‘Is that what this is all about? Irish Mike Madden got some new hair and he’s feeling a little sensitive about it.’
‘Fuck you,’ shouts Mike, then dissolves into a racking cough. Those neck jabs really take it out of a person.
‘Come on, Mike. This is the twenty-first century. Surgery is a positive thing. It shows you care about your appearance. A hair transplant today is like a barber-shop shave fifty years ago. If you can afford it, do it.’
‘’Zactly,’ mutters Zeb. ‘That’s what I’ve been saying.’
It is exactly what he’s been saying. I’m just regurgitating the spiel that Zeb sold me.
‘No one cares, Mike. You know how many Americans had surgery last year? Have a guess; go on, hazard a guess.’ I don’t wait for a guess, in case Zeb gave Mike the speech too. ‘Twelve million. Can you believe that? Twelve mill-i-on. Chances are at least one of your boys had liposuction in the past month.’
The beefcake on Mike’s left blushes a little, then points his gun at my forehead.
Mike pulls himself together. ‘Yeah? What would you know about it?’
‘I know about it,’ I shoot back. ‘Because I have that itch too.’ It’s time for the cap to come off. I try to do it nonchalant, like I show people all the time. I peel off the hat and stand there in all my transplanted glory.
Mike squints a little, then beckons me forward under the light. I oblige, tilting my head so the shorter guys can get a look.
‘I gotta say,’ the boss says finally, ‘that’s not half bad.’
‘You should have seen him six weeks ago,’ grunts Zeb. ‘Fucking cue ball. Now those hairs will fall out before they grow back, but it gives you an idea.’
‘Still itches a little.’
Zeb is obviously getting his second wind. ‘It’s all in your head. The itch doesn’t last for more than a week. Mike is legitimately itchy; he has the scabs from two thousand lateral cuts. You’re just a fruitcake.’
Mike pokes his scalp gingerly. ‘It’s driving me crazy. I wanna shoot people all the time. Last Wednesday, I almost smacked my little girl.’
I try to appear shocked, as though knowing Mike as well as I do, little-girl-smacking would be totally out of character.
‘Your own little girl? Jesus.’
I must have oversold it. ‘Yeah. Don’t take the piss, McEvoy.’
‘Well, you know, hitting daughters in general, it’s not good, is it?’
Mike reaches to scratch his head, then stops himself. ‘Screw this. Your hair looks good, I’ll give you that. It gives me hope for the future, but this asshole tried to blackmail me.’
‘Over what? A hair transplant? Just how sensitive are you, Mike? All of this for a hair transplant?’
Mike rears forward suddenly, kicking Zeb in the chest, forcing his chair backwards. ‘This is not about the transplant. That is not the fucking point. He tried to blackmail me. I gotta make an example.’
This is priceless. ‘An example? Who do you think is watching, Mike? Where exactly do you think you are?’
I shout the next line to the ceiling. ‘This is Cloisters, Mike. Cloisters! The local PD will tolerate you until the moment you kill someone, then your arse is going to the slammer. My guess, Mike, is they’re already up on your cell phones and have your club under surveillance.’ I don’t mention the multiple homicide in The Brass Ring.
Madden scowls. ‘You don’t know me well enough to call me Mike, laddie. Mister Madden will do just fine.’
My mouth is running away with me now. ‘And another thing. Now that I think of it, no one ever said laddie in Ireland. That’s Scotland you’re thinking about.’
‘Same country,’ offers one of Mike’s dimmer boys.
Madden is horrifed. ‘Same country? Same fucking country? Jesus Christ, Henry. I knew I shouldn’t have hired you. In fact, you’re fired!’
This gets a few laughs as the firing is performed jabbed-finger Apprentice style. With all the attention on poor Henry, I decide to go close quarters.
It doesn’t take more than a second, and the atmosphere in this cramped reception area is so surreal, with the strip lights and dust clouds, that nobody can quite believe what’s happening. They keep right on laughing as I launch myself off the back of Zeb’s chair, snag Macey Barrett’s stiletto from the ceiling tile and land among them. Mike’s men are knocked aside like skittles. They tumble away from me as though I am at the centre of a blast zone. Cupboards collapse and Zeb’s fake marble worktop splinters and splits.
‘You move quick for a six-footer,’ says Mike as the steel tickles the underside of his chin. ‘I’m never going to learn. That’s twice.’
It’s a tense situation. I can smell gun oil and nerves. My perspective is skewed by the prolonged tension and I’m seeing everything through a fish eye. Wannabe gangsters bob in and out of my vision, huge pistols bearing down on me like train tunnels.
