by Eoin Colfer
So I sleep on the floor and even the fact that I’ll be taking a one-way trip when I wake up cannot keep me from passing out. I read an article in Simon Moriarty’s waiting room once that said your subconscious already holds the key. Whatever the question is, you already have the answer inside you. So maybe my inner self is gonna pipe up with the key to this dilemma. I’ll tell myself something I don’t know. That would be really nice, ’cause generally all my subconscious does is give me phobias and behavioral tics. The trick is to wake up and shout the first word that comes to mind. It’s called auto manifestation or, to quote Zebulon, a crock of psycho bobbemyseh. I don’t know what bobbemyseh means exactly, but I imagine it ain’t complimentary. Good things rarely come in crocks.
I dream a little in those few fitful hours but that doesn’t enlighten me any, unless good old Dad wrapping my head in duct tape, saying, Good soldier, good soldier, is the answer to the world’s prayers.
Daddy dreams are a staple in my repertoire of nightmares, but this one is even creepier than usual and kicks my arse straight back to consciousness. I sleep jerk myself awake to find the Shea-ster and Benny T gazing down at me, cracking up like I’m Louie CK on his best night ever.
“What did you say, McEvoy? Did you say what I think you said?”
Oh shit. What did I say?
“Motherfucker said fluffer,” says Freckles. “Fucking fluffer.”
Shea draws breath. “I gotta hand it to you, McEvoy. Ten minutes from grisly death and still thinking with your dick. Maybe you are as stupid as you pretended to be.”
Fluffer? I don’t get it.
“Fluffer?” I say, relieved to be able to speak. “Definitely fluffer? Not suffer, or even mother?”
Freckles shakes his big pumpkin head. “Nah, it was fluffer, McEvoy. I heard that term often enough to know.”
Fluffer? Why does my subconscious have to be so vague?
Overalls guy is wiping down the taxi’s trunk with a rag when I am escorted into the bay, flanked by Shea-ster and Benny T, or as I like to think of them, Pussy Lips and Blood Spatter.
“We good?” asks Shea.
The guy nods and tosses him the keys. “All good, Mr. Shea. Just to remind you, we need her back later for the Albanians.”
Freckles closes his eyes, frowning. “Fuck, I forgot about those assholes. Where are we putting them?”
“With the Russian guys, I think.”
“Oh, the Connecticut farm?”
“Nah, the recent Russians.”
Freckles types a reminder into his phone. “Okay, the industrial park. I got it. You get backed up, you know?”
Shea is sympathetic and I think these two have a real chance of making their relationship work.
“Tough at the top, partner,” says the kid.
“Hey, at least we can share the burden.”
Freckles and Shea are being so sunny and optimistic that surely fate will drop the hammer on them soon.
Maybe I am the hammer. Why not, I was the stone earlier.
That’s a nice thought.
Overalls skedaddles and Freckles pops the trunk. “Okay, McEvoy. In you hop.”
I haven’t decided whether I will meekly lie down or make them shoot me for spite. As it happens the choice is taken away from me.
“Ain’t no way I’m fitting in there,” I say. “I think someone forgot to take care of business.”
The trunk has been converted to a large freezer and is packed to the rim with body parts wrapped in bags. I recognize KFC’s face with its second skin of white plastic.
“Bloody hell fuckballs,” says Freckles. “These were supposed to be taken care of.”
Fuckballs. Nice.
Shea pokes the ice, looking for space. “No way this Chewbacca-looking motherfucker is going in there. It’s so hard to find good help these days.”
I think it only fair to point out: “You had good help, Shea-ster. And you shot them.”
Shea is embarrassed that his criminal empire is coming across a little half-assed.
“Shut up, McEvoy. What’s going on, Benny T? Who takes care of dumping the bodies?
Freckles points at KFC’s head. “This guy. Usually.”
“I think I see what happened here,” I say, half expecting a pop from Freckles, but he is busy placating Shea.
