Wolf Tickets (18 page)

If I didn't want to kill O'Brien before, I sure as shite did now.

Cobb's eyes were smiling, but his face was stone. He scribbled on the pad and held out the note for me.

just like home eh?

I balled the note. "I think I preferred you when you were a proper mute."

A girl with a greasy ponytail skirted past, loaded up with dirty plates. A staircase led up to a mezzanine level, and from that mezzanine came the smell of school dinners. I found a menu on the bar. I hadn't been far off about the cuisine: there was some stuffed herring, something called a cod cobbler, the usual gristly pub steaks, but mostly variations on corned beef and cabbage with – ha-ha-ha – plenty of potatoes on there, too. I flung the menu aside. It fluttered off into the middle of the room.

Cobb leaned against the bar. A spotty guy wearing a green waistcoat looked at the pumps instead of his customer. Cobb waved at the barman, then tapped the Guinness draft.

"No, Jimmy. Get a Kronenberg or something. These English lads can't pour."

The spotty barman looked hurt.

"No offence, son, but if my man here wanted to drink vinegar, he'd order a pint of Sarsons."

Cobb tapped the Kronenberg sign, held up two fingers. The barman went to work. "That'll be eight pounds, please."

Another Post-It:
these irish prices?

"I know, it's a crying shame. You take Euros, son?"

"I don't know. I'll have to ask the manager."

"You do that."

Cobb jerked his head at the retreating barman.

"Just wait, Jimmy." I knew what I was doing.

The barman returned with a skeleton in a green jacket. I took this guy to be the manager, and I didn't need to see him in a short-sleeved shirt to know he was tracked from elbow to wrist. He took one look at me, a couple of looks at Cobb, and decided we weren't welcome. Thing was, he didn't know what to do about it yet.

"You're the manager, are you?"

"Yeah."

"Really?"

"What seems to be the trouble here, gentlemen?"

"Bloody hell, that was almost polite. Sure, I almost feel like I'm back home."

Cobb wrote on his pad. He handed me the note:
i know this cunt

I nodded at him. "Uh-huh. Now what was the trouble? I don't think there was one, actually. I was just asking your fella here if you took Euros."

"I'm afraid not. Sterling only."

"Irish pub that doesn't take Euros? I never thought I'd see the day."

"You're not in Ireland."

"Could've fooled me." I squinted at him. "What's your name again?"

Another note from Cobb, slapped into a waiting hand:
robbie keegan

"Robbie, isn't it?" I said.

Keegan blinked. Score one for Cobb.

"I know you?" he said.

"I think you might know my strong and silent friend over here."

Keegan shook his head. "Never seen him before."

"You sure?"

"I would've remembered."

"He was much prettier when you last saw him." I smiled at him, gave him the teeth. "So where's O'Brien, then? Where're you hiding him?"

"Sorry?"

"You will be. Frank O'Brien, Robbie."

"I don't know him."

"He's your gaffer."

Keegan's face tightened. "I don't know him."

Looked as if he was about to shit his breeches, but it wasn't us he was afraid of. Not yet, anyway. Cobb wrote me a note:
hes a fuckin liar

"Thanks, Jimmy. My friend thinks you're telling porkies, Robbie." I showed the note to Keegan. "See?"

Cobb took a sip from his pint, and then spat it on the floor. He gave me the thumbs-down, then pointed at the restaurant.

"Have a ball, Jimmy." I waited for him to leave, then quacked my hand at Keegan. "Yap-yap-yap. Sure, he never shuts up."

"Where's he going?"

"He's hungry."

Cobb stopped halfway up the stairs and cracked his knuckles.

"Do you have reservations?"

"Well, I don't like the decor, but I don't think Jimmy's bothered."

Keegan stalked out from behind the bar. I stalked with him. He flipped the hatch and I put a hand on his jacket. When he turned my way, I put my other hand in his chest and slammed the breath out of him. Keegan's mouth dropped. He rasped. I shoved him back behind the bar and into the pumps. The drip trays clattered behind him. He tried to speak, but he couldn't find the air to do it. He gesticulated at the barman. I slapped him in the middle of the forehead. "Go on, call the police, Robbie. See what happens then."

