Plugged

CHAPTER 7

Zeb waited around Queers that night until I knocked off. I say waited, but a more accurate description would be passed out in the all-night pharmacy across the street. He was more or less hurled into my path by the proprietor as I walked home.

‘And keep your prick away from my customers!’ was the farewell comment.

Obviously Zeb had been up to no good just before passing out. Perhaps the two were connected.

I was in a pretty crappy mood, having just told my boss where he could shove his mascara pencil, but something about the sheer wretchedness of this figure at my feet dissolved my gloom, and I picked the little guy off the ground and frogmarched him a couple of blocks to Kellogg’s diner on Metropolitan.

He came to a little after a jug of coffee, and greeted me like a lost comrade.

‘Hey, Paddy O’Mickster. Where are we? What happened?’

‘You were trying to inject some dick fat into a customer, apparently.’

It took Zeb a minute to process this, then a slow grin lit his features. ‘Funny. You’re a funny guy, Irish. I didn’t get that sense when you were in uniform.’

‘The name is Daniel McEvoy,’ I say without extending my hand. ‘Paddy O’Mickster was my mother’s second choice.’

Zeb actually slapped the table. ‘More with the funny. I love this guy,’ he announced to the diner’s five patrons. ‘So, Daniel McEvoy, you gonna admit me to Queers tomorrow night? Now that we’ve broken the ice?’

In response to this, I explained how I was off the Queers door because of a make-up disagreement.

‘I am surprised,’ said Zeb. ‘Why would anyone quit over a little mascara? Hell, I’m wearing women’s panties right now. You never know, right?’

At this point I was half amused, half thinking of leaving. This guy was despicable, but he had a certain sleazy charm.

‘So, anyways, Daniel O’McEvoy. You’re out of a job and I got a job with no one in it, so what do you say? You wanna work for Zeb Kronski?’

This was about the vaguest employment offer I had ever heard, and considering the man before me was wearing women’s panties, I thought I should ask for a couple more details.

It turned out that since Zeb didn’t have a licence to practise in the US, he was doing the Botox party rounds on a cash-only basis and had already been ripped off twice. He could do with someone to hump the wad, as he put it.

Once he explained, I signed on for a week. Provisionally. See how things panned out.

‘Provisionally,’ said Zeb, rolling the word around in his mouth. ‘Yeah, I like the sound of that.’ He pointed at my forehead. ‘Say, you’re getting a little thin on top, my Paddy friend. I got a procedure make you look like Mister Tom Cruise. What do you think of that?’

I thanked my new boss politely but told him no. No needles in the head for me. I held out for six years before he persuaded me otherwise.

I’m gone before Deacon has time to wonder who gifted her a second shot at life. Not that I’m expecting roses and a sloppy hug. A person with her disposition might not even be grateful. I’ve seen it before. Some blues are so butch that needing to be saved is a sign of weakness. Deacon is pretty butch.

It’s a pity to say goodbye to my beautiful custom rifle, but holding on to it is akin to leaving a trail of crumbs from my backpack to the crime scene. No doubt there are already a forest of fibres on the Chinese knoll; no need to give the forensics boys my identity tied in a velvet ribbon. I break down the weapon and pedal around the west side, dropping off pieces into various drains. The bullets go too, plinking through the bars. I hear there’s some test that can match one slug to a batch, but Jason informed me of this fact, so it could be standard doorman bullshit. Jason once swore to me that his daddy had eyes in the back of his head, actual fucking eyes in the back of his actual fucking head, so not everything my comrade says can be taken as hundred per cent gospel.

I drop the bike at the bus station and deposit my backpack in a locker. Whatever investigation is coming, you can bet your last pair of shorts that I’m going to be pulled in for questioning. Being in possession of a big bag of weapons is not going to swing any votes my way. I hold on to a little Glock 26, though, in case of an emergency, which seems pretty likely the way things have been going. It’s not a question of if. It’s a question of when, who and how many. Three questions really.

It doesn’t take a Napoleon to figure out my next move. A quick trip home to gather a few necessities, then up sticks to some cheap motel where I can figure my next move but one.

You’re leaving me to die, says Ghost Zeb accusingly.

You are dead, most likely. And I’m not leaving you; I’m moving a little further away from Irish Mike and the po-lice, that’s all.

You’re leaving me. Some goddamn friend. Irish prick.

A sulking ghost, that’s all I need.

My street seems pretty quiet, exactly the way it would seem if a couple of experienced gangsters were staking it out. Could be the blues are here too. Maybe the interested parties will stumble across each other and spark off a bloodbath.

Fingers crossed.

