But do you wanna be Mike?
That’s the clincher. I was never going to shoot Mike even if I thought I might.
“Balls,” I whisper.
You said it, brother, says Sharpie.
I say balls because there is no plan B.
I hear the muted tinkles of ladies’ laughter and champagne flutes and swing the scope across to the second room.
There is a party going on.
Ladies are getting injected in the face.
Prius.
Zeb, you prick. What the hell were you thinking?
When Zeb volunteered to take Sofia with him on his rounds, he neglected to mention that one of the stops on the route was Irish Mike Madden’s house. Mrs. Madden must have a dozen of her lady friends in there, all sipping champagne and dancing around until it is their turn to sit in a reclined La-Z-Boy and have Zeb or his beautiful assistant inject a shot of Botox into their foreheads. Both Zeb and Sofia are swilling down booze too, which I am pretty sure is not best practice, medically speaking.
One of the ladies slides into the chair, and Sofia straddles her, closes one eye and, urged on by the whoops of the other ladies, sticks the syringe into a wrinkle on the lady’s forehead.
This is insane. Lunacy. How are we supposed to survive when Zeb continues to fuck up faster than I can fix things?
My phone vibrates and I check to find a text from the man himself.
You will never guess where I am.
I text him back.
I know where you are. I’m looking at you. Get the hell out.
I watch him read the text and grin. He looks into the blackness of the garden and flips me the bird.
A minute later I get: Chill. Mike will never think to look for Sofia here. As far as he knows she is my nurse.
This is all about Zeb showing me what a tactical genius he is. In Zeb’s mind it is more fun to parade Sofia into Mike’s house for him to have the opportunity to not recognize than it is for him to put her somewhere Mike will never look in the first place.
I am so angry with him for putting Sofia at risk that I misspell arsehole, luckily my phone recognizes the word by now and helps me out:
Arsehole. Arsehole. Arsehole. Stuff is about to happen. Why do you think I am in the garden? Leave now!
I watch his face drop as he reads the text.
Yeah, that’s right, shit-for-brains. As far as you know this is serious.
I am gonna catch it later when Mike turns out to be un-shot.
Flashes of movement from the office window catch my eye and I swivel the scope back to Mike’s office. Mr. Nose Beard, Manny Booker, is ushering a coupla guys into the office.
I find it hard to believe what I’m seeing.
Krieger and Fortz.
What is their connection to Mike?
It doesn’t matter. I got all my rotten eggs in one basket here. I gotta improvise, replan on the hoof.
Various scenarios run through my head, but I know there is no way to take three guys with a rifle from out here even if I was cold-blooded enough to go through with my original plan, which apparently I am not. Shot one takes out the window and if you’re lucky the prime target, maybe you get one more off in that second of frozen panic, but that’s all she wrote. The other guys have dived for cover before you can refocus.
What I gotta do is leave Mike for the moment and follow Krieger and Fortz when they leave. Find out where they’re crashing, phone it in to Ronnie and then call Zeb to make sure he has stashed Sofia somewhere safe.
I break down the rifle and bag it, then train the scope on Fortz to try and figure out what’s going on here.
Fortz talks for a while and Mike does his best Don Corleone wise-nodding bit. At the end of the spiel, Fortz hands over a fat envelope with bills poking out the top, which Mike smoothly sweeps into his drawer, and I know what this meeting’s about.
Fortz needs me found as a matter of urgency and Mike has the resources to do the finding, plus he wants me found himself. My life is being traded for dollars and not for the first time this week. I don’t know why I even bother getting surprised anymore.
Still, it is a fat envelope of cash, which is gratifying in a weird kind of way, If I have to be hunted down like a rabid dog at least I’m a priority to someone.
I gotta stop playing Tarzan and get myself back to the car before Krieger and Fortz take off. Shouldn’t be too difficult; I bet those two ain’t so sprightly since that little whupping I laid on them. Just thinking about those golden moments is enough to make me smile.
Still, now is not the time for nostalgia. I have grievous bodily harm to plan.