“Don’t worry, partner. Maybe can do the whole lot in one run. It’s a bit risky having McEvoy in back, but we could drive to the park, dump the frozen meat and we’re back here in an hour. And after that, I am gonna treat you to the best breakfast in New York.”
“You talking about Norma’s?” I ask.
“You know it,” says Freckles. “You ever have the pancakes there?”
“I love those things.” I nod at Shea. “Listen to this guy, forget the hummus for one day. Live a little.”
“Shit,” says Shea. “Now, I’m excited. Let’s get this show on the road so I can order me a mountain of pancakes.”
And in this sneaky fashion, I have Pussy and Spatter visualizing breakfast so clearly that they lower their guard a little and load me into the backseat when what they should have done was made two runs.
I got a chance now.
Freckles hooks the chain of my handcuffs over a custom carabiner set into the metal-framed back of the front seats and screws it tight.
It occurs to me that I should have kept my mouth shut. I had a much better chance of escaping if I was left here under guard while Freckles did the run with the first load of bodies instead of being shackled in the backseat.
Balls.
Thanks for the help, subconscious.
Fluffer.
Fluffer.
I turn the word over in my head hoping for the lightbulb moment.
What does a fluffer do? She fluffs before a shoot.
So they’re gonna shoot me, should I fluff something?
Freckles is driving the cab along the river. The gray tsunami of the USS Intrepid looms over us and I can see Union City across the water, its night lights like one of Spielberg’s mother ships. I never thought I would pine for Jersey but right now those lights are like the promise of safety. At least over there I would have a decent chance of surviving the day, but we’ve passed the tunnel now, so I guess the day’s gruesome business will be conducted on this side of the Hudson.
I call out to my captors. “Hey, guys. Can you hear me?”
There’s a sheet of reinforced glass between us with a tiny sealed hatch in the center. I can see the guys talking but I can’t hear a word, but obviously they can hear me, ’cause Freckles presses a button on the dash and his voice crackles over the speaker system.
“What is it, McEvoy? You wanna go potty? Why don’t you save it for when the kid plugs you. Your bowels are gonna empty anyhow.”
Shea is intrigued. “He’s gonna crap himself?”
“Sure. There’s a good chance. Guys often let go. I’ve seen the strangest shit with corpses. Coupla guys got boners.”
“What? The guys doing the shooting?”
“No. The guys who got shot. Dead as fucking doornails, sporting a bugle.”
“That is some gross shit, Benny T. Boners, oh my God.”
Seeing as they’re already talking about boners I decide to make my fluffer pitch.
“I just wanted you to know that I’m open to offers at this point. Sincerely. You saw what I can do back in the Masterpiece. I could be a real addition to your organization.”
Shea claps his hands delighted. “This is unbelievable. I am genuinely incredulous.”
Of course you’re incredulous, arsehole, that’s because it’s unbelievable.
I do not voice this aloud as now is not a good time to further antagonize Shea.
When he finishes laughing Freckles explains my motivation; he forgets to switch off the speaker so I hear the whole thing.
“Y’see this is typical death’s door behavior. This guy is desperate now. He’s even offering to work for the guys he humiliated yesterday. Anything to get
him off that hook.”
“This happens all the time?”
“Oh sure. I had an Italian guy once offered me his daughter if I’d cut him loose.”
“Did you take the deal?”
“Nah. Cut his throat like a pig. Then I visited the daughter anyway.”
“Those Italians are badasses, right?”
Freckles shrugs. “Once upon a time, maybe, but they spent too long at the top. Gone a little doughy, you know what I mean?”
“Sure. Doughy. Dad never told me none of this stuff. So which guys are the toughest?”
Listen to this kid. Like anyone’s tougher than a bullet. Still, Freckles considers the question, doing this weird sucky squeaky thing between his lips that would be enough to get him punched in the face under different circumstances.
