I worked for Zeb off and on for a few years, mostly around Manhattan, and I saw gallons of Botox injected into acres of skin. The money was irregular but good, and I have to admit that the perks were exciting; only problem was, the ladies that Zeb had ministered to were not supposed to do a lot of jiggling for twenty-four hours, so things could be a little muted.
We got on okay at first. When I say okay, I mean I never had to ask more than five times for my money, and he never tried to hold back more than forty per cent. On one occasion I was forced to shake him by the collar, but that was as rough as it got. Nobody tried to rip him off either for the first year, which really pissed Zeb off; in his twisted mind, nobody ripping him off was tantamount to me ripping him off, as he was paying me for nothing. I tried explaining that I was a bit like a nuclear deterrent, but Zeb refused to see the sense in this, as it didn’t align with how he was thinking. It got so that he started to pick fights with people, daring them to screw with him, or rather with me. Mostly these people were confused housewives who had never heard verbal abuse before that wasn’t filtered through the TV, but every once in a while the household had its own security and I took a couple of unnecessary punches because Zeb felt the need to big himself up. It got so he took to strutting down Eighth Avenue like Tony Minero, tossing insults left and right. He barely noticed me, just took my presence for granted. One night I just stopped at the crosswalk and let him go ahead with his motherfucker this and get out of my way asshole that, until some college kid pounded him a good one in the side of the face. The kind of punch that makes everyone who sees it go damn.
We parted company soon after and I upped sticks for Cloisters, but after six months Zeb tracked me down and set up Kronski’s Kures in the mini-mall. For almost a year he claimed the relocation was on account of me being his only friend. But one night in O’Leary’s, he got so drunk that he forgot who I was and confided in who he thought I was, saying how some pusher’s girlfriend in Queen’s had a permanent droop on one side of her face on account of the cheap botulism he pumped into her forehead and he was hiding out here in the Styx with the big Mick until things cooled down. But then he started making good green here in Cloisters and decided to stay a while.
I don’t work for Zeb any more, though he begs me every day. I just hang around with him for free. It’s nice to have a whiskey buddy, plus we have this thing we do with movie references and song titles. Can be lots of fun.
I’ve been in worse shape, but not recently. Seems to me there was a time when I could take punishment the way a young man takes his liquor; go all night and still function at work the next day. Now I’m grunting with every step, walking like my bones are made of glass. The various tussles with Bonzo, the tuna-melt guy and Faber’s goons have really taken a toll, and I wouldn’t be surprised if I die earlier than I should as a direct result.
At least the book is closed on Faber, unless he can generate himself a fresh ticker. Whatever his reasons for murdering Connie, he took them to the grave. Maybe when he floats out of the Tunnel, he’ll have to explain himself to St Peter. For his sake, I hope he can come up with something better than she slapped me, Jesus. I would pay good money to hear that conversation.
The Deacon problem is on hold. But I have a feeling that as soon as Ronnie gets bored of the super-cop tag, she’ll be giving me a call. It would be nice to believe that Detective Deacon would be in my corner should I need some badge. I’ll make the call if I have to, but I’m not counting any chickens. First and foremost Ronnie is a cop, and she’ll uphold the law even if it means hanging her and me both.
Counting chickens? pipes up Ghost Zeb, still hanging on in there. What the hell are you doing counting chickens?
Don’t you listen? I’m not counting chickens.
Counting chickens, not counting chickens, I could give a shit. All these situations you’re closing the door on, what about me? I’m out there somewhere.
Probably dead.
Probably, yes. But did you ever think that I could just be maimed? I’m out there somewhere with my dick cut off, I got maybe forty-five minutes to make it to the ER for reattachment surgery.
I can’t help wincing.
Okay, Zeb, okay. I’ll make a few enquiries.
When?
Soon. Very soon. I just have to pick up my funds at the bus station, then square things with work and Mrs Delano.
I’m bleeding to death and you’re squaring things?
If I find you, will you get out of my head?
Not only that, but I’ll do all your check-ups for free.
Yeah, see that’s how I know you’re not the real Zeb.
My apartment should be goon-free now that Faber’s breath has fogged its last mirror. Just in case there are any hostile stragglers, I dial a phoney B&E call into the local blues from Mr Hong down the hall and slip upstairs to Sofia’s apartment when the cruiser whoops up to the steps.
Sofia Delano pulls open her door before the knock reverb fades and stands before me, chest heaving like she’s run a mile to get there.
‘Carmine,’ she breathes. ‘I’ve been waiting so long.’
I slip inside her lobby, passing close, feeling the breath from her upturned mouth on my cheek, seeing the sheen of her lipstick.
Delano reminds me of someone. Not Cyndi Lauper any more; another eighties icon. Blonde hair, blow-dried big. Striped woollen dress, leggings and ballet pumps.
Ghost Zeb puts his finger on it. We’re the kids in America, woh-oh.
‘My Kim Wilde look,’ says Sofia Delano. ‘You always liked it, Carmine. Remember that club? The One Eight Seven? Those were good times.’
She looks wonderful, smells intoxicating. If only I could remember the good times.
‘Mrs Delano. . Sofia. . I’m not Carmine. I’m Daniel McEvoy, from downstairs. You hate me, remember?’
She takes my face in her hands. ‘Not any more,’ she says and kisses me hard. Not any more? Does that mean she doesn’t hate me any more? Or she doesn’t remember?
I don’t know, and for a moment I don’t care.
And even though I didn’t share the eighties with this woman, I do remember the decade. And here they are, coming around again. With sweet chocolatey perfume, shoulder pads, the haze of hairspray and soft red lips. This is more than a kiss; it’s a time machine.
I feel Sofia’s sprayed hair scratch my cheek, and hear the moan in her throat like all her dreams have come true, and I want to weep. Is this how low I have sunk, making out with a disturbed woman?
I push her gently away, hearing the soft pop as the vacuum seal of our lips is broken.