I start three blocks out and work in decreasing circles, sweeping every street. Checking parked cars, searching for the telltale bulletproof symbol on the windscreen. You find that little triangle and you know it’s good guys, bad guys or maybe a rapper praying someone will shoot at him.

Nothing. No sign of anyone watching my apartment. I try to kid myself that it makes sense. Goran wasn’t killed with my bullets and Faber has no need to keep the cat in the bag any more. He’s already under investigation.

There’s a fire escape bolted to the side of my building; it zig-zags along the brick, camouflaged by rust, and looks like it hasn’t been used in decades. You’d think it would make a hell of a racket if a person were to crank the ladder, but you’d be wrong. For years I’ve been keeping the hinges oiled in case a quiet getaway is called for. In the dead of night, with a pillow over my face and a torrent of insults spilling down from above, I often imagined that I would finally crack and strangle Mrs Delano. Once there was blessed quiet, I could sleep for eight hours then pull my bag out of the wall and climb down my greased fire escape.

Tonight, I’m climbing up. Five fingers brushing flakes from the rail, the other five concealing the baby Glock in my palm. It’s risky coming back here, considering the size and complexity of the shit pile I’m in, but it will only be for a few minutes. Ten max. I’m stealing in the back way to cut down my chances of being seen; also I don’t have the key for the new lock yet. In and out, then Daniel McEvoy is history and anyone trying to find him better be invisible or bulletproof.

The fire escape doesn’t stop at my window, but it’s close enough for me to perch on the railing and rest an elbow on the sill. And while I’m up there, precariously balanced on a couple of toes, I realise that I forgot to take the beeper out of my pocket.

The window beeper is a little gadget I’m especially proud of. Just a remote linked to a tiny motor, but it lets me sneak into my own apartment without leaving the window open.

Moron, snickers Ghost Zeb.

I cannot tell you how badly I want him out of my head.

I’m right here, you know. I can hear you.

Good.

It takes a bit of contorting and there’s a long moment when I’m teetering on the tip of one shoe, but I fish the remote from my trousers and beep myself into my apartment.

Tumbling across the sill, my stomach sours at the thought of the devastation inside. For the first time in my civilian life it occurs to me that maybe I should have tidied up a bit before going out. My hand crabs across the floor, expecting to brush against splinters of my speakers or tufts of hard foam from the disembowelled settee, but there’s nothing but rough carpet. Strange.

The simplicity of a security man’s lot is looking pretty attractive right now. Keep the peace, remove those who would break it. No moral dilemmas involved. My life has been growing ever more complicated since people started dying around me. .

Since you started killing people. .

I wounded Goran, Deacon killed her.

What about Barrett?

Self-defence.

Yeah, because he was doing that shuffle. Tell that to the judge.

I don’t think Irish Mike uses judges.

I switch on the lamp, which works; very surprising, since the last time I was here the bulb lay like cracked eggshell on the rug. Have we gone back in time, or has somebody tidied up?

Option B, I think, though A would be nice.

So, who?

I think I know, says Ghost Zeb.

Me too, and it’s an alarming thought.

The apartment is still pretty battered, but no worse than your average student accommodation. Surfaces have been swept and the gloss of polish shines on the table, which sits legless on the floor. Three jumbo trash bags are propped by the door, fat sentries.

This is an extra dimension to my life that I do not need.

Into the bathroom I hurry; my duffel bag is in the airing cupboard ready for packing. With one hand reaching for the door handle, I catch sight of myself in the bathroom mirror.

My eyes are distended ink blots, with forty years of wrinkles hanging below them like sagging power lines. The black watch cap has rolled back, revealing an expanse of forehead and a buckshot spatter of transplanted hair.

It’s growing in.

You think so?

Absolutely.

Isn’t it supposed to fall out before it grows in?

Let’s talk about this later.

Did I look this old a couple of days ago, before all the mayhem? Being a doorman never weighed so heavily on my face.

I blink a couple of times, suddenly tight across the chest. Just when did I start worrying so much about getting old? Some nights in the Lebanon it felt as though I couldn’t wait to die. Or if not that, then at least the idea didn’t upset me. Just make it quick, that was my only requirement. Most of us had kill pacts. Anyone in the pact takes a mortal wound, the others toss a coin and finish him off. Sounds brutal, but kill pacts were very popular. I made some real friends. I still drop them a line every now and then, make sure they know the pact is off.

I notice something else in the bathroom besides my own haggard face. The toilet rolls are stacked in a diamond shape. This is uber-freaky. I skirt the sculpture like it might suddenly come alive and start dispensing Zen advice.

Why would a toilet roll sculpture dispense anything but paper? Where does that thought even come from?

