Plugged

CHAPTER 13

I call Deacon from outside the store. She’s at the hospital with a guy on the door.

‘So how you doing?’ I ask, wasting a few seconds on politeness.

‘I’m fucking freezing,’ she replies. ‘I got enough morphine in me to cheer up the Rolling Stones and I’m still cold. I’m gonna lose a finger to frostbite, McEvoy. How about that for a happy ending?’

‘Sucks,’ I say, nodding in sympathy like she can see me. ‘You okay to dial the office?’ And I lay out some thrown-together story about masked raiders.

‘Let me get this straight, McEvoy,’ she says, and I can almost hear her teeth chatter as she tries to grin. ‘You just happen by your friend’s store late at night and find him tied to a chair with a bullet in his shoulder. This is worse than your last effort about me busting out of the freezer.’

‘Yeah, Detective. Shocking, ain’t it? An Irishman who can’t tell a story.’

‘Dan, we’ve been through some shit, and you did me a solid with that tension screw.’

‘And saved your life those times.’

‘And the lifesaving, sure. But I’m a cop first and foremost and I am watching you, man. I don’t know how a fascinating and talented individual like yourself stayed off my radar for so long.’

‘I’m a quiet guy, Detective. From now on, I’m back under the radar.’

Deacon laughs. ‘People like you and me, Dan, trouble sniffs us out. Maybe you can hide out for a while, maybe even a few years, but eventually someone needs to be saved or someone needs to be killed.’

‘I’m out of those businesses.’

‘That’s right. I hear Daniel McEvoy is a club owner these days.’

‘News travels fast. It’s temporary.’

Deacon sighs, and I guess she’s thinking about her ex-partner.

‘Everything’s temporary, Dan. I’ll use my good fingers to expedite the 911. An ambulance should be with you in ten. See you real soon.’

‘Thanks, Ronnie. I’ll call you.’

Zeb has somehow managed to give himself an injection of something while I was outside negotiating with the cavalry. He sits pale under a flickering strip light, eyes rolled back in his head and blood-slick shirt sticking to his chest.

‘Zeb?’

Nothing. Whatever he dosed himself with is doing the trick.

‘Man, you look like a poster for a horror movie.’

‘Screw you, Dan.’

Still a few marbles in the jar, then.

‘What was in that shot?’

Zeb’s irises roll down like slot-machine bars. ‘One of my own concoctions. I am feeling no pain, Dan. You see the ponies?’

‘The ambulance is coming. Sirens and lights, the whole nine yards. The medics will want to know what you took.’

Zeb smiles and bubbles burst in the corner of his mouth. ‘I took as much as I could, Dan. Being shot is no joke. This blackmail thing was my worst idea ever.’

I beg to differ. ‘No. That she-male last summer was the worst idea ever.’

‘Don’t knock it,’ says Zeb, then his eyes roll back in his head.

I wheel Zeb and his chair outside just as the ambulance pulls into the lot. A paramedic jumps out of the moving vehicle like he’s auditioning for Quentin Tarantino.

He grabs me by the forearm. ‘Did he take any drugs?’

‘Take your pick,’ I say, nodding towards the store’s sign.

The paramedic pokes around Zeb’s wound. ‘Is he allergic to anything?’

Zeb? Allergic to drugs? Funny.

‘Not so far.’

‘He’ll live,’ pronounces the paramedic after a cursory examination. ‘But it’s going to be a rough night.’

‘Good,’ I say, then go inside to get my boots.

Slotz is doing good business by the time I get back. Jason is parading the street, chatting with the university beer crowd.

‘Where you gonna go?’ he asks a group of guys sporting shorts and calf tattoos. ‘Every other street in this town is dead. You gotta curfew or something?’

He spots me shuffling down the sidewalk. ‘Hey, hey. Bossman. You all straight with Irish Mike? I was worried.’

