Disaster Inc

by Caimh McDonnell

  “Your old boss asked too many questions. You need to make sure you and your two boys keep the ship running tight.”

  Matt had stood there, panting – leaning up against a tree, watching the man walk away, carrying whatever his old life had been with him. A line had been crossed and it wouldn’t be the last one.

  The road had led down and down and down, until he’d found himself here, two years later, on the balcony of a penthouse on West 88th Street, where, try as he might, he couldn’t convince himself to jump.

  Chicken, chicken, chicken.

  He turned at the sound of the apartment door thumping open behind him. A vase of three-hundred-dollar flowers was sent crashing to the ground as someone stumbled in.

  “Fuck!!! My balls, my balls, MY FUCKING BALLS!!!”

  Chapter Seven

  Disaster Incorporated – that was the name Brad had come up with for them. Matt had loved it. It sounded like one of the tag teams he’d grown up watching on Saturday mornings after he’d helped his dad with the chickens.

  Matt sat on the massive oversized corner couch in the sunken living room, while Charlie paced up and down in front of the fireplace, which was illuminated by fake fire. In the background, Matt could hear Brad in the bathroom, alternating between whimpering and screaming. Matt had suddenly reached a moment of zen-like tranquillity amidst it all. It was like when a plane was about to crash and the people who were terrified of flying were always the calmest people onboard – or so he’d heard. To everybody else, the world was ending and the sky was falling, while to them, what was happening was just what they had expected. A part of Matt had been waiting for this moment for a while now; there was a sense of relief to no longer having to wait. Or maybe those pills he’d dropped had finally kicked in.

  Charlie leaned up against the mantelpiece. “We are so screwed, dude. Totally screwed.”

  Matt sipped at his drink. “You’ve still not explained exactly what happened.”

  Charlie looked back at him, his face contorting into that constipated look he got when life wasn’t going his way. “Are you high?”

  Matt giggled. “Of course not, Mom. Honest Injun.”

  It was a peculiarity of Charlie’s that he did not indulge in narcotics, instead tutting none too quietly as Matt and Brad did. Brad had always been enthusiastic in this area but, recently, Matt had been catching up fast, self-medicating himself into being the chilled eye of the storm.

  Charlie stood there, clenching and unclenching his fists, glaring down at Matt. “You asshole, this is all your fault.”

  “What’d I do? I’ve been here all night.”

  “Yeah, while I’ve been out, trying to fix your damn problem.”

  They both looked over towards the bathroom as Brad howled. “Oh Jesus, oh Jesus, oh Jesus.”

  “Seriously, what happened to him?”

  “He got a lap full of hot coffee.”

  “Damn. I take it she didn’t take the money then?”

  Charlie turned away and looked into the fake fire.

  “Charlie? You said you were just going to buy her silence.”

  He turned back, anger in his eyes. “Do you really think Mrs fucking Miller would be happy with someone out there knowing what she knows?”

  Matt felt a horrible sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. “What did you do?”

  “We did what we had to. I tried talking to her before, remember? Bitch Maced me.”

  “Because you threatened her.” Matt leaned back on the sofa and looked up at the ceiling. “Like I told you the first time, if you’d just let me—”

  “Shut up. Seriously, shut up, or I’m going put you through a fucking wall.”

  Charlie clenched his hair between his fingers and scrunched his eyes shut. “You came to me, remember? ‘Help me, Charlie, I’ve run my damn mouth off to my whore.’”

  “She’s not a whore!”

  “The fuck she isn’t. I’m not interested in whatever gets you off, but she does that shit for money. Bitch is a whore.”

  Matt rose unsteadily from the couch and pointed angrily. “I said, don’t call her that.”

  “Oh man, this – this right here, this shit is going to get us killed. You came to me, told me you’d screwed up. All the talks you’d given both of us, talking about how we couldn’t say anything to anyone, all of that, then you – yes, you – blew it. So, I went to talk to her, to try and fix it.”

  “Look how well that turned out.”

  “Fuck you, man. You said try and scare her.”

  “Scare her, not attack her.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “So how come she was calling me and threatening to go to the cops unless we met?”

