Plugged

CHAPTER 6

Before I had more serious things to worry about, I often spent the days leading up to the first transplant session searching my past trying to figure why I wanted hair plugs so badly. Why does a shiny skull prey on my mind so much? I’ve spent enough hours on the couch to know that these wants often have their roots in my own history.

I could never come up with anything. My father was dead before he got the chance to go fully bald. No bald guy ever beat me, or humiliated me that I can recall. I don’t have any hairy heroes that I want to be, or hairless guys that I don’t want to turn into.

It’s in the subconscious, Zeb informed me one night in the park. The two of us were sharing a pint of Jameson after the bars closed. A hefty ox like me squashed into a child’s swing, chains cutting off the blood flow to my feet. I must have been drunk.

Believe me, Dan. Something happened.

I know what happened. Zeb offered me a good deal, started showing me pictures, got my vanity stoked.

If you got hair, then maybe you ain’t so old and your life ain’t so over.

Zeb could sell shit to a sewage plant. Zeb is such a good salesman that he can literally charge a guy to inject him with the fat that he just sucked out of his ass.

‘Bloody bastards. This is a sterile environment’ were the first words Zeb ever spoke to me, and I knew straight away by the scout boots sticking out of his scrubs that this guy was Israeli army, something Sergeant Fletcher was too busy to notice as he had a finger jammed halfway up his nose.

‘I got this bump in my nose, see?’ he said, voice muted by the digit in his nostril. ‘Makes me snore something terrible. I need you to fix it.’

The doctor looks a little like the Bee Gee who married Lulu, if he had just run into a sheet of plate glass. You either get that or you don’t.

He finished injecting the unconscious guy’s penis and petulantly threw the syringe into a metal sink.

‘Come on, guys. I’m doing dick fat here. It’s touchy work. This man is a big shot in some militia or other.’

I have to say, I was a little surprised. Even for Mingi Street, an underground cosmetic surgery was pretty radical, though I had heard of a place in Sudan that did organ transplants. You’d be amazed how quickly a matching donor can be found. This Israeli guy was a real entrepreneur, especially since ninety per cent of the locals would have no hesitation sticking him with every one of his own needles. I guess you get a pass if you provide a valuable service.

Fletcher withdrew his finger. ‘What about my nose, Doc?’ ‘Does this look like a Swiss clinic? Injectables only,’ said the man I would later know as Zeb. ‘No rhino.’

‘Who are you calling a rhino?’ said Tommy, and shot Zeb in the kneecap.

Okay, that didn’t happen, but I can dream.

I don’t sleep so well after my run-in with Mrs Delano. Probably has something to do with me realising that my upstairs neighbour is beautiful-ish in a psycho kind of way, though all the dead and dying, Connie especially, has put a dent in my libido. I feel a little treacherous that I’m not mourning Zeb yet, but I haven’t seen him on the asphalt so I’m nursing a spark of hope.

Not feeling safe is the main thing keeping me awake, even more than the morning sun, though I reckon the hoods won’t be making the rounds till noon at least. These Celtic gangsters are whores for the Jameson and Coke. But once the sun crosses the yardarm, Mike Madden’s boys might pay another visit, see if they can’t find a few more things to break. I cover the door with a wardrobe. If any arseholes come through that, they’ll think they’re in Narnia. I hang a Joshua Tree poster over the window. Not bulletproof, but a puzzler. It’s all misdirection, which only works if the misdirected are somewhere in between dumb and smart. Many of the best soldiers in the world have shit for brains and a photo of their target.

How did they find me anyway? Does Irish Mike have something specific, or just a list of known associates?

I puzzle on this, as eventually my mind sinks down into the black rings of sleep. Trust in Bono.

Thank God. Nearly there. Some rest finally.

Then, wouldn’t you know, a thought occurs to me. One of those notions that banishes sleep, like a stiff wind blowing away cobwebs.

Kee-rist almighty.

That’s what Delano said. Kee-rist. Not plain old Christ. Now where have I heard that recently? Yesterday. The day before.

And suddenly I’m bolt upright in my bed. That guy, with the Styrofoam hair. The licker, what was his name?

I have it even before I pull the card from my wallet.

Faber, the attorney. With all the rioting in the club that night, this guy Faber completely slipped my mind.