‘W. . wait,’ I stammer. ‘This is not right. I can’t. . we can’t.’
There is a bruise of lipstick smeared across her upper lip. ‘Sure we can, baby. It’s not the first time. But let’s do it like it’s the last.’
What an invitation. You could sell a movie with a tag-line like that.
‘No, Sofia. . Mrs Delano. This is not me. I mean, I am not Carmine.’
Then something unexpected. She slaps me in the face, hard. I actually rock back on my heels.
‘Pull yourself together, Carmine. How many lives do you think we get? I’m forty years old next summer, and this is my last second chance. You going to break my heart again?’
I can’t do it. I should, goddamn me, but I can’t find the strength. ‘Okay, Sofia.
Okay, I get it.’ I stroke her cheek tenderly. It’s easy to do. Natural. ‘No broken hearts tonight. I want to do it slow, take things easy. We got time, right?’
She blinks, uncertain, as though offering sex to this man Carmine is all she knows how to do.
‘Time?’
‘Yeah, time for romance?’
‘Romance?’ The word hiccups in her throat. ‘You want romance?’
‘Sure. A man can change, can’t he?’
‘I. . I guess.’
Whew. A reprieve, though a big, insistent part of me doesn’t want a reprieve.
‘Good. Great. So, Sofia, you got anything to drink?’
‘I got some cough syrup. And some coffee.’
I react to ‘coffee’ like it’s the holy grail. ‘Wow. Coffee, that would be awesome.’
Definite overkill. I use the word awesome about as much as I use the word bling.
Sofia stumbles to the kitchen on sea legs, a bewildered smile cutting through the lipstick.
‘Carmine Delano asking for coffee. My husband certainly has changed. Maybe you dumped some of that macho baggage you’ve been lugging around, along with the hair.’
‘It’s temporary,’ I blurt, wanting to please her now. ‘The hair. It’s growing back.’
Sofia pours two mugs from the machine. ‘Hair, no hair. Doesn’t bother me, baby. So long as I have you. It’s been hours since you left. I was starting to think I did something wrong.’
Hours? More like years.
‘I. . uh. . I had some business to take care of.’
Sofia pushes me gently to the settee, deep brown leather, squeaks when I sit. A man could get used to relaxing in a promo sofa like this. Smells of Italian food and perfume.
‘Business? Like that naked bitch downstairs? Same old Carmine.’
I absurdly defend myself. ‘That woman was a detective. She was trying to kill me.’
Sofia eyes me archly. ‘Uh-huh. I bet she had good reason. I know what you are, Carmine, all about your dalliances.’
Dalliances. First time I’ve heard that word since Ireland.
Drinking and dalliances. That’s you, isn’t it? That’s your entire goddamn life in a nutshell.
Mother shouting that at my father, and him laughing. Scratching his chin with one hand and swiping the air with the other, trying to catch an invisible fly.
‘Dalliances, eh?’ he’d twitter, then do a little mocking fairy dance. ‘Was this before or after the croquet?’
Back to here and now, but I’m shaking a little. ‘No, Sofia. No dalliances. It’s only you. You’re the only one for me.’
It’s easy to say and it would be easy to mean.
Sofia glows; she sweeps her blonde hair aside, eyes downcast like a twenty-year-old bride.
‘You mean it, baby? You mean it this time?’
‘I do.’ I take her hand and place it on my chest. ‘Feel my heart and tell me I’m lying.’
If my heart could speak, it would say that my every word is a lie. Her husband is gone and he better stay gone, because if he comes back I might just have to kill him.
Sofia places her cheek beside her slim fingers. ‘It’s a strong heart, Daniel. Strong enough to protect me.’
‘No one’s going to hurt you now, Sofia. That guy, the Keerist almighty guy, he’s gone for good.’
‘Keerist almighty beep,’ whispers Sofia, then falls asleep just like that.
Keerist almighty beep? says Ghost Zeb. What the hell does that mean?
I decide to think about that later; for the moment I’m thinking about how Mrs Delano just called me Daniel.
The human mind has layers, Simon Moriarty once told me. Some of them know what’s going on. Some of them don’t.
I really must call that guy.
So I do, call the guy, next evening over a late late breakfast before I head out to work. I’ve had eighteen hours’ sleep and three square meals and I feel like it’s time to solve some of my problems.
‘Hey, Doc. It’s Daniel McEvoy.’
Silence on the other end for a few moments, while Moriarty opens his mental filing cabinet.
‘Daniel? Daniel bloody McEvoy. A blast from the past. How are you doing, Dan? Not too well, I’m guessing.’
I allow my gaze to drift out the window. There’s a light drizzle coming down silver though the streetlights. Looks nice, like movie rain.
‘Well, I’m noticing how nice the rain’s looking, if that means anything.’
I hear the sound of a Zippo wheel spinning and it brings me back ten years.
‘Noticing rain? You are truly screwed, my boy. Nine out of ten serial killers start paying close attention to meteorology just before they cut loose. By the way, you do know it’s two in the morning over here. You’re lucky I was up carousing.’
I’m smiling into my phone, a sucker for the old accent.
‘Whatever, you arsehole.’
‘Gobshite.’
‘You sure you have a degree?’
‘You called me, Sergeant McEvoy. What’s your problem?’
‘Problems, Doc. Problems.’
‘Okay. Shoot, so long as you’re aware I’m billing the army for this.’
Down the street a couple are arguing about something. She’s big on the hand gestures, waving like a windmill. Would I find that cute or irritating? Shit, I’m already irritated.
‘Okay. I’ve got this woman in love with me.’
‘Well done. Live long, die happy.’
‘No. She thinks I’m someone else.’
‘Ah. . Well, sometimes secrets are a good thing. I know that general thinking says holding things in can be damaging, but some things are better kept to oneself.’
‘It’s more than secrets, Doc. She actually believes I’m a different person. Her husband, I think.’
‘And you’re not her husband?’
‘No. I’d remember.’
