Any direction I turned my ass, someone was waiting to plug me.
Unless I created a diversion.
I debated starting a trailer on fire, but immediately disregarded it. Fires took a while to get started, and I needed something fast. Besides, I left my tank of kerosene in my other shorts. I adjusted the gun in my pocket and tried to think of something else I could use to get their attention. If I only had some way to make a loud noise of some sort. Or some way to make them run for cover…
Come on, McGlade! Think! What could create a diversion? Think man!
Ah, the hell with it. I took a deep breath and decided to run for my car, hoping they wouldn’t see me, breaking into a sprint, a lifetime of fatty foods preventing anything that could be called genuine speed. The first ten meters were like running through lentil soup. After the second ten, I was wheezing like an asthmatic at a smoker’s convention. The last thirty meters, my legs were so rubbery I think several times they actually bent backwards.
But, inconceivably, I made it. My upper body collapsed, heaving, on the trunk of my car, and I turned to see what the cop cars were doing.
Nothing. They were still talking.
Maple Hills’s finest.
I fished out my keys and unlocked the Vette door.
Then the screaming began.
My damn alarm.
“Aaaaaaaa! Aaaaaaaaaaaaa! Aaaaaaaaaaaaa!”
As I climbed into the car, I dropped my keys and sat on them.
“Aaaaaaaaaa! Aaaaaaaaaaaa!”
I almost began screaming myself. Sitting on your keys wasn’t a pleasant experience. I managed to fish them out and jam them into the ignition.
The screaming stopped.
Not risking a look at the cops, I flipped the kill switch under my dash and then tried to find the key on my ring that would take the metal bar off of my steering wheel. But the key was on my keychain, and my keychain was attached to the key in the ignition. And if I took my keys out again, my screaming alarm would reset.
Was that a siren?
Don’t turn around. Don’t look. Just find the key. Find the key. Find the key, jackass.
There. The key.
Now get the key off the keychain. Don’t look behind you. Get the key off the chain. Get it off.
It wouldn’t come off.
At this point, I think I’d already had about five heart attacks, plus arrest was imminent, so I just pulled out the damn keys.
“Aaaaaaaa! Aaaaaaaaaaaaa! Aaaaaaaaaaaaa!”
I took off the metal bar, expecting to be shot or tazed at any moment, and then jammed my key back in the ignition, killing the screaming.
Then I started my car, did a U turn, and drove past the two cops cars, who were still parked side-by-side and chatting.
Idiots. I decided next time I wanted to rob a house, I was coming back to Maple Hills.
During the ride back to Chicago, many thoughts cross-stitched through the fabric of my mind. Where do I go from here? Do I call Kahdem? Why didn’t I take a pic of the Jeep’s license plates? Can I find the guy by tracing the trailer’s address? Why didn’t I take a pic of the trailer’s address? Is my car alarm system perhaps a tiny bit impractical?
I decided to call Kahdem. Not about my car alarm, but about Cherry. He was the client, and he had to decide if I pursued the guy in the Jeep. I gave him a call.
“Mr. Kahdem’s phone.”
“Hey, Parviz. It’s McGlade. How’s your squat?”
“Twenty reps at three hundred kilos.”
I tried to convert metric to English in my head to figure out pounds, forgot the conversion rate, and just went with, “Sweet. Kahdem around? I have to talk to him.”
“He’s busy at the moment. Can I take a message?”
As a rule, I didn’t discuss my client’s business with anyone, even if they were employees or significant others.
“Do you make appointments for him?”
“Yes.”
“Can I meet him for lunch tomorrow?”
“He could meet you at Le Femme.”
“Pass. How about the Big Stinky Onion instead? On Milwaukee.”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“It’s great. They have this whole theme around big stinky onions. They got Big Stinky Onion Rings. Big Stinky Onion Soup. Big Stinky Onion Pudding.”
“Mr. Kahdem is not a big fan of onions.”
