Table of Contents
Also by Eoin Colfer
Artemis Fowl
Artemis Fowl: The Arctic Incident
Artemis Fowl: The Eternity Code
Artemis Fowl: The Opal Deception
Artemis Fowl: The Lost Colony
Benny and Omar
Benny and Babe
The Legend of Captain Crows Teeth
The Legend of Spud Murphy
The Legend of the Worst Boy in the World
Airman
Half Moon Investigations
The Supernaturalist
The Wishlist
And Another Thing...
For Ken Bruen who made me do it.
With thanks to Declan Denny for his invaluable attention to my details.
CHAPTER 1
THE GREAT STEPHEN KING ONCE WROTE DONT SWEAT THE small stuff, which I mulled over for long enough to realize that I dont entirely agree with it. I get what he means: we all have enough major sorrow in our lives without freaking out over the day-to-day hangnails and such, but sometimes sweating the small stuff helps you make it through the big stuff. Take me, for example; I have had enough earth-shattering events happen to me, beside me and underneath me to have most people dribbling in a psych ward, but what I do is try not to think about it. Let it fester inside, thats my philosophy. Its gotta be healthy, right? Focus on the everyday nonlethal bullshit to take your mind off the landmark psychological blows that are standing in line to grind you down. My philosophy has gotten me this far, but my soldier sense tells me that things are about to come to a head.
There isnt much call for deep thinking in my current job in Cloisters, New Jersey. We dont do a lot of chatting about philosophical issues or natural phenomena in the casino. I tried to talk about National Geographic one night, and Jason gave me a look like I was insulting him, so I moved on to a safer subject: which of the girls have implants. This is one of our regular topics, so its familiar territory. He calmed down after a couple of swallows from his protein shake. Me talking about issues scared Jase more than a drunk with a pistol. Jason is the best doorman I have ever worked with, a rare combination of big and fast and with a lot more smarts than he lets on. Sometimes hell forget himself and reference a Fellini movie, then try to cover his tracks by giving the next guy through the door a hard time. Guys got secrets; we all do. He doesnt feel like burdening me and I am absolutely fine with that attitude. We both pretend were dumb and we both suspect we arent as dumb as we pretend. Its exhausting.
Most nights we have time for chit-chat out front. Everythings quiet until ten thirty or so. Generally just a few small-time players, under-the-radar guys. The party crowd doesnt show up until the regular bars close. The bossman, Victor, who I will describe in detail later because this guy deserves a movie of his own he is such a dick and to talk about him now would ruin the flow; anyways Vic still wants a couple of bodies out front. Sometimes it takes two to shut down a fight if there are accusations flying around on the back table. It can get pretty heated in there, especially with the little guys. I blame Joe Pesci.
So I generally do the night shift, not that theres a day shift per se. Twice or three times a month I pull doubles. I dont really mind. How am I going to pass the time at home? Do push-ups and listen to Mrs Delano bitch?
Tonight I get in at eight on the dot. Its midweek so Im looking forward to a quiet evening chewing power bars with Jason and talking surgery. Just simple distraction, which is the closest to happiness Im expecting to get in this lifetime.
Jason and I are watching this Russian throw around kettlebells on YouTube when I get a call from Marco on my headset. I have to ask the little barman to repeat himself a couple of times before I get the message and hustle back to the casino floor. Apparently my favorite girl, Connie, leaned in to slide cocktails on to a table, and this guy goes and licks her ass. Moron. I mean, its on the wall on a brass plaque. Not ass-licking specifically. Do Not Touch The Hostesses, it says. Universal club rule. Some of the hostesses will do a little touching in the booth, but the customer never gets to touch back.
When I arrive, Marco is trying to hold this guy away from Connie, which is probably more for the guys safety than he realizes. I once saw Connie deck a college footballer with her serving tray. Guys face was in the metal, like a cartoon.
Okay, folks, I say, doing my booming doorman voice. Lets get this handled professionally.
This announcement is met with a couple of boos from the regulars, who were praying for a little drama. I grip Marcos head like a basketball and steer him behind the bar, then loom over the offender.
The licker has his hands on his hips like hes Peter Pan, and Connies fingers have left red stripes on his cheek.
Why dont we take this into the back room, I say, giving him five seconds of eye contact. Before things get out of hand.
This bitch hit me, he says, pointing in case theres some doubt about which bitch hes talking about.
His finger is coated with the remains of a basket of buffalo wings, and sauce on fingers is something that has always irritated me more than it reasonably should.
We got a time-out room just back here, I say, not looking at the brown gunk under his nails. What is wrong with people? You eat, you keep your mouth closed, you wipe your fingers. How hard is that? Why dont we discuss your issues back there?
Connie is quiet, trying to hold her anger in, chewing on some nicotine gum like its one of the guys balls. Connie has a temper, but she wont slap without good reason. Shes got two kids in a crche over on Cypress, so she needs the paycheck.
Okay, Dan, she says. But can we move it along? I got people dying to tip me. This is an open-and-shut case.
The pointer laughs, like its funny she should use that terminology.
I shepherd them into the time-out room, which is barely more than a broom closet; in fact there are a couple of mops growing like dreadlocked palms out of a cardboard box island in the corner.
You okay? I ask Connie, glad to see shes not smoking. Six months and counting.
She nods, sitting on a ratty sofa. Dude licked my ass. Licked it. You got any wipes, Daniel?
I hand her a slim pack. You always carry a pack of antiseptic wipes working a bottom-rung New Jersey casino like Slotz. Theres all sorts of stuff you can catch just hanging around.
I look away while Connie is wiping the barbecue sauce off her behind. You cant help noticing cleavage in this place, but I figure you can avoid the lower regions. I try to keep my eyes above the waist; leaves everybody with something. So while shes cleaning up, I turn to the guy. The licker.
What were you thinking, sir? Theres no touching. Cant you read?
The guy is going to rub me the wrong way. I can tell just by his hair, a red frizz sitting on his head like a nest fell off a roof.
I saw the plaque, Daniel, he says, pointing towards the casino floor. This guy is a pointing machine. It says do not touch.
And what did you do? You touched.
No, says the guy, switching his pointing finger over to me, so close I can smell the sauce, which is putting me off barbecue for a month at least. Except ribs. I didnt
