Disaster Inc

by Caimh McDonnell

  Another sign of the Porterhouse’s proper pub status was the fact that at either end of the bar sat an old fella, each one slowly making his way through a newspaper in absolute silence. They were straight out of a Ken Bruen novel, the sentinels keeping taciturn watch over proceedings. In the background, Bruce Springsteen was singing about getting his end away in a dying industrial landscape.

  Behind the bar was a portly man with a head God had taken most of the hair from, forcing him to admit defeat and shave the rest. “Hey, what can I get ye?”

  Galway accent.

  “Pint of Arthur’s, please.”

  The man nodded, and Bunny climbed up onto a stool and watched with approval as the man held the pint glass at the correct angle and commenced pouring the Guinness.

  “Have you been over long?” asked the bartender.

  “Ah, only about a week.”

  “Jesus, fresh off the boat! Not that anyone comes on a boat anymore.”

  “Oh, you’d be surprised.”

  The man filled the pint glass to about the harp point and stopped, correctly leaving it to settle.

  “I, ehm, I don’t suppose you were working here Saturday?”

  The man shook his head. “’Fraid not. Myself and the wife took the kids in to see the parade.”

  “Oh right. Any good?”

  He shrugged. “Ah, y’know. Big crowds and all that. Lots of batons being chucked about the place. Kids liked it.”

  Bunny nodded. “Oh right. Only, I think I was in here and I might have lost something.”

  The man raised an eyebrow. “Is that so? I can go and have a dig about in the lost property. What was it? Hat? Umbrella? Coat? We’d a penguin there last month. Not a real one, of course – a stone one. Fella came back three weeks later. He’d got pissed and forgotten it.” He laughed and shook his head. “Some people.”

  Bunny laughed too. “I know, I know.”

  “So, what did you lose?”

  Bunny scratched at his beard, aware he’d rather talked himself into a corner. In the absence of any better ideas, he went with the truth. “To be honest with ye, I sorta lost the day. Ended up in a bit of a session.”

  “I see.”

  “I’m trying to, I suppose you could say, retrace my steps.”

  The barman topped off Bunny’s pint as he spoke. “I get it. Jackie is upstairs. I’ll get him for ye.”

  “Thanks.” Bunny nodded with approval and gratitude as the pint was placed in front of him. No sign of a bubble and none of that shamrock nonsense on the head. He was starting to really like it here.

  He took a sip and savoured the taste, placing it back down. He glanced up the bar at one of the sentinels, who shook his head and tutted, turning a page of his newspaper.

  A couple of minutes later, the barman returned, followed by a tall, white-haired man. A smile spread across his face as he saw Bunny.

  “Ah, Bunny, how you doing, buddy?” he said in a strong New York accent. “I thought it might be you.”

  Bunny gave him a nervous smile, disconcerted to be known by someone he had absolutely no recollection of. “How’s it going, Jackie?”

  It was in the way he said the name – a question and not a statement.

  “You don’t remember me, do you?”

  Bunny could feel his face redden. “Sorry.”

  Jackie waved his apology away. “Hey, forget about it. I’ve been there. Well, sorta.”

  Bunny took a drag on his pint. “I, ehm, I don’t suppose you could help me piece together exactly where I’ve been?”

  Jackie laughed. “Sure, no problem. You got here about ten in the morning. We open early for breakfast on the weekend. I distinctly remember you ordering the full Irish.”

  “Oh God.”

  “Yeah, you were quite, erm, what’s the word… emphatic on the topic.”

  “What’s in your version of the full Irish?”

  Jackie’s grin widened as he reeled off the list. “Bacon, sausages, black and white pudding, eggs, vegetables and potato all fried in creamery butter, served with a generous helping of homemade soda bread for soakage and washed down with a strong cup of breakfast tea. My wife does it on the weekends and that’s the only way it gets done.”

  Bunny felt a wave of emotion build up inside him. “She’s a good woman.”

  “The best.”

  Bunny took a long draw on his pint to regain full control of himself. As he put it down, he smacked his lips together appreciatively. “That’s a cracking pint too.”

  Jackie laughed and then stopped himself. “Sorry, just… so far, we’re mostly having the exact same conversation we had two days ago. It’s déjà vu. I mean, you spent a lot of time eulogising to your buddy about the breakfast, the pint, my missus.”

