Eoin Colfer - Plugged

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.