I know who built this. There’s only one person who would.

Sweat gathers at the base of my neck. In spite of my therapy sessions, I feel woefully ill-equipped to deal with someone who builds toilet roll diamonds.

My bag is where it should be, and I quickly locate the toiletries that were strewn around the floor by whoever trashed the place but are now lined neatly along the green plastic sink top.

I stuff them into the bag and collect one last essential. I keep ten years of savings, almost fifty thousand dollars, stashed in the sink drain for emergencies, and if this isn’t an emergency, it’s doing a good impersonation. I screw off the pipe and shake loose the sealed bundles of cash. Usually having this much money on my person would make me nervous, but I’m already as nervous as a person can be without short-circuiting his brain. I pocket the cash and head for the door. In retrospect, I should have gone back out the window.

Deacon arrives outside the door of my apartment just as I tug it open. Her gun is out and there are shoals of blood spatter on her blouse. I search her eyes briefly for signs of gratitude and love.

No luck.

I think about reaching for the Glock inside my jacket; maybe I could make it, or maybe this young, trained and fit officer would put a dozen slugs in a nice smiley face spread through my heart.

Deacon’s cheeks are wet and her eyes are wild. A couple of hours ago she was the embodiment of the law, and now she’s gunned down her partner with no idea why her partner was about to gun her down. She has no idea who to trust or who to blame.

‘Police,’ she says, and taps the badge on her belt.

‘Ooookay,’ I say, interested to hear what’s coming next.

‘Was it you?’ she demands, and her gun is in my face. Shaking. Give me a steady weapon over a shaky one any day. Shaky guns tend to have shaky fingers on the trigger.

‘Was it me what?’

Deacon screws the barrel into my forehead. Feels like a Life Saver mint, only not so cheery.

‘Don’t fuck with me, McEvoy. Was it you, soldier boy?’

The shaking gun is wiggling my eyebrows.

‘You trying to be funny? You making faces at me now, McEvoy?’

‘It’s the gun,’ I say helplessly. ‘I’m just standing here.’

Deacon is on the edge; it’s in her eyes, in the grit of her teeth.

‘One last time. Tell me it was you.’

I don’t think there’s a right answer to this question.

‘Okay,’ I admit. ‘It was me.’

‘It was you what?’

Jesus Christ. Is she kidding me?

She cocks the weapon. Not kidding then.

‘It was me everything. I set you on Faber’s trail, I winged Goran and I watched you finish her off.’

Deacon expected this answer, but still she’s stunned. On a positive note, her weapon drops to her side.

‘It. . it was you.’

I nod warily. Not out of the woods yet. Deacon’s eyes are glazed and her hands are twitching. My guess is she’s in mild shock. You face the void and cut down a friend all in the same evening and it’s bound to have an effect.

In my experience this can go one of two ways. Either Deacon dissolves to a shuddering heap, or her heart hardens and she shoots me, because at least it’s a positive action.

Better to make a move now while her guard is down, but I barely get my fists balled when she comes at me full tilt, hand flat on my chest. This is confusing.

Back into the room we stumble, her fingers ripping at my shirt like it’s on fire. Then the flat of her hand is on my heart, searching for the life inside. Her mouth is up, snarling, wanting the kiss. So I kiss Detective Deacon, feeling a premature post-coital regret that should warn me off but doesn’t. We trip as one over the remains of the couch on to the Caucasian rug I got from a Lebanese market. It occurs to me that what we’re about to do on this rug is probably a sin in several religions.

Not that this gives me pause. I’m feeling pretty tense myself, and this is as good a way as any to let it all out.

I guess there was a third way this could all go. I never came across this option in the army.

Very early the next morning, we find ourselves mashed up against the wall, half covered with a few sofa cushions.

The next morning?

I know. I always hated that: you’re watching a movie or reading a book, finally the steamy scene is on the horizon and suddenly it’s the next morning. How does that make you feel?

Cheated, that’s how.

So. .

It’s not like I’m a prude, but this roll on the rug was definitely weird. Deacon bounced me around, pawing at my person. I’m surprised, given my low self-esteem issues, that I was able to perform at all.

Go on, encourages Ghost Zeb.

That’s all the detail you need. Anyway, you were there.

Yeah, but I like the way you tell it in your Oirish accent.

You are a sick little imaginary friend, Zeb.

I gotta say, these conversations with GZ are tiring. Even though I know he’s just a greatest hits tape cobbled together by my memory, I am starting to think stuff quietly in case he hears me.

I heard that, dickhead. Think quietly? What are you, a lunatic?

I decide not to answer that question.

So, in the morning we’re wedged into the corner like two corpses that have been tossed there, neither with a clue what to say.

