Plugged

by Eoin Colfer

  I nod obligingly. ‘Well, it doesn’t get much more down and dirty than Slotz.’

  ‘Yessir, Vic is quite a character.’

  ‘He’s the boss.’

  The attorney works up the courage to step closer. ‘Here, I’m the boss!’

  This mood swing is driven home with a backhanded slap across my face. I roll my head with the blow, but honestly I needn’t have bothered.

  I spit on the floor; no blood, just spit. ‘What do you want from me, Faber? How come I’m not dead?’

  ‘You’re not dead, Dan, because I need to know what you know,’ says Faber, jiggling his glasses for some reason. Maybe it’s supposed to signify that these spectacles can see into my soul.

  ‘About what? These drugs that you can’t get?’

  ‘Keep going, doorman.’

  ‘Goran used to get your drugs. You two had some kind of scam going.’

  ‘And we have a winner. Give that prick a cigar.’

  I feel utterly screwed. Somehow, up to this point I had managed to nurture a spark of optimism. I’ve been in worse scrapes, that sort of thing. But now, with Goran’s eyes filming and Deacon strapped to the gurney, I am suddenly devastated. The steel and concrete are too real, and the walls are closing in.

  ‘I don’t know anything, Faber. I’m only here because of the girl.’

  Faber teases his Styrofoam hair with greasy fingers. ‘What girl?’

  ‘Take your pick. You got one dead, one more or less dead and one on the gurney.’

  ‘What? The stripper? That’s why you put the cops on to me?’

  ‘She was murdered. And it’s hostess.’

  ‘You think I killed her?’

  ‘I know you killed her, arsehole.’

  Faber paces the kitchen, counting off points on his fingers. ‘So you tip Deacon about my fight with Connie. I freak because of this deal we have tonight. Deacon gets suspicious and Goran makes an on-the-spot decision to whack her, which doesn’t work out. Then Deacon’s whacking also falls a little short. So Goran calls me to come get her.’

  Faber is filling in a lot of blanks here. Obviously at this point he doesn’t care what I know, which is never good. Being filled in is okay when you’re a kid and you need basic information about numbers and poisonous foods and such, but in my world knowledge gets a person dead quicker than anthrax.

  ‘I had a shootout with your boys right outside the door,’ I point out to the pointer. ‘The cops are going to find us soon.’

  Faber is delighted by this observation, presumably because it’s way off base.

  ‘No cops, my friend. I own a lot of property, including this entire lot and the basement where we picked up Goran.’ The attorney squats to think quietly. ‘No,’ he says finally, knees creaking as he stands. ‘I can’t think of a way out. The three of you need to die. It’s tough about the product, but you know, sometimes you gotta eat losses.’

  You can’t just let a statement like this fade without argument. ‘Wait a second, Faber. You have heavies. Can’t they get your product?’

  I don’t use words like product or heavies. They sound 2D coming out of my mouth. I half expect them to plop in cardboard letters to the floor.

  Faber chuckles like he’s fond of me. ‘What? These dummies? I wouldn’t let them pick up my mail. No offence, guys. This whole thing is too complicated without Goran.’

  The dummies shrug amiably. No offence taken.

  Faber pats his pockets, looking for something, or maybe he’s just twitchy.

  ‘This is a big step for me. Cop killing. There’s no going back after this.’

  The attorney seems genuinely worried, but I feel it’s more a logistics thing than anything to do with a conscience, which riles me enough to comment:

  ‘Kill a hostess though, that’s okay. No foul as far as you’re concerned. Connie had two kids, Faber.’

  ‘Can you get off that, please?’ sighs Faber. ‘You’ve got a couple of minutes left. Use it well. Why not beg for your life?’

  ‘You beg for yours.’

  Faber does this weird little tap dance with a ta-dah at the end, which his dummies actually applaud. This whole fake-rat-pack thing has gotta be unhealthy. Simon would get a couple of chapters out of the guy.

  ‘Okay, sir,’ says Faber, like I’m in the front row of his show. ‘I would like you to know that I regret the whole Slotz thing. Something about that sleazy shithole dump appeals to me and I never wanted to blot my card there. There’s a lot to be said for getting a cheap blow job at the end of the day without bumping into the mayor. I’m not apologising again, it would be a bit rich in the circumstances, but I do regret the incident. That’s all I’m saying.’

