Plugged - Eoin Colfer [2]
‘I think I’m the first attorney to try it on.’ His face lights up with smugness. I hate that look, maybe because I get it a lot.
‘You’re an attorney?’
More pointing. I’m tempted to snap this arsehole’s finger right off. ‘You’re goddamn right I’m an attorney. You try anything with me and I’ll shut this shithole down. You’ll be working for me.’
‘I’ll be working for you, sir?’
Sometimes I repeat stuff. People think it’s because I’m stupid, but really it’s because I can’t believe what I’m hearing.
The guy goes for option A.
‘What are you? A parrot? A fucking retarded Oirish parrot? Kee-rist almighty.’
This is probably the way it goes in the office for this guy. He doles out garbage and people take it. I’m guessing he’s the boss, or close to it. Only the boss or the mail guy can not give a shit how they look to this extent and get away with it. Suit and spectacles that could have been stolen from Michael Caine circa 1972, and of course the Styrofoam ring of ginger hair.
‘No, sir. I’m not a parrot,’ I say, nice and calm, like I learned in doorman school. ‘I’m the head of security and you touched the hostess, whatever way you want to dress it up.’
The guy laughs, like he’s got an audience. ‘Dressing things up is what I do, Mister Daniel Head of Security. That’s my motherfucking business.’
He says motherfucking all wrong, like he learned it from the TV. It doesn’t sound right coming out of his attorney’s face.
‘It’s your motherfucking business?’ I say, saying the word like it should be said. I learned it from a Romanian mercenary working for the Christian militia in Tibnin. Anghel and his boys would tool past our camp most days in their beat-up VW, stopping to strike deals for long-life milk or pasta we’d traded from the French garçons. I liked Anghel okay; he never shot at me specifically, his whole head was a beard and I appreciated the way he said motherfucking.
Only one carton, Paddy? I give you perfect good mozzerfokken hairdryer.
Made it sound real; the double z. So sometimes if I want to make an impression I say it the Romanian way. Often it’s enough to confuse a guy, put him off his stride.
But not this guy. The ginger monkey is seriously unimpressed by my double z and proceeds to make his second mistake of the evening that I know about. He steps up to me, cock of the walk, like I don’t have eight inches and fifty pounds on him.
‘What is this parrot shit?’ he says, and believe it or believe it not, he taps me on the forehead. ‘You got a goddamn plate in your head? Kee-rist almighty.’
I am surprised by this tap on the head but also happy, because the guy has touched me now.
‘You shouldn’t have touched me, sir,’ I say sadly. ‘That’s assault. Now I got to defend myself.’
This takes the wind out of his sails. Being an attorney this jackass knows the letter of the law regarding assault. He is aware that now I got the right to put a little hurt on him and claim I felt threatened. I practise my threatened face so he can visualise how it will look in court.
His pointing finger curls up like a dried turd, and he takes a couple of steps back.
‘Now listen. You lay one hand on me . . .’
He can’t finish the threat, because I got a free shot and he knows it. At this point I would dearly love to take that shot and put this attorney out of everyone’s misery. But Connie’s got her kids in the crèche and the last thing she needs is a court appearance hanging over her head. Plus the courtroom is this guy’s arena. Before the judge he’s a gladiator. I can just see him, jumping around like a little ginger monkey, pointing like there’s no tomorrow. And in all honesty, my threatened face ain’t all that hot.
So I say, ‘How much money you got in your wallet?’
The guy tries a little bluster, but I’m giving him an out and he knows it. ‘I don’t know. Couple hundred maybe.’
Bullshit he doesn’t know. Attorneys and accountants always know. Generally they stash little wads of notes all over, in case they get stuck with a pushy dancer