I swing outta the tree and land on something that yields under my weight and whimpers. I hear a couple of rib-splintering snaps, and my boots come away sticky.
Balls.
I knew Mike had a dog.
I stoop low and hug the line of shrubbery leading toward the party window. The only reason someone would cut a dog open is so they can go about their business in peace.
There’s another shooter in the garden.
I gotta warn Sofia.
I gotta come out in the open for maybe six feet between the foliage and the side of the house. Six feet takes maybe half a second but nevertheless the shooter slots a bullet into that slot. The bullet takes me between the shoulder blades, swatting me with its sheer velocity. I overshoot the party window thunk onto the office glass, not six feet from the three men who want me dead, and the impact sets off a light sensor and I get lit up like Times Square on New Year’s eve.
I slide comically down the window leaving contact streaks that are going to take the maid a ladder, three rags and several hours to polish out.
Hello, Fuckapalooza.
Mike lifts his head expecting to see a big dumb dog who’s walked into the window again, but instead sees yours truly, the man who has become his nemesis.
Or as Zeb put it: You are the fucking monkey that stuck his wrench into Mike’s machine.
Which as far as I can make out is an amalgam of three sayings: the one about the monkey, the wrench in the works thing and the ghost in the machine one.
Why am I thinking about this now? Prioritize, idiot.
There’s no point. I’ve been shot high in the back. There’s no walking away from this one.
And you want this to be your final mental exercise? Dissecting Zeb’s turn of phrases?
What was the monkey one?
Mike stares quizzically at me, not sure what to make of this apparition, but I could give a shit about his puzzlement ’cause I’m dying.
Or am I?
Okay, I’m flattened onto this window like a Garfield toy. But I’ve felt worse and survived.
But how can I survive a bullet between the shoulder blades? My heart has no right to be still beating.
The backpack. It’s got a Kevlar hide.
I got shot in the backpack.
Thank you, baby Jesus.
And to think I nearly didn’t take the backpack from the Algerian guy ’cause he wanted twenty bucks for it. Eventually he threw the bag in gratis with the flash bangs. I should call that guy and give him one of those true customer stories for his Web site.
Mike is out of his seat and coming toward me, his brow knitted as he tries to figure it out. In his place, I would be very concerned for the health of the poor Irishman stuck to my window and help him inside for a cup of tea, but Mike predictably doesn’t go down the humanitarian route, instead he pulls a nickel-plated revolver from his armpit and points it at my head.
I don’t know who Mike thinks he is but I wish he would pick one stereotype and stick to it. I was just getting used to his Plastic Paddy act and now he thinks he’s Jesse James.
Nickel plated?
Apparently Mike has decided to shoot first and ask questions through a psychic because he cocks the weapon and places the barrel level with my eye, dinking the glass.
This is ridiculous. He’s gonna shoot through his own window now, rather than slide the door across?
r />
I see Fortz grinning behind him. I think he’s grinning, it might just be the gum shield where his teeth used to be. When he realizes that he just paid Mike several grand to find a man who was in Mike’s back garden all the time, it might alleviate his happiness somewhat. Every cloud as they say.
I wish Sofia wasn’t here. I don’t want her to see me like this. With any luck my face won’t be recognizable and she won’t think to check my pecker.
Mike never gets the chance to fire because someone else does it before him.
The second shooter.
I feel a vibration jump from the window to my cheekbone, then glass is showering over me. Through the rainbow hail I see Fortz’s head disappear. I don’t hear the shot, or the second one that makes Krieger’s heart explode.
This guy is good. Three shots; three tens.
The window collapses inward and I keel over into the house with it. Mike has already turned tail, and seconds later I hear his Benz growl as he makes his getaway. I realize that I will never know if Sofia and Zeb made it out because of that bloody Prius.
I strain my ears listening for the polite hum of an electric motor and I think I actually hear it, until I notice a beer fridge in the corner of the office.
Balls.