  Charlie picked up a cushion and hurled it across the room. It was a ridiculously expensive piece of soft furnishing designed by someone French. The interior designer they’d hired when they’d moved in six months ago had assured them that it tied the room together beautifully. It hit the Dalí print on the wall and sent it to the floor with a thunk.

  “We did what we had to do,” said Charlie.

  “Is that why Brad’s in the john screaming about his balls? To return to my earlier question – what the fuck did you do?”

  Charlie stood still for a few seconds, breathing in and out, clearly trying to calm himself. “We – Brad – had an idea. Said we could deal with her and make it look like an accident.”

  “Deal with her? As in kill her? I never said kill her! You fucking…”

  Matt lunged at Charlie, tripping over the step from the sunken living room as he did so. Charlie neatly stepped to the side, letting Matt fall gracelessly to the ground. Then he was on top of him, his knees pinning Matt’s shoulders effortlessly.

  “I’m going to kick the shit out of you, you ungrateful asshole—”

  Charlie’s train of thought was derailed by Brad’s balls appearing beside his head. His voice was a high-pitched whine. “Jesus, Charlie, look at it. I got burns all over my—”

  “Fuck dude, get it out of my face, man.” Charlie pushed Brad away.

  “Don’t touch me!” cried Brad. “Everything hurts when I move. I gotta go to the doctor.”

  “For the last time – no. The cops will be looking for a guy with burns down there.”

  Matt interrupted. “The cops? What stupid shit did you pull?”

  “What did you say?” asked Brad, a demented look in his eyes.

  Charlie managed to jump to his feet in time to stop Brad stomping on Matt’s head. He had switched from being the guy about to whale on Matt to the one protecting him.

  Brad flailed around like a wild animal, so much so that, despite the height and weight advantage, Charlie had a hard time holding him against the wall.

  “I’m gonna kill him, I’m gonna fucking kill him.”

  “Shut up, man,” said Charlie. “Think! We ain’t got time for this.”

  Matt got to his feet and gingerly moved towards the drinks cabinet. “I need a drink.”

  “The fuck you do,” said Charlie. “We gotta call them.”

  “Them who?”

  “What the hell – them. Mrs Miller.”

  Matt shook his head. “Do you really want to risk telling them how badly we screwed this up?”

  “We’ve got no choice. We can’t contain this. We don’t understand this shit.”

  “Yeah,” said Matt, “remind me again, what exactly are you two experts in?”

  “That’s it,” hollered Brad, “give me my gun. I’m gonna pop a cap in this bitch’s ass.”

  Charlie shoved him back against the wall again and then clamped his hand over Brad’s mouth. “Keep your fucking voice down.” Charlie turned his head back towards Matt. “Do it. Call them.”

  Matt laughed. “I can’t.”

  “What?”

  “You think they’ve given me a number to call? They just show up.”

  Charlie looked at him for a long moment and then shook his head. “Man, we are screwed.”

&
nbsp; “Hey, look on the upside,” said Matt, “at least Brad won’t be breeding any time soon.”

  What Charlie was about to say next never made it out, as their argument was interrupted by the doorbell.

  With a drunken smile, Matt wafted his drink towards the hallway. “That’ll be them now.”

  Chapter Eight

  “I see.”

  Charlie had done most of the talking for the last twenty minutes. Matt had been too freaked out to say much; he was coming down fast, and he now had paranoia crawling all over his skin. He had said what he needed to: the truth, unvarnished and as brief as possible. Mrs Miller, ever since their first meeting at the bus station, had made clear her appreciation for brevity.

  They were in what looked like some kind of disused homeless shelter. Benches sat beside long tables that stretched down the room. On the wall was a worn-looking mural, the features of a group of happy, smiling people fading away amidst chipped paint and water damage from a leak in the roof. The word at the top was missing its first letter, but Matt guessed it had once been “hope”. Beside it, the Latina with the dazzling smile was leaning against the wall and casually spinning a yo-yo, of all things, up and down in a hypnotic fashion. In her Converse sneakers and figure-hugging jeans, she could pass for a teenager. She caught Matt’s eye and beamed at him. He looked away, embarrassed. He had still never heard her speak.

