Plugged - Eoin Colfer [15]
Jason is leaning on the counter with that fond faraway look in his eyes that tells me tonight’s subject is childhood memories.
‘I remember getting pissed on by my old man,’ he says dreamily.
Brandi shoots me a look like maybe she should hide in the coats.
‘Yeah, Jason,’ she says, rolling her eyes at me. ‘That sounds swell.’
Jason catches the tone. He’s big, but not stupid. ‘No. Nothing like that. It was a game we had, you know, two of us at the bowl, pissing as hard as we could. A race. Dad always let me win, even if he was blue in the face holding on. Sometimes there’d be spray, you know.’
‘Those were the days,’ I say sincerely, passing my coat to Brandi. Any good memory is a valid good memory.
Jason tears the foil from a protein bar, bicep bulging in his sleeve. ‘You got anything, Dan? Any good memories of your pappy back home in Ireland?’
‘Yeah. There was this one day when he beat me with his hand because he couldn’t find the shovel. I’ll never forget it, still brings a lump to my throat.’ I try not to be bitter, but it’s hard.
People are usually embarrassed when I start in on my father, but Brandi has heard a million sob stories in her years on the podium. ‘Jesus, Dan, lighten the hell up. This place is gloomy enough with Connie scaring away all the big tippers.’
Some of the girls are not opposed to getting frisky in a booth if it means an extra few bucks. Most of the guys, too.
‘Come on, Brandi. Guy licked her arse.’
‘You can say ass, Dan. You’re in America now.’
I sigh. ‘Arse is the last piece of Irish I have.’
I decide then and there to give half of Macey Barrett’s wad to Connie. Her kids could probably do with a weekend away; maybe they’d take me along. We could toss a baseball.
I’m clutching at straws now. Never look out the window in a diner.
‘Where is Connie? She in yet?’ I’m already seeing myself making the gesture.
‘No sign,’ says Jason, checking his teeth in a tiny mirror on the back of his phone. ‘She better get here soon, Victor’s due.’
Vic’s favourite pastime is docking the staff. Any excuse he can find. A while back he put a timer on the staff washroom, which lasted about ten minutes before someone set fire to it and took out half the rear wall. Still, gives you an idea of the kind of person he is.
‘Yeah, that Vic, what a prince,’ says Brandi with a sneer.
Everybody’s on the same page on the Victor subject.
Then the man himself stumbles in. Victor Jones, the world’s oldest white rapper, fifty-five, resplendent in a Bulls sweatsuit and cap, wraparound shades and gold ropes up to his chin. More than a stereotype; a cartoon stereotype. Simon Moriarty could spend the rest of his life analysing this guy. I’m surprised Victor doesn’t get beaten up on a daily basis.
Matter of fact, he looks like he got beaten up tonight. There’s a drool pendulum swinging from his chin, and what looks like puke in little triangular pools between the laces of one ruby sneaker.
Ruby sneakers? I mean, come on, man. You’re mid-fifties from Hunterdon Country. Have some self respect.
Brandi is all over the boss, plumping his shoulder with a boob. ‘Hey, Vic, honey. What’s up? What happened to your shoe?’
Hypocrisy is a survival skill in Slotz. Five minutes ago she was spitting on Vic’s name.
Victor bends over, wipes his chin.
‘In the . . . fucking . . . out in the . . . I don’t fucking believe this . . .’
He pukes on the other sneaker.
‘Hurghhh . . . fuck it . . . fuck.’
I am not too upset. To be honest, seeing Victor doubled over is kind of amusing, takes my mind off my own gangster trouble.
‘Get it out, Mister Jones,’ I say, winking at Jason. ‘You’ll feel better.’ And then I add, ‘Bejaysus.’ To let Victor know I