. She gave him a look which she hoped said, “How the bloody feck can ye hold me responsible for all the packs of stray dogs in Derry?”

  Though he still held her pressed against the wall, he was looking to his left. Beyond the crime scene tape. The bomb sniffer was approaching Fionnuala's satchel. Tikka Pizza was encouraging him with little noises. The dog poked its head into Fionnuala's satchel. All were forming a circle around it, faces shining with fear and excitement. Breaths caught in throats. Sniff! Sniff! Fionnuala realized she herself was bracing for the worst, though she was the only one in Derry who knew there was no Semtex, no plastic explosives, no wires or timers or whatever the feck else was in bombs in that satchel. Only...she cringed at what the dog would find. This would be a story, she bemoaned, told and retold in Proddy pubs for decades, passed down through the generations, rolled out at cop shop Christmas dos and whatever Proddy holy days they might observe and celebrate and hooted with drunken, bawdy laughter about. The Catholic Moorside housewife and her secret stash of Titanic urine.

  And then, as Fionnuala burned with humiliation and shame, the dog excitedly poked its snout under one of the frayed handles and pushed it to the side. The top of the jug was bared for all the coppers and bomb squaddies to see. And the cover of How To Be A Lady, a white-gloved hand holding a teacup in the correct manner. Fionnuala cringed, mortified, against the stones as the dog pressed its nose to the red plastic, excitement in its whines, its paws dancing. And then it turned, lifted its left hind leg and...