Disaster Inc

by Caimh McDonnell

  Amy cut across him. “Forget it. If you’re going to be an asshole about it, just get out and walk.”

  He thought for a second and raised his hands. “Alright, sorry. Honestly, ’tis not my sort of thing, but I don’t care what gets anybody their ya-yas as long as all involved are enjoying themselves. It’s a short life with a lot of queues; get your happy wherever ye can find it, that’s what I say. So, did someone take offence to how you booted them in the knackers or something?”

  “No. Look, are you going to shut up so I can just explain this to you or not?”

  He shrugged. “Alright, fine, fire away.”

  “OK.” Amy took a deep breath and then continued. “Last week I was having a session with a regular client of mine. He’s been coming to see me for a couple of years. We were just doing the normal stuff.”

  “Normal?”

  Amy shot him a look. In response, he mimed locking his mouth and throwing a key away.

  “So, yes – anyway. The client, out of nowhere, breaks down, starts confessing stuff to me. About his work. Discretion is a big thing in the job, but I knew he was a Wall Street guy. I’ve got a few of them. It’s a weird thing but, well, a lot of these guys like someone else being in complete control for a while and, y’know, surrendering…” She kept her eyes on the steering wheel in front of her as she talked. Having to explain herself irritated her. She wasn’t ashamed of it and yet she still got embarrassed when forced to justify it. “Thing is, afterwards, it’s like the other self kicks in and they try and reassert their dominance of life. Start telling you how big and powerful they are back out there in the real world. It’s a common enough occurrence that you learn to leave a bit of time at the end of a session for it. Friend of mine calls it the ‘rebuild’ – like they’re rebuilding their all-important self-image before your eyes. Anyway – I’m rambling. So, I knew this guy was a big deal on Wall Street. He’d been… Another thing that happens – guys think they’re in love with you.” Amy could feel her cheeks flush with embarrassment. “It happened with him last year. You do all this stuff that they’ve always wanted to experience but have mostly never had in their personal life, so they build up this dream that you’re amazing and imagine how incredible life would be with you. You’ve got to sit ’em down and explain it isn’t real life and it’s a professional relationship. You wash your undies, sing off key, get irritated by the way someone breathes through their nose, just like any real person. Some guys you just stop seeing, but this guy, Matt, he seemed cool with it. Still, we’re having this session and he just breaks down. Starts telling me all this…” Amy paused, searching for the words. “I dunno, confidential business stuff, about shady dealing and screwing some guy over. To be honest, I wasn’t really listening. There’s rules to this stuff and when someone, y’know, steps out of the game, then it’s over. I just calmed him down and focused on getting him out of there. He was… weird after. Like, I could see he was already regretting it. Texted me the day after, saying to forget all he said. I assured him that whatever happened in the room stayed in the room, like it always does. Not a problem. Then I didn’t think anything about it until last night…”

  Amy absent-mindedly rubbed her hand over the logo on the steering wheel and ran her tongue over her dry lips. “I came home and some guy I don’t know was standing on the landing outside my place. He said he was a friend of Matt’s and wanted to talk to me about something important. I said I don’t let people I don’t know into my apartment and he could call and make an appointment like anybody else. Then he got aggressive. Put his hands on me, so I Maced him and ran.”

  He spoke softly. “Fair play.”

  “Then I called Matt and asked, y’know, what the hell. I told him I was going to the cops. Said this shit was completely unacceptable.” She chopped at the wheel with her hand. “I was really, really clear.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “He said it was a massive misunderstanding and that the guy was completely out of line. He promised he could fix it and he’d explain everything in person. So, I said I’d meet him somewhere public…”

  “And he picked the diner?”

  “No,” said Amy. “I did. I’d stopped there before when I was driving back home. I wanted somewhere public but somewhere way out of town, so if he caused another scene…”

  “Right,” he said. A long moment stretched out between them. Amy glanced back over and noticed that the drive-through altercation had now expanded to involve three members of staff and another driver.

  “Can I ask the question anyone would ask in this situation?”

