Zeb is whimpering softly; maybe he has the right idea. There are three criminals pointing weapons at us and I don’t have any good news for them. We are flanked in a small room with no hope of escape except if these people are sufficiently dim to relax their guard again.

‘Here’s the thing, Mike. There is no disk. Never was.’ I can’t resist rapping Zeb’s crown. ‘This gobshite tried to bluff you, then dragged me in when negotiations turned painful.’

Mike conducts with his cigarette. ‘Yeah, see that’s what the doc told me shortly after he told me there was a disk. So what’s true and what ain’t? I can’t tell.’

‘Trust me, Mike. I’m Irish. We’re Irish. I swear on the tricolour there’s no disk. This dick wouldn’t know how to use a camera.’

Mike reaches under his soft cap, scratching his head. ‘That’s touching, laddie, the Irish connection, but you know as well as I do that the Gaels have been cutting each other’s throats for centuries. It’s gonna take more than that. So what else have we got in common?’

‘We got that itch,’ I say, pointing a finger.

Mike whips his hand down like he’s been slapped by a nun. ‘What itch? What the hell are you talking about?’

‘Is that what this is all about? Irish Mike Madden got some new hair and he’s feeling a little sensitive about it.’

‘Fuck you,’ shouts Mike, then dissolves into a racking cough. Those neck jabs really take it out of a person.

‘Come on, Mike. This is the twenty-first century. Surgery is a positive thing. It shows you care about your appearance. A hair transplant today is like a barber-shop shave fifty years ago. If you can afford it, do it.’

‘’Zactly,’ mutters Zeb. ‘That’s what I’ve been saying.’

It is exactly what he’s been saying. I’m just regurgitating the spiel that Zeb sold me.

‘No one cares, Mike. You know how many Americans had surgery last year? Have a guess; go on, hazard a guess.’ I don’t wait for a guess, in case Zeb gave Mike the speech too. ‘Twelve million. Can you believe that? Twelve mill-i-on. Chances are at least one of your boys had liposuction in the past month.’

The beefcake on Mike’s left blushes a little, then points his gun at my forehead.

Mike pulls himself together. ‘Yeah? What would you know about it?’

‘I know about it,’ I shoot back. ‘Because I have that itch too.’ It’s time for the cap to come off. I try to do it nonchalant, like I show people all the time. I peel off the hat and stand there in all my transplanted glory.

Mike squints a little, then beckons me forward under the light. I oblige, tilting my head so the shorter guys can get a look.