Disaster Inc

by Caimh McDonnell

  “What?”

  “Lanark Lane Investments are into some dodgy shit. There’s a couple of phrases the guy said that must mean something.”

  “The guy you killed?”

  The slap stung his face and focused his attention. It also gave him a slight erection. “Focus, Douglas. I’m innocent. I’m being set up and what is on that piece of paper will prove it. You need to look into it. It’s some kind of insider dealing shit.”

  “That’s not really my area.”

  Amy clenched her fist and held it to her forehead. “I’m being hunted, Douglas – I’m not looking for a stock tip. Just do it.”

  “Go to the police then.”

  “I can’t. They’re… Just look into it. If it’s nothing, then it’s nothing. What’ve you got to lose?”

  Douglas felt light-headed. “What’ve I got to lose? Are you kidding me?”

  “Stop whining, Douglas. Just do it. My life is in your hands.” She opened the door and glanced out quickly. “I’ll be in touch.”

  “Oh God, please don’t…”

  She was gone; the door closed behind her.

  Douglas leaned over to lock it and then he unfolded the piece of paper. In a neat hand was written “Millennium Falcon – Admiral Ackbar – or something like that.” Gibberish. Great. Douglas scrunched up the piece of paper and made to toss it into the toilet. He couldn’t do it. After a moment’s hesitation, he smoothed it out and placed it in the inside pocket of his jacket.

  Then he looked into the mirror, but, try as he might, he couldn’t make himself smile.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  He sat there, breathing.

  All around him, people were doing vocal exercises, reading and rereading lines, closing their eyes to focus.

  All he was doing was breathing. Slowly, calmly. In. Out. In. Out. He’d not gone anywhere to learn this technique; he’d picked it up as a baby. God-given talent.

  He smiled, because looking confident was important – Smithy had told him that. When they shouted action, it was as much about acting the part of someone who knew what they were doing as acting the actual part. They didn’t actually shout “action” much though; that was a TV thing. In an audition they just fed you a line and off you went.

  Beside him, a well-meaning guy with an English accent leaned in and held out a sheet. “Have you got a copy of the lines?”

  He smiled back. “I’m good, thanks.”

  Everyone else in the room had an agent, and probably a few auditions a week. He didn’t, and so he found out about calls by scouring Backstage or through a couple of other techniques he’d come up with. Still, he got an audition every other week – at best – and a lot of the time he turned up without being on the list, which occasionally worked. He didn’t need the pages. Since last Tuesday, when he’d heard about this, he’d learned it. Not the audition piece, not all of his character’s lines – he’d learned the whole damn play. Maybe they’d need another role filled, you never knew. You gotta want it. Nobody wanted it more than him.

  A woman walked in carrying a clipboard. “Jackson Diller?”

  He raised his hand and smiled.

  Every time he walked onto a stage, he got a thrill. It didn’t matter that there wasn’t an audience – at least, not a proper audience. Diller had only been in a couple of am-dram performances up until this point, but he’d treated every one like it was career defining. He put his satchel down at the side of the stage. You learn that after a few. They like you to get straight out after you’re done, often through another door.

  “Jackson Diller?” said someone that he assumed was the director.

  He nodded. “That’s correct, sir.”

  He could hear it in the voice – that touch of surprise that he was black.

  “We don’t seem to have your headshot?”

  “Oh,” said Diller, “that’s weird. I’ll send in another one.”

  “Great. Thanks.”

  The reason they didn’t have his headshot was that, unbeknownst to the woman at the casting agency, Diller’s résumé had been slipped into the pile of candidates for the role by her secretary. The reason there was no headshot was because that way he wouldn’t receive a call beforehand to tell him the role had been filled. He was a big believer that half the battle was getting in front of people. Still, that question in the voice… Too polite to directly say anything, of course, but still, two strikes down before the first pitch. It didn’t matter – he was going to swing for the fences anyway.

  “I see here that you’re Irish, Jackson?”

