Dublin Noir - Ken Bruen [2]
“That, and do you like the car’s new bulletproof windows? I mean, they look the very fucking same. What’s to like about them?”
Little Mike cleared his throat. “To get back to PJ. Please God, he’ll stay clear of your mickey. Some of these enforcers are a bit quare, you know. They do stuff to you. I’ve heard stories about PJ. Worse than the Paschal candle.”
Christy sank into the sofa, wiping his mouth over and over. “Maybe if I explain …”
“What? Like, talk to PJ?”
“I’ll tell him. I was there to turn over the bag money. I was just waiting for Mister Warren, and I forgot where I was. Thought I was in a normal shop. Just robbed the can like I generally would. So here’s the euro, no harm done.”
Little Mike hadn’t the strength to laugh. “I hope you lie better than you tell the truth. Jesus, that was shite. He’ll ride the both of us with the leg of the table if you tell him that. I think we better just go.”
Christy had always been the brains of the duo. “Go where? We’re on the top bloody floor. The lift’s knackered. So unless there’s a helio-bloody-copter on the roof, the only way is down.”
Out in the hall, the banisters clanged and vibrated. PJ was battering a tattoo. Jungle drums. Every door in the block would be locked before the rattle faded.
“We’re shagged,” breathed Christy, the mascara running down his cheeks.
“That makeup looks fuckin’ stupid now,” said Little Mike. “You look like a bloody panda or something.”
Christy found a nugget of pride somewhere. “This is cool, right. Yer man from Manic Street Preachers wears this, and yer man from Busted.”
“Mebbe. But they don’t go streaking it by bawling all over their faces, do they?”
Christy’s panda eyes squinted. “Well, PJ is coming up the stairs with God knows what under his coat. Any rock star you care to mention would shit himself.”
“Not Lemmy,” said Little Mike defensively.
“Yes, fucking Lemmy. And Bon Scott.”
Little Mike crossed himself. “Ah, now. That’s a step too far. Don’t talk about Bon.”
Christy could actually hear footsteps on the stairs. Slow and deliberate. PJ was giving him time to jump out the window. Focus, he told himself. Think about what’s actually happening.
“Shut up, Little Mike. I need to think about what’s actu- ally happening, not Bon Scott.”
“That was always your trouble,” said Mike with a few sage nods. “Drifting off. Remember when Miss Doyle asked you Colombia’s main export and you said forty-eight? Sure, that was the day before.”
A soft idea began firming up in Christy’s head. “What if we took PJ on?”
“Coffee,” said Mike. “Any eejit knows that. But it wasn’t that you were stupid, you just never nev …” He stuttered to a halt. “Who? Take what on? Do what?”
Christy jumped to his feet, grabbing his friend by the shoulders, trying to keep the idea going. “Look, PJ’s coming in that door any second. He’s going to break a few bones, and probably do a few deviant things in the riding department. You’re not walking out either. You know what he’s like.”
A tear appeared in the corner of Mike’s eye. “You and yer fuckin’ Fanta.”
“I know. Don’t I know. So why don’t we have a go? There are two of us.”
Little Mike realized that his friend was actually serious. “Two of us? Father Hillary had God Almighty helping out, and look where it got him.”
“I know. But we’re a team. For years, since primary. Batman and Robin.”
“Robin got killed,” said Mike.
Christy was shocked. “He did not, did he? Jesus, I didn’t hear about that.”
“Yeah. It was a big shock. The Joker kilt him.”
“That fuckin’ Joker. I didn’t see that coming.”
Christy shook Batman out of his head, trying to focus.
“So we have a go. You distract him. And I hit him.”
Little Mike had two legitimate questions. “Distract him with what? And hit him with bloody what?”
Christy looked around. There wasn’t much left in the flat other than the bare essentials. A sofa, fridge, widescreen TV, and PlayStation 2.
He ripped the foam on the sofa arm and yanked out a bit of a plank.
“This for the hitting.”
“That?” said Little Mike doubtfully.