‘I’ll be working for you, sir?’

Sometimes I repeat stuff. People think it’s because I’m stupid, but really it’s because I can’t believe what I’m hearing.

The guy goes for option A.

‘What are you? A parrot? A fucking retarded Oirish parrot? Kee-rist almighty.’

This is probably the way it goes in the office for this guy. He doles out garbage and people take it. I’m guessing he’s the boss, or close to it. Only the boss or the mail guy can not give a shit how they look to this extent and get away with it. Suit and spectacles that could have been stolen from Michael Caine circa 1972, and of course the Styrofoam ring of ginger hair.

‘No, sir. I’m not a parrot,’ I say, nice and calm, like I learned in doorman school. ‘I’m the head of security and you touched the hostess, whatever way you want to dress it up.’

The guy laughs, like he’s got an audience. ‘Dressing things up is what I do, Mister Daniel Head of Security. That’s my motherfucking business.’

He says motherfucking all wrong, like he learned it from the TV. It doesn’t sound right coming out of his attorney’s face.

‘It’s your motherfucking business?’ I say, saying the word like it should be said. I learned it from a Romanian mercenary working for the Christian militia in Tibnin. Anghel and his boys would tool past our camp most days in their beat-up VW, stopping to strike deals for long-life milk or pasta we’d traded from the French garçons. I liked Anghel okay; he never shot at me specifically, his whole head was a beard and I appreciated the way he said motherfucking.

Only one carton, Paddy? I give you perfect good mozzerfokken hairdryer.

Made it sound real; the double z. So sometimes if I want to make an impression I say it the Romanian way. Often it’s enough to confuse a guy, put him off his stride.

But not this guy. The ginger monkey is seriously unimpressed by my double z and proceeds to make his second mistake of the evening that I know about. He steps up to me, cock of the walk, like I don’t have eight inches and fifty pounds on him.