So I lie here, in the Deliverance position, waiting for the shooter to finish me off. Krieger is in my eye line and I see that he still has a black eye from the punch that porn star dealt him. Of course the gore-ringed cavity in his chest is a little more serious. I tell myself to look away, but it is too late, the image is already seared into the gallery of horrors in my mind.
Maybe this will be my hell; a slideshow of all the dreadful things I have seen or caused.
Still alive.
It’s true. The guy hasn’t killed me yet. He could if he wanted to, no doubt about that. The sniper managed to squeeze off three kill shots before anyone reacted. That’s competition-level shooting right there.
So, why am I alive? The only thing I can think of is that the guy don’t need me dead.
He was after Krieger and Fortz and probably thought I was about to warn them. Maybe he will leave me alone here and Mike can shoot me when he comes back.
Oh, wait.
The dog has abruptly ceased to whine. The main man is coming.
I wish I could put up a fight. At least go out like a professional, but all I can do is lie here. I could probably make a supreme effort and thrash about a bit, but I don’t want to die thrashing. There’s something silly about that and who wants to go out silly? I realize that I never left instructions for anyone to look after Sofia. Maybe Zeb will take care of her and keep his pants zipped.
Sure. Zeb is king of the humanitarians. It’s all about the fellow man with Zebulon.
I feel a strong hand press down on my backpack. Then the hand moves to my shoulder and the guy flips me onto my back like he’s turning over his last card in a poker game. I see his gloved hand dripping with blood and I realize that he’s just doing cleanup now. Finishing me is no more significant to him than putting the dog out of its misery.
The guy is all kitted out like a ninja except for his boots, which are army issue almost identical to mine. There’s a rifle over his shoulder with a super-long suppressor on the barrel, which explains why I didn’t hear any shots. I don’t recognize the rifle but it looks expensive, top of the range. Sometimes you can tell on sight how valuable something is. Not wine though. You would have to be one hell of a sommelier to put a price on a bottle based on the color alone.
Ninja sniper shrugs his shoulder in a move that seesaws the rifle under his arm so the trigger guard lands in his fist and the silencer points directly at my face.
Nice move. Practiced.
I could beg now, I got the breath. But this guy is a pro. I might as well argue with Arnold the Terminator from the first movie where he was relentless, but not the second one, where Arnie turned good robot.
Then something happens. Seems like the guy recognizes me. His head jerks back maybe an inch and I see his eyes widen a fraction.
“You,” he says.
And it is me. No denying it. I hope against hope that for once in my life, being me turns out to be a good thing.
“Yeah,” I cough, and it is no mean feat to cough and speak at the same time. I wasn’t intending to cough, it just came out.
“Motherfucker,” says Ninja, and shakes his head. He makes a sound like three quick shots through a silencer, maybe he’s laughing.
Ninja places the silencer’s tip between my eyes, then wags a gloved finger at me, spattering my face with blood and the meaning is clear.
Do not come after me.
He needn’t worry. I ain’t ever coming after this guy. Shoot me once, shame on you; shoot me twice, shame on me, and I got enough shame in my life already, believe me.
As he wags his finger a fourth unnecessary time, Ninja’s sleeve rides up a little and I see an inch of skin between the glove and cuff. Sallow skin with two colored string bracelets looped around the wrist.
I force myself to not think about this now. Do not show any recognition, because that could change Ninja’s mind about sparing me. I close my eyes tight and act like I’m totally and utterly ruined. It ain’t really an act.
I count to thirty trying to concentrate on the numbers. Nothing else. No conclusions drawn. Then I open my eyes, see the Ninja has gone and I think:
Pablo.
Feck me, it was Pablo. Edit’s personal trainer obviously has a couple of non–gymnasium-based talents.
Krieger and Fortz were loose ends so they had to be clipped.
Why was I spared?
Stupid question. I was spared because Ronnie warned Edit that if anything happened to me, she would come looking.
Pablo got lucky that he shot my backpack.
It’s genius really. Edit sends Krieger and Fortz to the local gangster’s house to ask for help locating me. Then Pablo takes them out. Mike don’t wanna be caught with two bent cops in his manor so he’ll probably dispose of the bodies.