  Amy puffed out her cheeks. “Let me guess – why am I helping you get away from the cops rather than running to them?”

  She looked back to see him nodding.

  “Because – surprise – I’m currently in my final year at NYU Law. Being a dom is legally… murky. Opinions vary on whether it is actually illegal. I’d make an excellent test case if it came to trial. It’d also be the only time I’d see the inside of a courtroom, because the New York State Bar Association has what it calls ‘fitness tests’. Once the truth was known, I’d have a hell of a time trying to get a licence to practice law here or anywhere else, and even if I did, no law firm worth a damn would touch me.”

  “I see what you mean. Was it not a big risk becoming one then?”

  “Well, yeah, but do you have any idea how much law school costs? Spoiler alert, it’s a lot. I didn’t get a scholarship and my dad hasn’t got that kind of cash, so I funded myself by working and…” She nodded back towards the McDonald’s. “Believe me, you don’t make NYU Law money flipping burgers. And, again, I’m not ashamed of what I do. I like my job. Consenting adults should have a right to express themselves how they see fit in private. I believe that to be enshrined in the Constitution and, if I ever get a licence to practice law, I’d argue that case.”

  The man rubbed his hand around the back of his neck. “Yeah, no, fair enough. You’ll get no argument from me. One question though, this whatchamacallit, ‘client’ of yours—”

  “Matt.”

  “Yeah. Do you think he could’ve been one of them lads in the balaclavas this morning?”

  She shook her head. “No. I’ve been thinking about it. Neither of them seemed like him, although the taller guy, the one you didn’t, y’know – I think he could’ve been the guy outside of my apartment.”

  He nodded. “Right. Did this Matt fella give you anything?”

  “No.”

  “You didn’t record him or…?”

  “No! That’d be a massive no-no.”

  “Yeah. That’s what I was afraid of. You see, if those lads weren’t trying to get something off you, then there’s limited options for what they were doing.”

  “But if they wanted me dead, couldn’t they just have…” Amy had a sinking feeling in her stomach. She had suspected this but hearing it didn’t make it any easier.

  “Think about it from their perspective. Some poor girl gets shot by a masked gunman, the police are going to want to know why. Law student, good girl, all that. They’re going to go looking. They’ll find out your part-time job pretty fast. Then they’ll go looking for clients. Maybe you’ve said something to somebody…”

  Amy lowered her head onto the steering wheel. “But if she gets shot in a robbery gone wrong then the police aren’t looking at her, they’re looking for who would have robbed a diner.”

  “Afraid so. A whole other motive. Look on the bright side.”

  Amy looked up. “There’s a bright side?”

  “Yeah, you’re lucky those two gobshites couldn’t pull it off. May your enemies always be fucknuggets – Sun Tzu’s The Art of War.”

  “That does totally sound like him.”

  Amy thought for a second, then reached down into the pocket of her car door and came out with a wad of bills held together by an elastic band. “Alright, ten grand. It’s yours if you help me sort this out.”

  He pushed her hand away.
“Jesus, what are ye like? Don’t go offering men you’ve just met wads of cash in a car. Ye don’t know me from Adam!”

  “Well, you seem sort of trustworthy.”

  “Did this Matt fella seem trustworthy too?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “That is a low blow.”

  “I’m just saying like, be sensible. How do you even have that kind of money knocking about?”

  She rolled her eyes. “I work in a cash business.”

  “I suppose, yeah. I can’t imagine you take credit cards.”

  “Oh, I do, just not everybody uses that. It shows up as being from a tailor’s in Soho.”

  He pursed his lips. “Fair enough. Still though, what do you want?”

  “I want you to help make this go away.”

  “I’m not muscle for hire.”

  “You haven’t got a cent to your name and you’re stuck out here in the middle of nowhere. Are you sure you can afford to be that proud?”

  He turned away and she could see him thinking about it, his fingers drumming on his knees. “I’m not going to like, kill anyone or nothing like that.”

