Wolf Tickets Read online

  "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.

  COBB

  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 s
ent 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.

  Saw it then in the chef's face. Pure terror. Pure agony. He'd fuckin' well remember me.

  I stepped back, let the chef slide down the counter as his colleagues sprinted out of the room. I watched them leave, waited for the pain in my face to turn to an ache. Then I pulled out the Post-Its, wrote tell frank JAMES says hello and slapped it onto the chef's forehead. He made a noise like a cat trapped in a bin.

  "Fuck's sake, Jimmy, get down here, will you?" That was Farrell, calling on us like he'd been at it a while.

  I went down to see him. The ground floor was deserted. When I saw Robbie Keegan, I knew why – Goose's favourite smackhead was dog food, his face hanging to the skull by scabs alone.

  Farrell frowned at us. "You alright?"

  I nodded. Take a bit longer to heal, but it was worth it. I made a mental note to pick up some plasters. I scribbled, you got what you need?

  "Yeah, let's go."

  I nodded at Keegan.

  "Leave him to explain this to his boss, if the bastard ever turns up. We're going to see Goose."

  FARRELL

  As much as I hated to admit it, I was getting old, and putting the hurt on Robbie Keegan had just reminded me of that fact. Keegan wasn't a hard man, but he'd managed to weather my boots pretty well. Got so I was out of breath beating him and, even worse than that, there were moments where my heart wasn't fucking in it at all. So I overcompensated, and by the time I was finished with him, I thought he was gone for good.

  Keegan spoke through the blood in his mouth: "I know you."

  "Yeah, you do."

  "Frank told us about you."

  "He knows me, too."

  "You tried to ... fuck him over."

  I kicked him in the gut. Waited until he finished coughing. "Where is he?"

  He showed a mess where his smile should've been. "Fuck off."

  "You know Goose, right?"

  Keegan blinked, but it was affirmative enough. I grabbed him by the hair and dragged him a couple of feet across the floor before I let him go. He bounced and rolled.

  "You know him," I said once he'd settled.

  "Aye."

  "He know Frank?"

  "Uh."

  "What's that?"

  "Fuck off."

  "Talking in sentences now, at least. But I need something longer than that. Where's O'Brien?"

  "I don't know."

  A chair hit a table and the pints on it with a crash, showering the floor with glass. I looked up at Cobb, who leaned over the railing to inspect the wreckage. He nodded with satisfaction, then disappeared.

  "You think my friend up there's going to be any softer on you, Robbie?"

  "I don't ... fuck off."

  "It was O'Brien who carved up his face, did you know that?"

  Keegan stared through the floor as he thought about it. "Should've finished the ... fuckin' job."

  I kicked him in the face. Heard something give and hoped it was his nose rather than his skull. He went limp and dropped. I picked up a bar towel and wiped off my boots. Then I called on Cobb. There was no reason to hang around now. We'd made our point.

  The waiting staff came barrelling down the stairs. I called Cobb again.

  Nothing. The bastard was deaf. Or else he was busy. Not like he could shout back.

  Still, though, when I heard more screaming, I shouted up at him. "Fuck's sake, Jimmy, get down here, will you?"

  He appeared at the top of the stairs, his face in tatters.

  "You alright?"

  He nodded, but he clearly wasn't. He asked me if we were done. I told him we were. But when I mentioned Goose, something moved his face and the blood started to flow again. He pointed at Keegan again, as if I was supposed to get all my answers out of him first.

  "No, c'mon, Jimmy. We're going to see Goose."

  He sulked on the way to the car and before we were ten minutes on the road, he'd pulled in outside a chemist. He wrote me a note: get some plasters

  "We haven't got time for this."

  Cobb tapped the note.

  "C'mon, Jimmy, we've got to be getting on."

  Another tap. He pressed some sweaty change into my hand. Fine. He wanted plasters, he'd get fucking plasters. I grabbed the first box I could find. When I returned to the car, he took one look at the box and then glared at me.

  "They're for fuckin' bairnsh."

  So they had little teddy bears on them, what was the problem? "You want to heal or not?"

  "More."

  "We're on a tight schedule here, Jimmy."

  "More."

  "Who honestly gives a fuck what kind of plasters you have on your face?"

  "Me."

  I opened the box, pulled out one of the plasters and showed it to him. "See? You can hardly see they're teddies."

  The fire guttered a little then. He peeled the backing from one of the plasters, pulled the rear view mirror so he could get a better look at himself, then picked the nastiest-looking cut and eased the plaster onto it. He turned his head. He squinted. Cuts around his eyes opened. He grabbed a handful of plasters from the box and started applying them to his face. By the time he was finished, he looked like a nursery wall.

  I tried not to laugh.

  Cobb checked himself out in the mirror. A trickle of blood ran from under a plaster on his cheek. It rolled over a picture of a teddy with a balloon in his paw.

  "I think you better stay mute, Jimmy."

  His eyes died in their sockets as he started the engine with a violent twist of the key. He didn't say anything, didn't write anything, wanted nothing but silence on the rest of the drive to Goose's.

  "Don't worry," I told him. "Thi
s time I'll do all the talking."

  He shot me a look that would've maimed a lesser man. When we arrived at Goose's front door, I leaned on the doorbell. Inside, I heard a chime that interrupted conversation. I cupped my hands and squinted through the frosted glass in the door. I saw the flicker of a television set, a shadow passing in front of it. I stepped back. "What d'you think, Jimmy? Fancy going in there the way his lads came in yours?"

  The letterbox squeaked open. "Fuck off."

  Familiar voice. I launched my right foot at the door, just below the handle. I heard a scream from behind the door, and when I kicked again, the door splintered in the frame. One last kick, and there it was, Goose's hallway, open to the world, and the man himself wheeling backwards up the hall, his eyes burning.

  "That was for you, Jimmy. What's up, Goose?"

  "Fuck off." His voice came in bumps as he pumped the wheels. "Come near us, you cunt, I'll have your balls."

  "Always about the balls with you, isn't it?" I advanced up the hall after him. "Listen, it's about that gun you gave us."

  "I never gave you no fuckin' gun—"

  "It was substandard, Goose. Shifty. No two ways about it. Blew up the first time your man pulled the trigger. I mean, I told you, didn't I? I said you shouldn't have that kind of ammunition in there."

  One of Goose's wheels caught a hump in the carpet and he almost went over, arms flailing. I saw my chance and took it, stepped up and helped him over. He hit the carpet. I grabbed him by the back of his shirt, kicked the chair to one side and dragged him, pale belly exposed and quivering, through to the living room. I dropped him in the middle of the floor. He kicked out with his one good leg and struggled upright against a coffee table.

  "You mick fuckin' cunt, you're a dead man, you're a fuckin'—"

  "I told you before" – I stamped on his one good knee, felt it crack – "I'm a paddy."

  He screamed, grabbed his knee. Then he screamed even louder and let go. See now this felt better. Made me think I wasn't that old after all. Made me want to stamp again, but Cobb put a hand on my arm and shook his head.

  Okay, fine, he was right. Better to save my strength. "You know O'Brien. Where is he?"