The Eternity Code (Artemis Fowl 3)

Jon Spiro stuck a cigar into the corner of his mouth. He did not light it. His doctors had forbidden it. Politely.

“And if Fowl were alive?”

Pearson knew a lifeline when it was being thrown to him.

“If Fowl were alive, he would be a lot easier to break than an eternity code.”

“Okay, Doc,” said Spiro. “You’re dismissed. You don’t want to hear what’s coming next.”

Pearson gathered his notes and hurried for the door. He tried not to look at the face of the woman at the table. If he didn’t hear what came next, he could kid himself that his conscience was clear. And if he hadn’t actually seen the woman at the conference table, then he couldn’t pick her out of a lineup.

“It looks like we have a problem,” said Spiro to the woman in the dark suit.

The woman nodded. Everything she wore was black. Black power suit, black blouse, black stilettos. Even the Rado watch on her wrist was jet black.

“Yes. But it’s my kind of problem.”

Carla Frazetti was goddaughter to Spatz Antonelli, who ran the downtown branch of the Antonelli crime family. Carla operated as liaison between Jon Spiro and Antonelli, possibly the two most powerful men in Chicago. Spiro had learned early in his career, that businesses allied to the Mob tended to florish.

Carla checked her manicured nails. “It seems to me that you only have one option, you nab the Fowl kid, and squeeze him for this code.”

Spiro sucked on his unlit cigar, thinking about it. “It’s not that straightforward. The kid runs a tight operation. Fowl Manor is like a fortress.”

Carla smiled. “This is a thirteen-year-old kid we’re talking about, right?”

“He’ll be fourteen in six months,” said Spiro defensively. “Anyway, there are complications.”

“Such as?”

“Arno is injured. Somehow Fowl blew his teeth out.”

“Ouch,” said Carla, wincing.

“He can’t even stand in a breeze, never mind head up an operation.”

“That’s a shame.”

“In fact, the kid incapacitated all my best people. They’re on a dental plan too. It’s going to cost me a fortune. No, I need some outside help on this one.”

“You want to contract the job to us?”

“Exactly. But it’s got to be the right people. Ireland is an Old World kind of place. Wise guys are going to stick out a mile. I need guys who blend in and can persuade a kid to accompany them back here. Easy money.”

Carla winked. “I read you, Mr. Spiro.”

“So, you got guys like that? Guys who can take care of business without drawing attention to themselves?”

“The way I see it, you need a metal man and a monkey.”

Spiro nodded, familiar with Mob slang. A metal man carried the gun, and a monkey got into hard-to-reach places.

“We have two such men on our books. I can guarantee they won’t attract the wrong kind of attention in Ireland. But it won’t be cheap.”

“Are they good?” asked Spiro.

Carla smiled. One of her incisors was inset with a tiny ruby.

“Oh, they’re good,” she replied. “These guys are the best.”

The Inkblot tattoo parlor, downtown Chicago

Loafers McGuire was having a tattoo done. A skull’s head in the shape of the ace of spades. It was his own design, and he was very proud of it. So proud in fact, that he’d wanted the tattoo on his neck. Inky Burton, the tattooist, managed to change Loafers’ mind, arguing that neck tattoos were better than a name tag when the cops wanted to ID a suspect. Loafers relented. Okay, he’d said. Put it on my forearm.

Loafers had a tattoo done after every job. There wasn’t much skin left on his body that still retained its original color. That was how good Loafers McGuire was at his job.

Loafers’ real name was Aloysius, and he hailed from the Irish town of Kilkenny. He’d come up with the nickname Loafers himself, because he thought it sounded more Mob-like than Aloysius. All his life, Loafers had wanted to be a mobster, just like the guys in the movies. When his efforts to start a Celtic Mafia had failed, Loafers came to Chicago.

The Chicago Mob welcomed him with open arms. Actually, one of their enforcers grabbed him in a bear hug. Loafers sent that man and six of his buddies to the Mother of Mercy Hospital. Not bad for a guy five feet tall. Eight hours after stepping off the plane, Loafers was on the payroll.

And here he was, two years and several jobs later, already the Antonellis’ top metal man. His specialties were robbery and debt collection. Not the usual line of work for fiveooters. But then, Loafers was not the usual five-footer. Loafers leaned back in the tattooist’s adjustable chair. “You like the shoes, Inky?” Inky blinked sweat from his eyes. You had to be careful ith Loafers. Even the most innocent question could be a trap. One wrong answer and you could find yourself making your excuses to Saint Peter.

“Yeah. I like ’em. What are they called?” “Loafers!” snapped the tiny gangster. “Loafers, idiot.

They’re my trademark.” “Oh yeah, loafers. I forgot. Cool, havin’ a trademark.” Loafers checked the progress on his arm. “You ready ith that needle yet?” “Just ready,” replied Inky. “I’m finished painting on the uidelines. I just gotta put in a fresh needle.” “It’s not gonna hurt, is it?” Of course it is, moron, thought Inky, I’m sticking a neele in your arm. But out loud he said, “Not too much. I gave your arm a swab of anesthetic.” “It better not hurt,” warned Loafers. “Or you’ll be hurting shortly afterward.” Nobody threatened Inky except Loafers McGuire. Inky did all the Mob’s tattoo work. He was the best in the state. Carla Frazetti pushed through the door. Her black-suited legance seemed out of place in the dingy establishment. “Hello, boys,” she said. “Hello, Miss Carla,” said Inky, blushing deeply. You didn’t get too many ladies in the Inkblot.

Loafers jumped to his feet. Even he respected the boss’s goddaughter.

“Miss Frazetti. You could have beeped me. No need for you to come down to this dump.”

“No time for that. This is urgent. You leave straightaway.”

“I’m leaving. Where am I going?”

“Ireland. Your Un

cle Pat is sick.”

Loafers frowned. “Uncle Pat? I don’t have an Uncle Pat.”

Carla tapped the toe of one stiletto. “He’s sick, Loafers. Real sick, if you catch my drift.”

Loafers finally caught on. “Oh, I get it. So I gotta pay him a visit.”

“That’s it. That’s exactly how sick he is.”

Loafers used a rag to clean the ink off his arm.

“Okay, I’m ready. Are we going straight to the airport?”

Carla winked at the tiny gangster. “Soon, Loafers. But first we need to pick up your brother.”

“I don’t have a brother,” protested Loafers.

“Of course you do. The one with the keys to Uncle Pat’s house. He’s a regular little monkey.”

“Oh,” said Loafers. “That brother.”

Loafers and Carla took the limo out to the East Side. Loafers was still awed by the sheer size of American buildings. In Kilkenny there was nothing over five stories, and Loafers himself had lived all his life in a suburban bungalow. Not that he would ever admit that to his Mob friends. For their benefit he had reinvented himself as an orphan who had spent his youth in and out of various foster homes.

“Who’s the monkey?” he asked.

Carla Frazetti was fixing her jet black hair in a compact mirror. It was short and slicked back.

“A new guy. Mo Digence. He’s Irish, like you. It makes things very convenient. No visas, no papers, no elaborate cover story. Just two short guys home for the holidays.”

Loafers bristled. “What do you mean, two short guys?”

Carla snapped the compact shut. “Who are you talking to, McGuire? Because you couldn’t be talking to me. Not in that tone.”

Loafers paled, his life flashing before him.

“I’m sorry, Miss Frazetti. It’s just the short thing. I’ve been listening to it my whole life.”

“What do you want people to call you? Lofty? You’re short, Loafers. Get over it. That’s what gives you your edge. My godfather always says; there’s nothing more dangerous than a short guy with something to prove. That’s why you’ve got a job.”