  “Good. Matt and these asshole buddies of his clearly think I’m going to rat them out. All I need them to realise is that I’ve no interest in whatever insider dealing bullshit they’re doing. I just want to be left alone. I want my life to go back to what it was twenty-four hours ago.”

  “Don’t we all.”

  “Speaking of which, what’s your deal?”

  “My deal?”

  “You’ve been here for a week and you’re penniless and, frankly, stinking of booze. Are you a sailor just off a ship or something?”

  “We don’t need to discuss that.”

  Amy shoved the money back into the side pocket. “Yeah, we do. I just got told I’m too trusting. How do I know I’m not tossing myself from a relatively warm frying pan into a blazing inferno? You could be some Irish serial killer for all I know.”

  “Well, I’m not, although if another person tries to fob me off with iced tea…”

  “Noted.” She gave him a long, searching look. “Still, I need to know why you’re on the run from the cops. What did you do?”

  “Ah for…” He drummed his fingers on the door irritably. “I’m not… I’m not legally in the country.”

  “I see. So, what? Are you here looking for work or something?”

  “Not exactly. I’m here looking for a woman.”

  “Oh God.”

  “A particular woman. She’s in trouble. I’m trying to help her, but to do that, I need to find her first.”

  “OK.”

  “You don’t need to know the details. Let’s just say that if I get picked up, it’ll be very, very bad and cause all sorts of hassle. I’ve no ID or anything and…” He paused and looked out at the empty car park like it was suddenly fascinating.

  “What?” she asked, wondering what he didn’t want to say. It was hard to tell behind the big beard and with the lazy eye, but Amy could’ve sworn he was embarrassed.

  He shifted around in his seat. “I got… I got robbed yesterday.”

  “You? The guy who took down two armed men with a cup of coffee and a fork? Who the hell robbed you?”

  He scratched at his beard irritably. “Well, if you must know, I was… I’m here alone. It’s been… a while since I’ve been home. It being Paddy’s Day, I got a little – well, I suppose… homesick, you could say.”

  “OK?”

  “And I went out drinking.”

  “As I believe is traditional for your people.”

  He shot her a dirty look. “That’s a bit of a stereotype.”

  “An accurate one, apparently.”

  “Well, anyway, I suppose, one thing led to another. I’d a few drinks and then… somebody robbed me.”

  “What, like they pulled a gun on you or something?”

  He mumbled something she couldn’t hear.

  “What?”

  “No,” he said, considerably more loudly. “If you must know, they must’ve spiked my drink.”

  “Right. Are you sure you weren’t just drunk?”

  He reacted like he’d just been slapped in the face. “No, I was not. I’m not a lightweight. I’m telling you, I was spiked!”

  Amy raised her hands. “OK, OK. I’m only asking. I thought I was hiring some fork-wielding badass. Turns out he’s a bit of a pussy.”

  He folded his arms and glowered over at her. “I can see why you got a job booting people where it hurts, you’ve a real eye for it.”

  She smiled as she turned the key and the engine ignited. “OK then, let’s go see if we can sort this all out, shall we?”

  He gave a curt nod.

  A thought struck Amy and she stopped the car and extended out her hand. “Oh, by the way – Amy. Pleased to meet you.”

  He looked at her hand and then shook it. “Bunny.”

  “What?”

  “Bunny,” he repeated.

  “As in Easter Bunny?”

  “Well, it’s not my proper name, obviously, but it’s what I’m called.”

  “Bunny what?”

  “Just Bunny.”

  “Seriously?”

  He nodded. “I like to keep a low profile.”

  “Really? Because I’ve known you less than an hour and you’ve already been in a shootout and left a lasting impression on at least one of your opponents.”

  He looked out the window. “I said I like to keep a low profile, I didn’t say I was actually managing it.”

  Chapter Six

  Chicken. Chicken. Chicken.

