“Contestants – there are only two of you remaining.”
Smithy and Duncan looked at each other.
“Holy shit,” said Duncan.
Smithy extended his hand. “Whatever happens, best of luck.”
“Yeah, you too,” said Duncan, accepting the handshake. “Sixty grand is a lot of money.”
Smithy nodded. “Sure is. It’s fifty, though – not sixty.”
“Sure,” said Duncan, stepping back. “Sorry.”
Something was suddenly off.
“You’d be amazed how much augmentation costs these days,’ he continued. ‘Got to get it done right. One of the guys promised me ten grand extra if he won.”
“What?” said Smithy. “How can you—”
Before he could finish, Duncan pulled a small paintball gun from his pocket and shot Smithy in the chest.
Smithy had to admit Duncan hadn’t been exaggerating. If the next fifteen minutes proved anything, it was that the guy really was good at running.
Chapter One
Fourteen months later
Diller took a long, thoughtful suck on the straw of his drink as Smithy watched him expectantly.
“Well?”
They were sitting in the back booth of the Porterhouse Lodge. Over the last few months it had become their unofficial clubhouse. They liked its casual ambiance. They liked Jackie and Phil, the regular barmen who were the primary source of the casual ambiance. Most of all, Smithy liked the fact that it was one of those rarest of establishments; one that would allow him to have a tab. A resting actor appreciates such things.
Along with all that, Smithy liked it for the privacy the back booth offered. He had spent the day looking after the dog that was sort of his, sort of his girlfriend Cheryl’s, and sort of stolen. It was a Siberian Husky that Smithy had “acquired” from his ex-employer’s dog-grooming shop to prevent its previous a-hole owner having it spray-painted to look like Gene Simmons from Kiss.
They had guessed, correctly, that someone would come looking for him at Smithy’s place, so Cheryl had started taking care of him. They’d bonded and the dog had stayed with her, without it being discussed much. Smithy had moved in with Cheryl a few months later. Surprisingly, this had not been discussed that much either. His apartment had flooded and a temporary arrangement had become permanent. A lot of Smithy’s and Cheryl’s relationship worked on a “don’t ask, don’t tell” basis. The dog’s original name was abandoned, and for a couple of weeks he’d been referred to as Not Gene Simmons. This led to NGS and then, eventually, Nogs.
Smithy had taken the day off from driving the cab to keep the goofy mutt out of trouble. Cheryl’s landlord was dropping by and there was a strict “no pets” policy. Smithy didn’t mind minding Nogs – he had kind of dumped the dog on Cheryl after all. The only downside was that a dwarf walking a large Siberian Husky around Manhattan attracted a lot of unwanted attention. He was used to people staring, but it didn’t mean he liked it. A four-foot-five guy, walking a dog that wasn’t far off his own height, Smithy suspected that people kept expecting him to hop astride it and try to ride off into the sunset. So, it’d been a long day, and he’d been glad of the comfort of the back booth at the Porterhouse Lodge, where Nogs was snoring away happily under the table.
Having finally finished taking his deliberately long drink, Diller placed his fist to his mouth and belched softly. “’Scuse me. That’s a kick-ass lemonade. That’s why this place is the bomb. Most bars have really crappy ones. I guess they figure they’re just gonna mix it with—”
“Diller?”
Diller shifted nervously on the padded seat of the booth. “My mom always says, if you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.”
“She’s such a fount of wisdom.”
Diller squinted. He was very sensitive about his mother.
Smithy raised an apologetic hand. “I meant no disrespect. What d’ya think is wrong with the plan?”
“First off, the fact you have a plan,” said Diller. “Nothing good can come from this.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” said Smithy, picking up his whiskey and then putting it back down again. “Need I remind you what this bastard did to me?”
“No.”
“He gets me, and nine other people …”
“I don’t need to be reminded.”
“… And makes us dress up as leprechauns! Leprechauns.”
“But you’re going to remind me anyway.”
“On St Patrick’s Day! And the guy is on a quad bike. He’s, like, four hundred pounds. Massive. As if the prick couldn’t do with the exercise of chasing us on foot!”
“I know all this, but I’m gonna let you get it out.”
“Then him and his rich asshole buddies hunt us, like … like …”
“Leprechauns?”
“Animals! Like we’re less than human. And let me tell you, those paintballs hurt. They leave bruises – physical and emotional.”
Smithy was absent-mindedly shredding a beer mat into strips as he spoke. Diller watched him with concern. Mostly, he was a calm and thoughtful guy, right up until the point he wasn’t. His temper had landed him in trouble before – and that was only the trouble Diller knew about.
“I know,” said Diller. “It was horrible. No question. You only did it because you needed the money.”
“He took advantage of me needing the money.”
“I said you never should have taken a loan from Benny Wong.”
“Whose side are you on?”
“I’m just saying, you needed the five grand.”
“I could’ve done with the fifty-grand first prize, but that other little ginger bastard cheated me out of it. Still though, if this fat … I mean, I don’t mean to be harsh, but the dude is a whale. Screw it, I’m gonna call him the whale.”
Diller pulled a face. “Let’s not make it a weight thing.”
“I’m not … You know me, I don’t judge. Me and Big Dom are tight.”
“Dom is looking good these days.”
“I think that gastric band thing he got is really working for him.”
Diller nodded enthusiastically. “I’m so pleased for the guy. He’s been trying real hard. Did you know seventy percent of weight gain is genetic?”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I’m reading this book called The Obesity Code. Calorie counting doesn’t work.”
“Why are you reading that book? You’re as skinny as a rake.”
Diller shrugged. “The library had it and I’ve read most of the stuff there.”
“Well, he … Wait.” Smithy looked up from his rant, distracted. “Did you say you’ve read most of the stuff in the library? Seriously?”
“They don’t get a lot of new stock coming in, so …”
“That’s insane! Marello’s – over by the Brooklyn Bridge – has a quiz night. We should hit that.”
“Isn’t that the place you got barred from?”
“People cannot use their phones to google stuff.” Smithy prodded the table to emphasise his point. “There’s no point having rules if nobody is enforcing them. What were we saying?”