by Eoin Colfer
Deacon’s skin is smooth against my chest and I try to pretend she’s actually fond of the person behind her. Maybe after a couple of years together Detective Deacon will develop a grudging respect for me and we can have a series of adventures.
Unless she does a sideways shuffle and you have to kill her.
I’m starting to realise that tuning out GZ is next to impossible so long as I have a single brain cell that is not distracted by life.
I attempt to distract myself by wondering how Deacon is going to keep herself out of prison. Obviously she hasn’t come clean about Goran, or she’d be filling out a million forms in triplicate and holding staring contests with Internal Affairs.
‘They must have found Goran by now?’
Deacon stiffens, and I think that maybe she had been trying to distract herself with all the tough talk. ‘Not yet. I put her in the trunk.’
This is not good news, as Deacon’s trunk is at the back of her car, which is probably parked outside my door.
‘Goran is in your trunk? Hard to explain that to IA.’
Something like regret flits across the side of Deacon’s face; maybe there’s a human heart beating inside Robocop. ‘Explain to IA? You’re kidding, right? You screwed my career, McEvoy, and I was a good cop too. Twelve years in. Youngest black detective in the state.’
I feel I should stand up for myself. ‘You’d prefer to be dead?’
‘It’s funny,’ says Deacon, and I’m guessing tragi-funny not funny ha-ha. ‘People always think I’m dirty cos of my attitude. Typical. A hardball boy cop is a maverick, doesn’t play by the rules but gets the job done. You get a girl with some balls, then there must be something wrong with her. I was never dirty, until now. I’m finished. I’ll be lucky to get off with manslaughter.’
I sit up to ask the obvious question. ‘Why didn’t you call it in? It was a righteous shoot.’
Deacon slumps even further into the corner, suddenly dead tired. ‘I should have. All night I’ve been asking myself that question. I guess I panicked; is that what you want to hear, soldier boy? My partner and superior tried to murder me. I didn’t know who to trust apart from the guy with the sniper rifle, which I figured had to be you. I hoped you might be able to tell me something. But you know shit, right?’
My time with Simon suddenly comes in handy. ‘There is a very strong case for post-traumatic stress here.’
‘Who are you?’ says Deacon. ‘Sigmund Freud? I’m a cop, man. I know how we think and I wouldn’t buy that psych bullshit for a New York minute.’
I forge ahead. ‘No, listen, Deacon, it’s true. Your partner tried to kill you. You had no idea how high the conspiracy went. You panicked, loaded up the body and went somewhere safe. There are a few holes, sure, but the basic truth is you acted in self-defence. Believe it or not, you are in shock.’
‘And you took advantage.’
Yeah, it’s a dig, but she’s going for the cover story. It’s a good story because it happens to be mostly true. The only detail she has to omit is the bald Irish one. I can see her eyes lose focus as she imagines how it would play out back in the precinct. There is a way out.
Then Deacon’s phone beeps and she rolls into a crouch, instantly alert. I see the curve of her spine shining like a samurai sword.
She shakes her trousers until a phone falls out, and checks the text message. Her posture was pretty tense, but now it cranks up another few notches. Tendons stand out like piano wire behind her knees.
Not good news.
Deacon bends low, snagging the Sig with her trigger finger. ‘You’re a knife man, right, McEvoy? That’s what it said in your file.’
I don’t like the sound of this. What’s the word?
Ominous? suggests Zeb.
Yeah, thanks.
‘So what? I’m a rifle man too, you probably worked that out.’
‘I figured that one,’ says Deacon, twirling the pistol. ‘But now I got this message from the County Coroner’s office telling me that Connie DeLyne was killed with a blade.’
I sit up pretty quick, wishing I had some pants on. At this point I’d settle for a napkin to cover myself. ‘It’s barely dawn; what kind of coroner works this early?’
‘One who owes me. So what about this blade?’
‘That was a bullet hole. What kind of knife makes a hole like that?’
‘You tell me, knife man.’
Deacon looms over me, tapping the barrel against her thigh, and I feel bald and naked, which I am. Twice a week I suffer nightmares that look pretty much exactly like this. It occurs to me that Simon Moriarty’s number is still in my wallet. I really need to call that guy.