‘Okay. I hate to diagnose on the phone, but it sounds like she’s de-lusional.’
‘You think so? Holy shit.’
Simon chuckles. In the tiny speaker it sounds like he’s gargling tar. ‘Okay. I’m remembering you now, McEvoy.’
‘What can I do?’
‘Don’t shatter her illusions too harshly. You could do irreparable damage. Play along for the time being, until you can get professional help.’
‘That could be tricky.’
‘Tricky how?’
‘I think Sofia could turn violent. She’s been hurt before.’
I hear Moriarty drag deep on his cigar. ‘Christ, this is so unprofessional. Look, Dan, if you care for this woman, get her into treatment. Use some pretext or other, say it’s marriage counselling.’
‘Marriage counselling. Nice one.’
I am about to fold Macey Barrett’s phone when Dr Moriarty asks a question.
‘And what about you, Daniel? How are you?’
‘Cracked knuckle, maybe.’
‘Mentally, smartarse.’
How am I? There’s a question. I’m carrying around my best friend in my head. I’m obsessing about my hairline and I am giving serious consideration to entering a relationship under an assumed name.
‘Yeah, I’m fine, Simon. Really.’
I can hear Moriarty’s pen clicking on the other side of the Atlantic. ‘You’re lying to me, Daniel.’
‘You sure?’
‘Yes, I’m sure. It’s all Doc-Moriarty-arsehole. Then suddenly it’s Simon. You’re trying to gain my trust by humanising yourself. Textbook stuff.’
‘I am human, Simon.’
Another chuckle from Ireland. ‘Not to me. To me you’re nothing more than a few stripes on a sleeve.’
I realise that I like this guy and that it would be good to have a beer and not discuss my various hang-ups, fixations and neuroses.
‘I suppose I’m trans-parent to you, Doc.’
‘Absolutely.’
I take a deep breath, realising that there is no way to say what I am about to say without sounding a little section eight. ‘Okay, Doc. I have this friend.’
‘Really? You have this friend who can’t get an erection and could I make the prescription out in your name?’
‘No. Not like that. I have this real friend whose personality lives in my brain.’ Shit, there, I’ve said it.
‘You’re just having conversations in your head, playing devil’s advocate with yourself; everyone does it.’
‘No, it’s more than that. He’s a real presence. He doesn’t follow the rules.’
‘You have rules for your imaginary friends, Dan?’
‘Hey, I’m pretty sure that you’re not supposed to mock your patients.’
‘When you send me a cheque, you can be my patient.’
There is no point trying to outsmart this guy; he does it for a living. So I forge ahead.
‘Usually these devil’s advocated internal conversations happen when I want them to. They’re kinda vague and in the background. But this guy, Zeb, is here all the time, distracting me, poking his nose in. Then, when I actually need some advice he disappears.’
‘Is he there now?’
‘No, Zeb doesn’t trust doctors.’
‘I see. And what does the real Zeb do for a living?’
‘He’s a doctor,’ I say, smiling.
I hear Simon’s pen clicking half a dozen times, then: ‘You’re not a dummy, Dan, even if you pretend to be. You know this guy Zeb is just a part of you.’
‘I guessed as much. So no need for a straitjacket yet.’
‘Not so long as you’re in control. Lot of your murderers swear the voices told them to do it.’
‘Don’t worry, Zeb has been urging me to kill people for years. I’ve ignored him so far.’
‘So far. Maybe I should write you a prescription. A couple of gentle antipsychotics could do you the world of good.’
I know some vets who took antipsychotics. Every one of those guys thought Tweety and Sylvester were hilarious.
‘No thanks, Doc. I think I’ll pass on the meds. I need my wits about me right now.’
‘Whatever you say, Sergeant. Keep tabs on yourself then, if such a thing is possible, and if you find yourself sawing bodies into pieces on the suggestion of this Zeb voice, then drink a fifth of whiskey, put yourself to sleep for eight hours and call me in the morning.’
‘So I’m your patient now. Should I send you a cheque?’
It’s Moriarty’s turn to snort. ‘Yes, that’s it, Dan. You send me a cheque.’
I hear another voice in my ear. A bed-rumpled female.
‘Come on, Sim-o,’ says the woman, not a patient, I’m guessing. ‘You can’t stop in the middle.’
‘I better let you go,’ I say.
‘One of you better,’ says Simon, and hangs up.
Ghost Zeb comes out from beneath the synapse bridge he was hiding under.
Shrinks, he says, and I can feel his shrug like a cool bottle of beer rolled across my forehead. Witch doctors, every one of them.
Cloisters’ seedy street isn’t too obvious as these places go. On New York’s 8th Avenue you know exactly what kind of street you’re walking. The flashing billboards and windows stacked high with lingerie-clothed mannequins never let you forget it. The smell of lust rises from the pavement and the door handles are coated with grease and guilt.
Cloisters doesn’t have so much in the way of billboards and guilty handles. We have three gentlemen’s clubs that you wouldn’t know were there unless you knew they were there, with nothing but a small neon sign, square of red carpet and a velvet rope to drop a wink to those on the lookout. There are eight casinos in Cloisters, each one marked by a sign that city regulations restrict to a size slightly larger than a pizza.
After my transatlantic phone call, I take a brisk walk through the rain to the bus station to pick up my savings, then cross town to the strip and announce myself at the casino door.
‘Ta-dah,’ I sing, spreading my arms wide.
Jason gives me the diamond-fang smile. ‘Hey, Dan, buddy. Where the hell you been? Fucking Ireland or some shit? Seriously, Victor lost his nut here yesterday. Fired your ass in absentia.’
This is bad news, but I was expecting it. You don’t pull a no-show on Victor Jones and expect him to let it slide. Victor never lets anything slide.
That fucker wouldn’t let anything slide at a baseball game.
I chuckle. Zeb made this pronouncement one night after Victor cut off his tab.