  “My buddy?”

  “Yeah, Diller? You don’t remember Diller was with you?”

  “Ehm…” In for a penny. “I actually don’t remember ever meeting this Diller fella.”

  Bunny tried not to notice the look that passed between the two barmen. He was fast resigning himself to the idea that his self-respect was going to take a kicking today.

  “Nice lad, has a good way with a story.” Jackie turned to the barman. “He has them… What’s that phrase you use, Phil?” Jackie grabbed his own ears and pulled them out.

  “What?”

  “C’mon, dude, y’know. It’s something about soccer or something.”

  “FA Cup ears?”

  Jackie slapped the counter. “That’s it. Y’know, sticky-outie ears. Makes him look like a trophy. I mean, he’s a good-looking kid – well, I say kid, like in his twenties – but y’know, the ears are a bit of a feature. I ID’d him, even though the kid doesn’t drink.”

  “He’s a non-drinker?”

  Jackie nodded. “Yeah. He told us the Smithy story. You must remember that?”

  Bunny shook his head.

  Jackie turned to Phil. “I’ve not told you this yet – you’re gonna friggin love this. So, this Diller kid tells us he’s got this friend, Smithy. A dwarf.” Jackie looked suddenly uncertain. “Is that the right word?”

  “Midget,” interjected one of the sentinels at the end of the bar.

  Jackie rolled his eyes. “Shut up, Donal, that’s definitely not right. Anyway, with apologies, if required, he’s a dwarf or whatever. Diller tells us that right at that very minute, this Smithy guy is off in a leprechaun hunt.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to be?” asked Phil.

  “I’m telling you. Says this big property developer jerk-off does it every year. Pays all these, y’know, little people to dress up in the outfits and then he and his a-hole buddies hunt them.”

  “This sounds like bollocks,” said Phil. “Can’t be legal.”

  “Just listen, would you. They hunt them with paintball guns, out on the estate this dipshit owns. They get five Gs just for turning up in the outfits, and the last one standing gets fifty!”

  Phil shook his head. “No way. Doesn’t happen.”

  “That’s what I said.” Jackie pointed across at Bunny. “That’s what he said too. We all called bullshit on this story. Diller shrugs it off with a smile and we move on. I’m working serving people; Bunny here and his new buddy Diller are getting on like a house on fire – and drinking enough to put it out, might I add. Well, Diller is on the H2O, but Bunny is making up for him.”

  Bunny gave an embarrassed shrug of his shoulders.

  Jackie gave him a smile to show he meant nothing by it. “Then who comes in? Only Smithy.”

  “The dwarf?” asked Phil.

  “Midget,” repeated the sentinel.

  “Shut up, Donal, or I’m barring you again.”

  This was followed by some incoherent mumbling and the turning of a page.

  “So,” continued Jackie, “with God as my witness, Smithy is sitting on that stool right there” – he indicated the one Bunny was currently sitting on – “dressed as a leprechaun, with a big red paintball mark right in the midd
le of his chest.”

  “So he lost?” asked Phil.

  “Wait,” said Jackie, “I’ve not got to the best bit. Smithy, he tells us that he fucking hates this thing. He’s an actor.” Jackie pointed at Bunny. “So is Diller – that’s how they know each other. Anyways, he hates this hunt thing, you can really tell by how he says it. Pure hate. Says it is a dehumanising atrocity.”

  “Fair play,” said Bunny, and the barmen both nodded their agreement.

  “Thing is,” Jackie continued, “he’s in the hole to some guy in Chinatown. Had himself some bad cards. He’s in the shit and he needs money fast.”

  “So, he agrees to do the thing?” asked Phil.

  “He agrees to do the thing,” nodded Jackie. “Only, y’know, he’s in it to win it. The five Gs will clear his debt, but if he has to go through this degrading bullshit, he wants the fifty.”

  “Fuckin’ A.”

  “So, he’s there, they’re all there – ten of ’em, I think, all in their outfits. They’re told they have gotta stay on the estate, gotta stay in costume, all these rules. They get a twenty-minute head start and then these rich butt-munchers are after them – get this – on quad bikes.”

  “Jesus,” said Bunny.

