She tuned back in to Bine, took a hit of the speed her own self, washed it down with today’s special, Jack Daniel’s. Bine was into his rap. She’d missed the starters, never no mind, it wasn’t too difficult to play catch-up. He said,
“Now this cat Stewart, the ex-dope dealer, is a whole different ball game than the lesbian and Taylor. This dude has interests in the head shops, so that tells us the guy is clued in. He did six years in the Joy and no, I don’t mean an English barmaid, I’m talking h-e-a-v-y time in Mountjoy. So the dude is cool, into some Zen bullshite, but real laid-back and real sharp. I’m thinking, like, we got to waste the dude, right when we make our move, no bringing him back to base, just close his case there and then.”
He’d been OD’ing on Pulp Fiction again.
Bethany was dizzy trying to sort out his American expressions and distorted brain sequence. Bine looked at Jimmy, said, “Your assignment is to watch this guy, twenty-four-seven. You hear what I’m saying? Like all the time, and when you get his routine down-and I mean like cold bro-you report back.”
Jimmy was down all right, and nodding, not from the assignment but from the sheer amount of coke he had inhaled. His brother, always the sharper of the two, asked,
“Who’s going to put out this dude’s lights?”
Bine smiled, his recent tongue ring still not healed, so his mouth looked like the sorry pit of disease, said,
“Eeny
Meeny
Miney
Mo.
Catch a retard by the toe…”
His finger stopped at Bethany. He gave her that look that scared her, like he knew what she’d been thinking and was way ahead in the fuck you department. He asked,
“You cool babe? You up for this?”
She shrugged, said,
“Whatever.”
Getting enough boredom in there to convince him. It seemed to. He asked,
“You gonna go up close and in the dude’s face, like with the Stanley-or you wanna waste him mega, like with the AK?”
She risked a look into his eyes and just saw the psycho megalomania, said,
“I’m thinking, the blade, yah know? Send a message to Taylor, let him know, like, it’s on the edge, like we’re burning bad.”
Even with drugs, sometimes she found it difficult to trot out the half-arsed Americanisms and ghetto gangsta shite. But he bought it, said,
“I’m liking it, lady. I’m real up on this.”
Bine downed his tumbler of Jack, gulped as it hit, turned to the blowup of the school, and then, reaching for a samurai sword-which was still legal to buy in Ireland-pointed out the entrance, said,
“I’m thinking, the bros go in here.”
Paused, did a little flick with the sword, nearly dropped it, which they’d have to pretend not to have seen, recovered, said,
“Here, the back, me and the babe, we’ll do our mojo from here, start killing the retards as they head for the exit.”
He let that hover. Jimmy asked,
“You got a head count in mind?”
Bine graced him with a bow, said,
“I’m thinking twenty-four would be, like, adequate.”
Fever Kill
– Tom Piccirilli
We got to Nimmo’s ten minutes before the appointed time and in silence. Both of us thinking on Caz, but for wholly different reasons. Kosta, no doubt, wondering how much of a stand-up guy I was going to be. And me, thinking, how much of a friend do you have to be for me not to kill you?
Jesus, ghosts must do again what once they had thought was over and done.
A BMW, shining new, was already there, blocking the end of the pier. Kosta said,
“Ah. How predictable. He so likes his expensive toys.”
His eyes aglow with such venom that I could have lit a cig from them, he ordered,
“Reach in the bag for the satchel. The money is in that-the money he thinks is his.”
I gave it to him and he asked, without looking at me,
“Ready?”
“As rain.”
We got out, waited by the Volvo. The BMW bathed us in its lights. Two figures emerged, began to stroll towards us. Caz was nervous, I could see it in the slope of his shoulders. And he didn’t even know yet that I was part of the gig.
Edward.
Edward was glorious. Beautifully coiffed blond hair, permanent tan, aviator shades, and, of course, of fucking course, an Armani suit.
Jesus, didn’t anyone dress down anymore?
He was striking in the way that certain sharks are. You could admire their sleekness but you didn’t ever want to get close. He said,
“Who is this? I told you Kosta, I told you to come alone.”
Now I could see Caz’s nervous eyes and the twist in his body language. He was trying to say,
“No problem.”
Kosta said,
“My driver, like you have.”
Edward was enjoying the rush, the sense of calling the shots, asked,
“Has he got a name?”
Kosta was totally relaxed, said,
“Employee.”
Edward enjoyed that a lot. Asked,
“You got my money?”
I kept hoping the macho posing, the cock of the walk-or pier-bullshit would be all we’d have to deal with. These guys were having themselves a fine old time, strutting and mind fucking. Kosta threw the satchel at his feet. Edward, without looking at Caz, said,
“Count it.”
As Caz knelt, and began to do that, Kosta asked,
“How do I know this is the last time?”
Edward laughed, said,
“You don’t know shit, I’ll let you know when I’m done.”
Kosta looked at me and I slid the Mossberg out, racked the slide. Edward laughed harder, asked,
“Is that to scare me…whoo-eh, I’m so afraid. Fuck your employee, fuck you.”
I shot him in the face, range of about five yards.
The proximity nearly took his head off -clean off. Caz, on his knees, looked up as pieces of brain and gore splattered over the money and his face was a study of pure bewilderment. He began to rise when Kosta shot him between the eyes, a great shot if you weren’t a friend of the one on the receiving end.
He moved fast, stood over Caz, put in the coup de grace. He glanced at me, the Mossberg still in position, and with his boot shoved Edward into the water. Then he turned, plucked the sodden notes from my dead friend’s hand, pushed them in the satchel, said,
“You drive the Volvo, I’ll follow in their car.”
A moment.
The gun in my hand, my mutilated hand, still hot from the firing, and I thought,
“Yah think?”
But Kosta was up and moving and I’d have to shoot him in the back.
He said,
“Jack, I’m truly sorry for your friend.”
I said,
“Not my friend anymore.”
Lowered the Mossberg and got in the Volvo, reversed, turned towards the city, looked in my mirror to see Kosta boot my friend into the dark water. Said,
“Codladh samh leat mo chara.”
….Sleep safe my friend.
Yeah.
I felt as fucking hollow as the words.
We got to Kosta’s home, parked the cars, and, standing outside, he touched my shoulder, said,
“Let’s get inside, get some serious drink in us.”
I shrugged him off, said,
“Oh, I intend to get some serious drinking done but not with you, not now.”
I began to walk down the driveway, knowing the thugs were at the gates in every sense, and my back exposed to Kosta.
If he’d shot me, I felt he would have truly done me a service.
He didn’t.
I made my slow way into town, got into a crowded Sheridan’s on the docks, ordered a large Jay, took it outside so I could smoke and get wasted. As I was doing this a guy approached, started,
“Jack.”
Without looking, I said,
“Fuck off.”
And looked across the Claddagh basin to the pier. The double Jameson didn’t erase what lay beneath the water. I don’t think they’ve invented that drink yet, the one that wipes the slate clean of utter treachery.
Pick battles big enough to matter, small enough to win.