I try to smile, but my jaw feels like there’s a steam iron inside it. ‘All sorted. He’s a sweetheart when you get to know him. What are you doing out here? Hustling?’

‘It’s a new day, Dan baby. New management is good for all of us.’

Management? I don’t like the sound of that.

‘I don’t know, Jase. Payrolls and overheads. Figures give me a headache.’

Jason flashes me his diamond grin. ‘You are such a pussy, dude. I can install some small-business software on your computer. That shit will take care of everything, even pay your taxes, you feel me?’

‘I feel you,’ I say gratefully, resisting an urge to add dawg. ‘What do you know about business software?’

‘I took a couple of semesters in Dover. Picked up a few things. We create a file for everyone and the computer can even print their paycheques if you want. We can use it for inventory too.’

I feel a weight lifting. ‘You are promoted to business manager, Jason. Get yourself a blue suit and take that diamond out of your tooth.’

‘I don’t do blue,’ says Jason. ‘And the diamond is me, man.’

‘You’re still hired. How soon can you get that software?’

‘Soon as now, Dan. All I need is the internet and ten minutes. Shit, I could probably download it on my phone.’

Some good news. I feel like crying.

Inside the club, nothing much has changed. I realise I was expecting something. Not bluebirds and fruit punch, but maybe a less oppressive atmosphere. No Vic cruising the floor throwing a jaundiced eye over everyone’s shoulder. No lights off over the back booth. But it’s same-old same-old. The atmosphere is fake-cheery and the girls are nothing but tired.

Marco is the only ray of hope, polishing glasses like they were diamonds.

‘Working hard, Marco?’ I say to the little barman, pointing at the Jameson bottle over his head.

He pours me a large one. ‘You ever see Jason so happy? He’s out on the street selling this joint. That boy is on fire.’

I decide to make Marco’s night. ‘I promoted him to business manager.’

Marco flaps at me with his rag. ‘Get the fuck out. You did not.’

‘Yup. True as God.’ ‘You won’t regret it,’ beams Marco. ‘Jason will work himself to death.’

I take a sip of whiskey, feeling it slide down my throat smooth as mercury.

‘Have a word with him about the diamond. I have a feeling he listens to you.’

And I leave him open-mouthed, wondering if their secret is out.

I was hoping that the booth would be empty by the time I finished my drink. No such luck. One of Brandi’s Catwoman boots is protruding from the gloom, and something is squeaking, hopefully the upholstery. This Brandi issue has to be sorted out sometime; it may as well be now. Get all my confrontations over in one night.

The booth has its own light switch under the table’s rim, and I flick it without warning. First thing I see is a pale bloated stomach; second is Brandi down in the shadows, writhing like a snake.

The guy with the stomach jerks so hard he bashes Brandi’s head on the table rim.

‘What the. .’ His eyes focus and he sees me there, looming over him, best grim look in place. ‘Cop? Tell me you’re not a cop?’

‘This is a respectable club, sir. No contact allowed.’

Brandi surfaces, rubbing her crown. ‘Jesus Christ, Dan. What the fuck? I mean, what the fuck?’

I try to shame her with a look, but Brandi is impervious. ‘The booth action is done. Finished. We talked about this.’

She tries the old kiss-ass routine. ‘Come on, baby. A girl’s gotta eat.’

Now it’s my turn to be impervious. ‘Maybe, but she doesn’t have to eat that.’

Belly-guy has lost the urge. ‘Hey, listen, you two have got some kind of employment dispute, why don’t I give you some space to work it out? Communication is so important.’

I cock my head, waiting for a trademark Ghost Zeb comment. Nothing. The ghost is gone. Reunited with his wounded self in St John’s hospital. Alleluia.

‘Yes, sir. Why don’t you tuck yourself in and try your luck at the tables.’

‘I believe I shall,’ says Belly-guy, formal with relief.

Brandi watches her john skip around stools in his hurry to get away from me.

