Disaster Inc Read online

  Disaster Inc

  Caimh McDonnell

  McFori Ink

  Copyright © 2018 by McFori Ink

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Caimh McDonnell

  Visit my website at www.WhiteHairedirishman.com

  First edition: September 2018

  ISBN: 978-0-9955075-9-3

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Author’s note on language

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Epilogue 1

  Epilogue 2

  Epilogue 3

  Free Novella!

  Also by Caimh McDonnell

  Eagle-Eyed Legends

  Author’s note on language

  Please note, as the author and the main character of this book are both from Ireland, it is written in the version of English that is standard there. So recognise is spelled recognise and not recognize etc. The author recognises some North American readers may find this upsetting and while he is of course scared of them, he is considerably more scared of his Mammy, who taught him how to spell. Nevertheless, as an apology, here are a bunch of Zs for you to mentally stick in as and when you choose.

  Z z z z z z

  Look, they look like a mummy duck and little ducks. Adorable!

  Chapter One

  “What’s healthy?”

  Marcy Wainwright was hacking furiously at the rock-solid stalactites of chewing gum under the counter and had been for nearly twenty minutes. She’d left them for a week, expecting Beatrice or Valentina from the day shift to crack and actually do some cleaning. She’d done it the last two times and they knew damn well that it was their job – part of the deal for getting the sweet day shift. They were either blind or straight-up couldn’t give a rat’s ass. All those two did was turn up and milk those sweet tips. Damn, she wanted that day shift so bad.

  “’Scuse me?” said Marcy.

  “What’ve you got that’s healthy?” repeated the woman. She didn’t look like the typical customer that Murphy’s Diner got at seven o’clock on a Sunday morning or, indeed, at any other time. She was pure soccer mom, in her mid thirties, with Pilates thighs and a lemon-sucking expression. Behind her stood a little bald man with round glasses on a tiny round head.

  “I got a healthy disrespect for authority darlin’, but that ain’t on the menu.”

  The woman gave one of those smiles that wasn’t a smile. “Are there any additional vegetarian options?”

  Marcy dropped her scraper into the bucket and wiped the sweat from her brow. “Honey, cook’s name is Freddie. He’s on two strikes, he’s trying to quit the cigarettes and his wife ran off with an honest-to-God postman. I mean, who in this day and age even knows their postman’s name? I ask you…”

  Marcy had never met this woman before but the confused look on her face was all too familiar. “Sorry, I got a tendency to wander off the point – terrible affliction of mine. Lost me two husbands and at least one cellmate.”

  The woman reflexively clutched at her purse.

  “Oh, don’t worry none, honey, I just embezzled a little money from my old employers at Quincy Shipping. I was in a bad place is all. Second husband had left me; I was drinking a smidge. That’s how it goes, though. A person steals off a company, person goes to jail. Company steals off a person – hey, that’s just business. I do have a tendency to talk too much though; people hate that in a cellmate. Sorry now – what was your question?”

  “Additional vegetarian options?”

  “Oh yeah – point is, Freddie is the cook and he does exactly what it says on the menu. He’s kinda hardcore on this particular point. You want something different, you best head on down the road. If you’re heading north though, be warned, there ain’t much for quite a stretch at this time of the morning. We ain’t got fine dining but what we do have is location, location, location.”

  Murphy’s Diner was busier than normal for that time of the morning. In other words, it actually had customers. It was a glorified truck stop on I-95, truth be told. It was the last stop on the city bus routes and a pick-up for some of the Greyhounds and private hires. Nobody came here to eat. They ended up here and were hungry.

  A Canadian trucker who was a semi-regular was sitting in the corner booth, grinding his way slavishly through a double pile of pancakes. He must’ve been 350 pounds and Marcy felt bad for giving them to him, but it wasn’t her job to live the man’s life. Besides, he brought his own maple syrup and he was a crappy tipper. Then there was the Mexican lady with her ten-year-old son. Looked like they were waiting for one of the buses that started up at 8am. They didn’t have much luggage. Marcy guessed they were visiting relatives – or running from one in particular. The mom had ordered food for the kid but nothing for herself. Marcy had times two-ed it and then told her she’d made a mistake and the second one was on the house. Momma had protested but then eaten it like it was manna from heaven. It’s easier to be proud on a full stomach.

