Dublin Noir - Ken Bruen [5]
“Warren will blame us anyway. We’re über-fucked now.”
Über-fucked was one of Christy’s sayings, which he claimed to have made up himself but had actually heard it in a blue movie.
Little Mike experimented with walking, cowboy style.
“Okay, so let’s get the hell out of here, before the next wave.”
Christy straightened his tracksuit, which was his equivalent of packing.
“Okay. We might have a few hours before Warren susses anything. Maybe we could get out on the ring road and hitch a lift to Waterford.”
Mike grinned through his pain. “Chill with the señoritas.”
“Sí, muchacho.”
Christy was smiling a bit wide, so Mike said, “I’m grinning through my pain here, so don’t get too fucking happy.”
“Sorry, brother.”
PJ’s phone rang. It was a customized tone to the tune of Chas ’n’ Dave’s “Rabbit.”
“Warren!” said Christy and Little Mike simultaneously.
Christy followed the ring to PJ’s jacket pocket and pulled out the phone.
“The new Nokia,” said Mike admiringly. “Nice one.”
“I gotta answer it,” said Christy. “If I don’t, Warren will shoot some other wanker over here.” He danced around with the phone, as though it were on fire. “I’ll pretend I’m PJ. I have a deep voice like him.”
“My arse.”
“You do it.”
“I wouldn’t know what to say. I’m no good under pressure.”
Christy slapped his own forehead to get the ideas flowing. “Okay. Start screaming!”
“What?”
“Look!” shouted Christy. “PJ’s alive!”
Little Mike screamed. Christy answered the phone.
“Y’ello.”
Warren sounded pissed off. “What the fuck’s going on up there, PJ? Haven’t you finished with those two muppets yet?”
Mike screamed again, getting the idea. Camouflage.
“Two minutes, Mister Warren!” shouted Christy.
“Yer not, like, doing anything, are ye? You know, ’cause if you are, make sure to video it, son.”
“Will do, Mister Warren.”
“Jesus, that fucker can scream. Is that the one with the makeup?”
Christy was wounded. “Shut up, you ugly motherfucking wankstain! Not you, obviously, Mister Warren.”
“Obviously.”
“No, it’s the other one. The one with the big cock.”
“Yeah, whatever, just hurry it up. I’m a bit jumpy down here with the night safe bag. You know what the urchins around here are like. No fucking respect.”
“On my way, Mister Warren.”
Warren hung up, so he could hold onto his money with two hands. Christy dropped PJ’s phone back into the dead enforcer’s pocket.
“Cheers, brother,” he said automatically.
Little Mike took deep whooping breaths. “Jesus. Screaming’s not easy.”
Christy peered out the flat window. “Warren is below in the car, on his own. With the day’s money. Imagine the time we could have in Waterford with that.”
Little Mike knew the look on his friend’s face. “You’re not planning something, are you? Because you know how your plans turn out.”
“PJ’s dead, isn’t he?”
“I hope that’s not the case for the defense, because he killed himself. Nothing to do with you. Dumb fucking luck.”
“Myaark,” said PJ, falling forward from the sofa. His arm came free with a sound like an oyster being sucked out of a shell.
Christy and Little Mike screamed like school girls and ran straight out the door.
“Arm, fuckaaark!” moaned PJ behind them. A bit less dead than previously believed.
In the corridor Christy was blessed with an idea. Rather than go through the usual discussion rigmarole with Little Mike, he decided to act on his own initiative. After all, Batman occasionally decided to go on missions without Robin. Or he used to, until that bastard Joker came along. Now he had no choice in the matter. Christy pulled out his phone, composing a text on the run. He sent it to every runner in the building who had made drops for him over the past months.
Bllx n BMW sez Man UTD r shite, read the message.
In seconds doors were whipped open and enraged Manchester United fans spilled onto the balconies. They howled like hyenas, pouring down the stairwells. Twenty fearless, immortal little fuckers headed straight for Warren’s car door.
Christy waved