“They also make a mean boiled steak. It’s really big. And stinky. And covered with onions.”
“I can put him down for noon. Does the Big Stinky Onion require reservations?”
“I’m not sure. Check Groupon.”
“I’ll do that.”
Then I checked my message, from when someone called during my hot pursuit.
“Mr. McGlade, this is Jasper. The doorman. The black Jeep just came and picked up Meredith’s friend.”
I called him back. “Jasper, it’s McGlade. Did you get the license plate on the Jeep?”
“No. You didn’t tell me to.”
“It was implied, Jasper. If you’re looking for a car, it’s just common sense to get the plate number,” said the guy looking for a car but failed to get the plate number.
“I understand.”
“Get it, and let me know. This forty bucks has your name on it.”
Then I headed home, to my beloved pet horse, whom I hadn’t named yet.
What was a good name for a dwarf miniature pony? Something instantly recognizable, yet clever and funny?
Phil?
That really didn’t work on any level. But my brain was tired, so I dropped it for the time being.
After parking, I decided to take the stairs rather than enter the lobby and risk running into that asshole condo manager again. I managed to avoid him, and when I got to my door my trusty steed greeted me with a whinny. Or maybe it was a neigh. Or a nicker. I’d only had him for less than a day, so I didn’t speak horse yet.
My place was still a mess. And even worse, my new pet had eaten a good section of my carpet. I was about to call the maids and give them some constructive feedback, when I noticed a card from them on my desk.
You’re a pig. We quit. Don’t call us ever again.
That was the third cleaning service who’d fired me.
“Want to go for a walk?”
The horse didn’t answer. I found his leather and metal mouth leash thing, stuck it between his teeth, and led him out into the hallway—
—where the dick condo manager was lying in wait.
“Seriously? Do you just stand out here, hoping I show up?”
“I knew you had a horse!” He pointed, accusingly, at the horse. “This violates your condo owner association agreement, Mr. McGlade.”
“It’s not a horse,” I said. “It’s a dog.”
“That’s not a dog.”
“Good boy, Rover.” I patted the horse’s head. “Sit.”
The horse didn’t sit.
“I’m still training him,” I said.
“That’s not a dog, Mr. McGlade.”
“Yeah it is.”
The manager crossed his arms over his chest. “What kind of dog is it?”
“He’s one of those designed mixer breeds.”
“A designer mixed breed?”
I shrugged. “Sure.”
“Which one?”
“A labramaltipoo sheepadoo.”
“You made that up.”
I put my hands over the horse’s ears. “Shhh! He’s sensitive about his parents. It was an arranged marriage. They weren’t really in love.”
“This is unacceptable, Mr. McGlade.”
“Dogs are allowed. You said it yourself.”
“He has hooves!”
“All labradoody cockerpoos have hooves. Look it up on Google.”
I paraded Rover past him, and headed for the elevator before he could get his cell phone out.
After taking Rover to a pet store within walking distance (and, no, they weren’t the ones that sold him to me), I
had them deliver two large bowls for feeding and watering, a fifty pound bag of pony chow (yes, they actually made pony chow), a leash, and a collar with a big bone medallion on it that said ROVER THE DOG.
I had no delusions that the dog ruse would work longer than a week, two at most, possibly three because that idiot condo manager whose name I couldn’t remember was a real idiot. But my subterfuge would work until I figured out something better.
In the meantime, I enjoyed my pet.
Every child I walked past wanted to sit on Rover, and being the nice guy that I am I was happy to accommodate every request, as long as their parents had twenty bucks.
The condo manager was gone when I got back home, and I cleaned up all the horse poo, ordered a pizza, gave Rover the box when it arrived, and then spent twenty minutes on the Internet figuring out how to housetrain horses.
Apparently, it was possible. Though big horses had to go to the bathroom every hour or so, small ones could hold it in for up to six hours.
Cool, but I thought I had a better solution.