  “I know, un-be-fuckin-lievable. So, Smithy, he’s playing it cool. Laying low. Sees a few of the other, y’know, little people…” Both Jackie and Phil looked down the bar at Donal, who was busy pretending not to be listening. “He sees them heading back to the house, covered in paint. He thinks, I’m pretty close to winning this.”

  “Fifty grand,” said Phil.

  “Exactly. Smithy is ducking and diving, bobbing and weaving. He ends up in this clearing, there’s him and this other contestant. They’ve heard the shouting; they know it’s just them left.”

  “Let me guess,” said Phil, “the other little guy calls the hunters or something.”

  Jackie slowly shook his head. “Nope.”

  He let it hang there, letting the tension build.

  “Jesus, Jackie,” said Bunny. “C’mon then.”

  Jackie grinned at them, displaying a full set of white teeth. “The other fella pulls out a paintball gun and shoots Smithy – BAM! Right in the chest!”

  “No!” said Bunny and Phil in unison.

  “With God as my witness.”

  “And this Smithy fella just takes that?” asked Phil.

  “Fuck no. When the hunters find them, the other guy is running for his damn life. Smithy is losing his shit, demanding justice, mad as all hell. They say no deal, throw him in a van and drive him back into the city. They don’t even let him pick up his clothes.”

  “What a shower of pricks,” said Bunny.

  Phil shook his head. “Nah, I mean, it’s a great story, right enough – but I’m not buying it.”

  “Straight up, buddy,” said Jackie, “I was the same. Then he takes off the damn leprechaun hat and shows us five Gs in cash!”

  “Damn!”

  Jackie turned to Bunny. “And you don’t remember none of that?”

  Bunny shrugged. “Not really. I mean…”

  “Jeez, Bunny, that’s scary, man.”

  “I think somebody spiked my drink.” Bunny noticed the facial expressions and quickly clarified, “I mean, not here, obviously. Somewhere else.”

  All three men turned their heads as the other sentinel cleared his throat to speak. “How did he get up on the stool?” he asked.

  “What?” said Jackie.

  “The little fella. You said he got up on the stool there. How’d he do that? It’s a tall stool.”

  “Really, Paidi?” said Phil. “He sets down that story and your only question is how did the little fella get up on the stool?”

  The old man shrugged.

  “In answer to your question,” said Jackie, “pretty easily. He’s a nimble little so and so.”

  “Midget.”

  “Final warning, Donal.”

  A page was turned; mumbles were mumbled.

  “So, any idea where I went after I left here?”

  Jackie rubbed his hand around his neck. “All three of you guys were here for another couple of hours maybe, then Smithy said he had to go pay the loan shark in Chinatown, and you and Diller went with him for, y’know, support.”

  Bunny nodded. “Right.” With a slow reverence, Bunny finished his pint and placed the empty glass on the bar. “I’d better get back on the trail then. What’s the damage?”

  Phil nodded. “That’s six bucks for the beer.”

  “Oh,” said Jackie with an embarrassed smile, as he picked up a pad from beside the register, “and if you wouldn’t mind, Diller never paid for his breakfast.”

  “Yeah,” said Bunny, pulling out the wad of cash from his pocket, “he does that.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  What were they again, the five stages of grief? Denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance? As far as Amy was aware, you were supposed to go through them in some kind of order. The reality was much more chaotic than that. She jumped back and forth through all five stages at random pretty much every time she flipped the channel.

  She’d been watching TV rolling news continuously since Bunny left. It was impossible not to. The salacious story of the dominatrix who murdered her client was too good for the media to not milk for all it was worth. She watched as news anchors and reporters tried to look dignified and appalled, even as the light danced in their eyes. This was so much juicier for them than the annual bit about UN officials not paying their parking tickets, which came up every year at this time. That got a couple of minutes and then it was back to the fun stuff. It was laughable how they threw in “allegedly” every now and then, like that was covering the broadcaster’s ass when their caption screamed “Dominatrix of Death”. The coverage in itself was interesting: violence against women wasn’t exactly front-page news, but when a woman supposedly kills a man – woah, we’re going to need a snazzy graphics package and some new music.

