The Big O (A Screwball Noir)

by Declan Burke

  He grabbed his jacket and stumbled out of the kitchen, found the car-keys on the hall table.

  ‘Gen?’ he called up the stairs. ‘Hon? Can you call a cab to get into town? I’ve an emergency at the office that can’t wait.’

  Her shrill tone followed him out the front door but Frank wasn’t listening. He was too busy trembling, shocked at the audacity of his genius, as he turned the key in the ignition.

  Rossi

  Rossi woke already reaching for the little brown bottle, shards of pain shooting through his dick like someone had jammed a knitting needle up his Jap’s eye, a fat knitting needle with little hooks on either side, each hook busy stitching barbed wire into his shaft.

  The pain, he believed, was even worse than the night before, when he’d called off the surveillance on Larkhill Mews and bolted for home, the Nervocaine stash. Now he gobbled down three blue-speckled pills, wincing at each movement; then, when the numbing began, he slid off Sleeps’ couch and made for the tiny kitchen, put the kettle on to boil.

  He dressed slowly, careful not to snag the stitches – although, at least, they were already dissolving, less noticeable now – thinking about how it might be coming time to invest in a pair of clean skanks. He noticed the mobile on the ground beside the couch, the battery dead, so he plugged it in, turned it on and went back into the kitchen.

  Sleeps stumbled through from the bedroom, yawning, just as the phone emitted a high-pitched beep-beep to let Rossi know he had a message. He flicked his head at Sleeps from the kitchen, indicating he should pick up.

  ‘If it’s that stupid prick again, wanting his phone back,’ he said, ‘we’re tracking him down and sticking it where he won’t be taking any calls unless he’s some kind of contortionist fucking ventriloquist.’

  Sleeps nodded, knuckling his eyes; dialled up and relayed the message to Rossi. Rossi came through to the living room stirring his coffee. ‘Who the fuck,’ he demanded, ‘is Frank?’

  ‘How would I know?’

  ‘Give it me again,’ Rossi said.

  Sleeps dialled up, waited for the metallic voice, then recited along with the message: ‘Hey, Frank, we have Madge. You have twenty-four hours to get the half-million together. You know the drill – used notes, non-sequential, unmarked, no dye-packs. We’ll be watching, Frank, so no cops. Contact no one. And don’t turn the phone off, we’ll be in touch to let you know where you can drop off the cash.’

  ‘A half million?’ Rossi was gobsmacked. ‘Christ on a fucking moped.’

  ‘It’s not a half million,’ Sleeps pointed out. ‘It’s the half million.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘So it sounds like this isn’t the first time Frank’s heard about it.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Rossi said, ‘I can see that. But who the fuck is Frank?’

  ‘Want me to try the last-caller service?’

  No joy. ‘It’s blocked,’ Sleeps confirmed.

  Rossi had been expecting that. He grabbed the phone, dialled up; listened to the message, hearing the voice, this lazy drawl Rossi thought he recognised but couldn’t concentrate on. Tears welling up in Rossi’s eyes. All his life he’d been waiting on a big score, the one to kick him upstairs into the big leagues so he could arrive on Sicily a major player, a bona fide family member in the greatest family of them all.

  Only for Sleeps, slumped in the busted deckchair with his legs apart, his equipment pouring out of his loose-fitting skanks, Rossi would have said he was dreaming. But Rossi’s dreams, when he dreamt, were of Sicily, where the sun always shone down out of clear blue skies on bee-buzzing orchards of olives, oranges and, shit, maybe even some honey trees, Rossi’d always had a sweet tooth.

  ‘So what do we do?’ Sleeps said, scratching his undercarriage.

  ‘Nothing,’ Rossi said, averting his eyes. ‘You heard it yourself, the guy said he’d ring back, let us know where to drop the cash.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Then we roll with it. Play along. Muscle in.’

  ‘But ––’

  ‘But fucking nothing, Sleeps. Half a million? Christ.’ Rossi’s palms were damp. ‘First we nail this Margaret Dolan tart, get the .44 off Karen. I mean, this is hardcore shit. We’re muscling no one with any lady-gun .22s.’

  Sleeps stared at the mouldy carpet.

  ‘What’s the matter now?’ Rossi said. ‘Christ, man, you’re in for a half-mill split.’

