Screwed by Eoin Colfer Page B

is holding on, strangling the buttons in their holes. He’s got a flat face and a weird constellation of teardrop freckles that look like he shotgunned someone close quarters and got spattered. He’s light on his feet and I can see muscle in his shoulders and arms. Also, I hate to say it, but there’s plenty of smarts in those eyes, which is the best weapon of all, at close quarters. From far out, a good scope and steady hands will trump smarts every time.
    “I got the package,” I say, trying to sound gruff. “For Mr. Shea.”
    The guy speaks and I am surprised to hear actual first-generation Irish-Irish. Maybe he emigrated on account of the recession, but I doubt it. I bet he threw a few things in a holdall and skipped the country with the laser eyes of law enforcement searing the seat of his pants.
    “We were expecting you, Daniel. We have been for the past couple of hours. Mr. Shea is getting antsy.”
    I don’t even bother offering a platitude. I give him a shrug that could mean traffic, fuck you or both. That’s what I like about shrugs: their ambivalence.
    The guy beckons me out of the lift and my toe catches on the lip, which kind of puts a dent in my tough-guy routine, but also gives me an excuse to stumble forward and slip the lightweight Kel-Tec concealed in my paw into his jacket pocket.
    “Easy there, big fella,” says the guy, like I’m a horse being led to the bolt room.
    He pushes me away, gentle, then raises his arms high, wiggling his fingers.
    “You trying to lev’tate me?” I ask, figuring my mispronunciation puts the comment in dumb guy trying to be a smartass territory.
    “Just get ’em up,” he says, so I do. And he moves in for a thorough frisk. This guy knows how to frisk, I’ll give him that. In some cultures we’d be married now. It takes him five seconds to locate the two remaining weapons and a couple of probing minutes to ensure that there aren’t any more. No gentle hands here. This ain’t JFK. Nobody’s gonna be pressing molestation charges.
    “You came prepared,” he says and passes my weapons off to one of the chair goons who gets chicken grease all over the holster before tossing the hardware into a bucket under his chair. Greasy fingers on my stuff is one of my pet hates and the only reason I hold it together is because those guns haven’t been in my possession long enough for me to consider them mine.
    “Prepared is my middle name,” I say, which I figure sounds stupid enough to cancel out the levitation crack.
    My frisker’s laugh is about as warm as his smile. “Really? That’s nice, Daniel. Now, why don’t you get your prepared arse into Mr. Shea’s office?”
    Arse. Now there’s a word you don’t hear enough of.
    “Couldn’t I just give this envelope to you?” Might as well ask.
    “Nope. This is one of those in person situations. Mr. Shea is anxious to meet you.”
    I am anxious to meet absolutely no more new people today.
    “Okay, let’s get this over with.”
    I walk toward the door, each step laden with doom, which sounds melodramatic, I know, but that’s how it feels. The tension churns my stomach and I am gripped by an almost irresistible urge to take on this group of sentinels, and then knock on the door and introduce myself to this Shea person. The seated guys hop to attention like they can read menace in my aura and treat me to vicious squints. I may have rushed to judgment about these two with all their sitting/chicken scarfing. Vertical, they look pretty formidable. My urge to violence fizzles out and I decide to let this situation play out a little more.
    “You guys stay out here and watch the elevator,” says Spatter to his boys. “On your toes, please. No more bloody KFC.”
    They’re staying outside. This is good, unless something is about to happen in the room that Spatter does not want anyone to witness.
    The thing about witnesses is they never start out that way. People see nothing and know nothing until law enforcement