She is furious; anyone with ten minutes’ elementary body-language studies could see that. Her bottom lip is pushed out like a segment of blood orange and her cocked hip is sharp as a guillotine.

‘Problem?’ I enquire mildly.

Her eyes flash and she wants to claw my eyes out, but Brandi is the consummate survivor.

‘No problem, Dan. We got a few bumps, that’s all. Not even bumps. . implants.’ And suddenly her breasts are wrapped around my arm. Took all of four seconds for her mood to swing.

‘No bumps,’ I say, flexing my bicep so her boobs pop off. ‘The booth is closed. Now, you go do your job.’

I wasn’t sure I could flex enough to dislodge Brandi, but I did and it was cool. I leave her wobbling and stride towards the office.

The phone is buzzing when I reach the desk in Vic’s office, but I let it ring out. I need a minute to put my pieces back together. My jaw throbs and my knuckles ache and I realise that I should have raided Zeb’s painkiller stash.

I crank Vic’s chair down a few more notches and settle back until my head touches the wall behind me.

My office, my desk.

That’s it. Crises over.

Now I need to take stock of what’s happened. A lot of new things have come into my life and I don’t know which ones I want to keep. One thing is for certain, as soon as Zeb is back on his feet I am going to knock him on his arse. After that, I need to get my head straight, then take a few days’ rest with nothing on my mind but food and drink.

My eyes begin to close and I don’t fight it. The familiar sounds of chips clicking, glasses clinking and gamblers moaning in the casino beyond are almost like a lullaby.

Relax, I tell myself. Irish Mike is off my back for the moment. Okay, the Sofia Delano situation needs a little work, but it’s not life-threatening.

Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth. Breathe in balls, breathe out pussy, as the marines say, though I always thought that came off a little ambiguous.

Getting there, nearly calm now.

The phone rings again and I nearly fall out of the seat. I slap the receiver out of its cradle.

‘What? What now?’

Ronelle Deacon’s laugh is like whiskey and cigarettes. ‘Management too stressful for you, Dan? You cracking up already?’

I blink myself alert. ‘It’s been a long night, Detective. A long week.’

‘I sent a couple of uniforms over to your friend’s store. Quite a mess. Or to quote Patrolman Lewis, Big motherfucking hole in the motherfucking wall. A couple quarts of blood too. You wouldn’t know anything about that?’

‘Not a thing. I arrived after the fact. Zeb was the only one bleeding.’

Brandi slinks in the door, making full use of her stripper training; every movement is choreographed. I see where this is going. I’m in for a full-on booth negotiation.

‘Dan,’ she purrs. ‘We need to talk, baby.’

I raise one rigid finger. In a minute. I am not good at multitasking, especially when there are people involved.

‘Yeah, that’s what I thought,’ continues Deacon. ‘And you didn’t see anything, right?’

‘Not a thing but my friend bleeding.’ I decide to use a little distraction technique. ‘Come on, Ronnie. It’s too late for work. Why don’t you check out of that hospital and come on over here for a few drinks? I’m in good with the management. You still got nine fingers, right? More than enough to pick up a beer.’

‘Maybe when I solve this murder I’m working on from my sickbed. Woman killed outside Slotz; maybe you knew her?’

My stomach lurches. Connie. How could she have slipped my mind even for a moment?

‘Anything I can do?’

Brandi is tapping her forearm. She doesn’t like to be kept waiting. I grit my teeth and focus on the handset.

‘I got some more news on the murder weapon,’ says Ronnie quietly; maybe there are nurses hovering. ‘I thought I could run it past you since we have such a special relationship; unofficially of course, as I am technically off duty for the foreseeable. .’

‘It was some kind of a blade?’

‘No. We got some metal fragments from the wound. Too soft for a blade. Maybe a tube, like the tip of an umbrella. With some kind of glittery substance on the shaft. That ringing any bells, McEvoy?’

‘Nothing pops out at me.’

