And, if they pulled it off, a first in Irish history, as Bine kept saying, she’d be famous. Maybe get on Oprah, have Angelina play her in the movie, and be on the cover of Hot Press. One thing she knew: the girls rarely did jail time, they just did a Linda Kasabian and squealed. Even in the movies.
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,