Delano repeats what she hears, and she heard Kee-rist. Faber was here, and he trashed my place.

I’m on my feet, pacing around the room, punching a fist into my palm, which I stop doing when I realise how drama queen it feels. There’s no sitting this out even if I wanted to. Faber knows where I lay my head and he’s obviously got backup. A runt like him didn’t do this damage on his own. That arsehole couldn’t even lift the microwave.

This is not about Zeb, this is about Connie. Faber killed her and he’s looking for me.

That’s it. It must be. Christ, surely nobody kills anybody over an arse-licking? I witnessed Faber’s beef with Connie and I broke it up. Could it be that straightforward?

Everyone wants to kill me lately; it’s enough to make a fellow paranoid. As Dr Moriarty often quipped, You know something, Dan. Just because everyone really is out to get you doesn’t mean you’re not insane. I always thought that sentence had a couple too many negatives.

Three hours later, I’m still awake, thinking. The old grey cells keep churning out the theories, which I hammer out with Ghost Zeb.

Faber killed Connie.

Possibly.

And you know this how?

Because a crazy lady used his pet phrase.

That is pretty fucking thin, as Riggs and Murtaugh have been known to say.

The world is built on thin. Ask George W.

So, assuming it was the guy Faber. Why?

Because Connie slapped him. Because he’s a psycho.

Pretty harsh revenge for a slap. And Faber did not seem like a weapons guy.

What about his help? You don’t know who’s carrying steel for him.

Good point.

Thank you.

So, we’re going to the police.

There’s no we, just me. And I do not want the police poking around in my business.

Because of the whole killing-a-gangster thing.

Exactly. So what should we do next?

There’s a we now?

I flash on Tommy Fletcher. At this point he is back to being a corporal, following an incident where he doused a sheep with gasoline, set it on fire then actually ate a large portion. There was quite a lot of home-brewed hooch involved. Tommy is belly down on a bluff overlooking no-man’s-land, loosing rounds from his FN at rangy wild dogs.

‘You shooting mutts, Corporal?’ I ask him.

‘Nah,’ says Tommy, grinning. ‘I’m shooting close to the mutts, watching ’em jump.’

I close my eyes and feel sleep rolling over me like a wave of thick fog.

Shoot close and watch them jump. That’s more or less doing nothing. It’s aggressive passivity.

Simon would be so proud.

I met Zeb for the second time when I was doing my time on a door in Brooklyn. It was a club called Queers, which was trying to attract the pink pound but was pulling in the irony-loving New York arty-farts. This was not my finest hour, as the boss had his bouncers in spangly waistcoats and mascara. Any photos from this era would not be going on my website, if I had one. It was a brief era anyhow, I lasted about a week before I got a rash on my eyelids and decided it was either buy some hypoallergenic make-up out of my own pocket, or quit. I chose the latter.

So I was on the door on my last night at Queers, figuring the shit quotient went up roughly two hundred per cent when the doorman was wearing mascara, when this guy rolls up off his face on just about whatever he could stuff in there. I did the five-finger spread on his chest, just so he’d know right off how big my hand was.

‘Sir, don’t even ask. You are not coming on the premises.’

Something about this guy struck me as familiar. He looked a little like one of the Bee Gees after a rough couple of years.

‘Come on, man,’ he whined. ‘I got the cash, plenty. You wanna see?’

I did not wanna see. You bring cash out in the open air for more than five seconds outside a club and someone is gonna start a fight.

‘No, sir. Keep it in your pocket.’

The man ignored me, as was to become his habit, flashing a roll of fifties that could have plugged a rat hole.

‘You know what this is?’

I put a little pressure behind my fingertips, enough to back the man up a step or two.

‘I know what it is, sir.’

‘No, sir. You do not. You think you know.’ The drunk tapped his nose like there was a great secret stashed up there. ‘This here is a couple of silicone boobies and a tummy tuck. Sweet job too. If you let me in, I’ll give you a grand. How about that? One thousand dollars just to step aside.’

I stood my ground, not because I couldn’t be bought, but because this guy thought he could buy me, if that makes any sense.

‘Sorry, sir. Put your money away.’ And then the guy looks me in the face, possibly to plead or up his offer, and something pings between us.

‘Hey,’ he said, wagging a finger. ‘I know you.’