‘Stay calm, Dan. Focus.’
‘Ghost Zeb? Is that you?’
‘No. This would be real Zeb.’
Shite.
Mike is real angry now. ‘What next, McEvoy? My boys are jumpy enough as it is. You think this kind of stunt is calming them down any?’
Time to pull myself together.
‘I want to see the transplants, Mike. See how they’re healing up.’
Mike’s face collapses in on itself like his mouth is a black hole. ‘What the . . . Are you kidding me? See the transplants? My shrink tells me I’m not ready.’
‘Shrink? Do all you guys have shrinks now? Tony Soprano made it okay?’
‘Soprano never had a hair transplant, laddie.’
I push the blade a quarter of a centimetre into his neck. ‘One more laddie. One more . . .’
I hear a couple of schnicks, and wide-eyed hulks shift in my peripheral vision. Mike’s boys are considering independent action.
Mike raises a palm. ‘Hold it. Wait, you morons. You shoot him, that blade goes into my neck.’ Something occurs to him. ‘Is that Macey’s stiletto?’
There’s no point denying it, so I don’t. ‘He was doing that shuffle thing. I had no choice.’
‘So the whole Brass Ring thing was a set-up?’
‘Two birds, one stone. It seemed like a plan.’
Irish Mike actually sniffs. ‘I gave Macey that blade.’
‘Yeah? Well he should have kept it in his pants.’
‘He was my best and brightest.’
‘If that’s true, you really are screwed.’ I grab the peak of Irish Mike’s hat and twist it from his head.
‘Aaargh,’ he screams, as though I have inflicted actual pain, and I feel a moment’s regret. It’s hard taking off the hat out in the world.
There are hundreds of tiny scabs ranged across Mike’s freckled scalp like rows of troops.
‘Dense. A lot denser than mine.’
‘I had a whole team working on Mike,’ mutters Zeb. ‘You get what you pay for.’
‘Prick,’ says Mike, and I can’t help agreeing with him.
One of Mike’s scabs is floating a little high, so I poke it with my thumb.
‘There’s your problem,’ I say, like I’m concerned. ‘Infection. You haven’t been taking your antibiotics.’
Mike’s eyes flick to his lieutenants. Guilty. ‘I wanted a few beers. You can’t drink on those things.’
‘Looks pretty painful, Zeb, this infection. Could it get nasty?’
Zeb catches on quick. ‘Sure. Balls nasty. Your whole scalp is gonna feel like a septic pimple. Transplants fall out and you got a head full of scar tissue. Looks like a third-degree burn.’
Zeb is full of shit, but Mike buys it. ‘Scar tissue, huh?’
‘You’ll be like an extra from a Romero movie.’
Mike is incensed. ‘This is typical of you service guys. You never hear the downside beforehand. It’s all roses until you hit an underground pipe, or you find a lump you weren’t expecting, or your fucking head explodes with pus.’
Time to wrap
up my argument. ‘The point is, Mike, you need Zeb to keep an eye on you for a year. Make sure the wounds heal. Maybe put in a fresh crop. You kill him now, and it’s the public clinic for you. Try keeping that quiet.’
It’s a strong argument. Well put.
‘So that’s the case for him. What about you?’
‘Me? You could try to kill me, but your organisation is going to be a whole lot weaker afterwards. Face it, Mike, you have limited resources, and Macey Barrett was your number-one guy.’
I turn the stiletto a little to focus Mike’s attention on the subject. Guys like him have a hard time accepting their own mortality, unless it’s tickling their jugular.
‘Hey, okay. Jesus, laddie, you drive a hard bargain.’
I let him have that laddie.
‘So, we walk?’
Mike shrugs. ‘Sure. But I ain’t paying for check-ups.’
Zeb chews his lip, but manages a single grudging positive grunt.
‘And you cover Victor Jones’s debt.’
‘One-time payment. And I send one of my staff around with the monthly.’
Mike nods; any more and he’ll impale himself.
‘Fuck that. I collect myself, keep an eye on your operation.’
That’s good enough. ‘Good enough,’ I say.
I withdraw the stiletto, and a rivulet of blood flows down Mike’s neck, pooling in the cup of his sternum. He sponges it with a shirtsleeve.
‘This is not good for me. Making deals. If word gets out that this asshole tried to blackmail Irish Mike Madden and got off with a beating . . .’
He doesn’t need to say any more. That kind of rumour could be disastrous. A wave of welshers and con artists would rise up in the morning.