‘Come on, Deacon. I saved your life. I put you on to Faber.’
‘It’s you-you-you,’ says Deacon, levelling the weapon. ‘Whatever happens, Daniel McEvoy is involved. There is definitely some shit you are not telling me.’
I feel myself shrink. ‘You want to aim that gun somewhere less sensitive? My heart maybe.’
‘No. I think I’m aiming at the right spot.’
‘Think about it, Deacon. We’re in this together. You need me to back up your story.’
Deacon closes her eyes for half a second. ‘I do need you, but I need time to get my ducks in the goddamn basket or whatever. I gotta talk to a few people, weigh up my options. The Goran situation needs to be wrapped up right before I turn myself in.’
‘That’s all good. You’re making perfect sense. We need to find the connection between Faber and Goran.’
‘There’s no we,’ says Deacon. ‘Just me.’
Zeb sniggers. No we. See how that feels.
I lose it for a second. ‘Shut the hell up. Now is not the time.’
Deacon frowns. ‘Now is not the time? What the fuck’re you crying about, McEvoy? You get emotional after screwing, is that it? And what’s up with that hair?’
I briefly consider explaining who I was actually talking to, but there’s no way to present Ghost Zeb and not sound a little unstable.
‘Okay. Calm down for a minute. Think things through . . .’
Deacon cocks the gun, resplendently naked, not a self-conscious atom in her body, whereas I am very self-consciously naked.
‘I’m gonna think things through. That’s it exactly. Cuff yourself to the radiator, McEvoy.’
Cuffing myself would not be good.
‘Listen, Deacon . . . Come on, what’s your first name?’
‘Detective,’ says Deacon, tossing me the handcuffs from her belt.
‘You don’t want to do this.’
‘You’re a mind reader now, McEvoy? Those needles on your head some kind of antennae?’
That’s two hair jokes. I’m counting.
‘There are bad people after me, Deacon. You leave me here in restraints and I’m dead.’
Deacon shrugs and her breasts wobble, which some part of me can’t help noticing.
‘Don’t shrug. I’m fighting for my life here.’
‘You’re losing. Nice and tight now.’
Her eyes are golden and steady; she’s not changing her mind.
‘At least let me have the hat.’
Finally a smile; not the happy kind.
‘Look at you, McEvoy. Big sharpshootin’ soldier going to pieces without his hat. Didn’t seem to bother you earlier.’
‘Earlier, I had distractions.’
I swear her smile softens a degree; could be my imagination.
‘Yeah, distractions.’ Then the ice is back. ‘Now cuff yourself to the goddamn radiator or I will hobble you with a leg shot.’
I hate that word. Hobble. Halfway between hobbit and gobble, which for some reason does not conjure an appealing picture.
‘You’re not going to shoot me. We just . . .’
Deacon’s finger creaks on the trigger. ‘We just what? I shot Josie and I’ve been sleeping with her for eight months.’
I pick up the cuffs but never get the chance to fasten them on my wrists.
De
acon is multitasking when Mrs Delano comes through the door holding a steaming tray of lasagne. The detective has her gun on me and one big toe through the band of her panties. It is without doubt the most surreal moment of my life.
‘I hope you don’t mind me calling so early, Mister McEvoy,’ chirps Delano, made up like Cyndi Lauper circa ‘True Colours’. ‘Your friend, the nice repair man, gave me your new key, so I did a little cleaning up.’
This is not the Mrs Delano I know. This person is actually smiling; there are teeth involved. The outfit has shoulder pads you could launch a jet from, but nevertheless she’s wearing outdoor clothing. For a moment I think that Delano has taken a beating, but then I realise she’s been a little liberal with the mascara. She looks like a crying stripper, but there’s light in her eyes. And not the usual death lasers; a warm light.
My neighbour doesn’t notice anything off for a minute. She has her downcast eyes/bashful face on and is smiling a teenager’s lovesick smile. Fixing the window, that’s what brought this on.
‘I know you eat at the club,’ she says. ‘But I thought we could watch a movie later this evening, Daniel, maybe split this lasagne. I baked it myself, we can reheat.’
Deacon freezes, one leg up, arse to the door. God help me if I laugh now.