I regain consciousness first and use the minutes to examine the lady I’ve just had some kind of relations with. Usually I do the examining beforehand, but there’s nothing usual about this encounter. Everything about Deacon says strength. Wide brow, strong nose, full lips, skin the colour of polished rosewood. Her body is lean and muscled like she beats suspects a lot, and there’s a welt on her upper arm looks like a bullet wound.

I touch the scar gently; feels like there’s a marble under there.

‘Nine millimetre?’ I ask. Mister Romance.

‘Branding accident,’ Deacon grunts, still half asleep.

I have a feeling we’re never going to send each other perfumed letters.

She shrugs her shoulder to dislodge my hand and her bracelet rattles. It’s unusual enough for me to notice, snaking around her wrist a couple of times, laden with various charms. Washers, bottle tops, coloured glass. I’ve seen these before in Africa. Memory bracelets, the story of your life’s journey worn on the wrist.

I try for some confirmation. ‘Memory bracelet?’

Deacon grunts again.

Most of the charms seem standard enough, but there’s a wizened sphere like a shrunken golf ball.

I tap it with a fingernail. ‘What’s this one?’

Deacon’s voice is sleepy. ‘Guy kept asking me questions,’ she slurs. ‘His left nut.’

Okay. No more questions. Maybe I’ll just take forty winks; after all, I’ve got protection.

Deacon’s skin is smooth against my chest and I try to pretend she’s actually fond of the person behind her. Maybe after a couple of years together Detective Deacon will develop a grudging respect for me and we can have a series of adventures.

Unless she does a sideways shuffle and you have to kill her.

I’m starting to realise that tuning out GZ is next to impossible so long as I have a single brain cell that is not distracted by life.

I attempt to distract myself by wondering how Deacon is going to keep herself out of prison. Obviously she hasn’t come clean about Goran, or she’d be filling out a million forms in triplicate and holding staring contests with Internal Affairs.

‘They must have found Goran by now?’

Deacon stiffens, and I think that maybe she had been trying to distract herself with all the tough talk. ‘Not yet. I put her in the trunk.’

This is not good news, as Deacon’s trunk is at the back of her car, which is probably parked outside my door.

‘Goran is in your trunk? Hard to explain that to IA.’

Something like regret flits across the side of Deacon’s face; maybe there’s a human heart beating inside Robocop. ‘Explain to IA? You’re kidding, right? You screwed my career, McEvoy, and I was a good cop too. Twelve years in. Youngest black detective in the state.’

I feel I should stand up for myself. ‘You’d prefer to be dead?’

‘It’s funny,’ says Deacon, and I’m guessing tragi-funny not funny ha-ha. ‘People always think I’m dirty cos of my attitude. Typical. A hardball boy cop is a maverick, doesn’t play by the rules but gets the job done. You get a girl with some balls, then there must be something wrong with her. I was never dirty, until now. I’m finished. I’ll be lucky to get off with manslaughter.’

I sit up to ask the obvious question. ‘Why didn’t you call it in? It was a righteous shoot.’

Deacon slumps even further into the corner, suddenly dead tired. ‘I should have. All night I’ve been asking myself that question. I guess I panicked; is that what you want to hear, soldier boy? My partner and superior tried to murder me. I didn’t know who to trust apart from the guy with the sniper rifle, which I figured had to be you. I hoped you might be able to tell me something. But you know shit, right?’

My time with Simon suddenly comes in handy. ‘There is a very strong case for post-traumatic stress here.’

‘Who are you?’ says Deacon. ‘Sigmund Freud? I’m a cop, man. I know how we think and I wouldn’t buy that psych bullshit for a New York minute.’

I forge ahead. ‘No, listen, Deacon, it’s true. Your partner tried to kill you. You had no idea how high the conspiracy went. You panicked, loaded up the body and went somewhere safe. There are a few holes, sure, but the basic truth is you acted in self-defence. Believe it or not, you are in shock.’

‘And you took advantage.’

Yeah, it’s a dig, but she’s going for the cover story. It’s a good story because it happens to be mostly true. The only detail she has to omit is the bald Irish one. I can see her eyes lose focus as she imagines how it would play out back in the precinct. There is a way out.

Then Deacon’s phone beeps and she rolls into a crouch, instantly alert. I see the curve of her spine shining like a samurai sword.

She shakes her trousers until a phone falls out, and checks the text message. Her posture was pretty tense, but now it cranks up another few notches. Tendons stand out like piano wire behind her knees.

Not good news.

Deacon bends low, snagging the Sig with her trigger finger. ‘You’re a knife man, right, McEvoy? That’s what it said in your file.’