Jason is not expecting a chuckle in response to his litany of doom. ‘I respect your balls, Dan. Chuckling and shit, showing up here like it’s business as usual after missing a shift, but you’re gonna have to pull some hocus-pocus outta your hat for Victor. You feel me?’
I envy Jason his ability to confidently use phrases like you feel me or off the hook, another of his favourites.
‘Okay. I better get inside and grovel.’
Jason cracks his neck, which always makes me wince.
‘Come on, Jason. I hate that. Do you want to give yourself arthritis?’
‘Sorry, Dan. I’m aggravated. We got no customers yet, so Vic’s rolling a couple of the new girls.’
Rolling the new girls is not as bad as it sounds.
Okay. Maybe it is as bad as it sounds. Just different bad.
Rolling the girls is one of Victor’s favourite pastimes, and he’s going to keep on doing it until one of the rolled girls goes crazy and spikes his Dom P with rat poison.
This thought brings on a dreamy sigh.
‘Hey, Dan, you dreaming about Oirland again?’
It’s Marco, the little barman, peeking out across the empty bar, smiling but not laughing because I’m a lot bigger than he is.
Then he notices my bruised face and his smile shrinks a few molars. ‘Holy shit, man. What happened to you?’
‘I was dreaming about Oirland,’ I say straight-faced. ‘And this guy interrupted me, so we had a talk. You should see the state he’s in.’ I mime drinking through a straw in the side of my mouth.
Marco wipes a glass like he’s trying to climb inside it. ‘You’re a funny man, Daniel. Hilarious. You know I’ve got a weak heart, right?’
I cut him some slack with a soft smile. ‘I know, Marco. Victor’s in back?’
Marco wipes harder, not happy with giving bad news to big people. ‘Yeah. Doing his favourite thang. He said to send you back if you showed up.’
‘Those exact words?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘Give it to me straight.’
‘What he said exactly was “If that Irish monkey-fucker shows up, you send him back here for a bitch slapping.”’
My eyebrows shoot up to my hairline of old. ‘Monkey-fucker?’
Marco almost disappears behind the bar. ‘Not my words.’ Then he gets brave. ‘I would probably have said leprechaunfucker, to tie in with the Irish thing.’
‘Yeah, that’s much better. Do me a favour, Marco. Pour me a large Jameson; I should be out in a minute to drink it.’
‘You got it, Dan,’ says Marco, reaching for the optic. ‘I’m gonna miss you, man.’
‘I’m getting fired, not dying,’ I mutter and head for the back room.
The back room in Slotz is the only original part of the building. Nice little red-brick room with a row of head-height postbox windows. Vic installed a polished wooden bar in the corner that’s way too big for the space, and there’s an old green baize card table with brass corners wedged into the leftover room. This is where the real money is made in Slotz. The back room has been running a high-stakes game since Prohibition. To hear Vic tell it, you’d think that every New York gangster from Schultz to Gotti had lost a bundle in here.
When I push through the door, Vic is swizzling a green cocktail and treating a couple of teenage girls to a social studies lesson.
‘The entire room is living history. This table. This exact table is fifty years old.’
The girls are nodding eagerly hoping for Vic’s approval; I on the other hand have decided not to beg for my job back. I have realised suddenly that without Connie, this dump holds zero appeal for me. So I do not have to listen to Vic’s shit for one more second.
‘Fifty years? Back home we have fast-food joints older than that. We have bloody walls older than this entire country.’
Victor jumps. He was so into his spiel that he didn’t even notice me coming in.
‘What the hell?’ he stammers, for some reason grabbing at his purple bowler hat, like that’s the first thing a raider would go for. I notice that he’s wearing a bandanna under the hat, and another stuffed into his breast pocket. ‘McEvoy! You’re like a case of the clap. You arrive quiet, then flare up.’
Brandi is in the room, hovering at Vic’s shoulder like the spectre of death in heels, so obviously she laughs. Victor’s got one of his cousins there too: AJ, a prize moron. Rumour has it that AJ once twisted a model Statue of Liberty up his arse, then tried to tell the ER doctor he sat on it in Battery Park.
‘You know a lot about the clap, Vic?’
Victor sees my eyes then, and he knows I’m not here to petition.
‘You want to watch what you say to me, McEvoy. I’m connected.’
I am so sick of this man. This is the man who ordered his surveillance discs wiped on the night of Connie’s murder, even though there may have been evidence on one of them.
‘Connected? Give me a break, Vic. Your fat arse is connected to that chair, that’s about it. Your brain isn’t connected to your stupid mouth, that’s for sure.’
AJ is off his chair, baring his teeth, waiting on the word.
I eyeball him good. ‘You better sit down, Lady Liberty, unless you got room for my foot up there alongside that statue.’
Vic waves a pudgy finger. ‘Sit, AJ. This man could kill us all without breaking a sweat.’
‘Maybe you’re not as stupid as I thought.’
My former boss leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers, a cross between Al Pacino, P. Diddy and Elmer Fudd. ‘So, what can I do for you, doorman? Before I bar you for life?’
Barred for life. Not much of a threat.
‘You can pay me. It’s the end of the month.’
Vic is delighted; he pokes the table with a finger. ‘Yesterday was the end of the month. You didn’t work the full month, McEvoy.’
Typical. ‘Listen, Vic. . Mister Jones. I had an emergency so I missed a day. And okay, I didn’t call. So dock me for the time I missed and pay me the rest.’
It’s not really the money. I have fifty grand plus on my person, but this piece of slime owes me and he is going to pay. One way or the other.
Vic affects a pout. ‘I would love to pay you. Sincerely. But I got all my disposable cash tied up in this game with these lovely ladies.’
One of the lovely ladies simpers, like Vic’s doing them a favour taking her money. The other one knows how much trouble they’re in. She is pale and her fingers grip the table’s edge like it’s the railing of the Titanic.
‘Open the safe, then.’
‘What safe? I don’t have a safe, doorman. Anybody know anything about a safe?’