  “That’s right, sir, I am indeed.”

  He’d given the casting agent’s secretary a dozen variations on his CV by now, each giving him a different nationality, because any bump was a bump. Besides, he was good at voices and he did his research.

  “Great!” said the voice. “We’ve heard some interesting attempts at your accent throughout the day.”

  Diller laughed. “I can imagine ye did alright.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Cork, as it happens.”

  “OK, well then. You’re reading for the role of Tadgh. In your own time…”

  Diller’s eyes were adjusting to the lights. He could see the director and his producer clearly now. They were smiling up at him wearily. He wasn’t sure which was which, but one looked intrigued while the other was mentally ordering his dinner. It had no doubt been a long day. This was the last casting call of the day for a play with quite a few roles in it.

  Diller’s eyes shifted. A few rows back, he could see another figure sitting there, smiling up at him too. For a moment, he froze. It felt like a bowling ball had just thumped into the bottom of his stomach. Instant karma’s gonna get you…

  Diller turned and ran off the far side of the stage.

  The theatre had been taking advantage of the dark week by getting some necessary repairs done. The manager was new to the job, which was why he hadn’t realised that they couldn’t have workmen banging away while auditions were going on. He’d been forced to send them home when they’d come in that morning. Unbeknownst to him, the work would be even further delayed, as right now the crew’s foreman was behind bars, having unexpectedly returned home to find his wife and his brother in flagrante on top of his kitchen table, which was covered in his collection of Spiderman comic books. This traumatic incident would inspire the manager to follow his secret ambition to become a playwright, with his debut play What A Tangled Web opening on that very stage eighteen months later – and closing after two badly received performances.

  In the foreman’s defence, before he’d left the site he had at least put up some yellow tape indicating that the far side of the stage was out of bounds, displaying a concern for health and safety not commonly found in multiple murderers. He was told nobody needed to be over there for the auditions, so it should be fine. He’d double-checked with the manager that this was definitely the case, because he was a suspicious man by nature – although, as it turned out, he was suspicious in all the wrong directions.

  To be fair to the manager, he hadn’t anticipated somebody needing to run for their life.

  For all his preparation, Diller hadn’t seen that coming either.

  The other thing he hadn’t seen coming was the piece of scaffolding that he ran into, knocking himself out cold.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Diller opened his eyes, saw Bunny McGarry looking down at him and promptly shut them again.

  The toe of a boot nudged him gently in the side. “I saw ye. C’mon. Wakey-wakey, rise and shine.”

  Diller opened his eyes wide and looked around him. “Where am I?”

  “We’re in an alley. For some reason I seem to be spending a lot of today in them.”

  Diller looked at Bunny, his big eyes full of fear. “Who are you?”

  “What?”

  “Who are you?” Diller repeated.

  “I’m Bunny, we met on Saturday and then you—”

  “I’
ve never seen you before in my life!”

  Diller looked around the alley, with its unhelpfully high walls and Bunny standing between him and the exit.

  “Diller, stop pissing about.”

  “Wait, I think… I can.” He lowered his head. “Oh no, it’s happened again.”

  Bunny tilted his head and looked at Diller. “What has?”

  “I… I was in a serious car accident about eighteen months ago and it affected my short-term memory. I can’t form new memories. It’s a medical thing. Every morning when I wake up, it’s like the morning of the accident, and the days since then have never happened.”

  “Bullshit.”

  Diller shook his head. “I’m serious. I’m sorry that I don’t know you. I don’t know a lot of things. It’s really confusing.”

  “Oh,” said Bunny. “Right.”

  “Is Barack Obama still president?”

  “No.”

  “Oh. Who—”

  “Let’s not get into that.”

  Diller stared off into the distance for a moment and then started slowly getting to his feet. “Well, I should probably get home.” He stopped, a thought hitting him. “I hope I haven’t moved.”

  “So,” said Bunny, “you don’t remember anything that’s happened in the last eighteen months?”