I don’t like the sound of this. What’s the word?

Ominous? suggests Zeb.

Yeah, thanks.

‘So what? I’m a rifle man too, you probably worked that out.’

‘I figured that one,’ says Deacon, twirling the pistol. ‘But now I got this message from the County Coroner’s office telling me that Connie DeLyne was killed with a blade.’

I sit up pretty quick, wishing I had some pants on. At this point I’d settle for a napkin to cover myself. ‘It’s barely dawn; what kind of coroner works this early?’

‘One who owes me. So what about this blade?’

‘That was a bullet hole. What kind of knife makes a hole like that?’

‘You tell me, knife man.’

Deacon looms over me, tapping the barrel against her thigh, and I feel bald and naked, which I am. Twice a week I suffer nightmares that look pretty much exactly like this. It occurs to me that Simon Moriarty’s number is still in my wallet. I really need to call that guy.

‘Come on, Deacon. I saved your life. I put you on to Faber.’

‘It’s you-you-you,’ says Deacon, levelling the weapon. ‘Whatever happens, Daniel McEvoy is involved. There is definitely some shit you are not telling me.’

I feel myself shrink. ‘You want to aim that gun somewhere less sensitive? My heart maybe.’

‘No. I think I’m aiming at the right spot.’

‘Think about it, Deacon. We’re in this together. You need me to back up your story.’

Deacon closes her eyes for half a second. ‘I do need you, but I need time to get my ducks in the goddamn basket or whatever. I gotta talk to a few people, weigh up my options. The Goran situation needs to be wrapped up right before I turn myself in.’

‘That’s all good. You’re making perfect sense. We need to find the connection between Faber and Goran.’

‘There’s no we,’ says Deacon. ‘Just me.’

Zeb sniggers. No we. See how that feels.

I lose it for a second. ‘Shut the hell up. Now is not the time.’

Deacon frowns. ‘Now is not the time? What the fuck’re you crying about, McEvoy? You get emotional after screwing, is that it? And what’s up with that hair?’

I briefly consider explaining who I was actually talking to, but there’s no way to present Ghost Zeb and not sound a little unstable.

‘Okay. Calm down for a minute. Think things through. .’

Deacon cocks the gun, resplendently naked, not a self-conscious atom in her body, whereas I am very self-consciously naked.

‘I’m gonna think things through. That’s it exactly. Cuff yourself to the radiator, McEvoy.’

Cuffing myself would not be good.

‘Listen, Deacon. . Come on, what’s your first name?’

‘Detective,’ says Deacon, tossing me the handcuffs from her belt.

‘You don’t want to do this.’

‘You’re a mind reader now, McEvoy? Those needles on your head some kind of antennae?’

That’s two hair jokes. I’m counting.

‘There are bad people after me, Deacon. You leave me here in restraints and I’m dead.’

Deacon shrugs and her breasts wobble, which some part of me can’t help noticing.

‘Don’t shrug. I’m fighting for my life here.’

‘You’re losing. Nice and tight now.’

Her eyes are golden and steady; she’s not changing her mind.

‘At least let me have the hat.’

Finally a smile; not the happy kind.

‘Look at you, McEvoy. Big sharpshootin’ soldier going to pieces without his hat. Didn’t seem to bother you earlier.’

‘Earlier, I had distractions.’

I swear her smile softens a degree; could be my imagination.

‘Yeah, distractions.’ Then the ice is back. ‘Now cuff yourself to the goddamn radiator or I will hobble you with a leg shot.’

I hate that word. Hobble. Halfway between hobbit and gobble, which for some reason does not conjure an appealing picture.

‘You’re not going to shoot me. We just. .’

Deacon’s finger creaks on the trigger. ‘We just what? I shot Josie and I’ve been sleeping with her for eight months.’

I pick up the cuffs but never get the chance to fasten them on my wrists.

Deacon is multitasking when Mrs Delano comes through the door holding a steaming tray of lasagne. The detective has her gun on me and one big toe through the band of her panties. It is without doubt the most surreal moment of my life.

‘I hope you don’t mind me calling so early, Mister McEvoy,’ chirps Delano, made up like Cyndi Lauper circa ‘True Colours’. ‘Your friend, the nice repair man, gave me your new key, so I did a little cleaning up.’

This is not the Mrs Delano I know. This person is actually smiling; there are teeth involved. The outfit has shoulder pads you could launch a jet from, but nevertheless she’s wearing outdoor clothing. For a moment I think that Delano has taken a beating, but then I realise she’s been a little liberal with the mascara. She looks like a crying stripper, but there’s light in her eyes. And not the usual death lasers; a warm light.