And then I had him. The pasty complexion, the eyes a little shiny. The doctor guy, from the Lebanon.

But what I said was, ‘No. I don’t think we’ve met.’

Zeb stood back and spread his arms wide like a ringmaster introducing himself.

‘Hey, it’s me. Dick-fat guy.’

He kept talking like I didn’t have enough information. ‘You know, that militia man, his cock exploded in battle. I’m a national hero.’

Which is about the strangest collection of statements I’ve heard before or since.

I sleep till four in the afternoon and roll out of bed feeling surprised and grumpy, which is a hard combination to keep going. Four o’clock. The day is dying and I don’t even have shoes on. And this room is a shithole, and why did I not do some tidying up all that time I was lying there thinking? Shaving calms me down as per usual. Eyes open is often a bad time. A moment’s blissful ignorance, then life comes crashing in. And today, life is about as bad as it’s ever been.

I nick myself with the blade and watch a blood bead roll down my neck.

Connie, I think. No more weekends. No more you.

After shaving, I take some of my anger out on the wall, using a breeze block that was part of my shelving unit to bash a hole in the Sheetrock. I pull out a Kevlar backpack wedged between the joists. My weapons bag, four years behind the plaster. Dust flakes stick to my sleeve, I brush them away and head for Chequer’s Diner, which is becoming my unofficial HQ. Dust flakes I’m noticing now? I must have too much time on my hands.

The sun has faded from red to white and I’m having a lord’s breakfast. Pancakes, bacon, sausage, stack of toast and six cups of coffee. I’m awake now, let me tell you.

The waitress, Carmél, comes over with my change and is a little surprised by me asking for yet another refill. She bumps my elbow with her thigh.

‘I had you figured for a fitness guy, Dan. You lose a competition or something?’

‘Life’s too short,’ I tell her. ‘Maybe I’ll take up cigarettes too.’

Carmél laughs. Sounds like a motor turning over. I’m guessing she’s a cigarette gal herself.

I have a plan of sorts.

You gonna save my life? asks Ghost Zeb.

No. You I’m gonna put on ice for the time being, but this guy Faber, I need to do something about him before he makes a hole in my forehead.

Ghost Zeb is sulking. Yeah, maybe if we’d spent a weekend in the sack, I’d be top of your list.

It’s a fair point.

So, the plan. I phone in an anonymous tip, something vague about Faber and his little run-in with Connie, then I watch and see how the attorney jumps when they question him.

Ghost Zeb is incredulous. That’s it? That’s your entire plan? Why don’t you just wish upon a star while you’re at it?

Ghost Zeb is turning out to be as much of a pain in the arse as his corporeal self.

Corporeal. This one rookie in the barracks used to confuse it with corporal ten times a day, until someone explained the difference.

I suppose it doesn’t matter how you come by information as long as you remember it.

Oh. And no one gets hurt. Too badly.

No one decent at any rate.

I slide a couple of dimes out of my change and head for the phone booth in the corner.

Ghost Zeb is so pissed that he almost stays at the table without me.

I dial the CDP desk from the booth and ask for Detective Deacon specifically, because Goran is sharp; she’d nail me in a second.

‘What?’ snaps Deacon when she picks up, like I’m interrupting her conference call with Commissioner Gordon.

‘You working the DeLyne case?’ I ask, doing my best Nu Yawker.

‘The what case?’

‘Connie DeLyne. The Slotz hostess.’

‘You mean that stripper?’

‘They ain’t no strippers up in there.’ My accent is gone down south, last century too.

‘Yeah, that hostess is one of mine? Who is this?’

‘This is by way of a ’nonymous tip-off, which I believe is police vernacular.’

I’m playing around now. I shouldn’t. A friend is dead, another missing, but in times of stress I can’t help myself. Sometimes I giggle like a girl. It’s embarrassing.

Deacon sighs, writing the call off. I bet they get a hundred cranks a day. ‘Do you have information pertaining to the DeLyne case, sir?’

‘I got something good for you, miss.’

‘That’s Detective.’

‘They let ladies be detectives now? That right there explains a lot.’

Come on, Sergeant. You don’t have time for this. Pull yourself together; this is not a sixth-grade prank call. Seymore Butz? Anyone?

I hear something creak. Deacon must be squeezing the phone pretty tight.

