Eoin Colfer - Plugged

I’m in a kitchen. High-class place, all stainless steel and marble worktops. There’s bacon in the pan. Thank God. That means I’m not having a stroke. My weapons are gone and in spite of the situation I muster a little self-congratulation for stashing my cash.

‘Faber. I am starving. Honestly, man, those stun guns take it out of a person. You think I could have a BLT? Even just a B?’

This freaks Faber out and he does a little dance, clicking and pointing, trying to remember where he’s seen me. I use the time to absorb as much of the room as I can.

Six people that I can see. Faber dancing his ginger jig, dressed in something else from his wardrobe of anachronisms. Looks like a beige mohair suit with honest-to-God flares and Captain Kirk boots. Who the hell is this guy’s stylist? Engelbert Humperdinck?

Three of his guys are ranged behind him, jackets off, sleeves rolled up ready to do business. One new one, must be the stun gun guy. Deacon out cold, taped to what I presume is a meat gurney like some lab experiment, and Goran shivering on the floor, a pool of her watery blood shining on the concrete.

‘Stop pointing at me, man. Or so help me. .’

Faber does a two-fingered point to show me who’s in charge. ‘The doorman. Daniel. In Slotz with that hostess.’

‘That’s right. Connie. You remember her?’

Something in my voice makes Faber take a few steps back. He puts one of his guys between him and me.

‘Yeah,’ he smirks. ‘I remember her. Someone punched her ticket, that’s what I hear. You ask me, she got what she deserved.’

I consider throwing a fit. Straining against my bonds and cursing Faber’s seed, breed and generation. But I was once a professional soldier and I know any display would only serve to amuse my captors. So I take a few deep breaths and apparently calm myself.

‘We all get what we deserve, Faber. In the end.’

Faber steps from behind his man’s bulk. ‘Really? You think so, doorman? I deserve my drugs, and because of you I can’t get them.’

Okay. We’re about to get to the nub of this whole affair. There are drugs involved. Goran was obviously involved with these drugs.

Thinking about Goran, I glance over at her. She has stopped shivering and is staring at a point in the air. I’m guessing she sees angels.

‘Your pet cop is in a little discomfort.’

Faber doesn’t even look. ‘Screw her,’ he says, waving dismissively. ‘She ain’t getting up.’

‘You’re a sweet guy, Faber. I bet your wife tells you that every night, after you fill her in on your day. Dead hostesses, bleeding cops and whatnot.’

Faber helps himself to some bacon, patting it down with a square of kitchen paper. ‘What happened, Dan? Did you maybe see a movie where the good guy is a smartass and gets to live?’ He rolls the bacon strip and chews it. ‘That’s not how it works outside your shithole club. Okay, you had the muscle in Slotz, but not here.’

I have to ask, so I say: ‘I gotta ask, Faber. What the hell are you doing in Slotz? This is a nice place you’ve got here. Smells good even in the kitchen. I haven’t seen a single roach, for Chrissakes.’

I’m playing for time a little with this kind of small talk, but I would genuinely like to know. Faber is prepared to give me a moment, so long as he gets to talk about himself.

‘That’s an interesting question, Daniel, and I get where you’re coming from. You look at me, wearing a suit that’s worth more than you make in a year. .’

I order my face not to react.

‘. . and you ask yourself, what’s a successful, classy guy like Mister Faber doing in a shithole like Slotz.’

‘That’s pretty much it,’ I say, thinking that maybe I’m overplaying the straight face.

Faber checks the buttons on his waistcoat. ‘The thing is, Doorman Dan, all day I’m eating lobster with judges and drinking Dom with millionaires, and sometimes when the day is done, I feel like getting down and dirty, you know what I mean?’

I nod obligingly. ‘Well, it doesn’t get much more down and dirty than Slotz.’

‘Yessir, Vic is quite a character.’

‘He’s the boss.’

The attorney works up the courage to step closer. ‘Here, I’m the boss!’

This mood swing is driven home with a backhanded slap across my face. I roll my head with the blow, but honestly I needn’t have bothered.

I spit on the floor; no blood, just spit. ‘What do you want from me, Faber? How come I’m not dead?’

‘You’re not dead, Dan, because I need to know what you know,’ says Faber, jiggling his glasses for some reason. Maybe it’s supposed to signify that these spectacles can see into my soul.

‘About what? These drugs that you can’t get?’

‘Keep going, doorman.’

‘Goran used to get your drugs. You two had some kind of scam going.’

‘And we have a winner. Give that prick a cigar.’

I feel utterly screwed. Somehow, up to this point I had managed to nurture a spark of optimism. I’ve been in worse scrapes, that sort of thing. But now, with Goran’s eyes filming and Deacon strapped to the gurney, I am suddenly devastated. The steel and concrete are too real, and the walls are closing in.

‘I don’t know anything, Faber. I’m only here because of the girl.’

Faber teases his Styrofoam hair with greasy fingers. ‘What girl?’

‘Take your pick. You got one dead, one more or less dead and one on the gurney.’

‘What? The stripper? That’s why you put the cops on to me?’

‘She was murdered. And it’s hostess .’

‘You think I killed her?’

‘I know you killed her, arsehole.’

Faber paces the kitchen, counting off points on his fingers. ‘So you tip Deacon about my fight with Connie. I freak because of this deal we have tonight. Deacon gets suspicious and Goran makes an on-the-spot decision to whack her, which doesn’t work out. Then Deacon’s whacking also falls a little short. So Goran calls me to come get her.’

Faber is filling in a lot of blanks here. Obviously at this point he doesn’t care what I know, which is never good. Being filled in is okay when you’re a kid and you need basic information about numbers and poisonous foods and such, but in my world knowledge gets a person dead quicker than anthrax.

‘I had a shootout with your boys right outside the door,’ I point out to the pointer. ‘The cops are going to find us soon.’

Faber is delighted by this observation, presumably because it’s way off base.

‘No cops, my friend. I own a lot of property, including this entire lot and the basement where we picked up Goran.’ The attorney squats to think quietly. ‘No,’ he says finally, knees creaking as he stands. ‘I can’t think of a way out. The three of you need to die. It’s tough about the product, but you know, sometimes you gotta eat losses.’

You can’t just let a statement like this fade without argument. ‘Wait a second, Faber. You have heavies. Can’t they get your product ?’

I don’t use words like product or heavies . They sound 2D coming out of my mouth. I half expect them to plop in cardboard letters to the floor.

Faber chuckles like he’s fond of me. ‘What? These dummies? I wouldn’t let them pick up my mail. No offence, guys. This whole thing is too complicated without Goran.’

The dummies shrug amiably. No offence taken.

Faber pats his pockets, looking for something, or maybe he’s just twitchy.

‘This is a big step for me. Cop killing. There’s no going back after this.’

The attorney seems genuinely worried, but I feel it’s more a logistics thing than anything to do with a conscience, which riles me enough to comment: ‘Kill a hostess though, that’s okay. No foul as far as you’re concerned. Connie had two kids, Faber.’