Dublin Noir - Ken Bruen [3]
“There’s a nail in it.”
“A nail. Are you de-looo-sional, Christy? Two letters for ye.” Little Mike cupped his hands around his mouth. “Pee Jay. We’re fucked. We take the breaks and hope there’s no freaky stuff.”
Christy wouldn’t hear it. “No. He comes in this door here, right?”
“The door, you mean. The one door.”
“So he comes in, and you distract him. Then I fucking whack him straight between the eyes, with the nail. And we’re off on the ferry to England. Or down into the deep country. Waterford or something. I heard they got jungles down there, brother. Local natives that will get up on ye for fifty cent. Like fuckin’ Mexico.”
Little Mike was sucked in by his friend’s enthusiasm. “And just how am I supposed to distract him?”
“You know how,” said Christy meaningfully, nodding in a respectful and non-homosexual way at Little Mike’s bollock area.
“Fuck off,” said Mike, cupping said area.
“The big lad has to come out,” said Christy. “It’s the only extraordinary thing in the flat. It’s all we have.”
“It’s all I have. Fuck off and get yer own.”
Little Mike’s dick was legendary in the flats, in the entire north side. This was mainly due to the fact that Mike himself had spray-painted every hoarding in Dublin with the legend, Little Mike has thirteen inches. Followed by his mobile number. Morning, noon, and night he was on that phone.
“PJ is bad enough without taunting him. If I have the lad out, it’s just rubbing his nose in it. He’ll have to cut the big fella off.”
Christy had it all figured out. “No. He comes in, expecting two fellas to either have a go, or be shitting themselves in the corner. What he doesn’t expect is Mister Thirteen Inches eyeballing him. So for one second, he’s off his stride, then I whack him in the face.”
Little Mike was a sucker for flattery. “You really think the big fella would put a professional like PJ off?”
Christy snorted. “I fucking know it. Jesus Christ, that thing has a shadow longer than the Spire.”
Little Mike was amazed to find himself considering the idea. “Do we have anything? Beer, blow, fucking anything?”
“I think there’s a drop of Fanta in the end of that can.”
“Ah now, if you’re going to start taking the piss, you can show PJ your own langer.”
“Sorry, sorry. We’ve nothing. There’s no time anyway. He’s nearly here.”
It was true. The footsteps were louder now. No echo. PJ would be kicking in the door any second. He was their future and there was no escaping it.
“Over here,” ordered Christy, pulling his friend’s shoulders. “Right in front of the door.”
“And what? Just pull it out through the zip? Or drop the pants altogether.”
“I’d say through the zip, in case you have to run.” That was Christy, always thinking.
The footsteps were not going up anymore, they were going along.
“Nearly there,” said Little Mike. “There’s nothing in the bottom of your pocket. A doobie? A pill?”
“Nothing. Believe me.”
“Shit. Sorry. Just asking.”
Little Mike unzipped, rummaged, and flopped.
Christy had seen it before, but still spared a moment to look.
“Thirteen?”
“Yes, thirteen. Fuck off, begrudger.”
“You know, those school rulers have two sides. Centimeters and inches.”
Little Mike brandished his weapon. “You couldn’t even see the ruler, mate.”
PJ was coming. Each footfall firm and confident. He wanted to be heard. Fed on the fear. His legend grew larger with every step.
“Shit, I dunno, brother,” said Christy, and it was his plan.
Little Mike’s phone rang. He managed to answer without fumbling.
“Yes. This is he … It’s true what it says, amn’t I looking at it …”
“Mike!” hissed Christy, tapping his watch.
“Ah, yeah. Listen, let me get back to you. We’ll have text.” This was Little Mike’s standard hang-up line. He claimed to have thought of it himself.
Mike opened his knees wide, so that his langer would be framed by the gap between his legs. For first impressions a boner would have been good, but not likely.
“Okay, ready?”
Christy raised the piece of wood, making sure the nail was pointing away from him.
“Ready. This fucker’s dead.”
A split second later, PJ kicked in