  Diller shook his head.

  “So how do you know it’s been eighteen months since your accident?”

  “Umm, what?”

  “For future reference, while this is a nice idea, there are a couple of flaws in it. One, the date issue previously mentioned, and two, you’re relying on the person you’re talking to having not seen the 2004 film 50 First Dates starring Drew Barrymore and Adam Sandler.”

  “I don’t know what you…” Diller feinted left and then darted right, trying to get around Bunny, who easily stepped into his path and shoulder-blocked him into a dumpster. Diller cringed as Bunny grabbed two fistfuls of his T-shirt and moved his face to just a couple of inches from his.

  “Sorry, Bunny, sorry. In my defence, I didn’t expect you to be a big fan of romantic comedies.” He tried to give a winning smile.

  “I am, as it happens. Four Weddings is an all-time classic. I cry every time. Are you much of a crier, Diller?”

  Diller looked up into Bunny’s lazy-eyed stare and then looked away. “I think I’m about to be.”

  And then Bunny let him go. “You’re not, actually.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah.”

  Bunny turned his back and took a couple of steps away. Diller looked at the mouth of the alley, to which he now had an unobstructed path. He was fast, too. In one of the high schools he’d attended, he’d unofficially come fourth in the 200 metres, despite not being in the race. It had just happened to coincide with a linebacker’s discovery that Diller was going above and beyond in his attempts to help his girlfriend with her homework.

  His instincts told him to run, but for some reason his legs didn’t move.

  “I’ll be honest with you,” said Bunny. “I’m hurt that somebody who I think I considered a friend screwed me over.”

  Diller opened his mouth to speak, but the lies wouldn’t come. He looked at the ground instead.

  “Well,” continued Bunny, “I suppose that’s New York for you. It’s dog eat dog.”

  Diller let his legs go from under him as he slid down the side of the dumpster and sat on the ground, suddenly very tired. “Honestly, for what it’s worth, I felt awful.”

  “You could’ve fooled me.”

  “Seriously, I know you aren’t going to believe me, but as soon as I got home, I knew I’d made a terrible mistake. I went back to Times Square the next morning, trying to find you, but you were gone. I… I can’t make my rent this month and, well, your card… I figured… I’m sorry, it was an incredibly shitty thing to do.”

  Bunny stood looking at the wall. “Yeah, you won’t get any arguments from me on that score.”

  “I never even tried to use the card. I was going to go talk to Smithy – see if he had any ideas on how I could find you and give it back. I know you’ve no reason to believe that, but honestly…”

  Diller put his hands to his satchel and stopped, suddenly aware he was wearing it. He’d not been when he’d knocked himself out. He flipped it open and felt around inside, past the now squished peanut butter and jelly sandwich he’d made for himself and the battered copy of the script to The Godfather that he brought everywhere with him. His fingers found the zip pocket at the back. He pulled out the wallet, the charger and the phone and held them up. “Here.”

  Bunny took them without a word and placed them in his pockets.

  “I owe you the eighty dollars cash you had in there. With God as my witness, I’ll pay you back.” Diller started slapping his pockets. “I think I got twenty bucks here.”

  Bunny waved him away. “Keep it.”

  Diller stopped and then stared at his own feet. “I really am sorry.”

  “Yeah, you said.”

  “I feel like shit. If you’re going to work me over—”

  Bunny shook his head. “No. That’s not me.”

  Diller should have felt better, but he didn’t. He looked down at his hands. “Can I ask… why didn’t you just take your stuff while I was out cold?”

  “I wanted to give you the chance to give it back to me.”

  “I see. Well, thanks for that. I didn’t deserve it.”

  Bunny started walking away, back up the alley. “No, you probably didn’t. G’luck, Diller.”

  Diller sprung to his feet. “Wait, you can’t just…”

  “What?” said Bunny, not turning around.

  “Don’t just… Let me make it up to you.”