  Apologising again? I don’t remember the first time.

  ‘So, I’m gonna have you three killed. I feel okay about that now, but I suppose I’ll probably lose some sleep over the years.’

  A single silenced gunshot pops, like a smoker coughing into his fist. Goran spasms, then lies still.

  Faber squeaks with fright, then recovers himself. ‘What the hell?’ he shouts, actually stamping a foot. ‘Never when I’m in the room! How many goddamn times? If I don’t see it, then it didn’t happen.’

  It happened. It definitely happened. Maybe Goran was dying, but now she’s dead.

  ‘Sorry, Mister Faber,’ mumbles the shooter. ‘Won’t do it again.’

  Faber’s pointing finger is a fan. ‘I know you won’t. I know you fucking won’t, Wilbur.’

  Wilbur? I can’t hold in a chuckle. After all this time, done in by a Wilbur.

  Wilbur shoots me a venomous look. ‘Can I kill him first, Mister Faber?’

  ‘Of course you can. Just wait until . . .’

  ‘Until you’re outside the door.’

  ‘Very good. When you hear it click, then fire away. Get rid of the bodies at the smelter.’

  Smelter? A word like that makes everything real all of a sudden. So practical.

  ‘Hey, Faber.’

  The attorney waves me away. ‘Too late, Daniel. I have to be in court in an hour. As the judge might say, your appeal is denied.’

  Tell him you can get his drugs, suggests Ghost Zeb.

  Faber has his hand on the doorknob.

  ‘I can get your drugs,’ I say. I suppose you could say I blurt the words. A bit more squeak in the promise than I’d like.

  The attorney steps slowly away from the door as if a sudden movement could make the knob go click.

  ‘Say that again, Daniel.’

  A fly zapper on the wall sparks as some poor insect gets too close to the light.

  ‘I said, I can get your product.’

  Faber drags a chair across the concrete floor and sits himself down facing me.

  ‘I suppose it couldn’t hurt to talk.’

  CHAPTER 9

  So now I’ve got this thing under the leg of my jeans. A security bracelet, Faber called it, quite popular with the celebs. Feels like there’s a mutant beetle clamped on to my ankle, waiting to sink its teeth or claws, or whatever weapons a mutant beetle might possess, into my fibula. It’s a clever little machine, no doubt about it. I’m surprised they’ve even got stuff like this outside the pages of a sci-fi novel.

  Faber took great glee from explaining its workings to me. He came across like a techno-fool who knows how this one thing works, and bores the bejasus out of everyone passing on his snippet of know-how.

  ‘So what we have here, Daniel, is a little electronic insurance policy. Judge friend of mine gave it to me in payment for my opinion on a statutory case he was . . . eh . . . involved in. Homeland are already using them and there’s a strong lobby to snap them on US parolees too, given the percentage of repeat offenders.’

  ‘Yeah? Spare me the lecture, Faber,’ I said, playing it cool.

  ‘Okay. Let me give you the specs. It’s tamper-proof, naturally; there’s a sensor on there that monitors pulse and blood pressure; it’s got GPS that feeds into my laptop, so we know exactly what building
you’re in at any time. You nip into the john for a quick dump, and the bracelet picks up the splash. But here’s the bit I really love. I can remotely inflict electromuscular disruption if you ain’t doing what you’re supposed to be doing where you’re supposed to be doing it. Or to give you the doorman version: I can zap enough voltage up your ass to make you shit your pants. This thing makes the Taser shock seem like a tickle with a feather.’

  And then Faber gave me a little taste, just to show me he wasn’t kidding. Felt like he popped my brain into a blender; by the time it was over, I was giving serious consideration to the aforementioned pants-shitting.

  So now I am Faber’s boy. He’s got the key to my heart rate. I spend a minute trying to think of some way to screw with him, but it’s a foolproof system, and so I settle down in my seat at the back of the New York bus and try to grab a little sleep. Maybe a low heart rate will fool Faber into thinking I’m dead.