‘That’s a poor attitude you have there, sir.’

I disguise my giggle with a cough. ‘Take it easy, Detective, only trying to help.’

There are a few moments while Deacon pulls herself together; she’s probably whispering you’re a professional over and over. ‘So help. I’m getting old here.’

‘I was in Slotz a few nights ago, sir. .’

‘That’s miss, motherf. . Remember? Detective, female.’

‘Sorry. You got kind of a deep voice. I like that personally.’

Deacon breathes deep through her nose. ‘Do you have any pertinent information whatsoever, sir? Hold up, is this Randy? Are you dicking me about, Randy?’

I don’t know who Randy is, but I’d love to meet him.

‘I ain’t no Randy. You want this information or not?’

‘Yeah, give it up. But if this is Randy, I’m gonna have your balls in a sling. . sir.’

‘Okay, miss. . if you is a miss. I was in Slotz and I seen Connie beefing with this guy.’

‘What guy?’

‘A lawyer guy. Name’s Faber. Jerry Faber, or maybe Gary.’

I hear scratching. Deacon is writing this down. ‘You overhear anything specific?’

‘A little. How he was gonna kill her. She was gonna pay. Stuff like that.’

Deacon is taking notes now, you bet she is. ‘You heard him say he was going to kill Connie DeLyne? Those exact words?’

‘Yes, sir. . miss. . Detective. . He said it all right. More than once.’

‘Will you testify to this?’

‘I’m testifying right now, ain’t I?’

‘Yeah, but I need you to. .’

That’s when I hang up, smiling as I imagine Deacon shouting abuse into her mouthpiece.

Poor Randy, I think. He’s going to need a jockstrap.

Step two of my dodgy plan: stake out Faber’s office.

I take the 14 bus across town to the financial district, where Faber’s card tells me he operates from. Maybe district is too grand a term. What we have in Cloisters is a financial block, couple of office buildings with a Bennigans and a Cheesecake Factory thrown in for the lunchtime crowd.

The Bennigans is across from Faber’s lobby, so I order myself a Turkey O’Toole I don’t want, and spy across the plaza through a window tinted streaky green by painted shamrocks.

Turkey O’ Toole. Jesus.

I don’t have to wait long. Fifteen minutes later a police sedan pulls up in front of the hydrant, idles for a few seconds, then drives off to a space further along the pavement.

I smile behind my sandwich. Deacon wanted to park at the hydrant, but Goran made her move along. Interesting. What would Dr Moriarty make of that?

Maybe Deacon was beaten up by someone dressed as a hydrant, or maybe Goran lost her puppy in a fire.

Psychology. Anyone can do it.

Another ten minutes and Faber comes out, shooting threats with his six-shooter fingers. Goran and Deacon trail behind him with glazed eyes. I know that look. That’s the face you put on when some sergeant major is screaming the skin off your forehead. I’ll bet that Faber is crying persecution and calling the chief of police by his golfing nickname. Goran taps Deacon’s forearm with two fingers.

Calm down, the touch says. We do this right.

Faber is practically dancing now; from across the square I can see his ginger fuzz vibrate.

It’s funny, except that maybe he killed Connie.

Detective Goran’s lips are moving now and I fill in the blanks.

Take a walk, Mister Faber, but not too far. I’ll be dialling your number.

So now the cat is among the pigeons.

Which one is the cat? asks Ghost Zeb.

I’m not sure. That particular saying has always confused me.

Faber beeps a new Mercedes down the block with his key fob and the cops traipse back to their beat-up sedan, probably thinking that they’re in the wrong line of work.

Now what, genius? Everyone has a car except you.

Ghost Zeb is getting to be something of a fixture in my head.

You’re like my spooky sidekick.

Screw you.

Charming. I need to get myself an actual live friend that I can leave in another room.

Anyway, the transport thing is covered. There are city-bike rails all over town, part of the mayor’s A Better, Cleaner Cloisters platform, along with dogshit-bag dispensers and zero tolerance for wino shacks.

I hurry outside leaving the turkey unexplored and swipe my Visa in the bike rack. Evening traffic the way it is in every town from here to Atlantic City, I shouldn’t have to break a sweat keeping up with Faber. He might have a problem keeping up with me, if he ever decided to do that. A big part of me is hoping he will. That would make things nice and simple, law of the jungle.