I kept researching, and by researching I meant typing words into Google, and I found a website that showed how to housebreak a miniature horse using kitty litter.
Cleaning the litter box would be extreme, but it was easier than walking the horse every six hours when I had a full work schedule and my binge drinking meant I often passed out for fourteen hours at a time.
I called up the pet store, ordered ten bags of kitty litter and six litter trays, and they delivered them with my earlier order.
Then I made margaritas, which was a challenge because I didn’t have sour mix or limes or sugar or ice, which meant I just poured straight tequila into a margarita glass. Then I stood Rover on the litter boxes, and when he peed, I gave him an apple and praised him. When he pooed, I did the same thing.
Sometime during the feeding him apples and drinking straight tequila, I bonded with my horse in a big way. He had such big, brown eyes, and long silky hair, and he licked my face like a dog.
“I have a good feeling about this, Rover. You and me, we’re going to be pals. I don’t think I’ll ever need another pet, for as long as I live.”
The phone woke me up. I was having a dream where I was naked, and several dozen angry women were running after me with scissors. For some reason that was a reoccurring theme in my dreams.
I forced my crusty eyes open.
How did vomit get on the ceiling?
The phone rang.
I smacked my lips, unhappy about the taste in my mouth. It tasted like someone came in during the night and took a crap on my tongue. I pulled myself up into a sitting position, wondering if it was Rover.
Nope. Just morning breath.
The phone rang.
I was sore from all that running around last night. The sweat had also stayed with me, and the gym outfit I still wore didn’t smell very pleasant. But there wasn’t any puke on my clothes, making the ceiling vomit even more mysterious.
The phone rang.
“Harry McGlade, private investigator,” I croaked. My throat was dry.
“Mr. McGlued, when was the last time you considered your personal relationship with Christ?”
I rolled my eyes. “Jesus.”
“One and the same.”
I coughed and tried to work up enough spit to swallow.
My throat was too dry.
“Mr. McGlued, as part of the Holy Sacrament Church, I’m prepared to help you get closer to God.”
“How? Got a big ladder?”
“By signing you up for a subscription to The Good News, a newspaper specializing in Christian issues. We are all the lambs of God, Mr. McGlued. Can I sign you up for a subscription?”
“No. How’d you get my number? I’m unlisted.”
“The Lord knows all, Mr. McGlued.”
“Then ask him for the Powerball numbers and stop trying to sell me magazines.”
“God doesn’t love assertive people, Mr. McGlued. To quote the good book, the meek shall inherit the earth.”
“They can have it. It sucks.”
“For only thirty dollars a month, you can—”
“Can’t talk, me and Satan are sacrificing babies.”
I hung up the phone and waddled over to the bathroom. Rover was standing in the hot tub, and wearing my fedora.
Must have been some party last night. Next time I made margaritas, I should use some kind of mix.
There was a message on my machine. Must have missed it yesterday, because of the blackout drunkenness.
“Are you scared, McGlade? You should be. You will be.”
It was my voice modulated fan. His threat sounded like the tagline to a bad horror novel.
I still had three hours to kill before lunch with Kahdem. I didn’t know if he wanted me to continue the investigation and figure out who was in the Jeep, but I had nothing better to do so I got on the Internet and figured out the address to the trailer home I’d visited yesterday by using Google Maps. Then I used www.whitepages.com to do a reverse address lookup.
The owner of the trailer was named Chuck Gardiner. I looked him up, and the top listing was for a Chicago Blackhawks goalie who died years ago. Further searches didn’t get me anywhere productive.
I wished I’d taken a pic of the Jeep and gotten the license plate.
But did I actually need a pic? I followed that vehicle all the way from Chicago to Maple Hills. I’d seen the tag number. It was probably hidden in my subconscious. Maybe, if I thought really hard, it would come to me.
I thought really hard.
It didn’t come to me.
I did remember that the Jeep had Illinois plates. That was a start. How many black Jeeps could there be in the state?
