Plugged - Eoin Colfer [48]
‘Okay, sir,’ says Faber, like I’m in the front row of his show. ‘I would like you to know that I regret the whole Slotz thing. Something about that sleazy shithole dump appeals to me and I never wanted to blot my card there. There’s a lot to be said for getting a cheap blow job at the end of the day without bumping into the mayor. I’m not apologising again, it would be a bit rich in the circumstances, but I do regret the incident. That’s all I’m saying.’
Apologising again? I don’t remember the first time.
‘So, I’m gonna have you three killed. I feel okay about that now, but I suppose I’ll probably lose some sleep over the years.’
A single silenced gunshot pops, like a smoker coughing into his fist. Goran spasms, then lies still.
Faber squeaks with fright, then recovers himself. ‘What the hell?’ he shouts, actually stamping a foot. ‘Never when I’m in the room! How many goddamn times? If I don’t see it, then it didn’t happen.’
It happened. It definitely happened. Maybe Goran was dying, but now she’s dead.
‘Sorry, Mister Faber,’ mumbles the shooter. ‘Won’t do it again.’
Faber’s pointing finger is a fan. ‘I know you won’t. I know you fucking won’t, Wilbur.’
Wilbur? I can’t hold in a chuckle. After all this time, done in by a Wilbur.
Wilbur shoots me a venomous look. ‘Can I kill him first, Mister Faber?’
‘Of course you can. Just wait until . . .’
‘Until you’re outside the door.’
‘Very good. When you hear it click, then fire away. Get rid of the bodies at the smelter.’
Smelter? A word like that makes everything real all of a sudden. So practical.
‘Hey, Faber.’
The attorney waves me away. ‘Too late, Daniel. I have to be in court in an hour. As the judge might say, your appeal is denied.’
Tell him you can get his drugs, suggests Ghost Zeb.
Faber has his hand on the doorknob.
‘I can get your drugs,’ I say. I suppose you could say I blurt the words. A bit more squeak in the promise than I’d like.
The attorney steps slowly away from the door as if a sudden movement could make the knob go click.
‘Say that again, Daniel.’
A fly zapper on the wall sparks as some poor insect gets too close to the light.
‘I said, I can get your product.’
Faber drags a chair across the concrete floor and sits himself down facing me.
‘I suppose it couldn’t hurt to talk.’
CHAPTER 9
So now I’ve got this thing under the leg of my jeans. A security bracelet, Faber called it, quite popular with the celebs. Feels like there’s a mutant beetle clamped on to my ankle, waiting to sink its teeth or claws, or whatever weapons a mutant beetle might possess, into my fibula. It’s a clever little machine, no doubt about it. I’m surprised they’ve even got stuff like this outside the pages of a sci-fi novel.
Faber took great glee from explaining its workings to me. He came across like a techno-fool who knows how this one thing works, and bores the bejasus out of everyone passing on his snippet of know-how.
‘So what we have here, Daniel, is a little electronic insurance policy. Judge friend of mine gave it to me in payment for my opinion on a statutory case he was . . . eh . . . involved in. Homeland are already using them and there’s a strong lobby to snap them on US parolees too, given the percentage of repeat offenders.’
‘Yeah? Spare me the lecture, Faber,’ I said, playing it cool.
‘Okay. Let me give you the specs. It’s tamper-proof, naturally; there’s a sensor on there that monitors pulse and blood pressure; it’s got GPS that feeds into my laptop, so we know exactly what building you’re in at any time. You nip into the john for a quick dump, and the bracelet picks up the splash. But here’s the bit I really love. I can remotely inflict electromuscular disruption if you ain’t doing what you’re supposed to be doing where you’re supposed to be doing it. Or to give you the doorman version: I can zap enough voltage up your ass to make you shit your pants. This thing makes the Taser shock seem like a tickle with a feather.’
And then