I’m still tucking my pants into my socks when I notice that Deacon has pulled a lazy U-turn. The blues are on Faber’s tail too.

We got a great big convoy, sings Ghost Zeb.

I nod, swinging my leg over the bar. Always liked that song. Appropriate, too.

Riding a bike didn’t used to be this dangerous. I almost get flattened three times crossing town to the strip. Three times! I’ve led patrols through hot zones with less aggravation than this. Eventually some redneck pick-up Jim Bob forces me to actually dismount and pound his hood to make him keep his distance.

Lucky the blues are focused on Faber’s car or they might have spotted my antics. As it is, they pull around the corner on to Cypress with barely a blink of the brake light.

I give Jim Bob my best stone-cold stare and pedal after them.

Not easy looking tough on a pushbike, sympathises Ghost Zeb.

He’s got that right.

When Faber pulls over, I brake and ditch the city-bike behind a debris mountain heaped against a derelict two-storey that once housed a Chinese restaurant, judging by the smell of the trash.

The Lotus Blossom. Remember those spring rolls?

Yeah. I got it now. They closed that place?

What do you think?

Ghost Zeb is getting a little strident. It’s like I’m giving myself a pass to be a lunatic.

I climb on to the knoll, which stinks of prawn crackers, and check the street with an old Vietnam-era Starlight scope I bought in a Hell’s Kitchen pawn shop.

Still works okay in spite of a few years in the bag. It’s pretty dark already, but the scope amplifies the streetlight a couple of thousand times and gives me a good view of the bar Faber is striding towards. It’s an upscale joint called The Brass Ring. A place I probably would never make it past the door, unless I decided that I really wanted to go in. Faber flings his keys at some poor schmuck doorman and bulls straight past. I know how the schmuck feels.

Goran and Deacon back into an alley and quickly settle into stakeout positions. Slouching down, cracking open the windows. Two minutes later, smoke curls from both sides. Give it another fifteen and Deacon will make a coffee run.

Their plan is as dumb as yours, Ghost Zeb points out. What happens now? We sit here wasting time?

You’re not here. I’m not arguing with you.

Real mature.

I whistle a few bars to distract him.

What is that song?

Come on. What are we doing right now?

Ghost Zeb’s chuckle whines through his nose, my mind displaying its attention to detail.

Elvis Costello. ‘Watching the Detectives’. Very good.

And that keeps him quiet for a while.

The blues call it stakeout and the army call it reconnaissance but it amounts to the same thing. Waiting and watching.

Two hours later and Faber is still in the club, and I can’t seem to find a position on the spicy mound that doesn’t involve a rock or root poking my groin.

Maybe you like having a root stuck in your groin.

I don’t dignify this with a reply.

Goran and Deacon are feeling the strain. The junior detective is out of the car stomping her feet against the cold and mouthing off. Goran wears a put-upon-mommy expression, riding out the tantrum.

With the Starlight I can almost read lips, and what I can’t make out, I make up.

Come on, Josie. Let me go in there, see who Faber is talking to.

No. We do this right. Hang back, make a case.

Fuck that. This is our man. You see how he freaked out? Started threatening us and shit.

We hang back, Detective.

Something along those lines.

Or maybe not.

The seriousness of the situation escalates suddenly and alarmingly. Deacon turns her back to her superior, shoulders hunched, agitated cigarette hand tracing jet trails in the air.

Jet trails? Not bad for a doorman.

There is no time for a back-and-forth with Ghost Zeb. Goran has slipped quietly from the passenger seat and drawn a pistol from her ankle holster. A throwdown. Shit.

I could be wrong. Maybe I’m misreading the situation.

Goran pulls a silencer from her handbag and casually twists it on to the barrel, all the time her lips moving, keeping the conversation smooth, no warning signs.

Warning signs or not, Deacon turns around and finds herself down a deserted alley in a bad part of town with the black eye of a silencer staring unblinkingly at her.

I’m not misreading anything. Detective Goran is about to execute her partner.

Pack up and go, says Zeb seriously.

This is the best advice of my life and I know it, but I’ve got this whole protection thing pulling at my psyche.

Go, now.

Cops shooting cops. There’s no way to get in the middle of that sandwich and not get bitten. Ultimately, though, I’m not an animal, so what choice do I have but to help Detective Deacon.

