Plugged - Eoin Colfer [87]
‘Take your pick,’ I say, nodding towards the store’s sign.
The paramedic pokes around Zeb’s wound. ‘Is he allergic to anything?’
Zeb? Allergic to drugs? Funny.
‘Not so far.’
‘He’ll live,’ pronounces the paramedic after a cursory examination. ‘But it’s going to be a rough night.’
‘Good,’ I say, then go inside to get my boots.
Slotz is doing good business by the time I get back. Jason is parading the street, chatting with the university beer crowd.
‘Where you gonna go?’ he asks a group of guys sporting shorts and calf tattoos. ‘Every other street in this town is dead. You gotta curfew or something?’
He spots me shuffling down the sidewalk. ‘Hey, hey. Bossman. You all straight with Irish Mike? I was worried.’
I try to smile, but my jaw feels like there’s a steam iron inside it. ‘All sorted. He’s a sweetheart when you get to know him. What are you doing out here? Hustling?’
‘It’s a new day, Dan baby. New management is good for all of us.’
Management? I don’t like the sound of that.
‘I don’t know, Jase. Payrolls and overheads. Figures give me a headache.’
Jason flashes me his diamond grin. ‘You are such a pussy, dude. I can install some small-business software on your computer. That shit will take care of everything, even pay your taxes, you feel me?’
‘I feel you,’ I say gratefully, resisting an urge to add dawg. ‘What do you know about business software?’
‘I took a couple of semesters in Dover. Picked up a few things. We create a file for everyone and the computer can even print their paycheques if you want. We can use it for inventory too.’
I feel a weight lifting. ‘You are promoted to business manager, Jason. Get yourself a blue suit and take that diamond out of your tooth.’
‘I don’t do blue,’ says Jason. ‘And the diamond is me, man.’
‘You’re still hired. How soon can you get that software?’
‘Soon as now, Dan. All I need is the internet and ten minutes. Shit, I could probably download it on my phone.’
Some good news. I feel like crying.
Inside the club, nothing much has changed. I realise I was expecting something. Not bluebirds and fruit punch, but maybe a less oppressive atmosphere. No Vic cruising the floor throwing a jaundiced eye over everyone’s shoulder. No lights off over the back booth. But it’s same-old same-old. The atmosphere is fake-cheery and the girls are nothing but tired.
Marco is the only ray of hope, polishing glasses like they were diamonds.
‘Working hard, Marco?’ I say to the little barman, pointing at the Jameson bottle over his head.
He pours me a large one. ‘You ever see Jason so happy? He’s out on the street selling this joint. That boy is on fire.’
I decide to make Marco’s night. ‘I promoted him to business manager.’
Marco flaps at me with his rag. ‘Get the fuck out. You did not.’
‘Yup. True as God.’ ‘You won’t regret it,’ beams Marco. ‘Jason will work himself to death.’
I take a sip of whiskey, feeling it slide down my throat smooth as mercury.
‘Have a word with him about the diamond. I have a feeling he listens to you.’
And I leave him open-mouthed, wondering if their secret is out.
I was hoping that the booth would be empty by the time I finished my drink. No such luck. One of Brandi’s Catwoman boots is protruding from the gloom, and something is squeaking, hopefully the upholstery. This Brandi issue has to be sorted out sometime; it may as well be now. Get all my confrontations over in one night.
The booth has its own light switch under the table’s rim, and I flick it without warning. First thing I see is a pale bloated stomach; second is Brandi down in the shadows, writhing like a snake.
The guy with the stomach jerks so hard he bashes Brandi’s head on the table rim.
‘What the . . .’ His eyes focus and he sees me there, looming over him, best grim look in place. ‘Cop? Tell me you’re not a cop?’
‘This is a respectable club, sir. No contact allowed.’
Brandi surfaces, rubbing her crown. ‘Jesus Christ, Dan. What the fuck? I mean, what the fuck?’
I try to shame her with a look, but Brandi is impervious. ‘The booth action is done.