My neighbour doesn’t notice anything off for a minute. She has her downcast eyes/bashful face on and is smiling a teenager’s lovesick smile. Fixing the window, that’s what brought this on.

‘I know you eat at the club,’ she says. ‘But I thought we could watch a movie later this evening, Daniel, maybe split this lasagne. I baked it myself, we can reheat.’

Deacon freezes, one leg up, arse to the door. God help me if I laugh now.

‘What do you say, Dan? You want to spend some time with your best girl?’

‘Absolutely,’ I reply. Why, I have no idea.

In the fraction of a second left before someone gets hurt, I play out a dozen possible outcomes to this ridiculous situation. In the best-case scenario, I get shot in the dick. In the worst, I get shot in the dick and one of my balls.

Mrs Delano’s eyes land on the naked policewoman in my apartment. There is a beautiful Kodak moment of silence, then everyone starts yelling at the same time.

‘Hold on now, ma’am,’ says Deacon. ‘Police business.’

‘Get down, Delano,’ I shout. ‘On the floor.’

Mrs Delano’s cheeks pump up and turn crimson. I half expect flames to shoot out of her ears.

Deacon has got it covered; she’s a professional and her feet are planted in a wide stance now, but Delano throws her with: ‘I stacked your toilet rolls! Bastard!’

Deacon rears back like she’s been bitten on the nose, and she shoots me a glance that says what the hell have you and this crazy lady got going on?

The glance is her mistake, because Delano attacks, steaming lasagne borne aloft.

I cover my balls, because melted cheese sticks. Tough as Deacon is, there isn’t a naked person on this planet who isn’t scared of hot pasta, so she gives Delano her full attention and shoots the dish right out of her hands. There’s a béchamel explosion, minced steak spatters the wall like buckshot and I make my move.

I get off the floor fast, pistoning my legs like I’m coming out of a squat. Deacon already knows what’s happening, but she’s not fast enough to get the gun around. She screams in frustration, then I have her against the wall, cuffs snicked over her wrists, gun smothered in my fist.

‘This is kidnapping,’ she spits. ‘I am a friendly with a badge. Do you really want to throw that away?’

Friendly? Most of my friends don’t aim their weapons at my privates. Most.

Delano is still coming. She’s screaming too, something about me being just as bad as all the others, which wouldn’t be so bad except for the glass shards she’s swinging with every word. Deacon isn’t calming down either; she’s bucking like there’s a scorpion on her back, and trying her damnedest to get a heel into my crotch.

I have no alternative but to play into Mrs Delano’s fantasy.

‘Thank God you’re here, darling,’ I say, hoping she’s too far gone to notice my atrocious acting. ‘This woman tried to assault me. You saw the gun. Look, handcuffs.’

Delano’s eyes fog over and she stutters to a halt, gobs of lasagne dripping from her hands, splatting on to my good rug. I wince but don’t mention it.

‘Handcuffs?’

I push Deacon’s head into the wall as gently as I can, covering the side of her face with my palm. I’ve had relationships go wrong before, but never this fast. ‘Yeah. Can you believe it? I woke up to find this crazy lady holding a gun on me.’

‘Crazy lady,’ says Delano slowly. ‘I’ve heard that phrase before.’

‘I bet you have, you fucking lunatic,’ Deacon says, spitting the words through mashed lips.

‘You shut your filthy mouth,’ orders Delano, and without hesitation clocks Deacon on the crown with the corner of Pyrex dish in her hand. The blow has surprising muscle in it, and Detective Deacon goes limp in my arms.

‘Sorry, baby. Did I catch your finger there?’

Baby? ‘Ah. . no, I’m fine.’

‘Do you think we should kill her? Cut her up like in the movies? I have an electric carving knife. Penis looks good, baby.’

I lower Deacon on to the rug, then hurriedly pull on some pants, very uncomfortable with my penis being mentioned in the same breath as an electric carving knife.

‘No. No need to kill her. She’s confused, that’s all.’

Delano winks at me, or maybe it’s just hard to keep that eyelid open with all the mascara trowelled on to it.

‘Maybe she heard about Mister Pee-Pee and came to see for herself.’

‘M. . maybe,’ I stutter. ‘Whatever the reason, this woman has problems. We need to be compassionate, show understanding.’

‘Or slice her head off. I have plastic bags.’

Sure. We could toss her in the car beside her partner, then drive to the mall where I dumped Macey and line up all three bodies together in the Lexus. Hell, why not steal Connie’s corpse from the morgue to complete the set?

Mrs Delano squeezes my arm.