‘What do you say, Dan? You want to spend some time with your best girl?’
‘Absolutely,’ I reply. Why, I have no idea.
In the fraction of a second left before someone gets hurt, I play out a dozen possible outcomes to this ridiculous situation. In the best-case scenario, I get shot in the dick. In the worst, I get shot in the dick and one of my balls.
Mrs Delano’s eyes land on the naked policewoman in my apartment. There is a beautiful Kodak moment of silence, then everyone starts yelling at the same time.
‘Hold on now, ma’am,’ says Deacon. ‘Police business.’
‘Get down, Delano,’ I shout. ‘On the floor.’
Mrs Delano’s cheeks pump up and turn crimson. I half expect flames to shoot out of her ears.
Deacon has got it covered; she’s a professional and her feet are planted in a wide stance now, but Delano throws her with:
‘I stacked your toilet rolls! Bastard!’
Deacon rears back like she’s been bitten on the nose, and she shoots me a glance that says what the hell have you and this crazy lady got going on?
The glance is her mistake, because Delano attacks, steaming lasagne borne aloft.
I cover my balls, because melted cheese sticks. Tough as Deacon is, there isn’t a naked person on this planet who isn’t scared of hot pasta, so she gives Delano her full attention and shoots the dish right out of her hands. There’s a béchamel explosion, minced steak spatters the wall like buckshot and I make my move.
I get off the floor fast, pistoning my legs like I’m coming out of a squat. Deacon already knows what’s happening, but she’s not fast enough to get the gun around. She screams in frustration, then I have her against the wall, cuffs snicked over her wrists, gun smothered in my fist.
‘This is kidnapping,’ she spits. ‘I am a friendly with a badge. Do you really want to throw that away?’
Friendly? Most of my friends don’t aim their weapons at my privates. Most.
Delano is still coming. She’s screaming too, something about me being just as bad as all the others, which wouldn’t be so bad except for the glass shards she’s swinging with every word. Deacon isn’t calming down either; she’s bucking like there’s a scorpion on her back, and trying her damnedest to get a heel into my crotch.
I have no alternative but to play into Mrs Delano’s fantasy.
‘Thank God you’re here, darling,’ I say, hoping she’s too far gone to notice my atrocious acting. ‘This woman tried to assault me. You saw the gun. Look, handcuffs.’
Delano’s eyes fog over and she stutters to a halt, gobs of lasagne dripping from her hands, splatting on to my good rug. I wince but don’t mention it.
‘Handcuffs?’
I push Deacon’s head into the wall as gently as I can, covering the side of her face with my palm. I’ve had relationships go wrong before, but never this fast. ‘Yeah. Can you believe it? I woke up to find this crazy lady holding a gun on me.’
‘Crazy lady,’ says Delano slowly. ‘I’ve heard that phrase before.’
‘I bet you have, you fucking lunatic,’ Deacon says, spitting the words through mashed lips.
‘You shut your filthy mouth,’ orders Delano, and without hesitation clocks Deacon on the crown with the corner of Pyrex dish in her hand. The blow has surprising muscle in it, and Detective Deacon goes limp in my arms.
‘Sorry, baby. Did I catch your finger there?’
Baby? ‘Ah . . . no, I’m fine.’
‘Do you think we should kill her? Cut her up like in the movies? I have an electric carving knife. Penis looks good, baby.’
I lower Deacon on to the rug, then hurriedly pull on some pants, very uncomfortable with my penis being mentioned in the same breath as an electric carving knife.
‘No. No need to kill her. She’s confused, that’s all.’
Delano winks at me, or maybe it’s just hard to keep that eyelid open with all the mascara trowelled on to it.
‘Maybe she heard about Mister Pee-Pee and came to see for herself.’
‘M . . . maybe,’ I stutter. ‘Whatever the reason, this woman has problems. We need to be compassionate, show understanding.’
‘Or slice her head off. I have plastic bags.’
Sure. We could toss her in the car beside her partner, then drive to the mall where I dumped Macey and line up all three bodies together in the Lexus. Hell, why not steal Connie’s corpse from the morgue to complete the set?
Mrs Delano squeezes my arm.