I called the one woman I knew who could tell me.
“A lot,” she said.
Gina Morris, a clerk at the Illinois Department of Motor Vehicles, was an overweight girl with crossed eyes and a lisp. I tapped that anyway. Gina wasn’t the ideal bedroom partner. All I remembered about the experience was her repeatedly saying, “Move your head, I can’t see the T.V.”
Though we never went on a second date, I kept in touch because I knew her occupation would come in handy. And every once in a while she would come through for me. That’s the one thing I’ve always liked about her. She was always willing to go that extra mile for a friend in need.
“How much is a lot?” I asked.
“Fifty.”
“That’s not very much.”
“Fifty dollarth.”
“That’s way too much.”
“Then get your info thomwhere elth.”
Gina would go that extra mile, but she didn’t come cheap.
“Fine. Fifty bucks. How many are there.”
“There’th twenty-thix thousand two hundred and three black Jeepth in Illinois.”
I asked her about the lisp once, and she told me she had a nervous condition where at night she sometimes chewed off parts of her tongue. Better hers than mine.
“Any of the owners named Chuck Gardiner?”
I heard a keyboard being tapped. “No.”
I closed my eyes, tried to picture the vehicle. “It’s a Cherokee.”
More tapping. “Nineteen hundred fifty-thix. Know the year?”
“No.”
“Do you have a parthial plate?”
“No.”
“Then you’re thit out of luck. Bye, Harry. Thend the fifty to my Paypal.”
I wracked my brain for something else to ask, to get my fifty buck’s worth. I couldn’t think of anything, so I went with, “Thanks for trying, babe. Doing anything on Thursday?”
“No way. You’re bad at thex and thmell like thalami.”
“How about Friday?”
She hung up.
I sent her the Paypal, because I knew I’d need her again, but I didn’t enjoy the digital transaction. Not one bit.
Then my stomach made a hungry noise, and I realized I needed some grease to soak up t
he tequila still in my system.
I dressed, took my fedora back from Rover, and then snuck out of my condo, unseen by the dick condo manager. But in the parking lot I saw something I despised even more.
A tow truck.
I was in possession of more than a few unpaid parking tickets, thanks to Chicago’s finest. The normal procedure was to attach a boot; one of those yellow metal clamps that locks onto the car tire to prevent the vehicle from being driven until the fines were paid. I was a cop once, and one of my going-away presents to myself when I left the force was a universal boot key. I had a collection of three or four boots, one of them currently in my trunk.
But there was no protection against getting towed. The best you could do is make sure you parked legally, or in private parking lots.
My condo parking lot was private. So what the hell was this pinhead doing there?
I yelled, “Hey!” just as he put his meaty palm on my baby’s hood, reaching down to attach the tow bar.
Then the screaming started.
The tow truck driver, a non-descript white guy in a gray garage jumpsuit, fell onto his ass as the Vette’s alarm went off.
“It’s a private parking lot!” I shouted over the screams. “You can’t tow me!”
He looked at me, at my car, at me, and at the .44 Magnum that may have appeared in my hand because, hey, this was private property and I’m allowed to protect my property. For all I knew, he was stealing my car.
Rather than argue his right to tow me, he wisely got into his truck and took off.
I had no way to know at the time that this incident would wind up saving my ass, and also saving countless lives.
Cool, right? That’s called foreshadowing.
And drawing attention to foreshadowing is called breaking the fourth wall.
That’s the kind of rebel I am.
I turned off the alarm, then drove to a nearby donut chain store, ordered one of those egg sandwiches, and ate a cruller and sipped coffee while it was being made.
Heading back to my car, I saw a cop had parked next to me in one of those extremely uncool little blue motorized tricycles that meter readers ride around in. No one ever became a cop to ride around in those stupid things.
Dying Breath - A Thriller (Phineas Troutt Mysteries Book 2) Page 13
