Smithy got to his feet and rushed outside as fast as the stabbing pain in his right knee would allow. The cool night air felt glorious. He’d developed a new-found appreciation for the joys of breathing. He staggered across the outdoor space and clambered onto the balustrade just enough to allow him a view of the street. Down below, he could see a small parachute collapsing on the ground. A vehicle sped up the road and scooped up the ninja, leaving behind the parachute as the only evidence the whole thing hadn’t been a weird, if remarkably physical, dream.
“You have got to be kidding me!”
Smithy turned back to the penthouse. The ringing in his ears was starting to die away and he could hear the fire alarm more clearly – enough that he was relieved when it stopped. By the time he had limped back inside, the sprinklers had ceased too. The room was drenched. He glanced across at the soggy mass of muppetry and gave a sigh.
Lousy Louis was gawping at him, his eyelids flying at half mast, like a drunk trying to find sense in the world.
“Are you … an angel?”
“No,” said Smithy. “No, I’m not.”
“But … you saved me.”
“Not my idea.”
“What’re you … What’re you doing here?”
Smithy ignored the question as he limped towards his hat and picked it up. He looked at the bullet hole in it, about two inches above where his head would have been. Well, that’s one deposit I’m not getting back. This thought led to another. He turned and saw the paintball gun lying on the ground. The barrel was pointing at an angle and the hopper was cracked.
“Goddammit! Do you have any idea how much these things cost?” Smithy picked it up, pointed it at Louis and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. “Great. That’s just great.”
“I’ll pay.”
Smithy glowered at the man who did not deserve the name Lou Reed.
“That’s your answer to everything, isn’t it? You narcissistic, megalomaniacal piece of shit.”
Louis attempted to drag himself up onto the couch but found it too much. He slumped back to the floor. He waved a hand at Smithy. “You’re one … one of the leprechauns.”
“I’m not a fucking …”
Smithy looked at the sword sticking out of the centre of the coffee table and took a few deep breaths. The tempting idea of making Lousy Louis into a kebab had popped into his brain, and while he wasn’t going to do it, he enjoyed the prospect for a few seconds.
“You saved me!” Reed was now wearing a weirdly blissful smile.
Smithy looked at the sodden carpet below his feet, took a long, slow and deep breath, and then let it all out.
“Shut up. You are a terrible person. Do you understand that? Awful. I don’t know why that guy was trying to kill you, but I bet you deserve it. You treat people like objects. You think money gives you the right to do what you like. Well, it doesn’t. Alright? It doesn’t. And show the actual Lou Reed some respect. Take those records off your bathroom wall. You are the most pathetic human being I’ve ever come across – and believe me, that is really saying something. Re-hire your assistant and, and, and … Don’t ever ring Olivia Munn again. Just … Just try to be … a person. Just a decent person.”
Smithy raised his head and looked at Louis to see what effect his words had had.
The man was fast asleep again, snoring happily.
“Great. Just great.” Smithy looked up at the ceiling. “Well, I hope you’re happy?”
He limped to the far side of the room, picked up his rucksack from where he had discarded it, placed the sodden hat and broken paintball gun inside and headed for the apartment’s front door.
As he reached it, a thought struck him. He turned and headed back into the living area. He marched over to something, picked it up and did a hasty about-turn.
As he walked by the unconscious form of Lousy Louis Reed, he held up his new possession. “I’m taking Elmo. You don’t deserve Elmo.”
Chapter Nine
A minute later, Smithy stood on the landing outside Louis Reed’s penthouse. He opened the door to the stairwell and heard the sound of boots quickstepping. Two of the elevators were on their way up too. It made sense. Shots are fired somewhere on the darker edges of the city; they’ll send a patrol car. Shots are heard on Billionaires’ Row; they’ll send a SWAT team. Someone might miss the person they’re aiming for and accidentally hit some of the money.
With a heavy sigh, Smithy opened the nearby garbage disposal chute and climbed in, clutching a sodden Elmo to him.
As the hatch closed behind him, he placed his legs against the wall and started to shuffle his way down gradually, ignoring the pain coming from his damaged leg. For a plan that had been prepared so meticulously, none of it had gone as it should have. Such was Smithy’s painstaking level of preparation that he had even managed to get hold of the blueprints to the building. He knew this chute led to a trash-collecting area three floors down that would, in turn, feed into the compactor in the basement. It wouldn’t be on at this time of night – he just had to make it there in one piece. Then he could find a way to slip out of the building.
He felt that sickly tingle again.
YOU DID WELL.
“Shut up, God.”
Chapter Ten
Diller took a long thoughtful suck on his straw as Smithy watched him expectantly. They were back in the Porterhouse Lodge. Jackie had opened up early and allowed Smithy to use the upstairs shower without asking why. This was an all-time great pub.
“OK,” said Smithy, unable to take the silence any more. “I’ll admit, there were some issues with the plan.”
Diller finished his drink with a slurp and placed his hand in front of his mouth to cover a belch. “’Scuse me.”
“C’mon, Dill, talk to me. I can tell you’re annoyed.”
“Annoyed? Why would I be annoyed?”
“I’m going to assume that’s a rhetorical question.”
“Would it be because I warned you it was a terrible plan, you ignored me and ended up nearly getting yourself killed?”
“Hey, be fair. I’d have gotten out of that dumpster before the garbage truck actually crushed me. Not that I don’t appreciate the help.”
“I’m not talking about that,” said Diller.
“Although it does need pointing out there was a scandalous amount of recyclable cardboard and plastic in there. Those rich a-holes have no excuse not to be recycling. Makes my blood boil.”
“Yeah,” said Diller, “and we all know that you’re not a man who gets angry easily.”
Smithy nodded. “That sarcasm is both fair and warranted.”
“Thanks. And no, I’m not talking about how I had to get up at five in the morning to sneak into a building and pick the lock on the dumpster to save you and your little friend here” – Diller nodded at the stuffed Muppet that was leaving a damp patch on the seat beside Smithy – “from getting compacted. Although that was fun. I’m talking about how you almost got killed by a – and I can’t believe I’m saying this – a ninja wielding a sword.”