Eoin Colfer - Plugged

‘That was quite a punch you threw, Mister Madden,’ says Calvin, who is no idiot.

‘Yes, laddie. We make a good team. You are my new number two. Barrett is dead, long live Calvin.’

All this lovey-dovey gangster talk is giving my brain time to stop vibrating. I had a Plan B, in case everything turned to crap. Plan B.

And then I remember. Tommy Fletcher, my ace in the green hole.

‘Ballyvaloo,’ I blurt before my mind loses it.

‘Not much of a safe word,’ notes Zeb.

But it means something to Irish Mike. He quits hugging his new number two and walks towards me with a face like thunder.

‘What did you say?’

‘Ballyvaloo,’ I repeat, spitting blood on my shirt. ‘What the fuck is a ballyvaloo?’ wonders Calvin.

I rub my tender jaw. ‘Not what, where.’

Mike raises his foot to stomp on me, then thinks better of it.

‘Tell me what you’ve done. Tell me!’

‘Nothing. Not yet.’

Mike is a reasonably smart guy. It doesn’t take him long to make the leap.

‘Let me guess: if I kill you, then my mother is murdered, blah blah blah. You’re bluffing, McEvoy. You haven’t set anything up. You looked me up on the internet and found that I bought my dear mother a retirement cottage in Ireland. Period. Shoot the fucker, Calvin.’

I stare Calvin down. ‘Pull that trigger and Mummy is dead.’

Calvin is conflicted. Do what the boss says, or possibly be indirectly responsible for killing the boss’s mother.

‘One phone call, Mike. Then do what you like. Look in my eyes and tell me I’m lying.’

It’s a stupid line, but at this moment I am as serious as a shattered kneecap or a bullet in the arse. Mike glares into my eyes, snuffling like a hungry dog, and apparently finds some truth in there.

‘One call, McEvoy. If you have harmed my mother. . if you have so much as disturbed her supper. .’

If I have to endure one more diatribe.

‘Yeah yeah, give me my phone.’

Irish Mike tosses me my phone, which is actually Barrett’s phone. It takes me three attempts to get the number in. Tiny buttons, big blood-slicked fingers, not a good combination.

‘It’s international,’ I say, trying to sound conversational. ‘So I don’t want to stay on too long.’

Mike’s stare could strip paint. ‘Put it on speaker, shithead. For all I know, you could be calling up your bookie.’

Fair point. I find the speaker button and twist my little finger into it. A shrill double brrrrp blasts from the phone.

‘Weird ring,’ says Zeb, now totally in the Paramol’s clutches. ‘It’s like brrrrp and then another one exactly the same.’

It’s true. International ring tones can be surprising.

Shattered Kneecap is whining, so Mike has Butt Shot drag him out back. The tension levels in the room drop instantly. They go right back up again when the phone is answered by a gruff Irish voice.

‘Aye. Who is it?’

Real Irish. From the heart of Belfast. An accent to make the hardest hard man long for a mother’s bosom to nuzzle.

‘Yeah. Corporal. It’s me, Dan.’

‘Sergeant McEvoy. Okay to drop the hammer?’

‘No. Negative, Corporal. Just confirm your position.’

‘Christ, Sarge. I already popped the old dear, and a few of the cousins too.’

‘Bastard,’ howls Irish Mike. ‘Bastaard.’

There follows a satisfied chuckle that reminds me of Corporal Fletcher shooting close to desert mutts, just to see them jump.

‘Irish Mike Madden, I presume. Just kidding, pal. But now you know how it’s going to feel. A little taste.’

Mike is winded as though gut-punched. His eyes are suddenly bloodshot and his hands shake.

‘Where are you? Where?’

‘I am in the dunes above Ballyvaloo, looking down on a lovely little cottage. Smoke coming out of the chimney, a light in the window. Sure it’s like a fucking postcard. It’d be an awful shame to lob a mortar on to that thatch.’

Mike gets his wind back. ‘You are dead! You hear me? Deceased. You know who I am? I will fucking. .’

Corporal Tommy Fletcher chuckles once more, this time rolling into a fully fledged laugh that overloads the phone’s tiny speaker, breaking into crackling static. He keeps laughing until Mike shuts the hell up.

‘You finished, Mike? Hey, I understand. You’re a good son, a tough guy. But listen to me, Mike. You’re in over your head now. Before Sergeant McEvoy carried me out of a war zone, I did some time in the Rangers. That’s special operations to Joe Public. I’ve buried more bodies in the desert than you’ve had blow jobs from your hookers. I leave one coded message on a website and a hundred guys are on a plane to New Jersey. We will bury you so deep that you’ll be sleeping with the dinosaurs. I can do things to your mother that will make her curse your name. You want that, Mike?’

‘I could track you down,’ Mike says weakly.

Fletcher laughs. ‘This is the army, Mikey. We’re right here. You don’t need to track us down. Listen, Sarge, I don’t think he’s getting it. What say I take a thumb from the old lady, maybe an eye?’

I tick-tock my head, thinking about it. ‘No. I think Mike gets it. He’s top man in a big operation here. You don’t get to be top man by being stupid. Am I right, Mike?’

Irish Mike is having a hard time dealing with the situation. It’s affecting his entire being. The power of speech seems to have deserted him and his head is bulging in places where bulges should not be. He’s snorting like a bull in the ring and his hands are raised, strangling an invisible person.

‘Am I right, Mike?’ I prompt. ‘Or do I tell my corporal to proceed?’

‘You’re right,’ says Mike dully. ‘This doesn’t have to go any further. I think we can call it a day.’ He lifts a hand, finger crooked to scratch his scalp.

‘Nu-uh, Mister Madden,’ admonishes Zeb. ‘No scratching. You want scars, is that it?’

‘You’re right, of course. No scratching.’

I speak clearly into the phone. ‘Did you get that, Tommy? Stand down.’

‘Say again? Was it stand down or go to town? Because I can go to town on this old lady right now.’

‘Stand down, you crazy bastard. Do not hurt Mrs Madden.’

‘Okay, Sarge. Copy. Keep tabs, though, right?’

‘That’s a roger,’ I say. Military speak always unsettles civilians.

‘I’m off for a pint then, if there’s no shooting to be done. Talk to you tomorrow?’

‘Tomorrow and every day.’

Tommy hangs up and I fold the phone into my pocket.

‘You see how it is, Mike.’

Mike is dazed now, arms dangling by his sides, eyes heavy-lidded.

‘Yeah, I see. What do you want?’

I roll slowly to my knees, and from there make the mammoth transition to standing upright.

‘This is not a shakedown, Mike. All you have to do is go home. It’s as simple as that. Everything else stays the same. Zeb does your check-ups, I pay protection and I’ll even throw in Vic’s debt. Everyone’s as happy as they can be without true love.’

‘I’m not happy,’ moans Zeb. ‘I got fucking shot.’

I hoist him up by the elbow. ‘You needed to get shot. This is all your fault.’

‘Who you talking to? Real Zeb or Ghost Zeb?’

I really hope Zeb develops post-traumatic amnesia. Maybe I should give him a few more of his own pills.

Mike is working his fists, like he has walnuts in there. ‘Okay. We’re out of here. This never happened. One word of this around town and I got no choice but to take action.’

My jaw is hurting now and I feel like taking a pop at Mike to speed him on his way, but I hold back.

‘Fair enough.’

‘I want my Lexus back.’

‘I’ll drive it over tomorrow.’