‘Don’t worry about that,’ I say soothingly. ‘One word from Zeb and I will deliver him to you myself.’
One of Mike’s men is not taking this negotiation well. His face is drawn tight with outrage. I know the type, a bully with a gun. This guy is going to be whispering in Mike’s ear how I have to die. Soon as I’m out the door, his jaw starts flapping.
I look him in the eye and wince.
‘You got something wrong with your face, McEvoy? You in pain?’
‘Not me,’ I say, and shatter his kneecap with my heel. It’s a funny thing to see a leg bend the wrong way. Not funny haha. The guy goes down sideways, like a black-and-white movie drunk, snapping off shots as he goes. One hits his partner, the Scotland/Ireland guy, in the gluteus maximus. He drops to his knees, gasping.
‘Go, Dan,’ coughs Zeb. ‘Just kill them all. We’d be better off in the long run.’
I put Irish Mike between me and the shooter in the other room, who can’t do much except holler. But then another muscle man, the driver, comes barrelling in the back door. This throws me off altogether. Presumably this guy was out for the count, but now he’s obviously awake and pissed. How pissed?
Without saying a word, the guy shoots Zeb in the shoulder. Suppressor on the pistol too. Classy.
‘Scheherazade,’ blurts Zeb as he falls backwards in the chair. As far as I know, Scheherazade is a character from Arabian Nights, and I have no idea why Zeb would say this. Maybe I misheard.
While I’m thinking about this, Irish Mike spins and demonstrates why he’s the boss, unleashing a massive uppercut that takes me squarely under the chin. My feet actually leave the ground, then I’m on the floor, my head between Zeb’s knees and the stiletto six feet away.
Stars are blinking before my eyes and it’s all over. Two seconds, maybe three.
‘Neck punch,’ shouts Mike, eyes bright with triumph. ‘How’d you like that, laddie? You had it coming. Fuck you and fuck you again.’
What was I thinking? This was never going to end well; too many unknowns. My unbelievable winning streak had to peter out sometime. A pity it had to be with my head between Zeb’s legs.
My ears are wet with the sticky flow of Zeb’s blood and something clicked when I took the blow. My jaw? A couple of teeth? The pain is too big to pinpoint its origin.
Be nice to have a flashback now, hear some inspirational music, turn into a super soldier.
‘Your head is on my balls, man,’ complains Zeb, who isn’t dead yet. ‘That’s embarrassing. I don’t want to be found like this.’
Me neither. I don’t want to be found at all.
The clinic is whirling and I feel sick to the pit of my stomach. I smell blood, sweat, maybe urine . . .
‘Zeb. You piss yourself?’
‘Screw you. I’ve been in this chair for ever.’
How can we be bantering like this in the face of oblivion? Is this the most important thing after all? Communication?
We lie in a tangle of limbs, like discarded mannequins ready for the bonfire, and I feel certain that this is what Mike has in mind. One little inferno and all the evidence goes away.
I crane my neck, relieving the pressure on Zeb’s testicles, and looking into my friend’s eyes. I have to know, before I die.
‘What the hell is Scheherazade, man?’
‘That just came out. It’s a safe word,’ says Zeb shamefacedly. ‘Sometimes the S and M hookers ask for a safe word in case things get a bit out of hand. I wouldn’t even be telling you this if we weren’t about to die and I wasn’t riding the painkiller wave.’
Christ. A safe word. They don’t work outside of cathouses or Dungeons and Dragons.
My breathing seems loud and there are screams bouncing off the walls. The butt-shot guy and the busted-knee guy are yelling up a storm. I can’t even hope for a quick death now.
Mike is shouting something, but it’s like he’s in a Perspex booth. His voice seems muffled and far away.
‘. . . let you live. Why would I do that?’
Okay. I’m tuning in now. Why would he let me live? There is a reason. I almost have it when Mike stamps on my knee. No break, but painful as hell.
‘You like that, McEvoy? Huh? Isn’t this what they call poetic justice? I do to you like you did to my man. I am going to kill you slow, laddie. Not your friend, though. He gets patched up to keep an eye on my new hair.’
Zeb finds himself a set of brass ones. ‘Screw you, Madden. You kill Dan, you better kill me too.’
‘Let’s see if the horrific torture you’re about to witness can change your mind.’
‘Yeah,’ mutters Zeb. ‘Torture might do it.’
Mike embraces the shooter. ‘Calvin. That was outstanding work. One shot on the move, takes out the doctor and creates a diversion. You pricks see that?’
The pricks in question are writhing on the floor, but still they make time for a yes, Mister Madden.
‘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 t
he 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.