Plugged (Daniel McEvoy 1)

I nod obligingly. ‘Well, it doesn’t get much more down and dirty than Slotz.’

‘Yessir, Vic is quite a character.’

‘He’s the boss.’

The attorney works up the courage to step closer. ‘Here, I’m the boss!’

This mood swing is driven home with a backhanded slap across my face. I roll my head with the blow, but honestly I needn’t have bothered.

I spit on the floor; no blood, just spit. ‘What do you want from me, Faber? How come I’m not dead?’

‘You’re not dead, Dan, because I need to know what you know,’ says Faber, jiggling his glasses for some reason. Maybe it’s supposed to signify that these spectacles can see into my soul.

‘About what? These drugs that you can’t get?’

‘Keep going, doorman.’

‘Goran used to get your drugs. You two had some kind of scam going.’

‘And we have a winner. Give that prick a cigar.’

I feel utterly screwed. Somehow, up to this point I had managed to nurture a spark of optimism. I’ve been in worse scrapes, that sort of thing. But now, with Goran’s eyes filming and Deacon strapped to the gurney, I am suddenly devastated. The steel and concrete are too real, and the walls are closing in.

‘I don’t know anything, Faber. I’m only here because of the girl.’

Faber teases his Styrofoam hair with greasy fingers. ‘What girl?’

‘Take your pick. You got one dead, one more or less dead and one on the gurney.’

‘What? The stripper? That’s why you put the cops on to me?’

‘She was murdered. And it’s hostess.’

‘You think I killed her?’

‘I know you killed her, arsehole.’

Faber paces the kitchen, counting off points on his fingers. ‘So you tip Deacon about my fight with Connie. I freak because of this deal we have tonight. Deacon gets suspicious and Goran makes an on-the-spot decision to whack her, which doesn’t work out. Then Deacon’s whacking also falls a little short. So Goran calls me to come get her.’

Faber is filling in a lot of blanks here. Obviously at this point he doesn’t care what I know, which is never good. Being filled in is okay when you’re a kid and you need basic information about numbers and poisonous foods and such, but in my world knowledge gets a person dead quicker than anthrax.

‘I had a shootout with your boys right outside the door,’ I point out to the pointer. ‘The cops are going to find us soon.’

Faber is delighted by this observation, presumably because it’s way off base.

‘No cops, my friend. I own a lot of property, including this entire lot and the basement where we picked up Goran.’ The attorney squats to think quietly. ‘No,’ he says finally, knees creaking as he stands. ‘I can’t think of a way out. The three of you need to die. It’s tough about the product, but you know, sometimes you gotta eat losses.’

You can’t just let a statement like this fade without argument. ‘Wait a second, Faber. You have heavies. Can’t they get your product?’

I don’t use words like product or heavies. They sound 2D coming out of my mouth. I half expect them to plop in cardboard letters to the floor.

Faber chuckles like he’s fond of me. ‘What? These dummies? I wouldn’t let them pick up my mail. No offence, guys. This whole thing is too complicated without Goran.’

The dummies shrug amiably. No offence taken.

Faber pats his pockets, looking for something, or maybe he’s just twitchy.

‘This is a big step for me. Cop killing. There’s no going back after this.’

The attorney seems genuinely worried, but I feel it’s more a logistics thing than anything to do with a conscience, which riles me enough to comment:

‘Kill a hostess though, that’s okay. No foul as far as you’re concerned. Connie had two kids, Faber.’

‘Can you get off that, please?’ sighs Faber. ‘You’ve got a couple of minutes left. Use it well. Why not beg for your life?’

‘You beg for yours.’

Faber does this weird little tap dance with a ta-dah at the end, which his dummies actually applaud. This whole fake-rat-pack thing has gotta be unhealthy. Simon would get a couple of chapters out of the guy.

‘Okay, sir,’ says Faber, like I’m in the front row of his show. ‘I would like you to know that I regret the whole Slotz thing. Something about that sleazy shithole dump appeals to me and I never wanted to blot my card there. There’s a lot to be said for getting a cheap blow job at the end of the day without bumping into the mayor. I’m not apologising again, it would be a bit rich in the circumstances, but I do regret the incident. That’s all I’m saying.’

Apologising again? I don’t remember the first time.

‘So, I’m gonna have you three killed. I feel okay about that now, but I suppose I’ll probably lose some sleep over the years.’

A single silenced gunshot pops, like a smoker coughing into his fist. Goran spasms, then lies still.