“As an individual, one person per sé,” says Freckles when he’s completed his squeaky thought process. “I am the toughest individual in this city. You cross Benny T and I will hunt you down like a fucking dog. But as a group. Collectively per sé. I’d have to say the Russians are the toughest bastards around. Those guys come outta some real hardship. Fuckin’ Siberia. I seen pictures. They ain’t scared of nuthin’. Micks and Spics. They shit ’em. And I say that as a fifty-fifty Mick ’n’ Spic. I got Latin blood though it don’t show.”
That’s a lotta per sé’s for one statement.
“You a Latin scholar, Benny?” I can’t help asking.
“I told you already: I got Latin blood. Here’s another phrase for you regarding me humping your momma. Vidi vici veni. I saw, I conquered, I came. You can take that to the grave. Fuckin’ fluffer, you sad sack of shit. Hey, maybe your mom was a fluffer.”
While they are cracking themselves up, I get it. It comes back to me.
Fluffer. Holy shit.
It’s pretty quiet on Twelfth Avenue this early in the morning. It’s that moral twilight between the hours of thievery and joggery. Freckles has got maybe thirty minutes to do his business before the ferries start chugging in, dumping their cargo of white-collar office civilians onto the island. There ain’t a ray of sunlight yet, but the night is holding its breath, waiting for daytime to paint the high-rises red. While Freckles is entertaining young Edward Shea with gruesome war stories, I have an exchange with my subconscious.
Where did you see a fluffer recently?
The porn house.
And what did she give you besides advice on penis-enlargement pills?
A key for cop cuffs.
And what are you wearing now?
Cop cuffs.
What happened to that key?
I tucked it into the thong, because you never know, right?
So go fish in your thong for the key already, moron.
When are you going to stop being such a tool?
One second after you stop being such an idiot.
Gombeen.
Shitehawk.
I got a key in my thong, and as soon as I remember that I feel the metal digging into my stomach. It’s a step in the right direction having a key and so forth, but there’s still a long way to go. Even if I slip these cuffs I gotta get out of the cab and deal with Spatter and Pussy up front.
First things first. Get outta these shackles.
I knock on the glass with my forehead. “Hey, kid. Do me a favor. Scratch my balls.”
Ain’t a man alive who can ignore a request like this, rife as it is with such potential for hilarity.
The kid’s jaw literally drops. “Scratch your . . . Are you serious?”
“Come on, Shea. I’m trussed up here like the baby Jesus in his swaddling clothes.”
Freckles frowns, upset by my choice of words. “Aw, come on, McEvoy. Why you gotta bring Jesus into it?”
“I’m tryin’ to convey how itchy my balls are.”
“You should know better than to invoke Jesus, man. Our countrymen been killing each other for seven hundred years over shit like that.”
Now Freckles has developed some kind of political conscience. I guess it’s all right to plug your fellow man so long as baby Jesus ain’t invoked anywhere in the process.
“Also, maybe you got ball rot or something,” adds Shea. “You think anyone is gonna touch your sack?”
Freckles nods wisely. “I know what this is. When did your symptoms manifest, McEvoy?”
Never, I think, but I answer: “I dunno. Last thirty minutes, maybe.”
“I thought so,” says Freckles, smacking the wheel. “That itching is all in your head.”
I say the obvious: “Actually, I’m pretty sure it’s in my balls.”
“Nah, it’s psychosomatic. A death’s-door ailment. I seen this shit before. A guy realizes he’s about to get his ticket punched and his body reacts by throwing up weird symptoms, takes his mind off it, see?”
Shea is nodding along, intrigued. If he had some paper, he’d be taking notes.
“Hey, Benny T. These are my balls and they feel like some malicious fecking goblin scuffed them lightly so they’d scab over, then dipped them in pepper. So, until we’re talking about your balls, keep your shrinkifying to yourself.”
“Shrinkifying?” says Shea. “Is that a word?”
“No. But it should be.”
“Bottom line,” says Freckles. “We ain’t scratching your balls. Maybe, if you ask real nice, the Shea-ster can shoot you in the crotch, which might alleviate it some.”
Shea slaps his knee, enjoying the hell out of his day. “Consider it done,” he says.
“Please, guys,” I beg, tugging on my cuffs. “I can’t reach and don’t wanna go out with jock itch.”