  Matt stood on the balcony watching a fresh Sunday morning spread itself around Manhattan, fourteen floors below. The wind tugged at his T-shirt, causing goosebumps to rise on his skin. He liked it. The coke and tequila buzz had gone stale in his blood. He’d hit Brad’s room and taken a couple of pills he’d found. He didn’t know what they were – the high had felt a little like ecstasy, but now there was a weird taste at the back of his throat. With Brad, it could be anything. That Philippe guy he bought from specialised in what he called “boutique tailored” experiences. What it meant was that he’d found a way to get Wall Street assholes like Brad to pay through the nose in the belief that, somehow, their highs would be higher than what you got from the dude outside the men’s room with the switchblade and the tattoo of Tupac on his arm. Matt corrected himself: Wall Street assholes like Brad and him. He was one too; in fact, he might just be the worst.

  They’d met in college – Matt, Brad and their other roommate, Charlie. Six-foot-three, blond, built like a brick outhouse, as Uncle Chip would’ve said, Charlie was all athlete, attending on a lacrosse scholarship. In contrast, Brad was a full foot shorter and a walking, talking cliché about short guys and Napoleon complexes. Charlie seemed posher than he was, his sporting ability meaning he’d gone through a Boston prep school beyond his parents’ means. Brad meanwhile, came from serious “house in the Hamptons” money, and yet underneath the party boy act, he seemed inexplicably full to bursting with a burning resentment, like he’d never been given a fair chance at life.

  Matt came from chicken. His family had owned a chicken farm. They’d been getting by, hanging on in a tough economy, and then his mom had got sick. Real sick. They hadn’t been able to afford the bills. The debts had built and built until the day Matt had found his mom collapsed on the porch when he’d come home from school. Uncle Chip had quietly gathered some of the neighbours and collectively they’d paid for the funeral. By this point, the Clarkes didn’t have two cents to rub together. The bank sympathised and then foreclosed. Everyone up the chain had apologised but said there was nothing they could do, a corporation proving to be a protective bubble that ultimately insulated you from the consequences of your decisions.

  Matt’s dad had sent him and his sister, Jennie, to stay with Uncle Chip and Aunt Jane for a couple of days while he’d gone off to visit some old war buddies. He’d said he knew a couple of guys who might be able to he
lp them out. “Never leave a man behind” and all that. He’d waved them off and then gone into the chicken barn and blown his brains out. He had left a note. Matt had never read it – he had already known what it would say. Uncle Chip had called on the same people and they’d got some more money together for the funeral. Matt had noticed that his dad’s coffin had been of a much cheaper-looking wood than his mom’s. The big conglomerates were squeezing the margins tight on chicken farmers. At the time, he had commented that if he went the same way soon, he’d be buried in a refuse sack. Jennie had gotten really upset about that and Matt had watched his mouth from then on.

  Uncle Chip and Aunt Jane had been great, but it had been a strain. Quietly, Matt had explained it to Jennie. The little bit of money their folks had left, he’d use to go to college. He’d work his damn ass off and when five years later it came to her turn, he’d make sure the money was there. She’d agreed. Of course she had. Matt could remember, in happier times, his mother explaining to him that, yes, his little sister following him around all day probably was annoying, but that was how it was. He still remembered her words: “She thinks her big brother raises the sun and moon.” At twelve, it’d been annoying. It felt different now. On the day of his father’s funeral, Matt had felt the weight of his father’s coffin on one shoulder and his responsibility to Jennie on the other. He was all she had left, and try as he might, Matt couldn’t figure out how to make it better. Some things don’t get better.

  So, he’d gone to college and worked his ass off. He’d delivered a thousand pizzas and worked warehouse jobs when he could. When it came to finals, in a cosmic dump from a universe seemingly not running short on spite, he’d gotten the flu. He’d tried to power through with a temperature of one hundred and three. His final grades were poor if you didn’t know the circumstances, but impressive if you did. Still, the interest from the big firms, who typically don’t stray far from the Ivy League or the big schools anyway, had dissipated.

  Charlie, for his part, thought he was going to be one of the many college athletes who went on to flourish in Wall Street’s alpha male environs. It turned out that if you can’t cope with numbers flying by fast, you crash and burn pretty damn hard as a trading desk assistant. He’d made it two months. He’d also punched a trader on the way out the door.