  There was a sweet old grandpa type in the back booth who was steadily working his way through the eggs Benedict while trying to keep his eyes open, and then there was the squirrely thin dude who had that twitchiness that anybody who’d been near the streets would recognise. He’d shown her cash on his way in, guessing right she’d have asked to see it before taking his order. He was moving the huevos rancheros around his plate like he was trying to divine the future. If he went to the bathroom she’d have to time him and get Freddie to go in there with the bat to give him the rush if he was up to something. Freddie was in a bad mood; Marcy hoped this guy wasn’t going to find out how bad. There was also Miss Lonely Hearts, who had barely touched her salad as she sat there, staring out the window. When she’d first stepped through the door, Marcy would’ve taken her for a teenage runaway – she was five-foot-two tops, with a slight frame and a thin face. She wasn’t wearing any make-up either, which added to the little-girl-lost look of her. On closer inspection, she was revealed to be probably mid twenties, but she could still get ID’d going to the movies. She looked like Little Red Riding Hood who got lost on the way to Grandma’s house. Marcy was guessing nasty break-up, not that it was any of her business.
The sweet little thing had spoken so quietly when she ordered that Marcy had needed to lean in to hear her. She wasn’t showing much enthusiasm for her salad either; she’d been picking at it for twenty minutes now. Marcy just hoped Freddie didn’t see. He got awful touchy about people not being keen on his work. He had the soul of a tortured artist in the body of a longshoreman from Queens.

  The soccer mom gave the menu another look, regarding it like she’d just scraped it off her shoe. “Alright then. I guess I’ll have two scrambled eggs on rye toast, no butter, with a side order of onions.”

  Marcy nodded and then hollered at the top of her lungs, “Hey, Freddie – Adam and Eve on a raft, then wreck ’em on whiskey, 86 the cow to cover and breath in the alley.”

  A grunt from the area of the fry station indicated Freddie was still alive. Marcy turned her attention to the little fella standing behind his wife. “And for the mister?”

  The soccer mom pushed the menu back at Marcy. “He’ll have the oatmeal with skimmed milk.”

  “And a no-fun special, please, Freddie.” She gave the soccer mom a wide smile. “It’ll be right with ye, honey.”

  As Marcy watched the soccer mom eye the various booths, as if deciding which one to marry, she noticed the 217 bus pulling up on the far side of the road. “Freddie, 217 special!”

  Grunt.

  Isabella drove the 217 bus and this was its final stop on her shift. Every morning, five days a week, she stopped in for her bowl of muesli and a doughnut. She’d chew the fat and then do a little of her college homework, waiting for the morning shift driver to pick up the bus and bring her back into New York. She’d drop her two kids at school and then catch her four hours. Marcy didn’t know how she did it all on such little sleep. Marcy herself barely saw daylight in the winter. She’d love to get herself another job but there ain’t nothing worse on a résumé than embezzling. Employers will forgive murder sooner than that. Only reason she got this job was that Mr Choi reasoned there wasn’t much for her to steal around the place at night. Besides, wasn’t nobody here could tell her to shut up and Marcy liked that.

  Marcy went back behind the counter as soccer mom plus one took up one of the booths by the window.

  Freddie was wordlessly handing Marcy the bowl of muesli for Isabella as the bell above the door tinkled.

  “Here’s my girl.”

  “Hey, Marcy, how you doing?”

  “Oh, you know, laughing on the outside, crying on the inside, keeping out a good eye…”

  Isabella joined in for the last bit: “For a sighting of the upside.”

  She was sitting at the end of the counter as per usual, two big textbooks propped under her arm, looking more cheerful than she’d any right to be. Marcy placed down the bowl in front of her.

  “How’s the population transportation business, honey?”

  “Oh y’know, the usual. Had some tweaker losing his shit, screaming he was on fire.”

  “Damn.”

  “Yeah. Had to pull over and call the cops. Guy is rolling around, screaming the place down, while this lady starts banging on my booth telling me to get moving.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  She shook her head. “No. She was all like, ‘Dude ain’t on fire, I’m gonna be late for work. Boss’ll have my ass.’ She ended up arguing with the cops when they eventually showed. It was some fun times.”

  Marcy shook her head. “Ain’t right, young woman like you all on your own with all that crazy.”

  Isabella shrugged. “Hey, I just stay locked in the booth.” She patted the textbooks. “Fourteen more months and it’s bye-bye, 217 – hello, data management on easy street.”

  “That’s my girl. You got yourself a plan.”

  Isabella nodded and picked up the spoon for her muesli. “Alls I gotta do is stay awake long enough to see that finish line.”

  Marcy laughed and turned around. “Jesus!”

  “Guess again.”

  The man spoke with a strong Irish accent – not that it was the most noticeable thing about him. He was a big man in all senses, with a thick beard and air of disrepair. He looked like one of those poor dancing bears they’re always trying to raise money for. He wore a sheepskin coat and looked like he might’ve slept in it, only he didn’t look like he’d slept. His eyes were bloodshot and the left one was lazy. She assumed that wasn’t part of the hangover, but who knew – Marcy once knew a man who’d drunk himself to actual blindness. This dude was still able to see but he was clearly on the downswing of the mother of all benders. He ran his hand across a brow glistening with cold sweat.

  “Damn, honey. If you don’t mind me saying, you look like death warmed up.”

  The man winced and scratched at his beard. “You have no idea. Is Jackie around?”