I pinch my nose and breathe heavily. After everything that’s happened, I am not about to be messed around by a smalltime big-time wannabe like Victor Jones.
‘Look, you can hang around until I finish the game. I do good, then maybe you get paid.’ Vic snaps a finger at Brandi, who takes his glass, making sure to squeak her boobs around the boss’s arm while she’s doing it. ‘Or you can keep dropping in for a few weeks until you catch me with a couple of bucks in my pocket.’
‘More than a couple. A couple of thousand more like.’
Vic shrugs like this makes zero difference. ‘Whatever. Less than fifty grand, I could give a shit.’
Fifty grand. You could buy the lease on this entire club for half that.
He picks a fresh pack of cards from the table and rips off the plastic. ‘Now, if you would kindly get out of my face, I got a game to play.’
Like I said, I’m not much for flashbacks, but for a second the sound of that plastic tearing has me back in a camo tent on the southern Lebanese border with Israel. There’s death at our door and blast tremors rattling the tent poles, and I’m saying, One more hand. Come on, guys, one more hand.
Victor does a few wedge shuffles and my eyes follow the snap of the cards. One of the girls starts to cry, her bony shoulders hitching, her fake boobs bobbing like buoys in the tide.
I like that one. Buoys in the tide. Sounds like an Eagles number.
Vic’s little con is as simple as it is low-down. Any time new girls come in looking to make a little money hostessing, Vic softens them up with tequila and then charms them into a few hands of poker. With Brandi looking over their shoulders and dropping her boss the wink, the girls quickly lose their first month’s wages, and before they know what’s happening they’re toting trays for tips. Modern-day slavery is what it is.
‘You rolling these little girls, Vic? Is this how your mother raised you?’
Vic does not bite on that hook. ‘My mother was wasted by two thirty every afternoon. I raised myself. I built everything I have.’
‘Let the girls go, Vic. Wipe their slate. Tell you what. You let those two out of here all square and you can keep my salary.’
I find it hard to believe that I’m saying this. Simon Moriarty would be writing I told you so in that little notebook of his. All capitals.
‘Hey, you hear that, AJ? Big noble McEvoy, giving it up for the ladies. They only owe me a couple of weeks wages; maybe they’ll win it back.’
‘And maybe hell will freeze over. What do you say, Vic? It would save me having to get angry.’
Vic has an answer to that. ‘Don’t worry, McEvoy. You get angry and I will fucking shoot you, make no mistake. Obviously I hope it doesn’t come to that.’
He’s not lying. Vic shot a drunk about eighteen months ago. He didn’t enjoy the intense police scrutiny and swears often and loudly that the next person he shoots is going to absolutely deserve it.
‘Come on, Vic. Keep my money, let them go. They’re too skinny to work here.’
‘Hey!’ says one of the girls.
The other pinches her friend’s bare arm. ‘Shut up, Valerie. The old bald guy is trying to help.’
This gets a big laugh from Vic and AJ. Even Brandi has a titter.
‘Make you a deal, doorman,’ grins Vic, in a good mood now. ‘You wanna save these two? You wanna free them from my evil clutches? I’ll give you chips for your wages and you try to win the ladies’ money back.’
I should have seen this coming. This is Vic’s answer to everything. He once suggested it to an IRS guy.
‘Not happening. I haven’t played cards since the army.’
Vic flaps his lips. ‘Everything is since the army with you. I haven’t played cards since the army, I haven’t defused a mine since the army, I haven’t killed anyone since the army.’ He winks at Brandi, going for the big laugh. ‘I hope you don’t mind me saying, but you’ve been one boring motherfucker since you quit that army.’
AJ cracks up. Brandi actually gives Vic a round of applause.
‘I’m not playing, Victor.’
‘Then stop breathing my air, doorman, and let me get on with my game.’
The smarter of the girls shoots me a look of skeletal desperation. She has caught a glimpse of her future and is beyond terrified.
I grind my teeth. Another situation I do not want.
‘Shit, Christ, bollocks. Okay, Vic. A couple of hands to get the girls clear. How far down are they?’
Vic’s grin is like a smear of butter. ‘Twelve hundred. Plus the vig.’
I pull out a chair violently. ‘Fuck your interest. They’ve been here half an hour.’
‘Touchy.’
‘Screw you, Jones,’ I say, settling into the chair. ‘You’re not my boss any more, so you don’t get the respect you never deserved. And put out that cigar. Smoke gets in my eyes and I can’t tell diamonds from hearts.’
Vic screws the fat stogie into an ashtray. ‘What’s the matter? You quit smoking when you left the army?’
AJ almost hacks up a lung.
‘You tell your cousin to stop laughing. He might crap a statue.’
A single squeak of laughter shoots from between Brandi’s ruby lips and flies around the room like a canary.
‘Are we playing or talking?’ says Vic, putting on his game face.
I snap my fingers at AJ. ‘Gimme some chips. Two grand mixed.’
Vic clears the order with a slow blink, and soon four towers of chips list before me. I straighten them with forefinger and thumb while Vic takes a slug out of his refreshed cocktail.
‘What’s the game?’ he asks.
‘Straight poker,’ I shoot back. ‘Nothing wild, no wrinkles. All face down. Five and three, that’s it.’
Vic nods. He’s giving me some latitude because he’s a player and I’m an amateur.
‘Straight poker it is. Brandi, honey, get McEvoy something from the bar. What do you need? Shit, all this time and I don’t even know what you drink.’
I shake my head. ‘You stay right where you are, Brandi honey. I don’t need you behind me feeding the boss my figures. In fact, I want to see you in front of me at all times.’
Brandi pouts, cocking her hip, boosting her breasts high with crossed forearms.
‘Shit, Dan. That hurts.’
‘Sure. Whatever. Also, keep that compact in your bag. You know, the one with the mirror.’
Vic chuckles, not in the least offended that I have more or less accused him of being a lifelong cheat. ‘I guess you better stay where you are, honey. AJ, you in?’
