Believe me, Dan. Something happened.
I know what happened. Zeb offered me a good deal, started showing me pictures, got my vanity stoked.
If you got hair, then maybe you ain’t so old and your life ain’t so over.
Zeb could sell shit to a sewage plant. Zeb is such a good salesman that he can literally charge a guy to inject him with the fat that he just sucked out of his ass.
‘Bloody bastards. This is a sterile environment’ were the first words Zeb ever spoke to me, and I knew straight away by the scout boots sticking out of his scrubs that this guy was Israeli army, something Sergeant Fletcher was too busy to notice as he had a finger jammed halfway up his nose.
‘I got this bump in my nose, see?’ he said, voice muted by the digit in his nostril. ‘Makes me snore something terrible. I need you to fix it.’
The doctor looks a little like the Bee Gee who married Lulu, if he had just run into a sheet of plate glass. You either get that or you don’t.
He finished injecting the unconscious guy’s penis and petulantly threw the syringe into a metal sink.
‘Come on, guys. I’m doing dick fat here. It’s touchy work. This man is a big shot in some militia or other.’
I have to say, I was a little surprised. Even for Mingi Street, an underground cosmetic surgery was pretty radical, though I had heard of a place in Sudan that did organ transplants. You’d be amazed how quickly a matching donor can be found. This Israeli guy was a real entrepreneur, especially since ninety per cent of the locals would have no hesitation sticking him with every one of his own needles. I guess you get a pass if you provide a valuable service.
Fletcher withdrew his finger. ‘What about my nose, Doc?’ ‘Does this look like a Swiss clinic? Injectables only,’ said the man I would later know as Zeb. ‘No rhino.’
‘Who are you calling a rhino?’ said Tommy, and shot Zeb in the kneecap.
Okay, that didn’t happen, but I can dream.
I don’t sleep so well after my run-in with Mrs Delano. Probably has something to do with me realising that my upstairs neighbour is beautiful-ish in a psycho kind of way, though all the dead and dying, Connie especially, has put a dent in my libido. I feel a little treacherous that I’m not mourning Zeb yet, but I haven’t seen him on the asphalt so I’m nursing a spark of hope.
Not feeling safe is the main thing keeping me awake, even more than the morning sun, though I reckon the hoods won’t be making the rounds till noon at least. These Celtic gangsters are whores for the Jameson and Coke. But once the sun crosses the yardarm, Mike Madden’s boys might pay another visit, see if they can’t find a few more things to break. I cover the door with a wardrobe. If any arseholes come through that, they’ll think they’re in Narnia. I hang a Joshua Tree poster over the window. Not bulletproof, but a puzzler. It’s all misdirection, which only works if the misdirected are somewhere in between dumb and smart. Many of the best soldiers in the world have shit for brains and a photo of their target.
How did they find me anyway? Does Irish Mike have something specific, or just a list of known associates?
I puzzle on this, as eventually my mind sinks down into the black rings of sleep. Trust in Bono.
Thank God. Nearly there. Some rest finally.
Then, wouldn’t you know, a thought occurs to me. One of those notions that banishes sleep, like a stiff wind blowing away cobwebs.
Kee-rist almighty.
That’s what Delano said. Kee-rist. Not plain old Christ. Now where have I heard that recently? Yesterday. The day before.
And suddenly I’m bolt upright in my bed. That guy, with the Styrofoam hair. The licker, what was his name?
I have it even before I pull the card from my wallet.
Faber, the attorney. With all the rioting in the club that night, this guy Faber completely slipped my mind.
Delano repeats what she hears, and she heard Kee-rist. Faber was here, and he trashed my place.
I’m on my feet, pacing around the room, punching a fist into my palm, which I stop doing when I realise how drama queen it feels. There’s no sitting this out even if I wanted to. Faber knows where I lay my head and he’s obviously got backup. A runt like him didn’t do this damage on his own. That arsehole couldn’t even lift the microwave.
This is not about Zeb, this is about Connie. Faber killed her and he’s looking for me.
That’s it. It must be. Christ, surely nobody kills anybody over an arse-licking? I witnessed Faber’s beef with Connie and I broke it up. Could it be that straightforward?
Everyone wants to kill me lately; it’s enough to make a fellow paranoid. As Dr Moriarty often quipped, You know something, Dan. Just because everyone really is out to get you doesn’t mean you’re not insane. I always thought that sentence had a couple too many negatives.
Three hours later, I’m still awake, thinking. The old grey cells keep churning out the theories, which I hammer out with Ghost Zeb.
Faber killed Connie.
Possibly.
And you know this how?
Because a crazy lady used his pet phrase.
That is pretty fucking thin, as Riggs and Murtaugh have been known to say.
The world is built on thin. Ask George W.
So, assuming it was the guy Faber. Why?
Because Connie slapped him. Because he’s a psycho.
Pretty harsh revenge for a slap. And Faber did not seem like a weapons guy.
What about his help? You don’t know who’s carrying steel for him.
Good point.
Thank you.
So, we’re going to the police.
There’s no we, just me. And I do not want the police poking around in my business.
Because of the whole killing-a-gangster thing.
Exactly. So what should we do next?
There’s a we now?
I flash on Tommy Fletcher. At this point he is back to being a corporal, following an incident where he doused a sheep with gasoline, set it on fire then actually ate a large portion. There was quite a lot of home-brewed hooch involved. Tommy is belly down on a bluff overlooking no-man’s-land, loosing rounds from his FN at rangy wild dogs.
‘You shooting mutts, Corporal?’ I ask him.
‘Nah,’ says Tommy, grinning. ‘I’m shooting close to the mutts, watching ’em jump.’
I close my eyes and feel sleep rolling over me like a wave of thick fog.
Shoot close and watch them jump. That’s more or less doing nothing. It’s aggressive passivity.
Simon would be so proud.
I met Zeb for the second time when I was doing my time on a door in Brooklyn. It was a club called Queers, which was trying to attract the pink pound but was pulling in the irony-loving New York arty-farts. This was not my finest hour, as the boss had his bouncers in spangly waistcoats and mascara. Any photos from this era would not be going on my website, if I had one. It was a brief era anyhow, I lasted about a week before I got a rash on my eyelids and decided it was either buy some hypoallergenic make-up out of my own pocket, or quit. I chose the latter.
So I was on the door on my last night at Queers, figuring the shit quotient went up roughly two hundred per cent when the doorman was wearing mascara, when this guy rolls up off his face on just about whatever he could stuff in there. I did the five-finger spread on his chest, just so he’d know right off how big my hand was.
‘Sir, don’t even ask. You are not coming on the premises.’