Plugged - Eoin Colfer [3]
‘Gimme three,’ I say. ‘Gimme three hundred for the hostess and I won’t have to act in self-defence.’
The attorney physically flinches. ‘Three hundred! For a lick. Kee-rist almighty.’
He’ll go for it. I know he will. The alternative is explaining to his high-roller clients how he got his face rearranged in a dump like Slotz, where we got mould on the carpet corners and toilets with chains.
The guy is fumbling with his wallet, like the bills are putting up a struggle, so I grab it, making sure to squash his soft attorney’s fingers a little.
‘Here, let me count that, sir. You’re shaking.’
He’s not shaking, but I want to plant the idea that he should be. This is not a tip I picked up in doorman school. The army shrink gave me a few conflict tips before my second tour.
It’s true I snag the wallet to hurry this whole thing along, but I also want to help myself to one of this guy’s business cards. It’s good to have details about troublesome customers. Let them know there’s no place to hide. Once I have his card, I can find his wife, and I’d like to see him try the taste defence at home. His monkey head would be on a plate and no jury would convict.
I count out six fifties and toss him his wallet.
‘Okay, Mister Jaryd Faber,’ I say, consulting the card. ‘You are hereby barred from Slotz.’
Faber mutters something about not giving a shit, and I can’t really blame him.
‘We thank you for your business and urge you to seek counselling for your various issues.’ Standard get out and don’t come back spiel.
‘You’re making a big mistake, Daniel,’ says Faber, something I hear so often they should carve it on my tombstone. ‘I got serious friends in this town.’
‘We all got serious friends,’ I say, and surprise myself by coming up with a mildly witty rejoinder. ‘I got an army buddy hasn’t smiled since Desert Storm.’
Nobody so much as acknowledges the effort and Faber mutters something else, possibly a fuck you. Still a little fire left in this attorney. I decide to extinguish it.
‘Take your ass home,’ I growl. ‘Before I hit you so hard you’ll be pressing charges from the afterlife.’
That’s not a bad line either, but it’s a little Hollywood. I’ve used it a dozen times and it’s all Connie can do not to groan when I trot it out again.
I crack my knuckles to make my point and Faber wisely decides to leave. He’s a bad loser, though, and tosses another two hundred at Connie from the doorway.
‘Here,’ he sneers. ‘Buy yourself a boob job.’
I fake a lunge and the attorney is gone, door swinging behind him. I feel like hurting this guy, I really do, but I know from experience that it won’t make me feel much better. So I swallow the instinct like it’s a ball of medicine and put on my funeral face for Connie.
‘You okay?’
Connie is on her knees, fishing for one of the fifties that has floated under the couch on the breeze of a flapping door.
‘Screw him, Dan. This is two nights with a sitter.’
I lever the couch with my boot so she can snag the note and avoid all the other crud under there.
‘Is that Al Capone’s missing rubber?’ I say, trying for some humour.
Connie sobs. Maybe it’s the bad joke; more likely it’s the last straw that this jerk Faber probably was, so I put my arm around her, raising her up. Connie is the kind of girl a man feels like protecting. She’s beautiful like she belongs in a fifties movie; Rita Hayworth hair that ripples when she walks like lava flowing down a mountain, and wide green eyes that still have some warmth in them in spite of a shitty job and shittier ex.
‘Come on, darlin’, he’s gone for good. You’ll never see him again.’
‘No one says darlin’ any more, Dan. Only in the movies.’
I squeeze her shoulder. ‘I’m Irish, darlin’, we’re different.’
Connie adjusts the polka-dot bikini that passes for a uniform in this place.
‘Yeah? Good different, I hope. That creep was bad different. What would you call a worm like that in Ireland?’
I think about this. ‘In Ireland he would be referred to as