‘I’m kidding, Dan. It’s my crazy sense of humour. That’s why you love me.’ Her face is glowing. She looks young. ‘Remember that time you fixed my window? That was when I knew.’

I am not qualified to deal with this. Why does everyone I meet seem to have mental problems?

Ah. . but did they have mental problems before meeting you? Who’s the common denominator here, Dan?

I do not have mental problems! I say to the voice in my head, perfectly aware how damning it would sound were I to say it aloud.

Deacon’s pulse is steady, but she’s got a glowing bump on her noggin which I doubt will improve her mood any, and she was pissed enough before Lasagne Lady popped her on the skull.

Deacon moans and mumbles something that sounds like:

Hill view utter trucker.

But which is probably:

Kill you, motherfucker.

And with this in mind I pocket her gun. At least this way, she will have to bludgeon me to death with her fists.

I cannot honestly say that I am protecting either of these women; so much for my psychosis. It pains me, it really does, but I have to protect myself in this situation, and sort out the women from afar. Opting to stay here and nurse Deacon would surely result in hosepipes, frame-ups and jail time. Not necessarily in that order.

I pull on my clothes and mentally cobble together a story for my new girlfriend.

‘Are you speaking to me, baby?’

‘No. . I don’t. . Was I?’

Mrs Delano is concerned. ‘Well you were kind of mumbling, and looked like you were playing an invisible piano too. Everything okay?’

Two of my stress tells: thinking aloud and conducting. Simon Moriarty pointed those out to me. I really have to call that guy.

‘Just thinking. You need to be safe, Mrs Delano.’

She walks her fingers up my chest. ‘What are we? Strangers. Sofia, please.’

I clear my throat. ‘It’s dangerous for you here. . Sofia.’

Delano puts her cheek against my heart. ‘Remember when you first called me Sofia, baby? That night in Coney Island. I’ll never forget it, Carmine.’

Carmine? Now I’m somebody else. Is that an improvement, I wonder?

Mrs Delano’s make-up leaves a face print on my chest when I peel her off.

‘You need to go upstairs now, Sofia. Go up and wait for my call.’ I flash on the rows of pill bottles in the upstairs kitchen. ‘Do you have any medication you should be taking?’

Sofia Delano frowns. ‘No more pills, Carmine. They make me stupid.’

‘How about one? Just one to help you relax until I call?’

‘Maybe just one for you, baby.’

‘Good. Good. . baby. You promise?’

‘Sure.’

‘Say it. Promise me.’

Delano pouts and suddenly ‘Girls Just Wanna Have Fun’ starts playing in my mind-pod.

‘I promise. Happy now?’

‘Yeah. Happy now.’

I steer her towards the hallway, but she stops at the door, planting her back against the frame. Her chest is heaving and her eyes are bright.

Carmine was a lucky guy, I think. What did he do to you?

‘Kiss me, baby,’ she moans. ‘I’ve been dreaming so long.’

After all this time I get lucky twice in one day. Pity about the blood-sodden circumstances.

‘Come on, Carmine,’ says Sofia, her voice sulky and impatient. ‘No kiss, no pill.’

So I kiss her. She grabs a fistful of my neck hair and pulls me in deep, and it’s like a movie kiss, long and languorous, and after a year or so I start wishing my name was Carmine.

We come up for air and Sofia’s eyes are wet. Blue mascara flowers on her cheeks.

‘We still got the spark, Carmine.’

I’m feeling a bit emotional myself. ‘Yeah, Sofia. That was something.’

Her nose crinkles. ‘But what happened to your hair?’

I hustle her up the stairs with Ghost Zeb chuckling in my ear.

I shut the door behind Mrs Delano, then take the steps three at a time back to my apartment. Deacon is up and about, stumbling around head in hands, swear words drooling from her lips. She’s not fully conscious yet, but any minute now.

She spots me with one rolling eye, and lurches in my direction like an extra from Day of the Dead.

‘Easy there, Detective Deacon,’ I say, gallantly steering her to the remains of the sofa. She plonks down, deep into the butchered cushions. Her entire midsection disappears, from boobs to knees. On any other day you’d have to laugh, except maybe yesterday or the day before that.

‘How you feeling, Detective?’

‘Screw you.’

‘We did that, remember.’

‘Did we? I didn’t notice.’

‘I have it on very good authority that I have a lovely pee-pee, so lay off.’

Deacon’s eyes are clearing up now. I can see craftiness in the corners.

‘Okay. It was wonderful. You were like a stallion, Daniel.’ She rattles her cuffs under my nose. ‘So let me go.’

I nod slowly. ‘You put together a good argument, me being like a stallion and so forth. So okay.’