  “I see,” repeated Mrs Miller.

  She sat very still, listening intently as Charlie spoke. He’d gotten to the part where he and Brad had their brainwave of “eliminating the problem” of Amy once and for all. Assholes. Matt would never have agreed to that and they knew it. Charlie had promised to buy her silence; God knows they had the money. Luckily, all their hare-brained scheme had resulted in was an embarrassing screw-up and, well…

  “He burned my goddamn balls!”

  Matt could happily go the rest of his life without hearing Brad say that again. He was sitting on the long bench beside him – although sitting wasn’t quite the right word. Brad was squirming, same as he’d been in the car on the way over. Most of the burns, from the limited view Matt had seen, were actually on the skin on his thighs, but Brad had chosen not to focus on that.

  The knock on the door had been the black guy from the bus station who Matt had come to know as Mr Cole. He’d instructed all three of them to follow him and he’d led them downstairs to a car. He’d then driven them out towards the docks. Brad aside, there had been very limited conversation on the ride over. All around them, the hustle and bustle of a city waking up to an ordinary day had carried on regardless. Sunday wasn’t a day of rest in New York. Matt had wondered if he would ever see another sunrise.

  “This man,” Mrs Miller continued, “did he work at the diner?”

  “No,” answered Charlie. “He was just some random Scottish dude.”

  “Was he with the girl?”

  “He didn’t appear to be. I looked in the window before we, y’know, and she was on her own. This guy was just a customer, far as I could see.”

  “Yeah,” chimed in Brad, “he stunk of booze and looked like some homeless loser.”

  For the first time, anger flashed on Mrs Miller’s face. “A homeless man that managed to disarm and very nearly neuter you.”

  “Fuck you, lady.”

  Mr Cole was in Matt’s field of vision, so he saw the swift movement as he delivered the backhand slap to Brad. It didn’t look like he’d put much behind it, yet it was still enough to send Brad spinning to the floor.

  “Thank you, Mr Cole. I assume Mr Bradley has learned a valuable lesson.”

  Charlie leaned forward and picked him up. “Sorry, he… sorry. He’s in a lot of discomfort with the… he’s not thinking straight.”

  “From what I can gather, none of the three of you have been thinking straight for some time. This is quite a mess you have made. And you’re sure nobody saw your faces?”

  Charlie nodded emphatically. “We wore masks the whole time. We’re golden.”

  Mrs Miller favoured Charlie with the kind of look normally reserved for dogs that had taken a dump on new carpet. “Indeed.”

  She said nothing for a full minute, instead looking at her nails intently, seemingly lost in thought. Matt noticed she wore no jewellery on her fingers – so Mrs Miller was a Miss. She didn’t look up as she spoke next.

  “Mr Bradley and Mr Fenton, please wait out beside the car and try not to get into any trouble for a couple of minutes. I will speak to Mr Clarke alone.”

  Brad moved his lips as if to speak, but a look from Charlie stopped him dead. Instead, he allowed himself to be pushed out the door.

  Mrs Miller watched them leave. “This is not good, Mr Clarke, not good at all.”

  Matt nodded. “I know.”

  “I don’t think you do. The timing of your… let’s call it an outburst, could not have been worse.”

  “Look, I know that. I’ll make it up to you. It’s not too late to stop this.”

  “Stop this?” Mrs Miller leaned forward in her chair, her tone incredulous. “Stop this? There is no way on Earth we can stop this. Wheels are in motion. We have taken loans of money from people you do not take money from lightly. People who are not as understanding as we are. I blame myself. I have allowed you to be utterly oblivious to the seriousness of our situation. You picked an interesting time to grow a conscience. Regardless, we proceed as planned.”

  “But?”

  “Exactly. As. Planned. Do I make myself clear, Mr Clarke?”

  Matt ran his tongue around his dry lips and nodded. “Yes. I understand.”

  “You are useful, Mr Clarke. Do not make the mistake of confusing useful for irreplaceable. Please join your friends.”

  Matt nodded and stood. He hesitated, then thought better of what he was about to say and took a step towards the door. Then he stopped again.

  “Yes?”

  He turned to face Mrs Miller. “The girl – Amy. I don’t want anything to happen to her. OK? This is my fault, not hers.”