  ‘That’s just it. You said, last night, we were going legit.’ Sleeps, doleful, met Rossi’s eye. ‘I mean, we nail a half mill, there’s no way we’re going legit after that.’

  Rossi scrabbled through the makings on the table, started building a jay. ‘Make me a fresh coffee,’ he said. ‘This one I need to think through.’

  Karen

  Karen wasn’t even sure if Frank, after getting Ray’s message, would turn in for work. She’d been hovering by the phone, half-expecting Frank to ring with a mumbled apology, sounding like sick seaweed, the way he always did when he was stressed.

  But, though it looked to Karen like Frank had shaved with a cheese-grater while kneeling in puddles of coffee, he seemed upbeat when he arrived. Karen had expected him to be a couple of twitches short of a fit, wrong-footed by the change in plan, Madge snatched a day early. But he marched up to the desk swinging his briefcase, the patent leather black one, Karen hadn’t seen it in a while.

  ‘Morning, Karen.’

  ‘Frank.’

  ‘I trust you had a good night last night?’

  ‘Great, yeah. How’s the tooth?’

  ‘Oh fine, just fine. And Margaret? She enjoyed herself, I hope?’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘Marvellous.’ Frank dry-washed his hands. ‘Is there any fresh coffee?’

  ‘Can be in about twenty minutes.’

  ‘Excellent. Drop it in when you get a chance. Any calls?’

  ‘None so far.’

  ‘Wonderful.’

  He crossed to his office and let himself in. Karen frowned. It was possible, she reckoned, that Frank was putting on a charade, trying to pretend he hadn’t been humiliated when the ditsy mooch went public with the bellybutton baloo. But no – Karen knew Frank better than that. If Frank was in a good mood, especially on a Monday morning, somebody somewhere had to be suffering.

  She put on a fresh pot of coffee, wondering if she wasn’t looking at things from the wrong end; how maybe Frank was elated because Madge had been snatched a day early. That at least made sense. Frank was the kind, Rossi was the same, he could never concentrate on more than one problem at a time; and, being a man, Frank wouldn’t be able to let the problem go until he’d solved it. Or, Karen acknowledged, what was more likely, offloaded the grief onto someone else.

  She poured the coffee, added sugar and a dollop of cream, knocked on the office door and pushed through. She noted the open wall-safe, the framed Barber of Seville reproduction poster hanging at an angle, Frank behind the desk riffling through a sheaf of papers. Karen craned her neck as she put down the coffee, unable to make out what the papers were; desperate, she nudged the coffee cup, splashing the creamy liquid onto the mahogany surface.

  ‘Ooops, sorry Frank. I’ll just grab a cloth and ––’

  ‘That’s okay.’ Intent on the papers, Frank didn’t even look up. ‘Leave it, I’ll get to it in a minute.’

  Karen frowned again. Usually it was the highlight of Frank’s working week, Karen bending in low to mop up spilt coffee – Frank, she decided, was either high or coming out of the closet. She turned for the door.

  ‘Oh, Karen?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I don’t want you to think I’m prying or anything, but….’ He selected a sheet of paper, glanced at it and smiled grimly, then looked up. ‘I don’t suppose you’d know where Margaret might be?’

  ‘No idea, Frank. Why?’

  ‘I’m just wondering if she went home last night. Or if she might have gone off somewhere with, y’know, the guy in the t-shirt. I know it’s none of my
business, but ––’

  ‘I’m sure it’s not.’

  ‘Yes. I know. But Jeanie rang this morning, she was trying to contact her mother. She was worried.’

  Karen let her sigh of relief out slow. ‘Maybe she’s hungover, has the phone off the hook.’

  ‘Maybe that’s all it is,’ he agreed, going back to his papers. By then, though, Karen had tumbled – Frank was asking dumb questions to set up some half-assed alibi for later on when the cops called around. So he could say, hey, ask Karen, I don’t know where Margaret is; but, yeah, now I think about it, I saw her with this guy last night, out with Karen….

  ‘Is that all, Frank?’

  ‘Yes, that’s all. Thanks.’ Karen turned to go. ‘Oh – one more thing.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Can you call the mobile phone company for me? I need a new phone.’

  Karen’s blood froze. ‘How’d you mean?’