‘No, he is not in,’ I say before AJ can answer. ‘Poker is not supposed to be a team sport. One on one.’
Vic is getting a little pissed now. ‘Okay, doorman. Is that it? Any more rules? Just tell me, because I don’t want you bitching when I clean you out.’
‘We play for the girls first,’ I say. ‘The smart one deals.’
‘Which is the smart one?’
I nod at the terrified girl, a skinny brunette whose blotted mascara makes her look like a skull. She doesn’t have the hope in her to smile.
‘The one who knows how much trouble she’s in. After I dig the girls out, we play for my salary.’
Vic shrugs, the magnanimous monarch. ‘Green is green, doorman. The order it comes in doesn’t matter to me.’
The girl deals. She’s so nervous that she flips a couple of cards and has to start again. Finally Vic and I have five apiece. Too late to back out now.
I check my cards, fanning them inside the clam shells of my hands.
Two kings, not a bad start.
I suppose, Ghost Zeb grudgingly agrees. Maybe you know what you’re doing.
Half an hour later I’m down to my last hundred bucks in chips.
Moron, says Ghost Zeb.
‘Moron,’ says Vic, and I cut him a suspicious look.
‘What?’
‘Moron,’ he repeats. Obviously I have been emasculated by my unlucky streak. ‘You come into my club and try to take me on. Me! Victor Jones. You know how many guys have taken a beating here?’
‘It’s two grand, Vic. Get a grip.’
‘Two grand more that these lovely ladies owe.’
‘No,’ I protest. ‘I lost my wages, that’s all.’
Vic chews an unlit cigar. ‘No, no, fuck that. You said we were playing for the girls first.’
‘Those chips were my wages. Anything I won was to get these two out of the shit-pile they’re in.’
AJ is snuffling and snorting, beads of sweat standing out on his red forehead. Begging to be turned loose. But Vic holds him back with a frown, magnanimous in his good fortune.
‘Any way you look at it, McEvoy, these pretty things are still in the hole. You ain’t saved nobody. Not since the army.’
That joke is getting old.
‘I’ve got a hundred bucks left on the table. You never know, my luck might be about to change.’
Vic lights his cigar, twisting it slowly for an even burn. He’s past pretending to give a shit what I think.
‘One more hand. Why not? After today, doorman, you’re gonna have to borrow a pot to piss in. I’ll give you a good rate on one of those.’
‘Very funny, Vic. Let’s play cards.’
It’s the macho thing to say, but I don’t feel very tough. Vic is crucifying me. Maybe Simon Moriarty was right and I am totally trans-parent.
A good dealer can land five cards right on top of each other so the corners match up. This girl is so rattled, one of my cards floats right off the table.
‘You wanna change that, McEvoy?’
I snag the card with two fingers. ‘No, Vic. I’m good.’
It’s not a bad hand. Two pair. Queens and eights.
We’re both in for fifty, then I tap the table and the girl slides a single card over. Vic passes his hand across his cards, like a magician. He’s sticking with what he’s got, which should mean that he has everything he needs, unless he’s bluffing. A couple of hands back I folded on a pair of aces, lost over seven hundred dollars. I never paid to see Vic’s cards, but I’ve seen him bluff with nothing. The problem is that when Vic has his game face on, nothing changes. His voice is steady, his features are calm, his body language says fuck you, no matter how good his hand. I thought I could find a chink in his armour, but I can’t. My only hope is Lady Luck.
‘Fifty,’ I say, even though my fifth card is useless to me. Why not go for broke.
‘This is going to be easy,’ says Vic, pushing in a stack. ‘Five hundred. You can’t pay, you’re gone. No IOUs here. House rules.’
‘I know the house rules, Vic. You made us memorise them, remember?’
Vic relaxes a little now that the battle is won. ‘AJ here can’t memorise dick. That’s why we call him by his initials, so he can remember his own name.’
‘Maybe that torch scratched his brain.’
AJ smacks the flat of his hand on the table, but he won’t move without a go from Vic.
‘Okay,’ says Vic. ‘So you’re done, doorman. Get the hell out of my club. You’re barred.’
‘Unless I got dollars to spend, right?’
‘I don’t turn down cash money. You never know, if you drop by, maybe Marcie here will give you a hand-job in one of the booths. Work off some of her debt.’
Marcie cries a river, and I reach for my wallet.
‘I’ll see your five hundred.’
Vic hides his surprise well. ‘You sure about that?’
‘What? You thought I was walking around broke? I got funds, Vic, so I see your five. You never turn down cash money, right?’ I toss the bills in with a flourish.
‘Never.’ Vic cups his stash with two hands and pushes it all in. ‘There’s your five hundred, and two thousand more. You got that much walking-around money?’
I’m watching him closely. Same old Vic. I was hoping the surprise funds might throw him.
‘Yeah, I got it.’
Your getaway money? Come on, Dan. Are you going to blow all that for these two airheads? They dug this hole for themselves.
I have no intention of blowing it all; just enough to clear the girls and maybe get my wages back. This pot and that’s it.
‘How much you got in that safe you don’t have?’
Vic somehow keeps the face straight. I bet his toes are curled in his shoes.
‘I got the night’s float. That’s twenty grand, Daniel.’
And there it is. He was all McEvoy-doorman-moron and suddenly it’s Daniel. Vic never called me Daniel in his life. It’s just like Dr Moriarty said: Vic’s subconscious is trying to gain my trust because he’s lying. Bluffing.
I realise with a rush of certainty that Vic doesn’t have shit in his hand. I can win big here.
My resolve to play it safe dissolves, and in its place floats a shining Christmas bauble vision of a moment in the near future when I leave Victor Jones weeping at his own table. If I let him keep the table. This is the guy whose first thought on seeing Connie dead in the parking lot was for his own sleazy business, and I feel an irresistible urge to take that business away from him.
My poker face is nowhere near as good as Vic’s, so I hide it in my hands, feigning distress.