Faber squeaks with fright, then recovers himself. ‘What the hell?’ he shouts, actually stamping a foot. ‘Never when I’m in the room! How many goddamn times? If I don’t see it, then it didn’t happen.’

It happened. It definitely happened. Maybe Goran was dying, but now she’s dead.

‘Sorry, Mister Faber,’ mumbles the shooter. ‘Won’t do it again.’

Faber’s pointing finger is a fan. ‘I know you won’t. I know you fucking won’t, Wilbur.’

Wilbur? I can’t hold in a chuckle. After all this time, done in by a Wilbur.

Wilbur shoots me a venomous look. ‘Can I kill him first, Mister Faber?’

‘Of course you can. Just wait until . . .’

‘Until you’re outside the door.’

‘Very good. When you hear it click, then fire away. Get rid of the bodies at the smelter.’

Smelter? A word like that makes everything real all of a sudden. So practical.

‘Hey, Faber.’

The attorney waves me away. ‘Too late, Daniel. I have to be in court in an hour. As the judge might say, your appeal is denied.’

Tell him you can get his drugs, suggests Ghost Zeb.

Faber has his hand on the doorknob.

‘I can get your drugs,’ I say. I suppose you could say I blurt the words. A bit more squeak in the promise than I’d like.

The attorney steps slowly away from the door as if a sudden movement could make the knob go click.

‘Say that again, Daniel.’

A fly zapper on the wall sparks as some poor insect gets too close to the light.

‘I said, I can get your product.’

Faber drags a chair across the concrete floor and sits himself down facing me.

‘I suppose it couldn’t hurt to talk.’

CHAPTER 9

So now I’ve got this thing under the leg of my jeans. A security bracelet, Faber called it, quite popular with the celebs. Feels like there’s a mutant beetle clamped on to my ankle, waiting to sink its teeth or claws, or whatever weapons a mutant beetle might possess, into my fibula. It’s a clever little machine, no doubt about it. I’m surprised they’ve even got stuff like this outside the pages of a sci-fi novel.

Faber took great glee from explaining its workings to me. He came across like a techno-fool who knows how this one thing works, and bores the bejasus out of everyone passing on his snippet of know-how.

‘So what we have here, Daniel, is a little electronic insurance policy. Judge friend of mine gave it to me in payment for my opinion on a statutory case he was . . . eh . . . involved in. Homeland are already using them and there’s a strong lobby to snap them on US parolees too, given the percentage of repeat offenders.’

‘Yeah? Spare me the lecture, Faber,’ I said, playing it cool.

‘Okay. Let me give you the specs. It’s tamper-proof, naturally; there’s a sensor on there that monitors pulse and blood pressure; it’s got GPS that feeds into my laptop, so we know exactly what building

you’re in at any time. You nip into the john for a quick dump, and the bracelet picks up the splash. But here’s the bit I really love. I can remotely inflict electromuscular disruption if you ain’t doing what you’re supposed to be doing where you’re supposed to be doing it. Or to give you the doorman version: I can zap enough voltage up your ass to make you shit your pants. This thing makes the Taser shock seem like a tickle with a feather.’

And then Faber gave me a little taste, just to show me he wasn’t kidding. Felt like he popped my brain into a blender; by the time it was over, I was giving serious consideration to the aforementioned pants-shitting.

So now I am Faber’s boy. He’s got the key to my heart rate. I spend a minute trying to think of some way to screw with him, but it’s a foolproof system, and so I settle down in my seat at the back of the New York bus and try to grab a little sleep. Maybe a low heart rate will fool Faber into thinking I’m dead.

I cross my ankles over the canvas bag at my feet. At least Faber’s plan involved me catching a bus, so I got to collect my weapons and drop off my cash after I had picked it up from the cruiser.

It takes most of the day to get out to Farmington from New York. First a train to New Haven from Manhattan, then a transit bus. It might speed things up a bit if the driver didn’t stop at every corner in Long Island on the way. Seems like everyone knows his name except me. I don’t know why I’m fuming; it’s not like I’m in any great hurry to get where I’m going. Plus the rocking motion should help me to digest the sack of Taco Bell I bought at Grand Central. I wolfed it down a little quick, my first proper meal in over twenty-four hours. When you’re having a crappy week, nothing comforts like Taco Bell.

I have to admit, standing there under Grand Central’s famous vaulted ceiling, I did think about nipping to the rest room, sticking my foot down a toilet and putting a few rounds into the bracelet.

How tough can this thing be? Ghost Zeb reasoned, eager to have me back on his own case.