‘Me neither. This makes it a spur-of-the-moment thing. Our murderer could be anyone now. Could be staring us right in the face.’

Brandi sits opposite me and swings her legs on to the desk, crossing them at the ankles. Her boots shine like gloss paint.

‘You’ll be thinking on it?’

I don’t say anything, because suddenly there is no air in the room. More than that, the room has become a vacuum, popping my ears and expanding my brain.

A metal tube. Glittery substance.

Detective Deacon is still talking. ‘Right, Dan? Yo, Danny boy. You’re gonna work with me on this?’

My fingers paw the desktop like a blind man’s, until I find the phone and cut Ronnie off.

I hate people calling me Danny boy. My father used to do that, and sing that goddamn dirge in pubs, though no one asked him.

‘I know you want to make changes, Dan,’ Brandi is saying, doing her best trailer-trash talk-show spiel. ‘I know that and I respect you for it. But I think, if you look inside yourself, you’ll find that you’re still in shock over Connie. She never went in the booth, so now you’re gonna shut the booth down. See what I’m saying?’

Brandi’s six-inch heels are in my face. Her trademark Catwoman boots. I’ve seen her kick sparks from the pavement with those boots.

She picks at a tiny square of body glitter on her forearm.

‘I hate to speak ill of the dead, Dan. But that girl’s morals were costing us all money. Hell, we lost a dozen high-rollers last month because little virgin Connie didn’t want any hands on her ass. My tips were way down. And I need my tips. Cat’s gotta have her cream.’

The phone is still at my ear, beeping. I can’t seem to remember where it should go.

‘I ain’t missing her. None of the girls are.’

I can see how it happened. They met in the parking lot, words were exchanged. Connie and Brandi differed on how the job should be done. Things got heated. Maybe a slap turned into a tussle. Connie went down and Brandi put her heel through Connie’s forehead. She’s capable of it; God knows she’s capable.

It’s true. My gut knows it.

I stare at Brandi’s heels, mesmerised. They are shining and wicked. After the deed was done, Brandi stood at the door beside me building her alibi. Hell, she probably had blood on her if anyone bothered to look.

‘So come on, Dan. What do you say to a little action in the booth? I’ll give you a free taste.’

The heel glints, and I see in the centre a tiny perfect circle of dried blood. Could be mud, coffee, anything.

It’s blood, I swear I can smell it.

Jason puts his head around the door. He’s half apologetic, half smiling.

‘Boss, we got a lady outside, looks like Material Girl Madonna. Got a casserole for you, says she’s your wife. You want me to show her the door?’

I can’t talk. Can’t say a word. I shake my head to defer the decision.

Brandi doesn’t want her meeting hijacked. ‘So, Dan? Is the booth back in business? You want me to slide under that desk?’

I keep shaking.

Brandi killed Connie.

‘Should I bring her through? She’s pretty hot, boss. And that casserole smells amazing.’

I manage one word.

‘Just. .’

‘What, Dan?’

‘Just throw her out, boss?’

I try again. ‘Just. .’

Brandi is doing a few slinky dance moves. ‘Just do it, Dan. Give me five minutes.’

‘Bring her in? Throw her out? Keep the food though, right?’

‘Just wait!’ I shout. ‘Just wait a goddamn second.’

The handset is still beside my ear, and suddenly the beeping is replaced by a familiar voice.

That bitch murdered me, says Ghost Connie. She made orphans out of my Alfredo and Eva.

No. Not another one. I slam the phone into its cradle. Not another ghost, no way.

I want to go back in time. I want to steal apples from an orchard in Blackrock and eat them with my little brother on the beach. I want to count the new stars as they switch on and stay out until we’re sure Daddy is passed out drunk.

Connie. Beautiful Connie. Brandi deserves to be dropped in the river.

The look on Brandi’s face tells me I’ve said this out loud. She wants to laugh, but is afraid to.

