Eoin Colfer - Plugged

‘Here’s the thing, Mike. There is no disk. Never was.’ I can’t resist rapping Zeb’s crown. ‘This gobshite tried to bluff you, then dragged me in when negotiations turned painful.’

Mike conducts with his cigarette. ‘Yeah, see that’s what the doc told me shortly after he told me there was a disk. So what’s true and what ain’t? I can’t tell.’

‘Trust me, Mike. I’m Irish. We’re Irish. I swear on the tricolour there’s no disk. This dick wouldn’t know how to use a camera.’

Mike reaches under his soft cap, scratching his head. ‘That’s touching, laddie, the Irish connection, but you know as well as I do that the Gaels have been cutting each other’s throats for centuries. It’s gonna take more than that. So what else have we got in common?’

‘We got that itch,’ I say, pointing a finger.

Mike whips his hand down like he’s been slapped by a nun. ‘What itch? What the hell are you talking about?’

‘Is that what this is all about? Irish Mike Madden got some new hair and he’s feeling a little sensitive about it.’

‘Fuck you,’ shouts Mike, then dissolves into a racking cough. Those neck jabs really take it out of a person.

‘Come on, Mike. This is the twenty-first century. Surgery is a positive thing. It shows you care about your appearance. A hair transplant today is like a barber-shop shave fifty years ago. If you can afford it, do it.’

‘’Zactly,’ mutters Zeb. ‘That’s what I’ve been saying.’

It is exactly what he’s been saying. I’m just regurgitating the spiel that Zeb sold me.

‘No one cares, Mike. You know how many Americans had surgery last year? Have a guess; go on, hazard a guess.’ I don’t wait for a guess, in case Zeb gave Mike the speech too. ‘Twelve million. Can you believe that? Twelve mill-i-on. Chances are at least one of your boys had liposuction in the past month.’

The beefcake on Mike’s left blushes a little, then points his gun at my forehead.

Mike pulls himself together. ‘Yeah? What would you know about it?’

‘I know about it,’ I shoot back. ‘Because I have that itch too.’ It’s time for the cap to come off. I try to do it nonchalant, like I show people all the time. I peel off the hat and stand there in all my transplanted glory.

Mike squints a little, then beckons me forward under the light. I oblige, tilting my head so the shorter guys can get a look.

‘I gotta say,’ the boss says finally, ‘that’s not half bad.’

‘You should have seen him six weeks ago,’ grunts Zeb. ‘Fucking cue ball. Now those hairs will fall out before they grow back, but it gives you an idea.’

‘Still itches a little.’

Zeb is obviously getting his second wind. ‘It’s all in your head. The itch doesn’t last for more than a week. Mike is legitimately itchy; he has the scabs from two thousand lateral cuts. You’re just a fruitcake.’

Mike pokes his scalp gingerly. ‘It’s driving me crazy. I wanna shoot people all the time. Last Wednesday, I almost smacked my little girl.’

I try to appear shocked, as though knowing Mike as well as I do, little-girl-smacking would be totally out of character.

‘Your own little girl? Jesus.’

I must have oversold it. ‘Yeah. Don’t take the piss, McEvoy.’

‘Well, you know, hitting daughters in general, it’s not good, is it?’

Mike reaches to scratch his head, then stops himself. ‘Screw this. Your hair looks good, I’ll give you that. It gives me hope for the future, but this asshole tried to blackmail me.’

‘Over what? A hair transplant? Just how sensitive are you, Mike? All of this for a hair transplant?’

Mike rears forward suddenly, kicking Zeb in the chest, forcing his chair backwards. ‘This is not about the transplant. That is not the fucking point. He tried to blackmail me . I gotta make an example.’

This is priceless. ‘An example ? Who do you think is watching, Mike? Where exactly do you think you are?’

I shout the next line to the ceiling. ‘This is Cloisters, Mike. Cloisters! The local PD will tolerate you until the moment you kill someone, then your arse is going to the slammer. My guess, Mike , is they’re already up on your cell phones and have your club under surveillance.’ I don’t mention the multiple homicide in The Brass Ring.

Madden scowls. ‘You don’t know me well enough to call me Mike, laddie. Mister Madden will do just fine.’

My mouth is running away with me now. ‘And another thing. Now that I think of it, no one ever said laddie in Ireland. That’s Scotland you’re thinking about.’

‘Same country,’ offers one of Mike’s dimmer boys.

Madden is horrifed. ‘Same country? Same fucking country? Jesus Christ, Henry. I knew I shouldn’t have hired you. In fact, you’re fired!’

This gets a few laughs as the firing is performed jabbed-finger Apprentice style. With all the attention on poor Henry, I decide to go close quarters.

It doesn’t take more than a second, and the atmosphere in this cramped reception area is so surreal, with the strip lights and dust clouds, that nobody can quite believe what’s happening. They keep right on laughing as I launch myself off the back of Zeb’s chair, snag Macey Barrett’s stiletto from the ceiling tile and land among them. Mike’s men are knocked aside like skittles. They tumble away from me as though I am at the centre of a blast zone. Cupboards collapse and Zeb’s fake marble worktop splinters and splits.

‘You move quick for a six-footer,’ says Mike as the steel tickles the underside of his chin. ‘I’m never going to learn. That’s twice.’

It’s a tense situation. I can smell gun oil and nerves. My perspective is skewed by the prolonged tension and I’m seeing everything through a fish eye. Wannabe gangsters bob in and out of my vision, huge pistols bearing down on me like train tunnels.

‘Stay calm, Dan. Focus.’

‘Ghost Zeb? Is that you?’

‘No. This would be real Zeb.’

Shite.

Mike is real angry now. ‘What next, McEvoy? My boys are jumpy enough as it is. You think this kind of stunt is calming them down any?’

Time to pull myself together.

‘I want to see the transplants, Mike. See how they’re healing up.’

Mike’s face collapses in on itself like his mouth is a black hole. ‘What the. . Are you kidding me? See the transplants? My shrink tells me I’m not ready.’

‘Shrink? Do all you guys have shrinks now? Tony Soprano made it okay?’

‘Soprano never had a hair transplant, laddie.’

I push the blade a quarter of a centimetre into his neck. ‘One more laddie . One more. .’

I hear a couple of schnicks, and wide-eyed hulks shift in my peripheral vision. Mike’s boys are considering independent action.

Mike raises a palm. ‘Hold it. Wait, you morons. You shoot him, that blade goes into my neck.’ Something occurs to him. ‘Is that Macey’s stiletto?’

There’s no point denying it, so I don’t. ‘He was doing that shuffle thing. I had no choice.’

‘So the whole Brass Ring thing was a set-up?’

‘Two birds, one stone. It seemed like a plan.’

Irish Mike actually sniffs. ‘I gave Macey that blade.’

‘Yeah? Well he should have kept it in his pants.’

‘He was my best and brightest.’

‘If that’s true, you really are screwed.’ I grab the peak of Irish Mike’s hat and twist it from his head.

‘Aaargh,’ he screams, as though I have inflicted actual pain, and I feel a moment’s regret. It’s hard taking off the hat out in the world.

There are hundreds of tiny scabs ranged across Mike’s freckled scalp like rows of troops.