Abacus

and nudged him towards the toilet.
    A t the rear of the restaurant, the hapless Irishman was pushed through the toilet door, almost losing his footing. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he begged.
    Randall rais ed his index finger to his lips. “Shhhhhh.” Irish was pushed against the tiled wall with Randall standing opposite. “Now strip,” he ordered. Irish knew the drill; he was to be searched for a concealed device.
    Randall watched on intently as Ir ish slowly removed his garments and passed them to him one at a time. He kicked off his shoes first, which Randall banged against the wall to see if any loose objects would fall out. Once satisfied, he threw these on the ground at his feet. Next came the socks, jeans and finally the T-shirt. As the clothes were handed to Randall, he gave them a shake. “Irish, I’m not going to stab myself with a hidden syringe, am I?”
    “ No, no, there’s nothing.”
    Randall scrunched the clothi ng firmly with his strong hands as the forlorn figure of Irish watched on in just his underwear. “Take it all off,” he barked.
    Irish obediently kicked off his underwear on the floor at Randall’s feet. Randall stood on the garment with his size twelve foot and pivoted on it, as if butting out a cigarette. When satisfied there were no wires or listening devices, he pushed the clothes along the wet floor with his foot into a heap in front of Irish. Raising his index finger, he poked the naked Irish in the chest. “Get dressed and never, ever, talk about the past again. And for the record,” he hollered, looking around the ceiling of the room as if being recorded, “I don’t know what bloody job you are talking about.” Randall continued to lecture as Irish slowly got dressed. “Irish, you need to just do what you are told. That’s it. I have stuck my neck out for you and if you stuff up again it will be the last mistake you make, trust me.”
    “It won’t happen again , Detective, I-I s-swear,” stammered a worried-looking Irish.
    Irish left the bathroom with head bowed like a chastised kid, closely followed by Randall. Once they got to their table, he sat down while Randall remained standing. “I’m off,” Randall said, looking out into the street still outwardly seething.
    “Aren’t we getting s omething to eat?” Irish asked timidly.
    “Don’t feel li ke food now… You just remember what I said.” Randall tossed four one hundred dollar notes onto the table on his way out. “Get yourself something to eat and there is a bit over for whatever you need.” Randall hurried towards the exit door and pushed past a customer who was entering at the same time. He knew Irish would spend all the money on heroin, but that was part of the deal. DL liked the bait to remain “on the inside” of the drug trade. It made them easy to dispose of and it also made them more credible to their targets.
    Randall crossed the road to his car and opened the driver’s side door. Pulling the silver phone from his pocket, he threw it in anger onto the passenger’s seat as he ducked his head and pulled himself into the driver’s seat. Resting his head on the top of the steering wheel, he clenched the sides of the wheel hard, which made the muscles in his forearms bulge. “Fucking Irish,” he cursed, squeezing the wheel even harder. He looked over at the silver phone lying on the passenger’s seat. “It’s time, it’s over for you, Irish.” He picked it up and flipped it open. He thought about his earlier discussion with Noel. Perhaps he was right; it was time for a change in bait. He stared at the phone’s screen. It was decision time, and Irish’s untimely death was only a text away.
    Randall firmly pushed on the buttons until the text, Change the bait , was displayed on the screen. As his thumb hovered over the send button, he took a few deep breaths, and looked up over the steering wheel to see Irish crossing the road in front of him. He watched as he weaved in and out of the traffic jam to make it safely to the other side. He looked excited. Money for drugs will do that to an addict.
    Watching Irish seemed to calm him a little. He thought about the previous assignments that Irish had completed without a hitch. Perhaps this time it was an honest mistake , he thought. After flipping the phone closed and turning the key, he whispered, “He gets one more chance, that’s it.” Irish had no idea how lucky he was today. Randall knew that wise old Noel was right again and