Plugged - Eoin Colfer [1]
Jason and I are watching this Russian throw around kettlebells on YouTube when I get a call from Marco on my headset. I have to ask the little barman to repeat himself a couple of times before I get the message and hustle back to the casino floor. Apparently my favourite girl, Connie, leaned in to slide cocktails on to a table, and this guy goes and licks her ass. Moron. I mean, it’s on the wall on a brass plaque. Not ass-licking specifically. Do Not Touch The Hostesses, it says. Universal club rule. Some of the hostesses will do a little touching in the booth, but the customer never gets to touch back.
When I arrive, Marco is trying to hold this guy away from Connie, which is probably more for the guy’s safety than he realises. I once saw Connie deck a college footballer with her serving tray. Guy’s face was in the metal, like a cartoon.
‘Okay, folks,’ I say, doing my booming doorman voice. ‘Let’s get this handled professionally.’
This announcement is met with a couple of boos from the regulars, who were praying for a little drama. I grip Marco’s head like a basketball and steer him behind the bar, then loom over the offender.
The licker has his hands on his hips like he’s Peter Pan, and Connie’s fingers have left red stripes on his cheek.
‘Why don’t we take this into the back room,’ I say, giving him five seconds of eye contact. ‘Before things get out of hand.’
‘This bitch hit me,’ he says, pointing in case there’s some doubt about which bitch he’s talking about.
His finger is coated with the remains of a basket of buffalo wings, and sauce on fingers is something that has always irritated me more than it reasonably should.
‘We got a time-out room just back here,’ I say, not looking at the brown gunk under his nails. What is wrong with people? You eat, you keep your mouth closed, you wipe your fingers. How hard is that? ‘Why don’t we discuss your issues back there?’
Connie is quiet, trying to hold her anger in, chewing on some nicotine gum like it’s one of the guy’s balls. Connie has a temper, but she won’t slap without good reason. She’s got two kids in a crèche over on Cypress, so she needs the paycheque.
‘Okay, Dan,’ she says. ‘But can we move it along? I got people dying to tip me. This is an open-and-shut case.’
The pointer laughs, like it’s funny she should use that terminology.
I shepherd them into the time-out room, which is barely more than a broom closet; in fact there are a couple of mops growing like dreadlocked palms out of a cardboard box island in the corner.
‘You okay?’ I ask Connie, glad to see she’s not smoking. Six months and counting.
She nods, sitting on a ratty sofa. ‘Dude licked my ass. Licked it. You got any wipes, Daniel?’
I hand her a slim pack. You always carry a pack of antiseptic wipes working a bottom-rung New Jersey casino like Slotz. There’s all sorts of stuff you can catch just hanging around.
I look away while Connie is wiping the barbecue sauce off her behind. You can’t help noticing cleavage in this place, but I figure you can avoid the lower regions. I try to keep my eyes above the waist; leaves everybody with something. So while she’s cleaning up, I turn to the guy. The licker.
‘What were you thinking, sir? There’s no touching. Can’t you read?’
The guy is going to rub me the wrong way. I can tell just by his hair, a red frizz sitting on his head like a nest fell off a roof.
‘I saw the plaque, Daniel,’ he says, pointing towards the casino floor. This guy is a pointing machine. ‘It says do not touch.’
‘And what did you do? You touched.’
‘No,’ says the guy, switching his pointing finger over to me, so close I can smell the sauce, which is putting me off barbecue for a month at least. Except ribs. ‘I didn’t touch. You touch with your hands. I tasted.’
He stops talking then, like I need a second for this brilliant argument to sink in.
‘You