Ken Bruen - Dublin Noir

Mell- Ceara -perches again on the side of George’s bed. She slowly crosses her legs. “Question was, how to make you really pay. I thought about that. I went to the personals… Gáire .”

Ceara jabs George’s thigh with the needle.

His eyes go wide and his muscles tense.

“Hush,” Ceara says. “It’s fine, George. Just a cocktail… blood-thinners… anti-coagulants.” Her gloved hand on his penis again-still rock hard. “Shouldn’t interfere with this.”

The woman stands, slips off her latex gloves, and smoothes her short black dress over her thighs. She slips the needle and the gloves back in her big purse, then slings the bag over one shoulder.

“Gotta go, George. But, just so you know what’s in store: I’ve been corresponding on your behalf for several days with a sado-masochistic she-he, deep into domination. You’re into bondage. Some match, yeah? I’ve been stringing ‘shim’ along until I found you. Called him-her… whatever -a few minutes before you woke up. Quite soon, you and your righteous wood will be serving as bound top to his-her’s… whatever’s -enthusiastic bottom .”

George is still reeling… dopey… scared… slow on the uptake: Jesus, I have herpes?

And this girl, Nora … couldn’t remember her… but there had been a dozen since George found his Rope connection.

Ceara is framed in the doorway of his bedroom now. She tips her head to the side, shows him those dimples. “Last thing you should know, George.”

George’s eyes are wide, besieging.

“I told your soon-to-arrive last lover that you’re also a cutter . Ya know what Angelina Jolie once said? ‘You’re young, in love, and you’ve got a knife… shit happens.’ George, those blood-thinners will have you pumping like a world-class hemophiliac when your new friend cuts you. Once the initial slices are made, and the serious blood loss kicks in, well, it’s not the worst death… almost languorous. Probably why Nora chose to take herself out that way.”

Ceara blows George a kiss and backs out of his bedroom, humming “The Parting Glass.”

George, spread-eagled, hard-panicked-thrashes wildly against his bonds, wrists and ankles sloughing more skin.

A short while later, he hears the door of his apartment open.

George closes his eyes and whimpers against his gag. Sweet Jesus, Nora… I’m so fucking sorry.

On Grafton Street, behind the bright red façade of the Temple Bar, Dr. Mell Mulloy sips her Russian Quaalude. Rain thrashes the windows. Positively bucketing. She savors George’s final expression: brónach .

The herpes angle always sets their hearts hopping.

And poor imaginary Nora ? Her pièce de résistance: Send the luckless bastards out on a mega guilt trip.

Finding the Rope on George made it sweeter still-so so fine to find a fellow predator… yummy, happy accident.

Mell checks her watch: Time for one more. But nothing elaborate. The personal-ad gambit takes time… and time is always a dangerous commodity.

So something simple is in order: Pick up another mark… dope him. Entice the sucker to his car or an alley for an ostensible jaw-job and shoot the fucker.

Then it is probably best to move on.

The Garda Síochána will soon start putting two and three or thirteen together.

Mell sips her drink and tips her head back, shaking loose her hair, lifting it off the back of her damp neck. Mell plucks an ice cube from her drink and rubs it between her breasts, listening to Knopfler: “The Lily of the West.”

She winks at a strapping stranger across the pub.

He’s headed her way now.

She smiles, shifting her long legs and arching her neck.

Come the morning, she’ll make the crossing… start again, perhaps in Glasgow.

But now Mell smiles up at the stranger, says: “’Tis himself.”

R AY B ANKSwas born in the Kingdom of Fife, but currently lives in North East England with his wife and a quartet of despicable felines. He is the creator of Leith-born Manchester P.I. Callum Innes and his debut novel, The Big Blind, is out now. He can be contacted through his website: http://www.thesaturdayboy.co.uk

J AMES O’N EAL B ORNis a career law-enforcement agent whose novels are published by Putnam, including Walking Money and Shock Wave.

K EN B RUENis the author of many novels, including The Guards, winner of the 2004 Shamus Award. His books have been published in many languages around the world. He lives in Galway, Ireland.

R EED F ARREL C OLEMANwas Brooklyn born and raised. His sixth novel, The James Deans, received rave reviews from the Washington Post and Chicago Sun-Times . Ken Bruen has said that Coleman has the soul of an Irishman and, with this story, he hopes to prove it.

E OIN C OLFERis a teacher from Wexford, Ireland. He spends most of his time writing about leprechauns and other magical creatures. He is best known for his fantasy series featuring criminal mastermind teenager Artemis Fowl. Eoin lived in Dublin for three years and visits whenever he needs inspiration.

J IM F USILLIis the author of the award-winning Terry Orr series, which includes Hard, Hard City, winner of the Gumshoe Award for Best Novel of 2004, as well as Closing Time, A Well-Known Secret, and Tribeca Blues. He also writes for The Wall Street Journal and is a contributor to National Public Radio’s All Things Considered.

P ATRICK J. L AMBElives in New Jersey, where he works as a telephone technician and writes crime stories. Third-generation Irish, English was his grandparent’s second language and he hopes to one day stride the streets of Dublin, a city that lives large in his imagination as his ancestrial homeland.

L AURA L IPPMANis a Baltimore writer best known for her series about Baltimore-based P.I. Tess Monaghan. She has also written two stand-alone novels, Every Secret Thing and To the Power of Three. A Baltimore Sun reporter for twelve years, she has written for the New York Times , the Washington Post, and Slate.com. Her work has won virtually all the major prizes given to U.S. crime writers, including the Edgar, Anthony, Agatha, Shamus, and Nero Wolfe.