Plugged - Eoin Colfer [81]
‘’Zactly,’ mutters Zeb. ‘That’s what I’ve been saying.’
It is exactly what he’s been saying. I’m just regurgitating the spiel that Zeb sold me.
‘No one cares, Mike. You know how many Americans had surgery last year? Have a guess; go on, hazard a guess.’ I don’t wait for a guess, in case Zeb gave Mike the speech too. ‘Twelve million. Can you believe that? Twelve mill-i-on. Chances are at least one of your boys had liposuction in the past month.’
The beefcake on Mike’s left blushes a little, then points his gun at my forehead.
Mike pulls himself together. ‘Yeah? What would you know about it?’
‘I know about it,’ I shoot back. ‘Because I have that itch too.’ It’s time for the cap to come off. I try to do it nonchalant, like I show people all the time. I peel off the hat and stand there in all my transplanted glory.
Mike squints a little, then beckons me forward under the light. I oblige, tilting my head so the shorter guys can get a look.
‘I gotta say,’ the boss says finally, ‘that’s not half bad.’
‘You should have seen him six weeks ago,’ grunts Zeb. ‘Fucking cue ball. Now those hairs will fall out before they grow back, but it gives you an idea.’
‘Still itches a little.’
Zeb is obviously getting his second wind. ‘It’s all in your head. The itch doesn’t last for more than a week. Mike is legitimately itchy; he has the scabs from two thousand lateral cuts. You’re just a fruitcake.’
Mike pokes his scalp gingerly. ‘It’s driving me crazy. I wanna shoot people all the time. Last Wednesday, I almost smacked my little girl.’
I try to appear shocked, as though knowing Mike as well as I do, little-girl-smacking would be totally out of character.
‘Your own little girl? Jesus.’
I must have oversold it. ‘Yeah. Don’t take the piss, McEvoy.’
‘Well, you know, hitting daughters in general, it’s not good, is it?’
Mike reaches to scratch his head, then stops himself. ‘Screw this. Your hair looks good, I’ll give you that. It gives me hope for the future, but this asshole tried to blackmail me.’
‘Over what? A hair transplant? Just how sensitive are you, Mike? All of this for a hair transplant?’
Mike rears forward suddenly, kicking Zeb in the chest, forcing his chair backwards. ‘This is not about the transplant. That is not the fucking point. He tried to blackmail me. I gotta make an example.’
This is priceless. ‘An example? Who do you think is watching, Mike? Where exactly do you think you are?’
I shout the next line to the ceiling. ‘This is Cloisters, Mike. Cloisters! The local PD will tolerate you until the moment you kill someone, then your arse is going to the slammer. My guess, Mike, is they’re already up on your cell phones and have your club under surveillance.’ I don’t mention the multiple homicide in The Brass Ring.
Madden scowls. ‘You don’t know me well enough to call me Mike, laddie. Mister Madden will do just fine.’
My mouth is running away with me now. ‘And another thing. Now that I think of it, no one ever said laddie in Ireland. That’s Scotland you’re thinking about.’
‘Same country,’ offers one of Mike’s dimmer boys.
Madden is horrifed. ‘Same country? Same fucking country? Jesus Christ, Henry. I knew I shouldn’t have hired you. In fact, you’re fired!’
This gets a few laughs as the firing is performed jabbed-finger Apprentice style. With all the attention on poor Henry, I decide to go close quarters.
It doesn’t take more than a second, and the atmosphere in this cramped reception area is so surreal, with the strip lights and dust clouds, that nobody can quite believe what’s happening. They keep right on laughing as I launch myself off the back of Zeb’s chair, snag Macey Barrett’s stiletto from the ceiling tile and land among them. Mike’s men are knocked aside like skittles. They tumble away from me as though I am at the centre of a blast zone. Cupboards collapse and Zeb’s fake marble worktop splinters and splits.
‘You move quick for a six-footer,’ says Mike