Eoin Colfer - Artemis Fowl - The Eternity Code

The Chicago Mob welcomed him with open arms. Actually, one of their enforcers grabbed him in a bear-hug. Loafers sent the man and six of his buddies to the Mother of Mercy Hospital. Not bad for a guy five feet tall. Eight hours after stepping off the plane, Loafers was on the payroll.

And here he was, two years and several jobs later, already the organization’s top metal man. His specialities were robbery and debt collection. Not the usual line of work for five-footers. But then, Loafers was not the usual five-footer.

Loafers leaned back in the tattooist’s adjustable chair.

‘You like the shoes, Inky?’

Inky blinked sweat from his eyes. You had to be careful with Loafers. Even the most innocent question could be a trap. One wrong answer and you could find yourself making your excuses to Saint Peter.

‘Yeah. I like ‘em. What are they called?’

‘Loafers!’ snapped the tiny gangster. ‘Loafers, idiot. They’re my trademark.’

‘Oh yeah, loafers. I forgot. Cool, havin’ a trademark.’

Loafers checked the progress on his arm.

‘You ready with that needle yet?’

‘Just ready,’ replied Inky. ‘I’m finished painting on the guidelines. I just gotta put in a fresh needle.’

‘It’s not gonna hurt, is it?’

Of course it is, moron, thought Inky. I’m sticking a needle in your arm.

But out loud he said, ‘Not too much. I gave your arm a swab of anaesthetic.’

‘It better not hurt,’ warned Loafers. ‘Or you’ll be hurting shortly afterwards.’

Nobody threatened Inky except Loafers McGuire. Inky did all the Mob’s tattoo work. He was the best in the state.

Carla Frazetti pushed through the door. Her black-suited elegance seemed out of place in the dingy establishment.

‘Hello, boys,’ she said.

‘Hello, Miss Carla,’ said Inky, blushing deeply. You didn’t get too many ladies in the Ink Blot.

Loafers jumped to his feet. Even he respected the boss’s god-daughter.

‘Miss Frazetti. You could have beeped me. No need for you to come down to this dump.’

‘No time for that. This is urgent. You leave straight away.’

‘I’m leaving? Where am I going?’

‘Ireland. Your Uncle Pat is sick.’

Loafers frowned.

‘Uncle Pat? I don’t have an Uncle Pat.’

Carla tapped the toe of one stiletto. ‘He’s sick, Loafers. Real sick, if you catch my drift.’

Loafers finally caught on. ‘Oh, I get it. So I gotta pay him a visit.’

‘That’s it. That’s exactly how sick he is.’

Loafers used a rag to clean the ink off his arm. ‘OK, I’m ready. Are we going straight to the airport?’ Carla linked the tiny gangster.

‘Soon, Loafers. But first we need to pick up your brother.’

‘I don’t have a brother,’ protested Loafers.

‘Of course you do. The one with the keys to Uncle Pat’s house. He’s a regular little monkey.’

‘Oh,’ said Loafers. ‘That brother.’

Loafers and Carla took the limo out to the East Side. Loafers was still in awe of the sheer size of American buildings. In Kilkenny there was nothing over five storeys, and Loafers himself had lived all his life in a suburban bungalow. Not that he would ever admit that to his Mob friends.

For their benefit he had reinvented himself as an orphan, who spent his youth in and out of various remand homes.

‘Who’s the monkey?’ he asked.

Carla Frazetti was fixing her jet-black hair in a compact mirror. It was short and slicked back.

‘A new guy. Mo Digence. He’s Irish, like you. It makes things very convenient. No visas, no papers, no elaborate cover story. Just two short guys home for the holidays.’

Loafers bristled.

‘What do you mean two short guys?’

Carla snapped the compact shut.

‘Who are you talking to, McGuire? Because you couldn’t be talking to me. Not in that tone.’

Loafers paled, his life flashing before him.

‘I’m sorry, Miss Frazetti. It’s just the short thing. I’ve been listening to it my whole life.’

‘What do you want people to call you? Lofty? You’re short, Loafers.

Get over it. That’s what gives you your edge. My godfather always says there’s nothing more dangerous than a short guy with something to prove. That’s why you’ve got a job.’

‘I suppose.’

Carla patted him on the shoulder.

‘Cheer up, Loafers. Compared to this guy, you’re a regular giant.’

Loafers perked up considerably. ‘Really? Just how short is Mo Digence?’

‘He’s short,’ said Carla. ‘I don’t know the exact centimetres, but any shorter and I’d be changing his diaper and stuffing him in a stroller.’

Loafers grinned. He was going to enjoy this job.

THE MONKEY

Mo Digence had seen better days. Less than four months ago he had been living it up in a Los Angeles penthouse with over a million dollars in the bank. But now his funds had been frozen by the Criminal

Assets Bureau and he was working for the Chicago Mob on a commission basis. Spatz Antonelli was not known for the generosity of his commissions. Of course, Mo could always leave Chicago and go back to

LA, but there was a police task force there with his name on it, just waiting for him to return to the scene of the crime. In fact, there was no safe haven for Mo above ground or below it, because Mo Digence was actually Mulch Diggums, kleptomaniac dwarf and fugitive from the LEP.

Mulch was a tunnel dwarf, who decided that a life in the mines was not for him and put his mining talents to another use: namely, relieving Mud People of their valuables and selling them on the fairy black market.

Of course, entering another’s dwelling without permission meant forfeiting your magic, but Mulch didn’t care. Dwarfs didn’t have much power anyway, and casting spells had always made him nauseous.

Dwarfs have several physical features that make them ideal burglars. They can dislocate their jaws, ingesting several kilos of soil a second. It is stripped of any beneficial minerals, then ejected at the other end. They have also developed the ability to drink through their pores, an attribute that can be very handy during cave-ins. It also transforms the pores into living suction cups, a convenient tool in any burglar’s arsenal.

Finally, dwarf hair is actually a network of living antennae, similar to feline whiskers, which can do everything from trap beetles to bounce sonar waves off a tunnel wall.

Mulch had been a rising star in the fairy underworld — until Commander Julius Root got hold of his file. Since then, he had spent over three hundred years in and out of prison. He was currently on the run for stealing several gold bars from the Holly Short ransom fund. There was no safe haven below ground any more, even among his own kind. So Mulch was forced to pass himself off as human, and take whatever work he could get from the Chicago Mob.

There were hazards associated with impersonating a human. Of course, his size drew attention from everyone who happened to glance downwards. But Mulch quickly discovered that Mud People could find a reason to distrust almost anyone. Height, weight, skin colour, religion. It was almost safer to be different in some way.

The sun was a bigger problem. Dwarfs are extremely photosensitive, with a burn time of less than three minutes. Luckily,

Mulch’s job generally involved night work, but when he was forced to venture abroad in daylight hours the dwarf made certain that every centimetre of exposed skin was covered with long-lasting sun block.

Mulch had rented a basement apartment in an early twentieth-century brownstone. It was a bit of a fixer-upper, but this suited the dwarf just fine. He stripped out the floorboards in the bedroom, dumping two tons of topsoil and fertilizer on to the rotten foundations. Mould and damp already clung to the walls, so no need to remodel anything there. In a matter of hours, insect life was thriving in the room. Mulch would lie back in his pit and snag cockroaches with his beard hair. Home sweet home. Not only was the apartment beginning to resemble a tunnel cave, but if the LEP came a callin’, he could be fifty metres below ground in the blink of an eye.