Wolf Tickets (19 page)

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."

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. "This 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?"

Goose gurgled and spat at the floor.

"You know him, Goose. There's not a dealer in this city who doesn't know Frank O'Brien, and I'm guessing you know him better than most. So where is he?"

"You should fuckin' know."

"What's that?"

"Or is your slut not talking?"

I kicked Goose square in the jaw. He slumped back, blood bubbling up over his lips. I hoped I hadn't bust his mouth too badly or that he hadn't bitten through his tongue or something, or else we'd have to use Cobb's Post-Its. And that would be a long and boring day waiting to happen.

"Come on, Goose. Get to talking. We haven't got all day."

"Uck og," he said. Which didn't bode well. Then he swallowed and said, "You're fuckin' dead, the pair of youse."

Just the blood fucking up the way he talked. That was a relief. "I'm sick of hearing it, Goose. Fact is, we took your gun off you, we dealt with those two puppies you sent over, you've got nothing on us. I've been warming up today to someone like you, and I'm telling you now, you better tell us where Frank O'Brien is, or else I'm going to find other places to make you bleed from, and so's Jimmy here."

"Like
fuck
. Once a snowman, always a fuckin' snowman. You take the man off of the habit, you're not taking the habit off of the man, are you, Jimmy-son? It comes back, it always does. And when it does, you'll be back. You'll be fuckin'
begging
us, Jimmy. You got no
idea
what this paddy fuck has you mixed up in, you daft cunt. You need us. You do what I tell you, and you let this fuckin' go, else I'll make your life a living fuckin'
nightmare
."

I looked back at Cobb. His eyes were narrow and it looked as if he was crying blood. He moved forward, edged me out of the way, and placed one foot on Goose's kneecap. Goose screeched and scrabbled at the carpet.

Cobb took the weight off. He stared at Goose. His hands were balled into fists.

"Looks like you were wrong. Looks like my mate Jimmy just lost the habit for good. And you're going to tell us everything we need to know, Goose, or else this shithole little town'll have one less cripple drug dealer to worry about."

Because we were beyond threats now. This was promises time.

We went to work on him. We took turns. Farrell asked the questions. I tried not to kill Goose.

First time I ever went to Goose's, I didn't know what I wanted. I just knew I needed to sleep. He gave us pills – stolen Ambien and Valium. After that combination, I needed something to keep us awake. I was just out the Army then, no job, no hope of getting a job because my phone manner was bollocks and I couldn't even do the usual security shite on account of I'd left the forces under a bit of a cloud. So what else was I going to do but get fucked?

And Goose was a marra back then. He was the gadgie with the fuckin' blow and the answer to any question you had. And it became a habit I didn't want to break. Ended up being round his gaff more than my own. I robbed him the telly and the video; Goose did us a long, bright night and a good sleep at the end of it.

But all that was done. The snow was gone from my life. One night did it. Woke up sweating, my heart thumping like it was falling down the stairs. Not the most scared I'd ever been, but a close fuckin' second. And that was all Goose's fault.
Mostly
Goose's fault.

I put my foot hard into Goose's gut and watched him spew spaghetti hoops.

"I don't think he's going to tell us anything," said Farrell.

I kicked him again. Harder.

"Fuck it. Goose, where d'you keep your cash?"

Goose made an
ack-ack-ack
sound. The last dregs of spew spilled out of his gob.

"As cooperative as ever, thanks for that. Suppose I better have a look around."

I breathed through my nose. My nostrils hurt. Farrell left the room. Something crashed in the hall. Goose swivelled his head. I nudged his face with my foot so's he could look at us. I got down on my haunches and scribbled out a note:
wheres frank?

Goose shook his head.

I tapped the note, held it closer.

Goose spat at us. I slapped the note against his forehead so hard I bounced his skull off the floor like a basketball.

I wrote it out again, bigger this time:
WHERES FRANK?

Held it out, flicked the paper. "Tell ush, Goosh."

Warm blood on my face. Prickles of pain. I was getting good at ignoring it.

"Your marra's a fuckin' psycho," he said, his breath blowing the note. "He's a fuckin' dead man an' all.
You're
a fuckin' dead man."

I slapped the second note on top of the first one and stood up. There was no talking to him.