  They’d started with the facts, as they’d known them. A man had been found “brutally murdered” in a dominatrix’s apartment in Astoria. Law enforcement sources said that there had been signs of what they termed “severe violent activity” and the tenant of the property was wanted for questioning. The press had got hold of some neighbours. Mrs Beasland from upstairs said she was shocked, that Amy seemed so quiet. How the hell would she know? The woman did Zumba so much and at such a high volume, starting at 6am, that Amy doubted she could hear much of anything. Mister Rainer said he’d never liked her. Amy had once helped that a-hole carry a couch up three flights of stairs.

  Then the police had started naming names. Amy had seen her picture up on the screen. They’d initially used a driver’s licence photo, but then they’d got a picture of her from her college course’s end-of-year bash. It made her look like some kind of party animal. It didn’t matter that the drink in her hands was a virgin cocktail or that she’d been home in bed by eleven o’clock that night. The public were actually warned not to approach her.

  Then they’d named the victim. That was surprising. She recognised the guy. Charlie Fenton, the guy who worked with Matt. The one that had tried to strong-arm her two nights ago and quite possibly shoot her yesterday morning. She’d never met the guy before that and she sincerely wished she never had. She kept trying to think everything through like a lawyer would. It came down to evidence. When the hysteria calmed down, what was the actual evidence?

  Then they’d shown the CCTV footage: Amy leaving her apartment building, taken from the camera on the front door. In the pictures she was rushing out, looking panicked. She remembered it well. The footage they were showing was from Saturday night, just after that Charlie a-hole had tried to rough her up. The police had stated that it was footage taken on Sunday night and showed her fleeing the scene of the murder. Not only was she being set up, but somebody was going to great lengths to make sure it stuck.

  If that was bad, the worst had been yet to come
. The news had only broken about 9am, but by 2pm they were doorstepping her father. Her dad’s stunned and hunted look was lifted straight from Amy’s worst nightmares. It reminded her of the horrible footage of a calf in an abattoir that’d convinced her to go vegan. Dazed and terrified all at the same time. His voice was low and it was hard to hear him over the questions being shouted as he tried to make his way from his car to the house. It took a moment for Amy to make it out. He was repeating over and over again, “There’s been some mistake, there’s been some mistake, there’s been some mistake.” Amy had gone to the bathroom and retched up what little she had inside her. Then she’d cried until she’d run out of tears.

  After that she’d gone back to the TV and watched some more because, well, what else was she going to do? Once they’d gone over the scant facts they had and harassed her poor father, they’d started in on the talking heads. On one channel, they wondered whether “militant feminism” had gone too far. On another, a woman Amy didn’t recognise but who was described as her friend defended her by saying the guy probably had it coming. Another station discussed what other kind of jobs students were doing to help pay their way in New York.

  The truth behind how Amy had wound up doing what she did for a living was that it had happened almost entirely by accident. When she’d first come to New York, she had started going out with a guy who she’d thought might be “the one”. Once, late at night, while drunk, he confessed that his fantasies ran to the slightly kinkier side of things. Amy, being Amy, had decided to do some research. She read up on it and started frequenting a forum where she got talking to a dom who had been full of helpful advice. The woman, Michelle, had been very frank and open, eventually meeting Amy for a drink to talk her through it. Amy’s boyfriend had been blown away. There’d been a couple of months of exploration and that side of things had gone from strength to strength. Unfortunately, in other areas, once they’d got past the initial “best behaviour” phase of the relationship, he gradually settled into being his true self, and he’d turned out to be an inconsiderate waste of space. So that had been that on the relationship front. Besides, between starting her studies and having to waitress forty hours a week to try and meet her living expenses, Amy didn’t have time for anything like a private life. Still, she had found a side of her own sexuality that shocked her, and she wanted to explore it further. So she’d gone to a couple of parties with Michelle, mainly as an observer, and found it all to be surprisingly, well, odd as it sounded, nice. The scene was mostly full of people expressing themselves and there were sensible rules in place to ensure that, behind all the roleplay, everyone was safe and having a good time. Amy had ended up helping Michelle out with a couple of clients and then, when Michelle had unexpectedly gone back to Miami to manage the family business, Amy had pretty much been handed an ongoing business on a plate. The stars had aligned. Or at least, they had until now – when it felt like the sky was falling. One of the many things that annoyed her about all this was that she was renowned for taking safety seriously and being a stickler for rules. It seemed silly, given the severity of the accusations made against her, but a part of her was offended by the implication of a lack of professionalism on her behalf.