  Bunny turned the corner and started walking down the street. Diller realised that they’d been behind the theatre the whole time. Bunny strode purposefully towards the 215th Street subway station.

  “C’mon,” said Diller. “Don’t be like this.”

  “Like what?”

  “All quiet and shit.”

  “I’ve nothing else to say, Diller. Good day to you.”

  Diller dodged around Bunny and started walking backwards in front of him. “Come on, we can’t leave it like this.”

  “What would you prefer, me passed out drunk and you skipping off with my stuff again?”

  “Ouch. OK, I deserved that.”

  “D’ye think?”

  Diller hopped left and then right to avoid a dog and its owner, a woman in a furry hat who looked appalled at whatever this new type of walking was.

  “OK,” said Diller, “how about you hit me?”

  “It’s a kind offer, but no, thank you.”

  “Please? You’ll feel better, I’ll feel better.”

  “I seriously doubt that. When I punch someone, they rarely feel better – that’s assuming they can feel anything.”

  Bunny glanced around, noticing that they were getting noticed. “Would you stop pissing about?”

  “Is it annoying you?” Diller stumbled slightly as his foot caught on a loose paving stone, but he recovered quickly.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Enough to hit me?”

  “No.”

  A Hispanic-looking guy with large headphones glowered at Diller as he walked by.

  “So, what’ll it take?”

  “I’m not some violent lunatic, y’know.”

  “I know a karaoke bar that says different.”

  Bunny grabbed Diller’s T-shirt again, this time to prevent him bashing into the back of the pedestrians stopped at the crosswalk they’d just reached.

  Diller glanced around and then raised his voice. “Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Jackson Diller and I have wronged this fine and decent man.”

  In the group of a dozen or so people, Bunny noticed the split was about fifty-fifty between those looking at them and those pointedly not looking at them.

  “He is too kind-hearted to do it himself, but if anyone would be kind
enough to punch me on his behalf, I will give them ten dollars.”

  “Oh, for feck’s sake,” said Bunny, blushing. “Don’t mind him.”

  Diller pulled a twenty-dollar bill from his pocket and held it aloft. “I’m serious. One punch, ten dollars, zero repercussions.”

  Some of the pedestrians smirked; others just looked confused.

  “Ten dollars?” said Diller, waggling his eyebrows and rubbing the note back and forth between his fingers. “It is a once-in-a-lifetime offer.”

  A short Latina lady in a maid’s uniform stepped forward and punched Diller right in the stomach. He folded faster than a badly written play by a theatre manager who had no feel for theatre, crumpling to the ground at Bunny’s feet.

  Diller’s voice came out in a pained croak. “Thank you.”

  The maid bent down and took the twenty-dollar bill from his hand.

  “I’m gonna need change.”

  Bunny stepped forward and patted the maid on the back. “’Tis alright. Consider it a bonus.”

  She went to kick Diller and Bunny pulled her away. “Ah-ah, no overtime. Mind how you go.”

  The pedestrian light changed and the crowd moved off, a couple pulling out phones, no doubt to tweet about what they’d just seen.

  “You’re a fecking eejit, d’ye know that?”

  “I’ve no idea what that is, but OK.”

  Bunny bent down to pick Diller up. Diller grabbed his outstretched hand and then stopped. “Wait – I have to know: at the audition, was my Cork accent any good?”

  Bunny thought about it and then nodded. “’Twas spot on. Fair play to you.”

  “Thanks.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Bunny sat on the bench and looked up at the gathering clouds. The day had started bright and fresh, but the humidity had built steadily, and now he looked up into an evening sky filled with angry purple clouds, ready to dump on New York. He looked down again at the phone in his hand. It was unlike any other phone he’d ever seen.

  The fella on the boat, the one who’d met him and then brought him into America via the back door, had made a big deal of the phone when he’d given it to him. They’d been sitting in his cabin at the time, two men perched uncomfortably on the edge of an unmade bed. “It’s a RoamZone, encased in hardened rubber and Gorilla Glass – it is indestructible.”