  I cross my ankles over the canvas bag at my feet. At least Faber’s plan involved me catching a bus, so I got to collect my weapons and drop off my cash after I had picked it up from the cruiser.

  It takes most of the day to get out to Farmington from New York. First a train to New Haven from Manhattan, then a transit bus. It might speed things up a bit if the driver didn’t stop at every corner in Long Island on the way. Seems like everyone knows his name except me. I don’t know why I’m fuming; it’s not like I’m in any great hurry to get where I’m going. Plus the rocking motion should help me to digest the sack of Taco Bell I bought at Grand Central. I wolfed it down a little quick, my first proper meal in over twenty-four hours. When you’re having a crappy week, nothing comforts like Taco Bell.

  I have to admit, standing there under Grand Central’s famous vaulted ceiling, I did think about nipping to the rest room, sticking my foot down a toilet and putting a few rounds into the bracelet.

  How tough can this thing be? Ghost Zeb reasoned, eager to have me back on his own case.

  While I was mulling this over, Faber gave me an almost psychic call on Macey Barrett’s cell, which I told him was my phone.

  ‘So here’s the thing, Dan,’ he said, and I could almost hear the air part as he jabbed a finger at his mouthpiece. ‘Sometimes distance makes people brave. They start thinking like it’s traditional warfare and they can run away. Before you give in to that impulse, I got some information a chivalrous guy like yourself should have.’

  Chivalrous? Does everyone know my weak spot?

  ‘Yeah? What’s that, counsellor?’

  ‘Your lady friend. The cop on the trolley. If I don’t hear from you by nightfall, she goes in the freezer. We just wheel her right in there. And once in, she’s not coming out. I had a plate bolted over the safety latch. After that, I set my dogs on you. You shot the cops and my bodyguards shot you. Simple.’

  Looks like chivalry might soon be dead along with Detective Deacon. The bodies just keep stacking up like sandbags.

  I spend a futile moment wishing that things were normal again. If this were a normal week, I would be meeting Zeb for karaoke later. The little mensch loves the karaoke bar. Barry Manilow is his speciality, if you can believe that.

  Oh Mandy, you came and I came, you were fakin’.

  I think he might have screwed up the words a little.

  Karaoke, says Ghost Zeb into his sleeve, the way he does when he’s in one of his moods. Not likely since you abandoned the search for me to save Princess Supercop. I’m as good as dead.

  Don’t be like that. I haven’t abandoned you, but I’m on the clock with Deacon. They’re going to ice her, man.

  That makes two of us, says Ghost Zeb. Why don’t you do something about my problem, since you’re just sitting there? Have you even thought of a plan yet?

  I roll my eyes, which must look strange to the old lady in the seat opposite giving me the glare treatment.

  I’m a little preoccupied at the moment.

  Not so preoccupied that your brain doesn’t have a few spare cells to conjure me up.

  Okay, okay. I have been thinking about this, as you perfectly well know. Let me make a call.

  Make your call, Judas.

  Hey, Judas wasn’t Irish.

  Just make the call.

  One call then I’m back on Deacon.

  It takes me a minute to remember Corporal Tommy Fletcher’s number. I punch it in carefully, big fingers little buttons.

  From what I hear, Irish Mike Madden has family in Ireland. Maybe Tommy can do a little recon, get us some leverage.

  It’s a start, I suppose, says Zeb, unwilling to give up his sulk. But don’t think you’re off the hook. If you don’t find the real me, I’m gonna move into your temporal lobe permanently.

  Great. Another ultimatum, just what I need.

  Tommy answers when I’m on the point of hanging up.

  ‘What the fuck?’ he says instead of plain old hello, which is a pretty standard opener for Corporal Fletcher as far as I remember.

  ‘Is that any way to talk to your sergeant?’ I ask, half smiling in spite of the whirlwind of crap spinning around me.

  ‘I’m not in the army no more,’ grumbles Tommy. ‘Especially not at four in the bloody morning. I got a headache and it’s nearly bedtime.’ Tommy draws a sharp breath as he realises who he’s talking to. ‘Daniel? Dan fucking McEvoy? Is that the big jackeen himself?’

  ‘That’s Sergeant McEvoy to you, Fletcher.’

