Ken Bruen - Dublin Noir

George’s kidneys are burning. Should have hit the head before he sent the drink to her. He bounces his left leg. Tries to come up with some response to her question. He fingers the engraved Zippo in the pocket of his sports jacket, says, “You smoke?”

“Not anymore.”

“Mind if I do?”

“Do it, George-secondhand smoke keeps me half-ass in the game.”

George lies: “Gotta get it in before the ban, yeah? I’m out… gotta get myself a new pack.”

He beelines for the men’s room. He shoulders up between pissed, pissing punters and lets go, his left kidney burning… even aching.

The pain subsiding, he washes up and hits the cigarette machine. He buys a pack of Regals that he’ll maybe get through in three or four weeks. He drops it in his pocket with the baggie of half-a-dozen tablets of Rohypnol-the “R2” that he figures to slip in Mell’s drink when she has to hit the head.

But before that, he’ll slip her the Ecstasy in his left pocket.

Yeah.

The E and the “Rope”-a profoundly powerful one-two… no woman could sustain against it.

Mell has a fresh drink waiting for George when he returns to their table.

George slides into his chair-freshly stricken: that face, those tits, those long legs… thinking about those legs wrapped around his ass… about Mell’s mouth, her sultry lips, groaning-and her not remembering -sucking.

“Drink up, George,” Mell says. “They’re gonna be playing our song in a minute.”

Compliantly, George downs his double Jameson and accepts her hand.

They find an empty space on the dance floor and begin moving together, his crotch tight to hers-a slow dance to Mark Knopfler: “On Raglan Road.”

George is dizzy.

And increasingly hard.

Mell clearly knows it too-stroking him through his sans-a-belt pants.

Punchy, his pants now a tent, George follows Mell back to their table. He doesn’t really sit so much as he falls into his chair.

George is sweating-even a little nauseous.

Strike that: really nauseous… sweating like a pig. He had loaded nachos about 4 p.m. He thinks of the sour cream slathered on the chips, then thinks, Jesus, it’s food poisoning!

But Mell has slipped off her right fuck-me stiletto, distracting George from his sour stomach. She’s massaging his crotch with her stockinged foot. She says: “Don’tcha think it’s time we go to your place? You do have a place, George?”

She stands… reaches under the table with her left hand and pulls up a big black bag-something between a large purse and a briefcase.

George takes her extended right hand, trailing her through the packed pub to the door. His head is swimming… Jesus, didn’t even need pills for the bitch… must be a fucking wild ride.

The wet cold air is a fleeting respite, soothing him… sharpening his focus.

But the cab is too cozy. George mumbles his home address and slides into a void.

In that void: polluted with conversation… Mell and the cabby-engaged in meaningless small talk. He just hears bits of some unfair barbs from Mell: “Poor George-he so can’t handle his booze… full-on scuttered.”

George would object if he could find his voice.

He’s cold.

George blinks his eyes, looks around.

Jesus Christ! Fucking naked and spread-eagled on his back on his own bed.

His hands are cuffed to the bed posts… ankles, ditto.

Mell’s standing there at the foot of his bed, sneering in her slinky black dress.

“He has risen,” Mell nods at George’s still-hard cock.

“What the fuck is this?” George’s tongue is thick and he hardly understands himself. He thinks he might vomit.

“Fecking caffler,” Mell says, “you really have no idea what’s going on?”

Groggy, George mutters, “Uh, no …”

The woman crosses her arms, feet spread wide. “Brill. Let me help: You’re coming through a smallish dose of Rope-or Rohypnol… the original date-rape drug. If Valium was Superman, well, Rope is Superman’s bigger, meaner older brother. But you know that, don’tcha, George?” She raises her hand-sheathed in a white latex glove-and his baggie of Rope flops down. Mell scowls, looking hurt. “Meant this evil shit for me, eh, Georgie?”

With her other rubber-gloved hand, the woman suddenly grasps George’s erection and squeezes. George winces, willing himself soft. Surely in this circumstance, he’ll go soft… but he stays hard. Maybe gets harder.

Mell says, “Hmm. No baz. Not appealing.” She then adds, squeezing him again, “This wood of yours is the result of a Viagra knock-off. If you’re online, you’ve probably gotten Spam e-mail offers for it. You’ll stay hard at least another two hours, George… maybe three. You’ll stay real hard, regardless of anything-hardness that could be confused for excitement. But, I jump ahead.”

“What is this?” George sneers unconvincingly, hearing his dope-stoked drunkness in his slurred voice. “Fuck you doin’, Mell?” Drool slides from the corner of his mouth. “These fucking drugs… they could fucking kill me.”

The woman sits on the edge of the bed and shakes her head. “Stay easy. I’m a doctor. Know what I’m doing. And it was a half-dose of Rope. I wanted this talk with you.”

A doctor. Now George is in full panic mode… Stories he always thought were urban myths about organ thefts… Pick up some chick… take her to a hotel… and then you wake up with a kidney missing… Jesus fuck! He blubbers, “You want my fucking kidneys.”

A husky laugh. “If that was the game, you’d be in a tub of ice now with a hole in your back. Two, if I was really ruthless.” Mell leans in now, searching his eyes. George thinks about screaming and maybe she senses it-she drives a fist into his solar plexus and he doubles up… chafing skin off his wrists and ankles… his mouth open, gasping for air. Suddenly, there’s a rag in his mouth.

“You’re done talking, forever. I asked you if names are important. Well, they are important, George. Here’s a name for you: Nora MacKiernan . That name ring a bell?”

George shakes his head.

“Well, she remembered your name, George. You were dumb enough to use your real first name, just like you did with me. She remembered that Zippo of yours, with your initials. You doped her in that same bar I met you in. None of that made it nearly hard enough to find you. Four weeks, cruising the same five or six bars… and I found you back in the one where you drugged her.

“Nora MacKiernan was twenty-three, George. She was at that bar with irresponsible mates who were there to be laid and shamed her along after work. Nora was engaged. Would have wed next month. But you moved in. She was polite… Nora was always polite.”

The woman’s eyes are drifting now, going sad and a little hard. George is breathing faster.

“You hit Nora, my sister, with Ecstasy, slipped her Rope… I know because I ran the rape kit and stomach pump at the hospital. And you gave her genital herpes, George. Those are fucking incurable. Nora’s fiancé couldn’t take it… broke their engagement. Nora couldn’t take it, either… losing him… carrying your disease. Nora opted out. Wrists, razor… a warm bathtub. Suicide-very bad news in an old Catholic family.”

Lipsanos shakes his head.

“Names are important, George.” She rises now, sways across the room, and picks up her big black purse. She rummages. Mell turns, holding a hypodermic. She flicks it, squirts a little out-clear those air bubbles. She says: “My name is Ceara, and as even you have probably gathered, George, I wouldn’t be sharing my real name with you now if there was any prospect of you ever leaving this room.”