‘Twenty grand. Christ. But you’re not going to risk all that. No way.’
‘Maybe I will, maybe I won’t.’
‘Okay. Okay. I’ll take five. I’ve got five. So that’s three grand to you.’
The stash is spread all over my body. Some in each breast pocket and the rest in my socks. I empty one pocket and place the wedge gingerly on the pile, making sure Vic sees the pocket is empty.
‘Sheee-it, you must be related to these dumb bitches.’ Vic clicks a finger at AJ, who springs to his feet as though the gravity holding him down has been siphoned off.
‘What, Vic? What? Shoot him?’
‘Nope. Just open the safe and bring me the cash.’
AJ is crestfallen and actually pouts, which might make him cute if he was thirty years younger and a person was ignorant of his tryst with Lady Liberty. He trudges to the bar and successfully opens a safe hidden behind a brewery mirror.
I chuckle. ‘Christ, he remembered the combination.’
Vic breaks out of his poker face for a fleeting smirk. ‘It’s 10–28–18–86. The date the Statue was dedicated.’
In spite of everything, I can’t hold in a guffaw, and maybe for a millisecond I admire Victor Jones.
‘You are an evil arsehole, Vic. But that was a good one. You’ll have to change the combination now.’
Vic accepts the compliment with a royal wave, then plucks a brick of cash from AJ’s fingers, plonking ten grand on the pot. ‘Your three, and seven more. Now you are screwed again, Daniel. No pay, no play.’
I have him. A sense of savage victory glows like a light bulb inside my skull, and I close my mouth to stop it shining out.
Ooooh, says Ghost Zeb. You think there’s actual light shining outta your Irish mouth? I think you better phone that guy Simon.
It’s a fair point.
‘Don’t worry, Vic. I’m playing. I got one more pocket.’
I pull out two more wedges, each one wrapped in cling film. Any more and I have to go into my socks.
‘I see the seven and raise it another three.’
Vic struggles with his expression. It’s a challenge to keep the poker mask in place, and a winding vein swells between his ear and eyebrow. If he folds, he’s down ten grand plus. I hear rumours that Vic owes money to some real criminals; losing ten grand could cost him a lot more than ten grand. His only hope is to bankrupt me.
‘Fuck you, doorman,’ he says, and is that a tremor in his voice? ‘All in.’ He throws in his final wedge like a grenade. ‘Now go the fuck home.’
It’s one of those moments that sucks the air out of a room. Whatever happens next is going to shape lives. All I need to do is up the ante by eight grand or so and I squash him. Even if I lose, I still got something. Brandi is leaning low across the table, doing her best to boob-blind me, and AJ is throwing back shots of Stoli at the bar one after the other, psyching himself up for the confrontation that is almost surely coming. I put together a quick fight plan. Soon as this is over, I deck that arsehole with my chair.
Eight grand. That’s all I need. But then I flash on Vic leaving Connie out there in the rain while he cleans house. I see his fat fingers squeezing the flesh of yet another girl as he’s leading her into the back room.
‘Thirty-five grand,’ I say, pulling the rolls out of my socks. ‘And fuck you, Vic.’
Vic’s breath comes hard, like he’s having an attack, and to be honest I don’t feel so hot myself. Both of the girls are crying now. A person would have to be deaf, blind and stupid not to realise that this can only end in violence now.
Vic’s mask collapses and suddenly his face is lined like a dried fruit. ‘Thirty-five grand. No way. No goddamn way.’
And I know then that Vic is screwed and that all he can do is pray that I am bluffing too.
‘You done, Vic? That it?’
Vic’s lip hangs fat and low like a slug. He’s getting a glimpse of his own future. Come collection day, things are going to be a little tight. He can’t afford to let that money leave the table.
‘That cash is not mine to lose. I owe Irish Mike twenty grand.’
Irish Mike again. The man is like a cancer.
‘All you have to do is buy a look at my cards.’
‘I’m out. Tapped.’
I reach in for the pot, hoarding it with my arms. ‘Sorry, Vic. No pay, no play.’ This is fine; this will do.
Vic watches the pot move across the table like it’s his life’s blood draining away.
‘There must be some way to work this out. I can owe you.’
‘Not an option. Your rules.’
‘I can kill you.’
‘You can try. Bigger men than you have tried. Go for your nine, see what happens.’
Vic bought a nine millimetre because that’s what the gangsters rapped about. I suspect that’s because of the easy rhyme.
‘It’s thirty grand just to see your cards. This is Cloisters, for Christ’s sake. Where am I going to get that kind of money?’
It’s laughable really. Has this man never heard the word irony?
‘Vic, you’ve been rolling girls back here for years. Every one of them begged you for a little leniency. You screwed them all. Cheated them, then screwed them.’ I pile up the cash and chips. ‘You still owe me for the chips. That’s four grand give or take. And I’ll take, if you don’t mind.’
Vic’s poker face has collapsed in on itself, and in its place is raw desperation.
‘Fuck you, doorman. I’ll see you. Let me see those cards.’
‘Show me your money.’
Vic wrings his hands, and the chains around his neck jangle. ‘I got the club.’
Bingo.
‘You don’t even own this fire hazard, shithole.’
Vic does not dispute my description. ‘I got a twenty-year lease. That’s gotta be worth fifty grand.’
‘Yeah? And I got a shoe that’s worth half a mil.’
‘Come on, Daniel. I’ll throw in the lease for a look-see.’
I mull this over. ‘If you win, you cut these girls loose anyway. And if you lose, then this club and every stick of furniture and bottle of booze in it belongs to me. I don’t want any haggling; this isn’t a divorce.’
Vic nods, not able to speak the words.
I push the pot back in. ‘Show me the lease.’
Brandi hurries to the open safe and fishes about. She can see where this is going. In two minutes there could be a regime change around here. She returns with a manila envelope tied with string.
‘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 on me for a living.
My transplants are itchy.
Thank God the wages were paid yesterday.