  “Jackie who?”

  “Jackie Murphy. He’s the owner.”

  Marcy shook her head. “Sorry, honey, that guy ain’t been the owner here for a while. It’s a Mr Choi now.”

  “But it says Murphy’s Diner outside?”

  “It sure does. I guess Mr Choi thought it sounded more inviting than Choi’s Diner. People love the Irish thing.”

  The man puffed out his cheeks and sighed. “Not as much as you’d think.”

  He winced as Marcy slapped the counter. “I just got it – it was Saint Pattie’s day yesterday, wasn’t it?”

  He shook his head. “No. It’s Saint Patrick or Paddy – Pat at a push.”

  “Excuse me, I’m sure. You had a big ol’ celebration for yourself then, I’m guessing?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “Was Mr Murphy a friend of yours?”

  The man shrugged. “Not as such, but I did save his life.”

  “Oh, well, I’m afraid it didn’t take. Him dying is how Choi owns this place now.” Marcy leaned across the counter and lowered her voice. “Matter of fact, one of the girls who worked here back in them days told me all about it. Murphy died back there in the disabled bathroom. Caught himself a heart attack while in the middle of being in flagrante with one of the waitresses.”

  The man sighed. Marcy leaned back slightly; he wasn’t the most delightful olfactory treat.

  “Yeah, that’s him alright. It was being caught doing something similar with the wrong man’s wife that nearly had him dead the first time. The gobshite clearly never learned his lesson.”

  “So, you two weren’t close then?”

  “Nah, but he was the only man this side of the Atlantic that owed me a favour and I happen to suddenly find myself in need of one.”

  Marcy ran a cloth along the counter as she talked. “Sorry to be the bearer of bad news. Hope the rest of your visit to this green and pleasant land is going better?”

  “Not so much.”

  “So, were you looking to eat or was this just a social call?”

  “Oh God, yeah. I could eat the arse off a donkey.”

  Marcy wrinkled her nose in disgust. “I’m afraid we don’t have that. Here’s what we do got.” She picked up a menu and handed it to him.

  He looked it up and down. “Right so, can I get two fried eggs, some baked beans, mushrooms and three sausages, please.”

  “Sure, honey,” said Marcy, taking the menu back. The man winced again as she raised her voice. “Hey, Freddie – flop two, whistle beans in the alley, funky fungus with a triple Zeppelin chaser.”

  She turned back to see the man rubbing his hands over his eyes. “What you people have done to the language.”

  “I could say the same, honey.”

  “Oh, and a cup of tea, please, too.”

  “Iced tea?”

  “No, like tea tea.”

  Marcy raised her voice again. “Freddie, did those teabags ever come in?”

  Her extensive experience in speaking Freddie meant that Marcy was one of the few people on Earth who could identify the grunt that followed as a firm negative.

  “Sorry, hon’ – we’re out of tea.”

  The man looked like she�
�d just offered to chop his foot off and cook it for him. “You’ve got no tea?”

  “Afraid not.”

  “That’s… that’s… like none at all?”

  “Unless you want iced.”

  “But… you’ve… are you allowed open without having tea? Surely there’s like a rule or something?”

  “We got coffee.”

  “Well, of course you’ve got coffee. This is… I can’t begin to… you’ve got no tea?”

  Marcy put her hands on her hips. “Honey, it’s been a long night. Sorry about the tea thing. Now can I get you some coffee or do you just want one of them hari-kari swords?”

  The man opened and closed his mouth, like a very confused goldfish whose castle had just disappeared. “Jesus, how do you run a country without tea?”

  “By drinking coffee. We’re up all night while the rest of the planet is sleeping.”

  He sighed again, looking like a dog who’d had the fight beat out of him. “I’ll have a coffee then.”

  Marcy slapped her hands together. “That’s the spirit. When in Rome. One steaming hot cup of java coming right up. Fair warning, I keep it hotter than hell.”

  The next few minutes got surprisingly busy for the time of morning. In a massive non-surprise, Soccer Mom decided she didn’t like her order when it landed and asked for it to be changed. Her hubby just sat there eating his oatmeal like a man looking forward to death, either his own or hers. The old guy in the corner booth dozed away with his head back, his mouth wide, catching flies. The young twitchy guy went to the bathroom. Marcy had timed him and was about to introduce him to Freddie’s sunny disposition when he came slinking back out. The mother watched the son colouring in a notepad, all kinds of worry running through her eyes. Miss Lonely Hearts split her time between looking out the window, staring at her watch and glancing at her phone. She’d not set up a date for Murphy’s, had she? I mean, young folks did all kinds of weird stuff these days with all them apps on their phones and what not, but Murphy’s had never been seen as a romantic rendezvous point before. Well, at least not by anyone bar old Jackie Murphy in the disabled restroom – and look how well that had turned out.