  ‘Danny, brother. Are you in country? We gotta party. We gotta go crazy, man. You ever see a one-legged man dance? So, where are you, Sarge?’

  ‘I’m overseas, Corporal.’

  ‘Still knocking heads?’

  ‘A few. That’s why I’m calling.’

  ‘Something I can help you with?’

  Tommy always caught on fast. ‘I have a little recon mission for you, if you’re up to it.’

  There is an uncomfortable silence, then Tommy mumbles, ‘Thing is, Dan, I don’t really do that kind of thing any more. I got kids . . .’

  Now I feel bad. ‘Forget I mentioned it, Tommy. I didn’t realise . . .’

  Tommy cackles. ‘Just screwing with you, Sarge. Course I’m up for it. No killing gypsies, though. I had a curse put on me.’

  ‘No gypsicide, honest. I just need you to trace the roots of a certain family tree.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Find a few people. But be careful, they have dangerous relatives.’

  Tommy is unimpressed. ‘Shit, my brother has a dangerous relative. Who do you need me to find?’

  I give Tommy the details and he promises to get back to me asa-f-p.

  I never wanted a phone before, but I’m starting to realise how convenient they are.

  Irish Mike is paying for the call too, chuckles Zeb, coming out of his funk. Nice touch.

  I must have chuckled too, because now the old lady opposite is showing me her can of Mace.

  It’s early evening by the time I finally get where I’m going in Farmington. This is not the sort of place doormen are usually required. The entire avenue is so wholesome and autumnal that it reminds me of Ireland. Even in these circumstances I can feel the first lilting twinges of the immigrant gene kicking in.

  Farmington is even nicer than Cloisters; far too nice, you would think, to have a criminal underbelly, but as I found out only hours ago, the Farmington criminal underbelly is doing quite well. On this avenue especially.

  I do the last mile from the bus stop on foot, humping the weapons bag, and find a bench to rest my weary frame while I finish off my Big Bell Box meal.

  The spicy food reminds me of Monterrey, and I can’t help wondering how fast I could get there.

  Yeah, that’s right, amigo. Pack up and leave me to rot.

  Calm down. I called Tommy, didn’t I? Wheels are in motion. Now piss off and let me think.

  You think too much. You need to get out of your head and into the real world.

  Irony. Must be.

  So I sit on the bench, reining in
my aura, trying to look like a member of the community and not an ex-army doorman sent to rip off a steroid lab. I chew my burrito awhile and grudgingly admit that Faber and Goran had a sweet deal figured.

  Back in Cloisters, Faber got a little teary spelling it out.

  ‘As an attorney in the city, I represent a lot of drug people. I get to know them, they fill me in on every detail of their operation, and armed with this information, I get them off most of the time.’

  I remember making myself pay attention, even though half my brain cells were fried from the anklet jolt and the rest were threatening to break apart and liquefy.

  ‘So a year goes by, maybe eighteen months, these guys have forgotten all about their natty attorney, when one of their labs gets busted by the cops. First through the door is my dead friend, Detective Goran, followed closely by a few of my own humps all rigged out in DEA armour and helmets. They secure the bad guys, load the drugs into the van and that’s all she wrote. Our fake police squad drives away, leaving the ripped-off drug merchants hog-tied with PlastiCuffs. Sometimes we load a couple in the van for show, then toss ’em a few blocks later.’

  He leaned back on his heels, waiting for me to think it through, appreciate his genius. Which I did.

  ‘So the theft is never reported.’

  ‘What are they gonna say? Is that the police? I’d like to report that you people stole my drugs? Don’t think so.’

  ‘And you got a buyer?’

  ‘I represent a lot of drug guys. They figure I’m brokering for another client.’

  That was pretty good, so I said: ‘That’s pretty goddamn good, Jaryd.’

  Faber couldn’t help preening. ‘Why thank you, Daniel.’

  ‘But now you’re screwed because your pet detective is dead.’

  Pet detective, says GZ. Nice.

  ‘And I’m guessing Goran wasn’t stupid enough to let you keep the riot gear.’

  ‘Correct. Goran headed up operations in the field; I did the planning.’

  ‘It’s a good plan. Sweet, the kids might say.’