Ken Bruen - Dublin Noir

The door hinged back. “Oh, well, that’s different then, isn’t it?”

I couldn’t see much of the room beyond and didn’t much care. I pushed through, if only to keep the old girl from giving me more of her vulture’s stare. She was getting on my nerves, which were already about to shoot out of my pores, tingling as my sweat dripped over their raw ends.

“You a long way from home, my brother.”

“You ain’t never lied.” The one who’d opened the door was lanky, with a dainty potbelly like you saw on cats who appreciated their apple pop tarts too much. He wore a pullover shirt and pants made out of cotton so goddamn thin I wondered how he didn’t freeze his nuts off when he went out in them. He was barefoot but had on a plaid snap-brim hat pulled low over longish hair.

“And you’re in need, yeah?”

“That’s right.” We’d each taken a step back from the other. I knew I could take his skinny ass, just like I knew it wasn’t only me and homeboy in this crib. Which wasn’t jacked up-no holes in the wall, the furniture, while there wasn’t much of it, wasn’t busted up, and there were no panes missing from the windows. There was even a TV on low with that big-headed Al Gore on it answering questions about him getting his campaign for the Dems nomination underway.

“So what is it you want, sir?” He smiled, lifting his chin some even though he was pretty much my height.

I was holding a few folded bills. “What I want is some crack.”

He cocked his head to one side.

“But I’ll settle for some snow,” I said, putting a finger to the side of my nose and sniffing. Maura had explained to me that rock cocaine wasn’t that big over here like it was in London, but that I should be able to purchase some flake. I figured at the hotel I could find some ammonia and cook it down to the shit I wanted.

“Ah, well, you’ve come to the right place, my American friend.” He made to take the money from my hand.

“Don’t play me for no chump,” I said, holding onto them benjamins like I was guarding grandma’s teeth

He snapped his fingers. “Right you are. Barbara,” he said, adjusting his hat. To my left, where I guess the bedroom was, a thick-shouldered but pretty-in-a-rough-way chick with dirty blond hair stepped into the doorway. She had on tight jeans and a loose shirt, heavy boots on her feet. She jiggled a plastic baggie with a measure of white stuff in it. Maybe she figured I’d make like Rover and start panting. Did I look that messed up?

“Hello,” she said, being too friendly.

“Hi yourself.” The way I was positioned, I could drop her boyfriend with a kick and spin, and catch Barbara just right on the jaw. Between the two of them, she’d be the one to give me trouble. She didn’t move and neither did he. I unzipped my jacket to give my arms more freedom.

I walked toward her, one hand out and the other extending the bills. Maura had told me I should be able to get a hit for roughly forty-five American. She took the money and gave me the shit. I opened the bag, worried the powder was more yellow than white. I sampled a taste on my pinkie, my face scrunching up.

“This is heroin.”

“Yeah, what of it?”

“Did I say I wanted H?”

“Look, Sonny Jim, that’s the way it is, yeah? You come for your high, get mellow , and we’re done.” The dude was peddling backward, no doubt to fetch his persuader.

I was hurtin’ but I wasn’t gonna be bitched up, especially by some foreigners. Naw, that kind of shit don’t happen to me. “Give me back my scratch. We ain’t got a deal.” I tossed the bag on a chair.

“We’re not Dunnes, understand? All sales final.” The chick stood her ground, ready to throw down. She squinted at me.

“You’re that hard man, aren’t you? The one that was mouthing off on the telly last night about how you’d come to the land of Lucky Charms to show us how to play real football.”

Usually I got a twang in my dick when a broad recognized me. Not tonight. “My money, huh?”

“You say he’s famous?” the man asked, now positioned next to a low cabinet with a lamp on it. “On a team, is he?”

“Yeah,” she said, her tongue cavorting. “And he used to be something over in the States.”

“Still am, baby.” Now these mothafuckahs were clownin’ me.

“Right, he’s worth something to somebody,” the man said, as he whipped open the cabinet door and reached inside for his gat. But I’d already turned, stepped, and leaped. I plowed into him and we knocked the lamp over, breaking it apart, making the room shadowy. The chick was also in motion and she jumped on my back, rockin’ and sockin’.

“Spence, for fuck’s sake, get him down!” she hollered, as I bent my arm back and got it around her neck and threw her off me and into her boyfriend. Problem was, she wasn’t without reflexes and she’d grabbed hold of me and took me with her. It was like some kind of fucked-up Abbott and Costello movie with the three of us wrasslin’ and yankin’ on each other.

I got a grip on Spence’s upper arm to keep him from planting that piece, which wasn’t much of one, in my grill, while Broom Hilda rode me like Lafite Pincay and punched me good in the lower back and kidneys. I pushed back to the wall to put my weight on Barbara and still keep a grip on Spence. I managed to tag him with an uppercut, jarring his eyeballs in their sockets.

“Come on, be fair, we’ll share what we make on you,” the blonde said.

I couldn’t figure out whether to laugh or cry. Wasn’t no one in the NFL or Pop Warner, for that matter, ’bout to put together a buffalo nickel to ransom my sorry self. We tumbled to the floor all tangled up.

I was hitting Spence again, who was straddling me, but homegirl, who was underneath me, got her arm around my neck and hammer-locked the shit out of my Adam’s apple. I had to let go of the man and he crashed the muzzle of his gun down against my temple. But like I said, it wasn’t much of a gun, it was a derringer, like what Jim West used to pop out of his sleeve to make Dr. Loveless shit in reruns of the Wild Wild West TV show.

For a hot minute the black lights had me, but I couldn’t let ’em take me under.

“That’s it,” I heard her say, as if she were deep in the ground below me. “Put him under.”

Spence clubbed at my head again, but I got my shoulder up and that took most of the blow. I drove an elbow into her rib cage and that got her gasping and sputtering. I shook loose from Barbara and came up, arms wrapped around Spence, taking him over in a tackle. I was quick enough that by the time he tried to level his pea shooter, the back of his head made contact, loudly, with the thinly carpeted floor, dazing him.

Girlfriend got her arms around my legs and put her choppers into me like my thigh like it was prime rib. “Fuck!” I screamed, and used my fist as a club to work at the base of her neck. That got her jaw open and I straight right-crossed the broad, making blood spray.

Spence fired his derringer but I’d grabbed the hefty chick for a shield and he’d pulled his aim up, shooting the ceiling. We were back on the floor and I lashed out with my foot, catching Spence alongside his cheek. He bowled over and, shoving the woman away, I jumped on him and commenced to wail on the chump like he’d stolen from my baby’s mama. He lay still and I got up, putting the derringer in my jacket pocket. That toy wasn’t much of a threat, but I might need it.

“Come on,” I said to her, a jagged piece of the busted lamp steady in my hand, on her eyeball.

“You gonna have your way with me?” There didn’t seem to be a lot of fear in her voice. Maybe Barbara the blonde was sizing me up to be a replacement for Spence.