Dublin Noir - Ken Bruen [70]
Uh-huh.
As you Americans say: deadly.
Whoops.
Was it something I said?
Tá tú air ais.
Means, “I knew you couldn’t cut it abroad.”
It usually takes a few minutes to sink in.
Yeah, it’d be easy to think I’m crazy. Or that I’ve got a seriously sick sense of humor. But part of you is wondering, right? Wondering if there’s a tiny chance that I’m serious?
Jason, mo ghrá, I’m completely serious.
Hand on the Holy Book, I poisoned your drink.
Nasty stuff, too. I’m not going to bore you with the precise chemical compound—you probably didn’t like chemistry in secondary school in Philadelphia, did you?
Didn’t think so.
Well, let’s just cut the shit—in about twelve hours, you’re going to be bleeding out yer eyes. Your skin’s going to turn red and slough off your muscles. It’ll start with an itch. Then you’ll itch all over. It’ll drive you crazy. And you’ll scratch. And you won’t be able to stop.
Yeah. Weapons-grade.
I know it’s easy for you to think that.
Such a mouth on you.
Walk out of this bar and you’ll never see Philadelphia again.
They’re called gardaí here. Guards. And they can’t help you.
No one can.
Only me.
Hey, Jaybird … pub closes at midnight!
An hour and forty-five minutes. That’s a new record.
You started itching, didn’t you?
Oh, sit down. I’ll explain everything. Almost.
Want another drink?
Swear to Christ, I’ll leave it be.
Suit yourself.
Here it is, Jaybird. I’ve been poisoned, too. No, not with the same stuff. Something else. Something worse. If I’m alone, my heart will stop. And my brain will burst.
Oh, I wish it were a bloody poem. No, I mean it literally.
If I don’t have someone within six feet of me at all times, I will die.
What’s that?
Look around you. We’re in a crowded pub on Dame Court. Plenty of people. Until midnight. Until I have to leave and go for a walk down Dame Lane. If I’m not with someone like you, I’ll be one dead dame.
Gallows humor is my specialty. It’s on my CV. Right after biochemistry.
Nah, I never did tell you, did I? Well take a wild foukin’ guess.
Uh-huh. U.S. of A.
I work here. The Celtic Tiger’s been roaring. We’ve got all kinds of labs.
More on the research end, but yeah. You’ve got it.
Ah, I know you’re humoring me. But that’s okay. As long as you humor me for the next twelve hours.
No way, huh?
Okay, then. Piss off.
Really, I’ll poison some other handsome devil. Have a nice flight. Hope your bride doesn’t mind a closed casket.
Bí curamach.
Allan, I’d suck a dick for another pint, so how about it?
Back now, are you?
Your skin must be driving you mad by now.
Me? You want to know about me?
Ah, you’re just looking for the antidote. Nothing more. Maybe a blowjob before you die. Yeah, well ask me arse, ye bollix. I’m desperate. Just not that desperate.
Yeah, I know what I said to Allan. It’s an Oirish thing. Ironic exaggeration. You wouldn’t understand.
Okay, fine, the antidote. We’ll get to that. In a while. First you’ve got to hear my story. Don’t worry, I’ll give you the abridged version.
Look above you. Past the ceiling of this pub, deep into the clear Irish sky. Not as far as the stars. Just below. Can you see it? The spinning silver ball?
Humor me. Tell me you can see it.
Yeah, that spinning silver ball. The foukin’ satellite.
Use your imagination, Jason, for fuck’s sake. That’s why God gave it to you.
Okay. You see it. Now picture this: biochemical triggers in my blood. You can make them silver, too, if you want. Little silver balls, swimming round my red and white cells. AIDS? I’d welcome AIDS. There’s shit we can do ’bout AIDS. We can’t do anything ’bout this. These little silver balls. Can you see them?
Good. Now imagine the big silver ball in the sky.
Yeah, the satellite, Jaybird.
That’s the big silver ball that’s fixed on the tiny silver balls in my blood. It needs six feet circumference to do its job, otherwise the big silver ball could kill innocent people. Besides me, hah hah.
Star wars.
Yeah. My lab’s been busy the past twenty years.
So yeah, okay, if I were to get up from this bar stool and walk across