Screwed dm-2

by Eoin Colfer

  I’m a queen in a safe environment, Danny, he told me a couple of months back. So you’re getting an eyeful of the real me.

  Fag away, I said, trying to get into the swing, which stopped him dead in his tracks.

  I’ve stayed out of the swing since then.

  So anyways, Jason has been my partner for several years since we started bouncing this place. I always knew he was a tough-as-nails kind of guy, but I did not know that he also had natural business acumen and could handle a toolkit, which is not a euphemism. I stood in a porch with the guy for the best part of a decade through the rain and snow holding doors for addicts and perverts and knew damn all about him. Then again, he knew the square root of damn all about me. But now that we’re business partners we got a stake in each other’s future, so mutual trust has entered the equation. This feels good on a day-to-day basis, but it the long term it’s bad, because now Mike has someone else to punish for my sins.

  So that’s Sofia, my kinda girlfriend on her good days.

  Dr. Zeb, my peacetime buddy from the Lebanon war zone.

  And Jason, my tool-swinging business partner.

  Three friends now. I’m turning into Miss Popularity.

  Jason spots me coming in the front door and he climbs down from a stepladder and hails me.

  “Hey, boss man. You came home, I was worried sick.”

  “Less of the sarcasm, J. And we’re partners now, remember?”

  Jason looks like a linebacker in dungarees and a hard hat, and I know if Zeb was here that he’d ask Jason if he was going to a club with the rest of the Village People and Jason would laugh his ass off. I aspire to that level of nonchalance.

  “Yeah, partners. I do all the work and you grace us with your presence when the day is nearly done.”

  “Sorry, J. Won’t happen again.”

  Jason tugs a Post-it from his helmet where Marco, his boyfriend and our head barman, probably stuck it.

  “Here’s the to-do list for today.”

  I hang my leather coat on the stand. “Gimme the summary, J. I gotta wash and go. Mike trouble.”

  Jason snarls and I can see the diamond twinkling in his incisor and I don’t think there is a soul on this earth would use the term queen to describe him right now.

  “That Mike guy is a thorn in our side, Dan. Come on. We got skills, I think we could call in a few people and take him.”

  Jason knows plenty about accountancy and remodeling spaces, and maybe he can crack heads pretty good, but he doesn’t know shit about going tactical, and I don’t just mean pulling the trigger, I mean living with yourself afterward.

  “No one’s taking anyone, J. I gotta run an errand for Mike. You keep banging away here.”

  Jason pouts, which is new. “It’s a bit more than banging away, Danny. This dump is going to be a palace by the time we’re through. This whole area will be open plan. I swear I could pull down these partitions with my teeth, and the sweet part is we don’t even need a permit because the walls are not even on the original drawings.”

  Being made partner has given Jason a real shot in the arm. He goes at everything with the enthusiasm of a five-year-old wired on Skittles.

  “That’s great. So what have we got on today?”

  It’s crazy; I’m making small talk like it’s an ordinary day when I’ve got two hundred large in prehistoric currency burning a hole in my pocket. It occurs to me that it would not be beyond Mike to send someone after me to steal his own bonds and put me in the frame with Shea. In one move he could extricate himself from this guy’s debt and get someone else to take the risk of sneaking up behind me.

  Jason walks with me like we’re in the halls of power and I try to focus on what he’s saying. “Today, we’re breaking through from the back room to the roulette wheel. Practically doubles our space. I got a few of the boys coming over to help out. Throw on some nice green and yellow paint.” He eyes me pointedly. “You’re good with those colors, right?”

  Shades of emulsion are way down on my list of concerns right now.

  “Sure. Why not? And we’re still gonna be open by Friday?”

  “Not completely finished, but we can open, sure.”

  “Good. You the man.”

  It’s true. Jason is the man. Without him and his goodwill network we couldn’t afford the new coat of paint for this job.

  I am gonna allow myself to think positive for five seconds, so I fake punch and Jason fake blocks. “I got high hopes, J. We could actually make a living. All of us.”

  “Fuck living,” says Jason. “We’re gonna make bank.”