‘Who’s going in the river, Dan? Not me, right? All I want to do is sell a few hand-jobs. That’s not a crime, is it?’

I try to speak calmly. ‘Jason, please bring Mrs Delano to the back room, tell her I’ll be with her in a minute. Brandi, stay where you are. You take one step towards the door and I swear to Christ you’ll regret it.’

‘But Dan. .’

I am not in the mood for argument, so I simply take my gun from the drawer and place it on the desk. It’s a clear message, hard to misinterpret, but Jason does anyway.

‘Hey, come on, boss. Guns all of a sudden? Did Mike initiate you into the gang? What, you got a shamrock tattoo now?’

It’s a tense situation, so I say something to Jason that I regret before the echo fades. ‘Get out, Jason. Go give Marco a cuddle.’

Brandi shrieks with joy. ‘Finally. Zing. Fuck you, Jason. Tough guy.’

Jason gives me a look like I shot his puppy and I feel like I’ve turned into my own father. He closes the door softly and I start figuring how I’m going to make it up to him. A weekend in Atlantic City at least.

‘The elephant has left the room,’ Brandi crows, her legs doing a little scissors kick on my desk. ‘You need to get rid of that faggot, Danny. He’s bad for business.’

This switches my attention back to her and gives me a nice segue.

‘Like Connie was bad for business?’ I say this ominously, but Brandi’s self-preservation cat sense is switched off.

‘No, not really. I’d say Jason would have no problem with some guy licking his ass. I’d say that’s exactly the kind of thing he’d have zero problem with.’

‘So, you’d get rid of him?’

Brandi winks, her eyelid heavy with crusted glittering eyeshadow. ‘Toss that boy on the street. Marco too. We gotta make some business decisions.’

‘Like you got rid of Connie?’

I don’t expect Brandi to fall into that trap, and she doesn’t, but her eyes give her away. It’s not much, just a quick flicker, but I notice.

‘Got rid of Connie?’ she says, haltingly, drawing her boots off the desk.

This to me seems like a crucial moment in the development of this whole confrontation. For some reason I absolutely believe that if Brandi gets her boots off the surface of Vic’s desk (my desk) then I have lost whatever upper hand I had, which was pretty crappy in the first place.

So Brandi is pulling her boots away from me, knees up around her pirate earrings, but she doesn’t move fast enough. I reach out and grab her right ankle and squeeze it till the patent leather squeaks, which kinda sucks the gravity from the moment.

‘This smells clean,’ I say, gritting my teeth with the effort of holding on to the boot and carrying on a conversation. ‘Real clean. I bet you used a whole pack of antiseptic wipes on this boot.’

‘Gotta keep germ-free, Daniel,’ says Brandi. Her voice is super-innocent, like a girl scout, but her eyes are darting around the office like something or someone is going to pop up with another surprise.

‘You should have burned this pair, Brandi. I know they’re your favourites, but you’ve got others.’

I’m rambling a bit, but that’s because half of me knows that the accusation I’m about to make is at best based on a hunch and at worst based on supernatural intervention.

‘Why the fuck are we talking about my boots? First no booth, now you have something against my boots? Let go of my goddamn leg, Dan.’

‘You should have burned them,’ I say again, using my old trick of repeating myself to buy a second. ‘Because all the blues need is one strand of DNA, caught in a stitch. All they need to do is match your heel to the hole in Connie’s head.’

Brandi is a little pale under her make-up. ‘Let go of my leg, Daniel. You’re hurting me.’

Is this what she should say? Is this what an innocent person would say?

‘Aren’t you going to tell me that you’re innocent? Protest and so forth?’

‘And so forth? Who the fuck are you?’

I admit it. That was a little Dr Moriarty.

‘I’m taking this boot to the cops. If they find nothing, then no harm done and you can jerk whoever’s pecker you like for a month. But if they find some trace, then there won’t be any peckers where you’re going.’