Keegan's face twisted up. He opened his mouth and exhaled like he was trying to kill me with his halitosis, then he whooped in some breath. His bottom lip was slick with spittle when he said, "You don't know who you're dealing with, mate."

"Took the words right out of my mouth, Robbie."

"Then you know you're fuckin' dead, the pair of—"

I smacked him hard enough to stop him talking and start him bleeding. He dropped quicker than I thought he would. The barman hadn't moved. He held up both hands. "I don't want any trouble, alright, mate? This is minimum wage, this."

"Stay where you are and we won't have a problem."

Looked like Keegan had sparked out on me. I took Cobb's dodgy pint and chucked it over him. He jerked awake with a noise like he'd just been dunked. He coughed, spluttered, the usual carry on.

"Robbie, you going to tell me what I need to know?"

I heard drinkers scrape chairs, not sure if they could move without me knowing it. Exactly the way we wanted it. Bring a little tension to the afternoon drinking session.

"I don't know what you want."

"Frank O'Brien."

"I don't know him."

I dragged him out from behind the bar and slung him across the floor. He skidded to a stop right where everyone could see him. He made a move to get up, but I'd already taken the three-step warm up and planted the steel toes in his balls. He screeched, rolled and then spewed. The men in the audience sucked breath and stopped their women from saying anything in case they were next.

"I've got all day and two feet, Robbie. You want to keep what's left of your jewels, you need to tell me what I need to know, alright?"

Keegan's eyes opened. His lips twisted into a snarl. He was about to say something stupid when there was a tremendous crash from upstairs, followed by a scream.

Cobb had impeccable timing.

Oh aye, I'd recognised Robbie Keegan right away, like. And I wasn't surprised he didn't remember us. Not because I had a patchwork face now, but because the last time we saw each other, he was nodding in the corner of Goose's front room with a needle hanging out his arm. Back when I knew him, he was as much the fuckin' furniture at Goose's place as the wheelchair. If O'Brien was into the drug work, then it would make sense having a smackhead in middle management – they were easy to handle, even easier to scare. Which, judging from the racket going on downstairs, Farrell had found out quick enough himself.

Upstairs, the place was pretty crowded. Everyone sat at these large wooden tables with thick white tablecloths and the good cutlery. I had a butcher's at everyone's scran, didn't recognise half of it as food. Swear to God, if you piled up dog food the right way, people would eat it. When I looked up, I caught a couple of diners looking at us like I had a dick for a nose. They looked elsewhere quick enough. I walked through the restaurant. I was careful, didn't want to bump the staff just yet. In a crowd like this, there'd be someone who deserved special attention.

I found them at the back. Wasn't O'Brien – he was a cunt, but a cunt with enough taste not to eat in his own restaurant – but a clutch of elderly bastards who smelled of money, yuppies without the yup. Two blokes, both looked like they taught something nobody needed to know, together with their ugly wives, poncho-wearing ladies of culture. And call us a fuckin' purist, but I don't reckon you should wear a poncho unless you're Mexican. Or Clint Eastwood.

The bloke with the white goatee was talking when I arrived. He had a plate with cabbage and pinkish meat piled on it. He hadn't touched it. Probably too busy fuckin' gassing.

"I mean, have you
been
to the Sage recently?" he asked this chunky red-faced twat in a hemp jumper. "We went last night. We go on a regular basis, actually. It's a world-class venue, especially for more unusual music."

"What did you see?" said Chunky. He'd seen us, but tried not to show it.

"Laurie Anderson,
The End of the Moon
." Goatee had noticed Chunky's attention switch out for a bit, but he was probably used to that, being the pompous fuck he was.

"How was it?"

"Wonderful. Truly wonderful acoustics." Goatee's wife leaned in to join the conversation. "You could hear a pin drop."