  I wince. It’s an Irish Catholic pre-emptive guilt reaction to any expression of optimism. Pride comes before a fall. The Jewish folks have it too, as Zeb puts it: You get too cocky, you get that cock cut off.

  Like many of Zeb’s sayings it doesn’t bear scrutiny but gets the point across.

  Plus even banks ain’t making bank these days.

  I have a plan of sorts re the Mike/bearer-bonds situation. Nip upstairs to my apartment to clean up and put on my stomping boots. Swing by the bus station, select a gun from my locker stash and take the bus into the city. Maybe I’ll stop off at Spring and pick up a slice at Ben’s but that’s not a priority, and only works if I’m alive and the queue of tourists doesn’t stretch too far around the block.

  This is a pretty slapdash plan but I figure I’ll have plenty of time to fine-tune it on the bus.

  But the best-laid plans come undone, and the causal ones unravel even faster. My shower and change proceeds exactly as envisioned but the gun-bus-pizza portion of my strategy lasts precisely five steps from the club when I notice an unmarked cop sedan idling beside the hydrant opposite. I know the two cops inside by the shapes of their heads. Coupla knucklehead detectives called Krieger and Fortz, who Lieutenant Ronelle Deacon once informed me couldn’t find their dicks with mirrors and a dick-o-scope, which cracked me up at the time. Now that level of incompetence seems a little ominous. Fortz looks like he’s wearing a helmet and, with his long neck and slender skull, Krieger could have a lightbulb on his shoulders.

  Maybe they’re not looking for me, I think.

  Yeah, and maybe if Zeb’s Uncle Mort had a pussy and so on and so forth.

  Krieger spots me in the mirror and attempts to exit the squad nonchalantly, which is tough to do when your partner has parked level with a hydrant. Krieger dings the door panel real good before he realizes he’s shut in there.

  This would be a great jumping-off point for me if I wanted to get into some back and forth with these guys, but I’m feeling a little worn out with all the morning’s repartee, plus I got an envelope in my breast pocket with big denominations inside it, which I am pretty certain were not attained legally. With this in mind I decide to play it straight with these blues no matter how much klutzing they get up to.

  Fortz slides out the driver side but keeps his distance. I guess the word is out that I can knock people over pretty good.

  “Morning,” says Fortz, hiding his bulk behind the door. “Or is it afternoon?”

  “Brunchtime,” I say, all cultured.

  “Good one,” says Fortz, flopping his wallet open to give me an eyeful of the ID inside. “I’m Detective Fortz and that dummy trying to get of the car is Detective Krieger,” he says, a thumb hooked into his belt, keeping one hand close to his holster. “You’re McEvoy, right?”

  Not much point in denying it. “That’s me, Detective Fortz of the force. What can I do for you?”

  Fortz is living proof that evolution goes both ways. He’s got the aforementioned helmet-head look going on, with a skull that shines like a buffed bowling ball. The man is completely hairless as far as I can see and his features seem to belong to a much smaller face. It’s as if his head kept growing but his eyes, nose and mouth said screw it at about age fifteen. His tongue lolls a bit when he’s not speaking and another one of my doorman theories states that tongue lollers are quick to violence. Someday I’m gonna write all these
nuggets down for future generations of doormen. Maybe I’ll attain guru status and get on Dr. Phil. I would love that, sitting on the chair opposite Phil, just close enough to smack that smug fucker in the chops. I probably wouldn’t take the shot, but little dreams keep a person going.

  Fortz swaps his wallet for a phone and checks the screen to show me how in demand he is.

  “Lieutenant Deacon wants to see you,” he says. “It’s important.”

  “You’re running errands for the Troopers now?”

  Fortz grins. “Just lending a hand. We’re all on the same team.”

  I tell myself not to panic. Ronnie is straighter than Robocop and I haven’t done anything bad yet today. “Tell her I’ll be in the club later and to come on down.”

  “Nah,” says Fortz. “She sent us to pick you up, get it?”

  In my imagination the envelope is glowing through the fabric of my jacket.

  “What kind of appointment is this?” I ask, like there’s a good kind.