The backpack hasn’t been out of the wall in years. It was never supposed to be in that building for so long. Neither was I. Nothing is going to work. How could anything work? Not a spray of oil on the guns, not a rub of a rag for the bullets. The walls in my apartment are like sponges.

Through the sights, I see Deacon going through the stages. First her eyebrows knit in confusion.

What the hell are you doing?

Then realisation drags at her features like thirty years of hard living. This is followed by denial, and finally bravado.

Deacon is presenting her chest to Goran now, thumping it with a fist, cigarette sparks flying. I actually hear her challenge from across the street.

‘Come on, bitch, shoot me!’

It doesn’t sound real. It’s what a Hollywood cop might say.

All the time, I’m tugging on a pair of disposable gloves from a box in the bag, then searching for my rifle, which of course is in pieces. We were trained in this kind of thing in the army: assembling your weapon blindfolded, in the rain, some guy shooting blanks by your ear, getting pissed on by a group of privates. Okay, maybe not that last bit, but regardless I was always useless at the blindfold assembly thing. Generally it took me about an hour and I ended up with a piece of modem art that would look stunning with the right lighting, but couldn’t shoot worth a damn.

I spit a string of swear words and lay down the scope. Across the street, Goran is delivering a lecture before she pulls the trigger. Thank God for grandstanding killers. Back home, my squad were once brought in to hunt for an IRA kidnap squad who had crossed the border. We only caught them because they delayed a scheduled execution so they could film it from a couple of angles. Everyone wants their moment.

Now that I have two eyes on the job, the Custom Sharpshooter seems to assemble itself, jumping out of the Velcro straps. The collapsible stock bolts on behind the trigger guard. The stainless-steel barrel screws in smoothly. Feels a little damp. Could be I’m imagining it.

I tear open a box of shells with my teeth and thumb one into the breech. Safety off, Starlight snapped into its bracket. The smell of soy sauce is really putting me off.

Time for one shot, maybe. Not a moment for adjustments or to figure consequences.

Goran is still talking, thank Christ. Maybe she’s warning Deacon; maybe there’s no need to shoot.

The younger detective sinks to her knees in the filth of the alley, tears streaming down her face.

Final stage, acceptance.

That’s a helluva warning.

Goran circles behind her partner, never allowing the barrel to droop. No room for Deacon to make her move. To her credit, she tries anyway, and gets a pistol-whipping for her trouble.

Goran is one cold customer. I had these two figured all wrong.

Deacon’s head nods; maybe she’s praying, or maybe she’s reacting to the gun barrel pressed to the crown of her skull.

Through the eerie glow of the Starlight, I see that Goran’s face is almost blank except for a little shadow of pain, like she’s lost her keys. The dirty detective cocks her revolver.

I pull my trigger. .

. . And surprise the hell out of myself by actually hitting what I was aiming for. Up high, right shoulder. Goran spins like a gyroscope and pitches face down into a bum-shack. Looks like the mayor missed one.

Detective Goran will live, but she won’t be aiming any guns with that arm for a while.

I am midway through breaking down my rifle and rehearsing a smug little Clint Eastwood movie reference for Ghost Zeb when Deacon realises that she hasn’t been shot. And after a little white-hot pain and a bout of coughing that would pull a couple of lungs free from their moorings, Goran is alive enough to realise that she is not dead.

Nice move, idiota, says GZ. Now we got a shootout situation.

Idiota. One of four Spanish words Zeb bandies about. The second is puta, the third is amigo and finally there’s gringo, which he loves to throw at me even though Zeb himself has a complexion like cottage cheese dropped on to a pavement from a tall building.

Deacon sees her partner roll over, coming face-up with her police special cocked, spluttering blood-bubbled curses. Deacon ducks under a wild shot, scrabbles in the trash for Goran’s throwdown and puts half a dozen shots into her partner’s upper body.

Ex-partner, I guess.

It takes me a moment to process. Someone who was supposed to be winged is now dead, and approximately fourteen per cent of the bullets in the corpse belong to me.

That was self-defence, I tell Zeb. It’s a tough report for Deacon to write up, but self-defence all the same.

Go now, says Ghost Zeb. You don’t get to write up a report.

This time I listen.