"Really?" Chunky was less happy as I moved round behind Goatee and stared right at him. "That's ... Gosh, well, that's interesting."

"Absolutely." Goatee struck a pure wanker pose, hand on chin. "But I have to say, I found Anderson's performance slightly lacking. I felt as if she were living off past glories, you know? And the piece seemed so very
American
."

"Mm," said Goatee's wife. "Mm, yes."

"I just didn't feel it was
avant garde
enough for a European audience." He cleared his throat, and then turned round and fixed us with a stare. "Can I help you?"

I shook my head. Looked around the table at their plates. Then I moved a bit closer and sniffed the air.

Goatee's wife put a hand on her husband's arm. "Rory, I don't think—"

"Do you mind?" Rory was almost as red as Chunky. "We're trying to enjoy our meal."

I nodded, waved at him to carry on.

"Pardon me?"

"I don't think he's well."

Rory raised his hand and clicked his fingers for the waiter. That was when I knew I had the right bloke. Anyone who clicked for a waiter deserved everything they got. I reached forward and flipped his plate of meat and one veg into his lap. Rory didn't move. I think he was stunned. He looked down at the plate, then up at us, and I swear to God he was fuckin' crimson now. He made to get up, but I put an open hand in his chest and shoved him back in his chair. Rory went arse over, smacked a knee on the underside of the table as he went.

Chunky looked like he was about to start screaming, so I flicked shredded cabbage at him. It flew like overcooked pasta, slapped him right in the kisser. Chunky clawed at the cabbage like it burned him and started yelling for the police, the waiters and God, in that order. I picked up his plate and chucked it like a frisbee against the back wall. The wives jumped and screamed. I hooked my hands under the table, but it was too heavy to shift. I let it lean to one side instead, which sent the wives running and wailing. Chunky's wife helped pick the cabbage from Chunky's face. Rory's wife decided to scream at us. "You animal! You monster!"

Everyone having a pop now. Chunky took two steps forward. I gave him the horse eye.

"Listen, okay? I don't have a problem with you," he said. "Yeah? We okay?"

I ignored him, blew on my fingers, took hold of the tablecloth. The old tricks were the best. See if I still had it in us.

I tugged and whipped.

Alley-
oop
, ya bastard.

Plates, rose vase, cutlery – it all came flying off the table along the cloth. Crashed to the floor. Turned out the old tricks weren't as easy as they looked. But fuck that, anyway. That table was a dry run. There were plenty more to practice on. The next one was vacant within seconds of me clapping eyes on it. The third one, I managed to keep a plate on it, but that wasn't good enough, so I picked it up and slung it over the balcony. I heard it crash somewhere below. Behind us, the diners were doing the lemming run down the stairs and I saw the waiting staff all knotted up by the kitchen.

Hey, fuckin' hell, yeah. The kitchen. Now that was an idea.

I clapped my hands together, nodded at the kitchen, and then jerked my thumb at the stairs. One by one, they ran for it, leaving us free to go on in. A line of pots and pans on one of the stoves went over first. Then the knife blocks. A nice big noise.

"Howeh, pal, we don't want any trouble, do we?"

The chef, a good couple of inches taller than us, was holding one of them big fuck-off
Psycho
knives. It shook in his grip, mind, so his balls weren't that fuckin' big. Behind him, all his little assistants were ready to bolt. I stared at the chef. Made a move forward. He slashed out, cut the air in front of us.

"I was in the forces," he said, "so don't think I don't know how to use this."

He waved the knife again, but he was holding it all wrong if he'd been in the Army. That wasn't the way they taught the lads to handle a blade, waving it around like it was a fuckin' sparkler. I watched him slash the air to ribbons a bit more, then stepped forward and clamped one hand over his, slammed it down on the edge of the counter. Bones crunched when his wrist gave out, and he opened his mouth in a silent scream as the knife clattered to the floor. I got in his face and matched the scream, opened my mouth wide, and it felt like my face was splitting open.