  Frank looked up. ‘I mean, I need a new phone. Since the mugging. The bastard took my phone and the briefcase.’

  ‘You were mugged?’

  ‘I didn’t tell you?’ He nodded. ‘Last Thursday, in town.’

  ‘And he swiped your phone?

  ‘I’m pretty sure it was insured against theft,’ Frank said, ‘but don’t worry about replacing it. It’ll take ages, there’ll be forms to sign, all that crap. Just get me a new one.’

  Karen nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

  ‘Thanks, Karen. You’re a pet. And can you grab me some smokes? Marlboro reds. Thanks.’

  Karen stumbled out of the office, dizzy, her mind awhirl, each thought fizzing like a faulty Catherine Wheel.

  Wondering, Christ, where the fuck was Madge?

  Madge

  Madge checked the clock again, wondering what the hell was keeping Ray. She’d been ready for over an hour now, perched on the edge of the armchair, the television on, sound down, no way could Madge cope with morning TV and a gin hangover – Christ, the very thought of bouffant wigs and too much mascara, that early, made her queasy. And that was just the chaps.

  Thinking one last coffee might help settle her stomach, she stood and headed for the kitchen. But halfway there, nerves jangling like a jester’s bell, she detoured to the TV, reaching in behind for the small pottery jar. Then she went back to the armchair, laid out the makings and began to roll a joint.

  Ray had sounded confident the night before, sitting in the very same armchair, laying out the plan. All Madge had to do was pack an overnight bag, he’d said, and be ready to go when he called. After that it was just a matter of waiting. Once Karen was sure Frank had kicked the cash free, they’d swoop on Frank, hold him. In case, Ray said, Frank got clever, started thinking about a double-cross.

  ‘We grab him before he gets the money?’ Karen’d said. Ray nodding. ‘So how do we get it?’ Karen wanted to know.

  ‘The waif,’ Madge’d butted in. ‘Gen. We get her to pick it up.’

  Ray nodding again. One thing Madge liked about the guy, he kept quiet unless he had something to say….

  The phone rang again. Madge leaned over, checked the caller ID – Jeanie, for the fourth time in less than an hour, the twins fretting about their five grand, the skiing trip. Well, they’d just have to miss out on Aspen for this year, she thought, firing up the joint, taking a deep drag, closing her eyes as she waited for the tingle in her toes.

  The doorbell bing-bing-bonged. Madge tamped the joint. Okay, she thought, here goes….

  Except she’d opened the front door and stepped back into the hall before she realised the guy in the oversized suit with the pink chalk-stripes wasn’t Ray. ‘Oh,’ she said, stepping forward again to block the doorway. ‘Yes? Can I help you?’

  ‘Margaret Dolan, right?’ His voice sounded thin, nasal.

  Madge, feeling the rush, the tingle in her toes, said: ‘Are you with Ray?’

  The guy frowned, his face puzzling up as he opened his mouth to say something. But then Madge saw his eyes brighten. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘That’s right. I’m with Ray.’

  Madge felt her guts squeeze tight: wrong, wrong, wrong. She stepped back closing the door, saying: ‘I’m sorry, but you’ll have to ––’

  He jammed his foot between the door and its frame, wincing as Madge slammed. Then he pushed forward, shoving Madge back into the hall; came on limping slightly, closing the door with his heel. Madge felt her gorge rise. ‘You’re making a big mistake,’ she said. ‘I’m expecting ––’

  ‘Stow it.’ He dipped into a pocket of the oversized suit and came up holding a gun that looked far too small for his hand. He pointed it at her face. ‘I don’t want to use this,’ he said. ‘But I will. No kidding.’ Then he thought for a second. ‘Actually, scratch that. I do want to use it.’

  He gestured for Madge to turn around, then pushed her in the small of her back, propelling her down the hallway towards the kitchen, saying: ‘Okay, so where d’you keep the dishcloths?’

  He made her rip some dishcloths into strips, then lay them on the table. He turned her around, and she automatically held out her arms, offering her wrists. But when he touched her hands her knees gave way and Madge pitched forward grabbing for the table as she puked a torrent of coffee, bile and gin.

  Ray

  ‘Just like that,’ the shylock growled, ‘you’re walking away.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Ray said.

  ‘You think it’s that easy?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t it be?’

