Plugged - Eoin Colfer [73]
‘This it?’
Vic looks like he’s going to puke. ‘Yeah.’ And then adds, ‘Bitch.’
Brandi is aching to respond; it’s in the square of her chin, the flash of her tawny eyes. But this deal is not sealed just yet. No one outside the game speaks, because this is one of those situations that will be talked about for years whatever happens, and details are important. Also the whole thing has an unreal quality about it, like something out of a TV show, and not the good ones with budget behind them; the afternoon reruns from the seventies with stereotype villains and a cheap set that wobbles every time a door is closed.
I check the document. Most of it is legalese; could be a guarantee for a deep-fat fryer for all I know. Even if it is legal, the entire situation is probably bullshit that any halfway-decent attorney would tear apart without spilling his latte.
In spite of all that, I say: ‘Okay. Looks good. I accept the wager.’
A little formal, but it’s that kind of night.
Vic’s jowls are shuddering. ‘Show me, goddamn you, doorman.’
Calm drapes me like a shroud and I know the club is mine.
‘Two pair,’ I say, flipping the cards. ‘No bluffing on this side of the table.’
Vic doesn’t bother with his cards. He’s screwed, and killing a few people is the only way out.
His nerve-clumsy fingers crab down his body towards the nine in his belt. He’s way too slow. I reach across and crush his hand in mine. Brandi puts him away with a vicious elbow to the side of his face. That girl changes allegiances in a heartbeat. No, that’s wrong. Our girl Brandi only has one allegiance. Vic slides off his chair, moaning, blood pouring from a cut above his nose.
AJ is moving, but I have so much adrenalin in my system that he might as well be wading through mud, coming around the side of the table at my ten o’clock with a look on his face that’s more animal than human.
I draw my little Glock 26 and put a shot in the bar mirror over his head. Fragments rain down spectacularly, glittering icicles, slicing AJ’s neck and hands.
I don’t have to say anything. Even AJ is not dumb enough to go up against a gun. He lies on the floor and starts crying.
I turn to Marcie and her friend. ‘Go now. Don’t ever come back in here. Stay off the strip.’
They kiss and hug me for a minute, like I’m an old rock star.
‘Thanks, Daddy,’ blurts Marcie. Then, ‘Oops. Sorry. I mean thanks, mister.’
Then they’re gone, skittering across the casino, sandals slapping the floor.
‘Thanks, Daddy,’ says Brandi, imitating the California/MTV twang that all kids speak with these days, then she cracks up laughing. ‘I don’t believe this, Dan. You own the club.’ She stamps the heels of her Catwoman boots with sheer joy. ‘That asshole’s time has come. I should crack his skull for all the shit I’ve had to put up with these past months.’
‘Don’t crack anything yet, Brandi. Vic hasn’t signed the lease over.’
‘Hmm,’ says Brandi.
She rouses her ex-boss with a sleet of ice from a steel bucket. As soon as he signs, she cold-cocks him with the bucket.
‘Finally this club is going to rock,’ she sings, pouring herself a healthy shot of bourbon. ‘We can get some professional girls working in back. Maybe cut a deal with Irish Mike for some product. Make us some serious money.’
I can see I’m going to have staff problems.
Jason shows Vic and AJ the door with unseemly glee. He actually sings them out using the tune from ‘YMCA’ and his own lyrics:
‘Get-the-Fuck-Out,
You pair of assholes.
Get-the-Fuck-Out,
And don’t come back here!’
I’m impressed. I haven’t seen Jason this happy since his signed Lou Ferrigno T-shirt arrived.
News spreads across the club like electricity across water, spasming everyone it touches. Pretty soon the entire staff are gathered outside the back room waiting for some kind of pep talk.
Talking to staff is not my area. Having staff is not my area, for Christ’s sake. Travel light has always been the code I live by, and yet somehow here I am with a casino and a dozen people depending