‘I’m kidding, Dan. It’s my crazy sense of humour. That’s why you love me.’ Her face is glowing. She looks young. ‘Remember that time you fixed my window? That was when I knew.’
I am not qualified to deal with this. Why does everyone I meet seem to have mental problems?
Ah . . . but did they have mental problems before meeting you? Who’s the common denominator here, Dan?
I do not have mental problems! I say to the voice in my head, perfectly aware how damning it would sound were I to say it aloud.
Deacon’s pulse is steady, but she’s got a glowing bump on her noggin which I doubt will improve her mood any, and she was pissed enough before Lasagne Lady popped her on the skull.
Deacon moans and mumbles something that sounds like:
Hill view utter trucker.
But which is probably:
Kill you, motherfucker.
And with this in mind I pocket her gun. At least this way, she will have to bludgeon me to death with her fists.
I cannot honestly say that I am protecting either of these women; so much for my psychosis. It pains me, it really does, but I have to protect myself in this situation, and sort out the women from afar. Opting to stay here and nurse Deacon would surely result in hosepipes, frame-ups and jail time. Not necessarily in that order.
I pull on my clothes and mentally cobble together a story for my new girlfriend.
‘Are you speaking to me, baby?’
‘No . . . I don’t . . . Was I?’
Mrs Delano is concerned. ‘Well you were kind of mumbling, and looked like you were playing an invisible piano too. Everything okay?’
Two of my stress tells: thinking aloud and conducting. Simon Moriarty pointed those out to me. I really have to call that guy.
‘Just thinking. You need to be safe, Mrs Delano.’
She walks her fingers up my chest. ‘What are we? Strangers. Sofia, please.’
I clear my throat. ‘It’s dangerous for you here . . . Sofia.’
Delano puts her cheek against my heart. ‘Remember when you first called me Sofia, baby? That night in Coney Island. I’ll never forget it, Carmine.’
Carmine? Now I’m somebody else. Is that an improvement, I
wonder?
Mrs Delano’s make-up leaves a face print on my chest when I peel her off.
‘You need to go upstairs now, Sofia. Go up and wait for my call.’ I flash on the rows of pill bottles in the upstairs kitchen. ‘Do you have any medication you should be taking?’
Sofia Delano frowns. ‘No more pills, Carmine. They make me stupid.’
‘How about one? Just one to help you relax until I call?’
‘Maybe just one for you, baby.’
‘Good. Good . . . baby. You promise?’
‘Sure.’
‘Say it. Promise me.’
Delano pouts and suddenly ‘Girls Just Wanna Have Fun’ starts playing in my mind-pod.
‘I promise. Happy now?’
‘Yeah. Happy now.’
I steer her towards the hallway, but she stops at the door, planting her back against the frame. Her chest is heaving and her eyes are bright.
Carmine was a lucky guy, I think. What did he do to you?
‘Kiss me, baby,’ she moans. ‘I’ve been dreaming so long.’
After all this time I get lucky twice in one day. Pity about the blood-sodden circumstances.
‘Come on, Carmine,’ says Sofia, her voice sulky and impatient. ‘No kiss, no pill.’
So I kiss her. She grabs a fistful of my neck hair and pulls me in deep, and it’s like a movie kiss, long and languorous, and after a year or so I start wishing my name was Carmine.
We come up for air and Sofia’s eyes are wet. Blue mascara flowers on her cheeks.
‘We still got the spark, Carmine.’
I’m feeling a bit emotional myself. ‘Yeah, Sofia. That was something.’
Her nose crinkles. ‘But what happened to your hair?’
I hustle her up the stairs with Ghost Zeb chuckling in my ear.
I shut the door behind Mrs Delano, then take the steps three at a time back to my apartment. Deacon is up and about, stumbling around head in hands, swear words drooling from her lips. She’s not fully conscious yet, but any minute now.
She spots me with one rolling eye, and lurches in my direction like an extra from Day of the Dead.
‘Easy there, Detective Deacon,’ I say, gallantly steering her to the remains of the sofa. She plonks down, deep into the butchered cushions. Her entire midsection disappears, from boobs to knees. On any other day you’d have to laugh, except maybe yesterday or the day before that.