Plugged - Eoin Colfer [50]
Great. Another ultimatum, just what I need.
Tommy answers when I’m on the point of hanging up.
‘What the fuck?’ he says instead of plain old hello, which is a pretty standard opener for Corporal Fletcher as far as I remember.
‘Is that any way to talk to your sergeant?’ I ask, half smiling in spite of the whirlwind of crap spinning around me.
‘I’m not in the army no more,’ grumbles Tommy. ‘Especially not at four in the bloody morning. I got a headache and it’s nearly bedtime.’ Tommy draws a sharp breath as he realises who he’s talking to. ‘Daniel? Dan fucking McEvoy? Is that the big jackeen himself?’
‘That’s Sergeant McEvoy to you, Fletcher.’
‘Danny, brother. Are you in country? We gotta party. We gotta go crazy, man. You ever see a one-legged man dance? So, where are you, Sarge?’
‘I’m overseas, Corporal.’
‘Still knocking heads?’
‘A few. That’s why I’m calling.’
‘Something I can help you with?’
Tommy always caught on fast. ‘I have a little recon mission for you, if you’re up to it.’
There is an uncomfortable silence, then Tommy mumbles, ‘Thing is, Dan, I don’t really do that kind of thing any more. I got kids . . .’
Now I feel bad. ‘Forget I mentioned it, Tommy. I didn’t realise . . .’
Tommy cackles. ‘Just screwing with you, Sarge. Course I’m up for it. No killing gypsies, though. I had a curse put on me.’
‘No gypsicide, honest. I just need you to trace the roots of a certain family tree.’
‘What?’
‘Find a few people. But be careful, they have dangerous relatives.’
Tommy is unimpressed. ‘Shit, my brother has a dangerous relative. Who do you need me to find?’
I give Tommy the details and he promises to get back to me asa-f-p.
I never wanted a phone before, but I’m starting to realise how convenient they are.
Irish Mike is paying for the call too, chuckles Zeb, coming out of his funk. Nice touch.
I must have chuckled too, because now the old lady opposite is showing me her can of Mace.
It’s early evening by the time I finally get where I’m going in Farmington. This is not the sort of place doormen are usually required. The entire avenue is so wholesome and autumnal that it reminds me of Ireland. Even in these circumstances I can feel the first lilting twinges of the immigrant gene kicking in.
Farmington is even nicer than Cloisters; far too nice, you would think, to have a criminal underbelly, but as I found out only hours ago, the Farmington criminal underbelly is doing quite well. On this avenue especially.
I do the last mile from the bus stop on foot, humping the weapons bag, and find a bench to rest my weary frame while I finish off my Big Bell Box meal.
The spicy food reminds me of Monterrey, and I can’t help wondering how fast I could get there.
Yeah, that’s right, amigo. Pack up and leave me to rot.
Calm down. I called Tommy, didn’t I? Wheels are in motion. Now piss off and let me think.
You think too much. You need to get out of your head and into the real world.
Irony. Must be.
So I sit on the bench, reining in my aura, trying to look like a member of the community and not an ex-army doorman sent to rip off a steroid lab. I chew my burrito awhile and grudgingly admit that Faber and Goran had a sweet deal figured.
Back in Cloisters, Faber got a little teary spelling it out.
‘As an attorney in the city, I represent a lot of drug people. I get to know them, they fill me in on every detail of their operation, and armed with this information, I get them off most of the time.’
I remember making myself pay attention, even though half my brain cells were fried from the anklet jolt and the rest were threatening to break apart and liquefy.
‘So a year goes by, maybe eighteen months, these guys have forgotten all about their natty attorney, when one of their labs gets busted by the cops. First through the door is my dead friend, Detective Goran, followed closely by a few of my own humps all rigged out in DEA armour and helmets. They secure the bad guys, load the drugs