Sweet and neat. Except I threw my monkey dick in the machine.
Luckily my monkey dick was wearing a Kevlar backpack.
It takes me about five minutes to get to my feet and check the party room. Plenty of abandoned champagne glasses littering the floor but no people. Zeb did what he was told for once and got Sofia the hell out of there. After another five minutes pass I feel ready to tackle climbing the wall. But before quitting this rural abattoir I make myself pee in the water bottle from the hotel. I don’t really need to go at the moment, but I carried the bottle all the way out here so damned if I ain’t gonna use it.
CHAPTER 11
I WAKE UP IN MY HOTEL ROOM TO A TWEET FROM SIMON.
If you aren’t sure how to interpret my words of wisdom. Please ask. The last thing I need is patients doing stuff in my name.
I think Simon is granting himself absolution from whatever his flock of patients might get up to.
Messiah complex anyone? Paging Dr. Jesus.
That phrase is a little redundant. I mean, who believes in Jesus anymore? And if you want to see teenagers crap themselves laughing, try explaining what a pager used to be. You tell ’em about cassette tapes and they think you’re one lying, old Depends-wearing motherfucker.
The following is a transcript of a conversation I had with Jason’s nephew:
Me: The songs were pressed onto a long tape. Six songs per side, then you turned it over.
Nephew: Turned what over?
Me: The tape in the machine, but you had to be careful or the machine would eat the tape and you’d have to straighten it out with a pencil.
Nephew: Fuck off, Gandalf. You’re making this shit up.
Five minutes later I get another message, this time from Mike.
Get over to the club now, laddie. We need to wrap this up. Be here by noon, or else?
Balls.
I was hoping Mike might be traumatized by last night. Also there was no need fo
r a question mark at the end of Mike’s text. It’s not as if we don’t know what happens if I don’t do as I’m told.
I’m gonna have to whip out Tommy’s video. How much of it he watches is up to Mike.
So I’m on my merry way to get shot in the head. If I had to compile a list of possible traumatic moments in the life of an Irish male, the classic head shot would be right up there with driving test and turning Pops on his side so the puke doesn’t choke him, especially when the temptation is there to let the vomit do its work. It’s nature, right? Who’s gonna blame a ten-year-old kid?
Maybe I told you before that I’m not big on the whole flashback thing? I probably told you right before launching into a flashback thing.
But I don’t have flashbacks per sé, what I do have is a good memory for the bad times. I think of my mom and I see her weeping in a corner, dishcloth clutched to her breast masking the ripped blouse. I think on little Patrick and I see his moon face and those wonky teeth that would surely have needed braces, inkblot bruises covering his cheek, and him thinking he’s a bad kid, that everything’s his fault.
I got a head-shot memory too. From guess where? The Lebanon, big surprise, right.
Zeb says to me: What’s all this THE Lebanon shit? It’s Lebanon, okay? You don’t say THE Ireland or THE Israel.
So I come back with: You say THE United States.
It went on like that for a coupla hours until Zeb got one of his periodic boners and had to excuse himself for twenty minutes. That guy is like Old Faithful, when is he gonna slacken off? He’s in his forties now for feck sake.
Anyway, my head-shot memory. The UN trucked us over to Damour to throw stern looks at the locals, who were hell-bent on revenge on PFLP and DFLP militiamen who had just defiled a cemetery, dragging coffins out of their neat rows, executed a stack of Christians and painted a mural of Fatah guerrillas holding AK-47 rifles on the church wall.
A quick aside: revolutionary groups all got their go-to mural guys. A good inspiring mural can swing 10 percent of the don’t-knows, not to mention make the revolutionaries feel validated. These guys are not just slopping paint onto walls, it’s at least as legitimate an art form as graffiti. Banksy was never darkly satirical with automatic fire knocking chunks out of his canvas. It’s the worst-kept secret in Irish republican circles that the artist who did a lot of the good stuff on the Falls Road was actually an Ulster Unionist who strapped on his orange sash on march day. I guess you get a pass if you provide a valuable service.