I slip off one cuff just long enough to attach it to the sofa’s exposed metal frame. Deacon does not bother yanking her chain.

‘Bastard,’ she sighs, rolling her eyes.

‘It’s temporary,’ I assure her. ‘Just until I can figure out what to do with you.’

‘You could stick a knife in my forehead.’

I mull this over. ‘Tempting. But no. What if I winged you, then you shoot yourself half a dozen times?’

‘That’s not funny, McEvoy,’ says Deacon, throwing a futile kick in my direction.

‘Exactly.’

I finish dressing, hang my jacket on a nail and run the kitchen faucet over my head.

‘Why did Goran want to kill you?’

Deacon hawks and spits on my floor. ‘Blood. I bit my tongue. I’m going to track that crazy bitch down, no doubt about that.’

‘It was because of Faber, right? For some reason she didn’t want Faber investigated.’

‘I don’t care where she hides. Nobody takes a swing at Ronelle Deacon and gets away with it’

I clap my hands triumphantly. ‘Ronelle! Well hello, Ronelle.’

Deacon scowls, disgusted. ‘People call me Ronnie. Good for the straights and the gays.’

I nod. ‘Ronnie. Yeah, that would work. Cute or butch, depends on how you look at it.’ I dry my head gingerly, zip my bag and throw it over my shoulder. ‘Well, Ronnie, you ready to cooperate?’

‘You are a wanted man, McEvoy. Surrender yourself into my custody and I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Come on. You got a body in the trunk.’

‘You’re the only one who knows that. And you’re a fucking knife killer. What kind of credibility do you have? If I was as bent as Goran used to be, I bet I could come up with a scenario where you killed my partner and held me captive.’

I am not liking the sound of that, or the glint in Deacon’s eyes when she says it.

‘I think I’ll turn you in and take my chances.’

Deacon shakes her head. ‘I don’t believe you. One of those bullets in Goran’s shoulder is yours. Maybe you killed Connie DeLyne, then you shot down the investigating officer. I bet my superiors would go for that.’

She’s right. So I say: ‘Ronnie, when you’re right, you’re right.’

‘You got it, Daniel. All I need to do is put a bullet in your brain and then cry at Goran’s funeral.’

She sneers Daniel like it’s a fake name that might fool others but it won’t fool Ronelle Deacon.

‘You, cry? I’d pay money to see that.’

‘You already saw it, asshole.’

The lady is right again. Last night, coming in the door, there were tears on Deacon’s cheeks.

‘You’re not going to kill me, Ronnie.’

She shrugs. ‘Not without a gun. Unless you want to fight like a man.’

‘I gave up being macho for New Year’s. Bad for my health.’

‘Pussy.’

‘No thanks.’

I turn my back on the exchange because it’s giving me a headache and duck into the bathroom to use the facilities and check my hat. I talk while I work.

‘Here’s the plan, Ronnie. I’m going to stash your car somewhere safe. You know, the one with the dead detective covered in trace in the trunk. I’m also taking your blouse with the blood spatter that I’m sure the forensics guys can read like a book. Then I’m coming back here and we can work this out. You want a career and I want you to have a career.’

‘Blackmailing motherfucker,’ Deacon calls from behind the sofa. ‘Maybe I should just throw you out the goddamn window. You could land on the car.’

‘Bring it on, doll head.’

My headache spikes behind one eye. Even at a time like this, people will not lay off the scalp.

‘I have had transplants, if you must know,’ I say, a little touchy, striding into the living area. ‘This bald thing is temporary.’

Deacon is standing by the window, cuffs on the floor, her gun in one hand, mine in the other.

‘For you, Dan,’ she says, ‘everything is temporary.’

If I had the time and the flexibility, I would kick myself in the arse, not a glancing blow either.

‘You had a key on the memory bracelet, right?’

Deacon smiles like a wolf. ‘That’s right. One of my fondest memories is a little handcuff session a couple of years ago. Now take your hand out of your pocket, kneel down and say please, please don’t shoot me in the balls, Detective Deacon.’

I give her my best doorman dead eyes. ‘I only kneel before the baby Jesus on Christmas morning.’ I glance over her shoulder. ‘Why don’t you ask my friend?’

Deacon closes one eye, like she needs to take careful aim. ‘Yeah, sure. I’ll ask the guy behind me. Kneel the fuck down, McEvoy.’

I press the remote button in my hand and the window buzzes open, swatting the detective on the butt.

Deacon puts three shots into the pane and I’m out the door before the glass stops tinkling.

I have a ten-second head start, and I can add a couple of minutes to that unless Deacon is crazy enough to chase me half naked.

Better pick up the pace.