Freckles laughs. “That is indeed a pathetic way to go.”
And he shuts off the speaker.
Now I got license to root around in my own underwear.
I played those fools. Played myself right into the back of a death cab on the way to my own hole in the ground. Ain’t I the genius?
Actually, with KFC and that other guy in the trunk I might not even merit my own hole.
And that is depressing.
I think my balls actually are itching.
I grind myself right up on the glass partition, trying to get a hand down my pants. Through the crook of my arm I notice we are off Twelfth and down by the river. I see that weird-looking melted pier, an altar to scores of busted planks and rotting tires heaped at its base. I always used to wonder about that pier when I drove past, what its story was and so forth. Now I probably won’t ever know.
Tragic, right? A man goes to his grave without comprehensive pier knowledge.
So anyways, I’m basically humping the partition trying to get at the key and Freckles turns the speaker back on so’s I can hear them laughing. It’s not like they need to worry, right? Freckles frisked me pretty good, even gave my privates a decent squeeze. So, they’re cocksure I ain’t armed. But I got a key and my hand is only a coupla inches away.
Ha. Wait. That pier collapsed from pier pressure.
Zing.
In your face, Zebulon. That is a genuine joke. I could send it in to Ferguson.
Always the cautious optimist, I bank that joke for later if there is a later.
My index finger brushes the key. So close.
“Oh,” I say, which sets Freckles off laughing again.
“Listen to this asshole,” he says in between chortles. “We should take a drive to Connecticut for laughs. This guy is better than Howard Stern.”
So then they’re off on a DJ debate. Apparently this Harvard girl that Shea once banged in a bathroom stall voiced the opinion that Howard Stern was a misogynist asshole, and Shea happened to agree with that position. Freckles, on the other hand, was loudly opposed to this argument despite the fact that it quickly became obvious that he didn’t understand the term misogynist.
I have to stop myself joining in, because I got stuff to do, staying alive and so forth.
I reach the key, pull it out between two fingers and slump gratefully on the seat. Usually when I s
it down, I don’t attach an emotion to it, but this time gratefully works okay.
Stage One complete.
I look down at my hands, the palms worn shiny like the hands of a fisherman, the fingers curved like a gorilla’s, and they are shaking like I got a charge running through me, but I manage to hold on to the key and after a minute of trying to thread that toy-sized key into a hole the size of a match head I manage to free myself.
Correction: free my hands.
There’s a long way to go before I can consider my entire self to be free. Ideally, I could simply jump out of the car the next time Freckles slows to take a corner. But the central locking button is up front and there are no controls for the windows back here. I will have to trick Shea into giving me a shot at grabbing his gun, then I’ll be in the driver’s seat.
Metaphorically.
I butt the partition with my forehead and because of my entertainment value so far on this trip, my captors are inclined to listen.
“Wassup, ballsack?” says Shea. “You need some exfoliator for your asshole this time?”
That’s not bad, but I don’t have time. I need to provoke the kid with some outrageous remarks. It’s not denial this time or a coping mechanism, it’s part of a general strategy that is too loosely thrown together to qualify as a plan.
“Listen, kid. I’m done screwing around. Do yourself a favor and turn me loose. Then you and Freckles can round up your big scary posse and get your gangster on with Mike.”
Shea is eating again, a big blueberry muffin that he had stuffed in some pocket and sat on, looks like. The muffin is flat as a cookie and he is picking off the edges like a fecking squirrel. I hate this kid.
“Turn you loose? You had more chance of me scratching your balls. I’m gonna shoot you, McEvoy. Deal with it. Visualize your next incarnation or some shit, I could give a fuck.”
“You ain’t gonna shoot me, kid. Not you. The old man maybe, but you? Nah. I got a date with a bullet okay, but you ain’t the one pulling the trigger.”
Shea twists in his seat to look back at me and I can see the first rays of sunrise behind his head, making him look like one of those pale Scandinavian Jesuses movie people were so fond of in the fifties.