  ‘You know shit you shouldn’t.’

  ‘Sure. About Terry.’

  The shylock lumbering across Terry’s office, shoulders hunched, hands in his trouser pockets. He stopped at the window to twitch the lateral bamboo and glance out into the parking lot. Then he turned to face Ray again.

  ‘Terry’s business is my business now,’ he said. ‘If Terry gets fucked, I get fucked.’

  ‘Terry isn’t my type. You got nothing to worry about.’

  Terry glared at Ray. Ray caught the gist – don’t get pissy with the shylock, the guy’ll cause you problems. But Ray wasn’t looking to antagonise anyone. The whole point of calling around to Terry so early in the morning was to put Terry in the picture, let him know the snatch was going ahead as discussed – okay, with a few tweaks here and there, but Terry’s cut was safe.

  Terry had shrugged. ‘Play it how you need to, Ray. Do I look worried?’ Then started kidding Ray about going legit, drawing cartoons.

  ‘Murals, Terry,’ Ray’d said. ‘The oldest art-form known to mankind. You’ve heard of cave paintings, right?’

  ‘Yeah. I hear they keep them in caves. Ever wonder why they keep them in caves?’

  Ray was about to answer when he heard, from over his shoulder, the shylock growl: ‘Who’s keeping what in caves?’

  So then Ray had to explain murals to the shylock. This after Terry and Ray turned off their mobiles, in case someone might ring, incriminate the shylock in a dodgy deal. Then came the back-and-forth about how Ray owed it to Terry and the shylock not to walk away. How it could be dangerous having someone out there who knew what Ray knew, could put people away for serious time if he didn’t keep his trap shut.

  ‘First off,’ Ray said, ‘nothing I can say touches you, right?’

  ‘Damn straight,’ the shylock grunted.

  ‘Okay. So now we’re talking about Terry.’ Ray looked across the desk. ‘You worried about me, Terry?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Why aren’t you worried, Terry?’

  ‘Because if you pull any shit that sticks to me, I’ll have your heart cut out and fed to someone you’re not so keen to see eating hearts.’

  Ray said, to the shylock: ‘Terry and me, we go back. Why would I want to fuck him over?’

  The shylock came back across the office, a sour expression on his face; leaned back against the desk facing Ray, hands still jammed in his pockets. ‘What kind of guarantee do I get?’

  ‘What kind do you want?’

&
nbsp; The shylock thought about that. ‘I don’t know.’

  Ray stood up. ‘Well, if you think of one, Terry’ll know where to find me.’

  But with the shylock and the traffic, the Monday morning snarl, Ray was running fifty minutes late by the time he turned into Larkhill Mews. He nosed the Transit up Madge’s driveway and hopped out, leaving the engine running; jogged up the steps, rang the doorbell, heard the faint echo, bing-bing-bong. Surprised she wasn’t waiting, Ray tried the bell again; when there was no answer the second time, he headed off around the side of the house.

  If there was any problem, he reasoned, Madge would have rung, she had his number; Ray making a joke of it in front of Karen, handing it over the night before….

  Ray stopped dead. He sprinted back to the van, grabbed the phone, powered up. ‘C’mon,’ he urged. ‘C’mon….’

  The beep-beep told him he had a message waiting. He dialled and heard Karen’s voice, urgent: ‘Ray? Fuck … Ray, that call you made, fuck knows who got it. Frank had his phone stolen last Thursday. And Ray – Madge isn’t answering at home. Call when you get this.’

  He jogged back up the steps, tried the front door. It was unlocked. He checked the downstairs rooms, recoiling at the stench in the kitchen even before he saw the pool of puke. Then he went upstairs, even checking the bathroom, knowing all the while he was wasting his time.

  He wiped off the door-handle with the cuff of his sleeve, reversed out of the driveway, headed back towards town. Dialled Karen’s work number, driving one-handed, hearing Terry again: ‘… someone you’re not so keen to see eating hearts.’

  Then remembered, shit, Terry knew Karen. Had her address.

  Karen

  Karen told Frank she was going out to get his Marlboros and went around the corner to the small coffee dock. They sat on high stools at the counter along the wall, Ray facing the sunny tree-lined street.

  ‘You think,’ he said, ‘she might have changed her mind?’