Brandi sees in my face that this isn’t one she can talk her way out of.

‘Get your hands off me, asshole.’

‘What’s the problem? Just give me the boot and you get to rule the roost around here, so long as you had nothing to do with Connie.’

Brandi sneers at the sheer volume of dumbness in my plan. ‘I don’t care if that boot has Connie’s eyeball stuck on the heel, you’re still the one handing it over. The jilted boyfriend.’

That takes a moment to sink in, but she’s right. Even if Brandi owns the murder weapon, it doesn’t mean she did the murdering.

‘I’ll take my chances. The police will look closely at both of us, something I have no problem with.’

Halfway through this last sentence, I try to take Brandi by surprise, standing suddenly and yanking the boot with me, hoping it will come clean off, but Brandi is ready and curls her toes going up with the boot. Now I am in the cartoon situation of holding a grown woman upside-down by the ankle.

‘Shite,’ I say. Seems appropriate.

‘What next, Dan?’ asks Brandi, her hair brushing the floor. ‘I worked the pole for years. I can do this all night.’

I don’t know what next. I really don’t. I cannot believe the situation in which I find myself: standing in my ex-boss’s office, holding the stripper who possibly murdered my potential sweetheart aloft by her ankle. It pains me to say it, but this girl is heavy and my bicep is aching already.

‘Hey!’ says Brandi, having a light-bulb moment. ‘Are you wired?’

This thought freaks her out so much that she does a pretty impressive stripper move and folds herself upwards, swinging her other leg around, and suddenly there is an angry woman on my shoulders. I hear something scrape along the desktop and a quick glance is enough to confirm that she has snagged my gun on the way up. Brandi’s legs are strongly muscled and she’s doing her damnedest to squeeze my brain out of my ears. I feel a metallic ring digging into my scalp through my cap and I realise that I probably have two seconds to live before Brandi composes herself and flicks the safety. Amazingly, I am almost as worried about Brandi damaging the hair grafts as I am about sudden death.

I take two rapid steps forward, around the side of the desk. It’s instinct really; I’m just trying to get away. As I clear the desk, I hear a dull bong, like a bell in a sack, and Brandi goes over backwards. Her legs are still locked but her upper half is dazed. She’s cracked her head on something metal. The ceiling beam, I remember. Barely six-and-a-half-foot clearance.

The immediate danger is past and so I take a second to assess, to look at myself from afar. I see a middle-aged, craggy-looking ex-soldier standing in the middle of his office, panting like a donkey, with a stripper wrapped around his neck, and it’s not even the strangest situation he’s been in today.

Jason comes through the door and his face is red with choked-down rage. I don’t blame him.

‘Hey, screw you, Daniel,’ he says, barging all the way in, still pissed about the give Marco a cuddle comment, eyes burning holes in the floor. ‘It’s bad enough that I gotta go around every second of my life. . But then I actually try to help you and. . you throw that shit at me.’

I gulp down a couple of breaths like there’s a shortage, and try to get my middle-aged heart to slow down a little, while Jason folds his arms, apparently oblivious to the person around my neck.

The least I can do is apologise. ‘Okay, Jason. That comment about Marco was crude. I was going for light-hearted: I know about the gay thing and I don’t care, but it came out all spiteful. So, you know, sorry. I misjudged.’

Jason softens a little, but he’s gonna hold it over me for a while.

‘Okay, Daniel. You get one chance. Next time we find out how tough you really are.’

I hang my head in shame, which is not easy with Brandi’s thigh in the way. ‘I hear you, man. Do you want to hug or something?’

Jason frowns. ‘What am I? A Walton?’

I am a crap modern man. I just assumed. .

‘Okay,’ I say. ‘You call the cops. I gotta take the boots off this unconscious ex-stripper.’

Jason seems to suddenly notice Brandi, but it doesn’t faze him. In our line of work we see stranger shit than this at least once a week.