  Mrs Miller gave Matt a look he couldn’t read and then nodded.

  He headed outside to stand in silence beside the other two thirds of Disaster Inc.

  Cole watched as his boss stood and dusted off the seat of her skirt.

  “Lola,” she said, and the brunette immediately stopped yo-yoing and stood to attention. “You will take Mr Fenton back to this woman’s apartment and, assuming she is smart enough to not be there, you will do what is necessary.”

  Lola gave one of those big smiles that sent a chill through Cole’s heart.

  “Are you sure that’s a wise idea, ma’am?”

  The boss turned towards him. “Really, Mr Cole? Given your immense and catastrophic failure in the task assigned to you, I would have thought you would not be of a mind to question my orders.”

  “It’s just—”

  “You had one job. One. That was to sit on those three buffoons and make sure that our affairs were being taken care of while they stayed nicely contained and deniable.”

  “I—”

  “I have read every one of your reports. I know Mr Bradley’s family history, his proclivity and preferences in the field of pharmaceutical entertainment and even the fact that he is sensitive about the alliteration of his first and second names. I know Mr Fenton’s vice of choice is the pleasures of the flesh, something he has indulged in to such an extent that a trip to a clinic last month confirmed he had chlamydia. And yet, through all of this, you somehow managed to miss that not only was Mr Clarke availing himself of the services of a dominatrix but, as we have just seen, has developed feelings for her. How did this manage to slip by you?”

  Cole shifted nervously. “Clarke had another phone I didn’t know about.”

  “Really? You were bamboozled by the same trick every cheating spouse has used for twenty years?”

  Cole said nothing, judging rightly that nothing he could say would improve this situation.

  “So,” she continued,
“Lola will get us some breathing room, while you have the delight of taking Mr Bradley and his scalded scrotum to visit that veterinarian friend of ours.”

  Cole closed his eyes and nodded. Today was not going to get any better. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I, meanwhile, will have to engage some additional resources and put in place measures that should not have been necessary in order to ensure docile compliance and the completion of the plan. That is all.”

  Chapter Nine

  Amy hit redial and held the phone up to her ear.

  “Hi, this is Matt—”

  She stabbed at the disconnect button with her finger and for a half a second toyed with the idea of hurling the phone across the room. It would feel good to do something that finally had an effect, even if it was a bad one.

  They’d been back at Jonathan’s for over three hours now and, so far, a whole lot of nothing had happened. She’d tried to call Matt’s phone every fifteen minutes and got the damn voicemail every time. Her new “associate”, meanwhile, had come in, gone to the bathroom for what he referred to as “a cleansing upchuck” and then collapsed onto the sofa.

  She had asked him if he had any ideas on what the plan of action should be. He’d answered that he needed a few moments to ponder the best way forward and then promptly fallen into a deep slumber, accompanied by a cacophony of snoring, farting and belching. Twice already Amy had needed to intervene to stop Evil the cat from launching some kind of attack on her new unwanted houseguest.

  Evil was why Amy was there. She belonged to Jonathan, aka the fabulous Jonathan. He was away for two months miming to show tunes on a Caribbean cruise liner and Amy had agreed to cat-sit by dropping in every couple of days.

  She had to admit, there were worse places to hide. The Victory hadn’t actually been a hotel since the 70s. It had tried to be a high-end establishment, but at the wrong end of the Village, back when the Village still had a wrong end. The original owners had bet on the area rocketing upwards and they’d been right – just a few decades too early. Still, the Victory had a colourful history, even by the standards of New York, where any hotel worthy of the name collects incidents of infamy just by existing in the city that doesn’t sleep – or if it does, it sleeps with someone else’s partner. A visiting senator had passed away in the loving arms of a hustler with a rap sheet longer than the Bible. A prog rock band had named the album that caused them to break up Five Nights at the Victory. Despite claims to the contrary, no famous beatnik authors had penned works there, but quite a few had blown advances. It had been scheduled to get torn down until a dotty old lady stepped in and offered to take it off the city’s hands. She’d then converted it into apartments and made a fortune, so not so dotty after all, thank you very much.