  “I think it’s a doughnut-tasting sorta deal,” says Fortz, his little features jiggling with mirth like the last jelly beans in a bowl. “Now, are you gonna get in back or do I have to start wondering why?”

  Krieger has given up trying to get out of the car and I can tell by the set of his shoulders that he’s sulking.

  “Okay, I’m getting in. Just tell your partner not to shoot me. I ain’t the one who locked him in the car.”

  Fortz’s eye roll implies a fractious relationship with his partner, soured by years of grumpy stakeouts and botched coffee orders. “I think maybe I’ll shoot him and pin it on you. How does that grab you?”

  He ushers me into the backseat, still chuckling.

  Blues. Comedians every last one. I read somewhere that cops develop a macabre and inappropriate sense of humor just to survive the job, but I reckon that mostly this disposition has been lurking under the surface looking for a way to climb out. Like a troll down a dark well.

  Krieger is not pretty to look at even from behind. He’s got these weird little clumps of hair sticking out from the back of his head like greasy stalactites and his shirt collar is clumping up his neck fat, which is weird because the rest of him is skinny as a matchstick.

  As Fortz drives, Krieger has his arms folded and is giving off icy vibes. Fortz puts up with this for about two minutes, then . . .

  “Come on, man,” he says, leaning across to punch his partner in the arm. “That hydrant thing was funny shit. Took some driving too. Talladega Nights, dude.”

  Shake and bake, I think.

  Krieger slaps away the punch. “Funny shit? How many times are you gonna pull that? I am sick to death of bashing the car door. You know I’m claustrophobic, Fortz, you asshole?”

  “’Course I fucking know. That’s why it’s funny.”

  Much as I would like to consider these guys total idiots, I’d have to be deep in denial not to hear the similarities between their bitching and what Zeb and I get into on a daily basis. It’s a little depressing.

  “Hey, fellas,” I say, trying to keep it jaunty. “You really want a civilian listening in on your domestics?”

  Krieger twists around poking his hand between the headrest and seat. I can’t help noticing there’s a Taser in his fist and the charge light is flashing green.

  “No,” he says. “I guess we don’t.”

  And he shoots me in the chest, which turns my entire universe electric blue. Through the neon I hear Krieger’s voice saying: “Moron brought that on himself.”

  I wonder who the moron is?

  CHAPTER 3

  SO, I’M SPASMING WITHOUT DIGNITY IN THE BACK OF A POLICE cruiser and since yours truly is the guy spinning this yarn, the traditional thing to do would be to throw in a dream sequence at this point or maybe a flashback. Fill in a few paragraphs, beef up the backstory. Perfect opera-toonity, right? Except I can’t seem to fully pass out.

  This is bloody typical. Back in the Lebanon we used to prank Tase each other occasionally for giggles. Hilarious, right? Sending fifty thousand bowel loosening volts coursing through a guy halfway through the weekly phone call to his fiancée. How we laughed. This went on for months until a staff sergeant went into a cardiac and had to be shipped home with his honorable discharge but without the use of his right leg. The point being that I got lit up a dozen times but most of the time it didn’t put me out. Just like now.

  Here I am grinding my teeth hard enough to crack the enamel. My entire body is stiff as an ironing board and there’s a halo of agony buzzing around my head.

  I should be out. This is too much pain.

  I concentrate really hard and spit three words at Krieger.

  “Hit . . . me . . . again.”

  Krieger is a stand-up guy, so he obliges.

  I do dream a little when I’m under. Mostly about Sofia Delano, which is to be expected since we got enough sexual tension humming between us to power a beer cooler.

  The incident I flash on reveals a lot about me and my varied insecurities. I’m in my old apartment, downstairs from Sofia, and I come out of the shower to find her standing there in workout gear holding my towel on a finger.

  “Oh, baby,” she says, her voice sensual from years of Jameson and Marlboro. “You look good.”

  I don’t feel like I look good, never have. But there’s a woman in my bathroom who resembles Let’s Get Physical’s Olivia Newton- John telling me I look good, and that’s never a bad start to the day.

  “Thanks, Sofia,” I say, trying to cover my privates without using my hands. Tricky. “You look good too. Great.”

