Mal looked out over the sea of upturned faces, all eyes riveted to the stage, his stage. Not a cough, not a whisper, not the clinking of a single fork broke the tension. With a flourish, he thrust the fourth sword into the cabinet.
Inside the cabinet, Esme screamed. He had to give it to her, the lady had lungs.
The crowd gasped. Mal waited for the audience to die down.
Instead, a murmur grew, rippling across the crowd with the sound of chairs moving and patrons shifting in their seats. It wasn’t in response to his act. Something else was happening. Annoyed, Mal broke a cardinal rule and stopped the act to look past the glare of the stage lights, searching for the disturbance.
A dozen men stood on chairs scattered across the room. As one, they unzipped their expensive trousers, withdrew their penises, and urinated on the crowd. They turned as they emptied their overfull bladders, splashing every diner in reach. Shrieks—genuine this time—pierced the air as diners shied away. China crashed and patrons fell on one another as they attempted to evade the offensive streams.
Cool as cucumbers, the men zipped up, walking out before security could react.
It had been a disaster. Stu, Pete’s chief of security, asked Mal to continue performing while they attended to the customers who’d been “ding-donged”—that’s what Stu called it—but the people who stayed were too upset by the attack to watch and he couldn’t find his rhythm.
He found himself playing to a room that was three-quarters empty, the remaining diners huddled in pockets of intense conversation. For the first time, he was relieved to leave the stage.
Hours later he sat in Pete’s office, Pete behind the enormous oak desk, Stu standing behind him. Mal stuck a hand in his pocket, felt for his shilling, rubbed a frustrated thumb across the face. “What’s happening, Pete?”
“Moe Dalitz is back.”
“Dalitz? The guy who burned you out?”
“He wants the club. I expect I’ll get a new offer in a few days.”
“And what? He pisses on the guests until you let him have it?”
“That’s what he thinks. I’d rather burn this place down myself than sell—to him or anyone.”
“You built this place. Nobody should be able to take it from you.”
“You got that right.”
“What’s the plan?”
“We hold on. Things may get bumpy. I need to know if you’re up for a scrap.”
Years defending himself from gangs of larger boys in the alleys of Dublin taught Mal a thing or two. He hated bullies.
“You put me where I am. I’m in. Whatever you need.”