I'll have a Grasshopper

This is an excerpt that made me laugh from the book I read most recently. It's not a favorite book or one I've read repeatedly, but it was a good read (I can't really say more about it without giving stuff away, but this excerpt really doesn't divulge any plot twists or anything, just helps further establish some characters) I knew there would be some other Smartini gals that might get a kick out of this particular dialogue between two sisters via email. One is a PI in Dublin, Ireland and the other is in Marketing/Advertising in NYC.

Anybody Out There?
Author: Marian Keyes
Chapter 37

To: Magiciansgirll@yahoo.com
From: Lucky_Star_PI@yahoo.ie
Subject: Job!

So like I said, two burly bozos came into office and one says: Are you Helen Walsh?

Me: Too right I am!

Admit I should have said: Who wants to know?
But wasn’t going to miss this for anything.
(Anna, at this point, must tell you I will be reporting many conversations. They may not be word-for-word but let me make this clear – I am parrot-phrasing, but NOT EXAGGERATING.)

Bozo Number One: A certain gentleman of our acquaintance would like a word. We have instructions to bring you to him. Get in the car.

Me (laughing head off): I’m not getting in a car with two men I’ve never met before – try me again on Saturday night when I’ve had sixteen drinks – and I’m certainly not getting in a car with Austrian blinds. (Remember, I told you there were awful pink ruched yokes on back windows.)

Bozo Number One throws wad of money on table, proper neatly counted bundle with paper band holding it together, like they do in the bank, and says: Now will you get in the car?

Me: How much is there?

Him (rolling eyes, because you should be able to tell from thickness of it): One K.

Me: One K? Do you mean a thousand euro?

Him: Yeah.

Ding fucking dong! Counted it and really was a grand there.

Him: Now will you get in the car?

Me: Depends. Where are we going?

Him: We’re going to see Mr. Big.

Me (excited): Mr. Big?! From Sex and the City?

Him (wearily): That bleedin’ show has caused trouble for local crime lords around the world. The name Mr. Big is meant to inspire dread and terror and instead everyone thinks of this well-dressed debonair man –

Me (interrupting): Who does phone sex. And owns a vineyard in Napa.

Bozo Number Two (opening mouth for first time): He’s selling it.

Me and Bozo Number One turn to stare.

Bozo Number Two: He’s selling the vineyard and moving back to Manhattan, and buying a place with Carrie.

Looked like he might start clubbing me if I disagreed, so agreed. Anyway, he’s right.

Bozo Number One: We’ve tried out a couple of new names. For a while we tried Mr. Huge, but it never really caught on. And Mr. Ginormous only lasted a day. So we’re back to Mr. Big but we have to go through the bleedin’ Sex and the City scenario every time we get a new job. Get in the car.

Me: Not until you tell me exactly where we’re going. And just because I’m small don’t think you can push me around. I can do tae kwon do. [Well, been for one lesson with Mum.]

Him: Oh, do you? Where do you go? Wicklow Street? I teach there, funny I haven’t seen you there before. Anyway, we’re going to a pool hall in Gardiner Street, where the most powerful man in Dublin crime wants to talk to you.

Well, who could resist an invitation like that?

I stopped reading. Was this for real? It sounded just like Helen’s short-lived screenplay. Well, actually, far better. I e-mailed her.

To: Lucky_Star_PI@yahoo.ie
From: Magiciansgirll@yahoo.com
Sunject: Lies?

Helen, this e-mail you’ve sent me? Is it real? Did any of it actually happen?

She replied immediately.

To: Magiciansgirll@yahoo.com
From: Lucky_Star_PI@yahoo.ie
Subject: Not Lies!

True as God. All of it.

Okay, I thought – still not entirely convinced – and carried on reading.

Sat in front of car beside Bozo Number One. Bozo Number Two had to go in back with shame of Austrian blinds.
Me: Bozo Number One, do you have a name?

Bozo Number One: Colin.

Me: Does Bozo Number Two have a name?

Him: No. Bozo will do.

Me: Whose idea was the Austiran blinds?

Him: Mrs. Big.

Me: There’s a Mrs. Big?

Him (hesitating): There mightn’t be anymore. That’s why the boss wants to see you.

And I’m thinking, Ah bollocks. Thought this might be start of whole new career, instead just looked like sitting in more wet hedges. Only difference is that wet hedges will belong to drug runners and pimps, and that doesn’t make it any more exciting. Wet hedge is wet hedge.

Pulled up outside dingy pool hall with war-crime orange lighting. Colin led me down the back to booth with orange stuffing coming out of seat. Why can’t crime lords hang out in nice places, like Ice Bar in Four Seasons?

Small neat man sitting in booth, pulling at foam seat stuffing – last thing he was was big. Neatly trimmed bristly mustache.

He looked up, said: Helen Walsh? Sit down. Would you like a drink?

Me: What are you drinking?

Him: Milk.

Me: Cack. I’ll have a grasshopper.
Don’t even like grasshoppers, hate crème de menthe, as bad as drinking toothpaste, just wanted to be awkward.

Him: Kenneth, get my friend here a grasshopper.

Kenneth (the barman): A glass of what?

Mr. Big: A glass of nothing. A GRASShopper. Right, Miss Walsh, down to business. Anything that’s sad here goes no further, I’m telling you this in total confidence. Right?

Me: Mmmm.
Because minute I got home was going to tell Mum and now telling you.

Me (indicating Colin): What about him?

Mr. Big: Colin’s all right. Me and Colin have no secrets. Right, the thing is. . .

Next thing, he dipped his head, put hand in front of eyes, like he was going to cry. I flashed excited look at Colin, who looked concerned.

Colin: Boss, are you okay. . would you prefer to do this another time?

Mr. Big (Sniffing loudly, “pulling himself together”): No, no, I’m all right. Miss Walsh, I want you to know that I’m fond of my wife, Detta. But lately she’s being very – how can I put it? – distant, and a little vulture whispered in my ear that she might be spending a bit too much time with Racey O’Grady.

I was finding it hard to concentrate because over my shoulder could hear bar staff in panic. . .a grasshopper. . what the fuck’s that?. . .maybe it’s one of those new beers. . .look down in the cellars, will you Jason. . .?

Me (calling): Lookit, it’s fine, I’ll just have a Diet Coke.

Me (turning back to Mr. Big): Sorry, you were saying. Speedy McGreevy.

Him (frowning): Speedy McGreevy? Speedy McGreevy has nothing to do with this. Or does he? (Narrows eyes.) What do you know? Who’s been talking?

Me: No one. You said it.

Him: I didn’t say Speedy McGreevy, I said Racey O’Grady. Speedy McGreevy’s on the run in Argentina.

Me: My mistake. Carry on.