Eoin Colfer - Plugged

We got on okay at first. When I say okay, I mean I never had to ask more than five times for my money, and he never tried to hold back more than forty per cent. On one occasion I was forced to shake him by the collar, but that was as rough as it got. Nobody tried to rip him off either for the first year, which really pissed Zeb off; in his twisted mind, nobody ripping him off was tantamount to me ripping him off, as he was paying me for nothing. I tried explaining that I was a bit like a nuclear deterrent, but Zeb refused to see the sense in this, as it didn’t align with how he was thinking. It got so that he started to pick fights with people, daring them to screw with him, or rather with me. Mostly these people were confused housewives who had never heard verbal abuse before that wasn’t filtered through the TV, but every once in a while the household had its own security and I took a couple of unnecessary punches because Zeb felt the need to big himself up. It got so he took to strutting down Eighth Avenue like Tony Minero, tossing insults left and right. He barely noticed me, just took my presence for granted. One night I just stopped at the crosswalk and let him go ahead with his motherfucker this and get out of my way asshole that, until some college kid pounded him a good one in the side of the face. The kind of punch that makes everyone who sees it go damn .

We parted company soon after and I upped sticks for Cloisters, but after six months Zeb tracked me down and set up Kronski’s Kures in the mini-mall. For almost a year he claimed the relocation was on account of me being his only friend. But one night in O’Leary’s, he got so drunk that he forgot who I was and confided in who he thought I was, saying how some pusher’s girlfriend in Queen’s had a permanent droop on one side of her face on account of the cheap botulism he pumped into her forehead and he was hiding out here in the Styx with the big Mick until things cooled down. But then he started making good green here in Cloisters and decided to stay a while.

I don’t work for Zeb any more, though he begs me every day. I just hang around with him for free. It’s nice to have a whiskey buddy, plus we have this thing we do with movie references and song titles. Can be lots of fun.

I’ve been in worse shape, but not recently. Seems to me there was a time when I could take punishment the way a young man takes his liquor; go all night and still function at work the next day. Now I’m grunting with every step, walking like my bones are made of glass. The various tussles with Bonzo, the tuna-melt guy and Faber’s goons have really taken a toll, and I wouldn’t be surprised if I die earlier than I should as a direct result.

At least the book is closed on Faber, unless he can generate himself a fresh ticker. Whatever his reasons for murdering Connie, he took them to the grave. Maybe when he floats out of the Tunnel, he’ll have to explain himself to St Peter. For his sake, I hope he can come up with something better than she slapped me, Jesus . I would pay good money to hear that conversation.

The Deacon problem is on hold. But I have a feeling that as soon as Ronnie gets bored of the super-cop tag, she’ll be giving me a call. It would be nice to believe that Detective Deacon would be in my corner should I need some badge. I’ll make the call if I have to, but I’m not counting any chickens. First and foremost Ronnie is a cop, and she’ll uphold the law even if it means hanging her and me both.

Counting chickens? pipes up Ghost Zeb, still hanging on in there. What the hell are you doing counting chickens?

Don’t you listen? I’m not counting chickens.

Counting chickens, not counting chickens, I could give a shit. All these situations you’re closing the door on, what about me? I’m out there somewhere.

Probably dead.

Probably, yes. But did you ever think that I could just be maimed? I’m out there somewhere with my dick cut off, I got maybe forty-five minutes to make it to the ER for reattachment surgery .

I can’t help wincing.

Okay, Zeb, okay. I’ll make a few enquiries.

When?

Soon. Very soon. I just have to pick up my funds at the bus station, then square things with work and Mrs Delano.

I’m bleeding to death and you’re squaring things?

If I find you, will you get out of my head?

Not only that, but I’ll do all your check-ups for free .

Yeah, see that’s how I know you’re not the real Zeb.

My apartment should be goon-free now that Faber’s breath has fogged its last mirror. Just in case there are any hostile stragglers, I dial a phoney B&E call into the local blues from Mr Hong down the hall and slip upstairs to Sofia’s apartment when the cruiser whoops up to the steps.

Sofia Delano pulls open her door before the knock reverb fades and stands before me, chest heaving like she’s run a mile to get there.

‘Carmine,’ she breathes. ‘I’ve been waiting so long.’

I slip inside her lobby, passing close, feeling the breath from her upturned mouth on my cheek, seeing the sheen of her lipstick.

Delano reminds me of someone. Not Cyndi Lauper any more; another eighties icon. Blonde hair, blow-dried big. Striped woollen dress, leggings and ballet pumps.

Ghost Zeb puts his finger on it. We’re the kids in America, woh-oh .

‘My Kim Wilde look,’ says Sofia Delano. ‘You always liked it, Carmine. Remember that club? The One Eight Seven? Those were good times.’

She looks wonderful, smells intoxicating. If only I could remember the good times.

‘Mrs Delano. . Sofia. . I’m not Carmine. I’m Daniel McEvoy, from downstairs. You hate me, remember?’

She takes my face in her hands. ‘Not any more,’ she says and kisses me hard. Not any more? Does that mean she doesn’t hate me any more? Or she doesn’t remember?

I don’t know, and for a moment I don’t care.

And even though I didn’t share the eighties with this woman, I do remember the decade. And here they are, coming around again. With sweet chocolatey perfume, shoulder pads, the haze of hairspray and soft red lips. This is more than a kiss; it’s a time machine.

I feel Sofia’s sprayed hair scratch my cheek, and hear the moan in her throat like all her dreams have come true, and I want to weep. Is this how low I have sunk, making out with a disturbed woman?

I push her gently away, hearing the soft pop as the vacuum seal of our lips is broken.

‘W. . wait,’ I stammer. ‘This is not right. I can’t. . we can’t.’

There is a bruise of lipstick smeared across her upper lip. ‘Sure we can, baby. It’s not the first time. But let’s do it like it’s the last.’

What an invitation. You could sell a movie with a tag-line like that.

‘No, Sofia. . Mrs Delano. This is not me. I mean, I am not Carmine.’

Then something unexpected. She slaps me in the face, hard. I actually rock back on my heels.

‘Pull yourself together, Carmine. How many lives do you think we get? I’m forty years old next summer, and this is my last second chance. You going to break my heart again?’

I can’t do it. I should, goddamn me, but I can’t find the strength. ‘Okay, Sofia.

Okay, I get it.’ I stroke her cheek tenderly. It’s easy to do. Natural. ‘No broken hearts tonight. I want to do it slow, take things easy. We got time, right?’

She blinks, uncertain, as though offering sex to this man Carmine is all she knows how to do.

‘Time?’

‘Yeah, time for romance?’

‘Romance?’ The word hiccups in her throat. ‘You want romance?’

‘Sure. A man can change, can’t he?’

‘I. . I guess.’

Whew. A reprieve, though a big, insistent part of me doesn’t want a reprieve.