  She laughs. “Baby, you have no idea. I’ve sent bigger men than you home with a limp.”

  This is not fair. This woman is the right age for me, i.e., she falls within my ten years up ten years down parameters, she has the correct amount of sass, and sex appeal that’s going to last until the day she dies, but thinks I am her long-gone asshole husband.

  She backs up with the towel and I have no choice but to follow.

  “Oh, baby,” she says and just the sound of her plump lips smacking on the b’s makes me feel a little excited, ignoble and also weak-willed.

  I cannot take advantage of a delusional woman, says my angelic side.

  My other shoulder demon comes back with: Yeah, but is there even a victim here? You’d be doing the dame a favor.

  I am half-expecting another compliment from Sofia, which would be my undoing, but instead she says: “I thought it was bigger, Carmine. Didn’t it used to be bigger? You should see Dan’s.”

  Even though I’m not sure who’s been insulted, the excitement drains out of me like air from a punctured balloon animal and I mutter some lame crack about perspective. Sofia doesn’t laugh, instead she goes all metaphorical with:

  “Like the playgrounds of my youth, all seems smaller now.”

  Deep. Too deep for a semi-horny man getting out of a shower.

  Sofia has a moment of lucidity and says. “I gotta scoot, Dan. Carmine might call and if I’m not by the phone there will be freakin’ fireworks.”

  I pluck the towel from her fingers and nod. I wanted her to leave, but now that she’s going I feel cheated.

  Sofia kisses me so hard my shamed region forgets it’s been insulted.

  “That’s better, baby,” she says with a smile that might even be for me.

  I step back in the shower when she’s gone.

  I feel myself surfacing but Sofia’s eyes are still there. Not the same sky blue though—more of a dirty petrol.

  They are not Sofia’s eyes, says my subconscious. Notice the thick brows, not to mention the rubber gimp mask.

  I have a pretty open relationship with my subconscious. A little unhealthy even. We dialogue a lot, which kind of defeats the purpose of calling it a subconscious in the first place.

  Still, my inner voice is right. Sofia does not sport thick brows. I flop around a little trying to earth myself in whatever situation I’m in.

  I feel a chai
r underneath me. Remembering the word for chair is not necessarily an indicator of no brain damage but I’m optimistic. More information seeps through the haze. For example the office chair seems to have me cuffed to it, and the room that me and the chair are in has swathes of pink satin streaming down from the ceiling. Also I seem to be naked apart from a pink leather thong, which I definitely did not snap on earlier this morning. This can’t be real? Maybe the Taser rattled my neurons a little. I blink the world into focus and immediately wish that I hadn’t.

  There are two guys, presumably Krieger and Fortz, dressed in gimp masks and rubber aprons, dancing happy little jigs either side of a stool-mounted laptop. The floor is lined with plastic.

  What happened to human beings? Once upon a time Marilyn Monroe holding an apple was the raciest thing on the planet. Now we gotta have middle-aged cops in gimp masks?

  I cough a few times, which feels like it’s inflating my brain, then say:

  “You know, guys. Whatever happens, at least we have our dignity.”

  Denial. That’s what it is.

  “Hey,” says Fortz, and I know it’s him not from the single syllable but from the inverted-cauldron shape of his head and the fact that his narrow-set eyes don’t quite line up with the eyeholes. “Look who’s awake.”

  Krieger whistles. “Thank Christ for that. I thought the second dart might have killed him.”

  Fortz punches his partner’s bare shoulder, which is matted with fuzz. “So why did you give him the second dart, moron?”

  “I was angry with you, Dirk,” says Krieger, whose body language screams bitch. “You’ve been ragging me all week.”

  Dirk Fortz does his eye-rolling thing. “Shit, Krieg. We’re partners. Ragging goes with the turf.” He turns to me. “That’s quite a ticker you got there. I never saw a guy still jabbering after getting sparked.”

  I have crescents of pain behind my eyes and would really like a nap, but I figure keeping the conversation going will delay whatever shit storm is drifting my way.

  “Depends on the weapon. I got hit with fifty thousand volts last year, knocked me out of my skin. What’ve you got there? Thirty?”