What about me? Ghost Zeb pitches in. Don’t forget about me.
And Zeb is still Irish Mike’s captive. Irish Mike who collects a little tribute every month from Slotz. It seems every time I crawl out of no-man’s-land, the earth tilts and rolls me back in.
I hear Brandi’s steel heels clacking across the casino floor and I decide to face the music before she launches into another tirade. I rise, check my skullcap in a remaining shard of busted mirror and duck under the door frame to meet my public.
It’s a weird feeling to have subordinates smiling at you; didn’t happen a lot in the army. Mostly in the army people muttered gobshite under their breath when I was dishing out orders. But here, all I’m getting is happy faces.
Jason is still riffing on ‘YMCA’.
‘Dan-Mac-Evoy,
Is fucking awesome,
Dan-Mac-Evoy,
Kicked Victor Jones’ goddamn ass!’
He abandons the song’s structure for the last line, but nevertheless his efforts earn him an enthusiastic round of applause.
‘Okay,’ I say, forcing a smile. ‘Okay. I thank you, Jason. The Village People thank you.’
More laughing. Marco tickles Jason in the ribs, which opens my eyes about a couple of things.
‘For tonight, we do everything as normal. Except the booths; no more hands-on in the booths. Anyone has a problem with that, talk to me later. Also, anyone working off a debt, you don’t owe me a dime, so from now on we all get paid.’
A couple of smiles from those no longer in the hole, but the hands-on girls don’t seem too thrilled.
‘If you get the opportunity to piss off Victor Jones, do not take it.’
‘Too late,’ chortles Jason, accepting multiple high fives. High fives? Christ, these guys are happy.
‘Don’t take it, because I don’t know how legal that poker game was.’
‘Legal?’ says Jason. ‘Vic’s been rolling girls for years back there. How legal was that?’
This is a good point.
‘You know any good lawyers, Danny?’ continues Jason.
Sure he does, says GZ. ’Cept Danny here has a tendency to get lawyers shot dead.
Marco trots across the floor, bearing a large Jameson on a scarred martini tray.
‘Here you are, Dan. You earned it.’
I accept the drink gratefully. The Irish whiskey is smooth going down, but has an aftershock like a jolt from a defibrillator.
‘Back to work everybody, enjoy the new management while it lasts. I need to think for a while.’
Brandi positions herself at my side. ‘That’s right, people. You heard the boss: back to work. We need to negotiate the booth action.’
Looks like I have a second in command.
First thing I do in Vic’s office is to kick Brandi out; the second is to rip down the porn. It’s not that I find naked women offensive; it’s just that I prefer the real thing. Also the pictures remind me of the previous occupant, and all the acts he claimed to have performed with the various club employees. Not images you want popping into your head in the course of a work day. Plus if Vic does manage to legal me out of here, I would like out of sheer vindictiveness to mess up his system as much as I can before he does it.
I don’t know how Vic got anything done. His work surface is a jumble of magazine towers, burger cartons and wadded foil wrappers. There’s a trash can in the corner that looks like it exploded some time in the nineties, and the window blinds are streaked brown and yellow from decades of cigar smoke.
I wipe the boss’s chair off and sit down, and that’s about as far as my plan extends.
Adjust the chair.
It’s a nice touch. I lower the chair six inches so Vic will get an unexpected little shock. Little nuggets like this keep a man going.
So sit down, and then what? Payrolls, overheads, rent, booze orders, cash deposits.
My transplanted follicles are begging for a scratching, something Zeb forbade me to do.
I didn’t employ five students and spend eight hours separating your follicles to have you scratch the little bastards out again. No touching for a month.
Hands flat on the table, I tell myself. Do not touch the new hair. It’s hard to believe how difficult not scratching is. I’ve waded through plenty of hard and distasteful tasks in my careers, but right at this moment, keeping my palms glued to the desk ranks right up there with any of them. Including latrine digging in the Lebanon.
I try to focus on something else, and the first thing that pops into my head is: Keerist almighty beep.
What did Sofia mean by that? Where did the beep come from? There was no beep mentioned the first time around. Where the hell do you even hear a beep these days? Maybe there was a car passing by.
Or maybe. . Something almost occurs to me, but I don’t let the thought materialise fully in case there’s something to it. I can deal with this eventuality if it becomes a possibility.
I follow the cable across Vic’s desk and unearth the phone beneath a pyramid of ledgers. There’s no one at the number I’m calling. Of course not, it’s my own number. I count the rings until my answer machine cuts in, then punch in my password.
One message.
Hey, guy. Doorman guy. Listen, you probably don’t remember me, you get schmucks all the time, right? Keerist almighty, I hate machines. Okay. Anyway, listen. . Oh, this is Jaryd Faber, by the way, the lawyer you ejected last night. Deservedly so, I might add. I got your number from Vic, and the thing is that I enjoy Slotz, the club, shithole though it may be. Passing a few hours with the cards and the babes. I don’t want to give that up, so I just wanted you to know that I smoothed things over with Vic, what a prince, and I’m back in. In case you see me before you see him, no need to throw a punch. What do you say, let bygones be bygones? Live and let live. Maybe I can buy you a drink or a new suit. Okay? We straight? No hard feelings. I hate saying fucking sorry for anything, but there it is. Accept it or not, you should be fucking delighted by the way, if you knew who I was and what I could do to you. Keerist almighty.
Then the tape runs out and there’s a beep.
Keerist almighty beep.
I hold the phone at arm’s length, like it’s lied to me.
Sofia heard my answerphone. Faber was never at the apartment. I set the cops on the wrong man.
He was the right man for the cops, says Ghost Zeb. Just the wrong man for killing Connie and trashing your place.
And he’s dead now. It’s my fault.
No arguing with that.
So who did kill Connie? Who wrecked my apartment?
A shadow falls across my face and I look up.
‘Well it’s about time,’ says Irish Mike Madden. ‘I’ve been chasing your pale arse all over town.’