I brushed some broken glass off my shirt, and began picking it out of my bandages while looking for the dart gun. Kenny had come out of his little bullet proof booth and was running around the parking lot yelling at no one in particular. I’m sure it was only a matter of minutes before the cops came and hauled the garbage away.
I found the dart gun lying under a Mazda, and stuck it in my pants. The gun, not the Mazda. Then I began a distasteful but necessary task. Since I didn’t want these punks to be waiting for me every time I turned a corner, I had a choice.
I could either kill them, as promised, or put them out of commission for a while.
So I broke all of their fingers.
It was a hands-off job, and not too difficult while wearing cowboy boots. I stomped on sixty fingers in all. It would have been seventy, but Zipgun took care of his own fingers by blowing all of them off. Well, all except one, and I couldn’t quite bring myself to break that.
It would be quite a while before they were able to come at me again, unless they learned how to twirl nunchaku with their dicks.
By then the cops were arriving, so I went to my motel room to figure out my next move.
JACK
Back in Chicago, we stopped at an Irish bar near the precinct house. Not a real Irish bar; the fake kind that served overpriced potato skins and had old sports equipment nailed to the walls. But they served black and tans, and that was good enough for us.
During my third beer with Herb, Latham called.
“Are we on for tonight?” he asked.
Going on a date was the last thing I wanted to do. That required an effort. I was more in the mood to curl up in bed, alone, with a few more beers, maybe some delivery pizza, and an exciting evening of Home Shopping Network, staring at things I couldn’t afford.
“Hon, I’m really not feeling it tonight.”
“You sick?”
“No. Work stuff.”
“You want to talk about it? I can come over with some beer and a pizza.”
“I’m really not up for that,” I told him. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Okay. Love you.”
“Love you, too.” I hung up.
“You’re pushing him away,” Herb opined. My partner and friend freely offered advice without being asked, but a couple of drinks made him more eager to do so.
“Herb, we just got one of the biggest cases we’ve ever had taken away from us. I don’t want to talk about my love life.”
“So talk about it with Latham.”
Here we go again. “Do you discuss the Job with Bernice?”
“No way.”
“You don’t see the hypocrisy there?”
“Bernice doesn’t want to hear about it. Latham does.”
“Maybe I don’t want to talk about the case.”
“I thought we were talking about Latham.”
“Maybe I don’t want to talk about him, either.”
“Fair enough.” Herb stood, took out his wallet, and threw some cash on the table. “I’m gonna go home, have sex with my wife, and fire up the BBQ. You’re welcome to come over.”
“I don’t think of your wife in that way.”
“For dinner, smartass. Latham is welcome, too. We invite you guys over all the time, you never come. Is it my cooking?”
Herb’s cooking wasn’t very good. “Your cooking is fine. I just hate making the trip to and from the burbs. Especially after one of your drunken barbeques. You okay to drive?” I was feeling the booze.
“I weigh a hundred pounds more than you. Plus alcohol effects women harder than it does men. How much time off you got coming?”
I shrugged. “I dunno. A few weeks.”
“Same here. I think I’ll take a week. It’ll do me, and my marriage, good. Call me if you’re coming by.”
“Absolutely. Thanks for the invite.”
Herb left knowing there was no way I was going to his house later.
Or maybe he didn’t know that. Maybe it was an earnest invitation, and he was hoping I’d show up. We could eat his mediocre BBQ, then do something common and banal, like play Scrabble or Yahtzee.
That’s what people did, wasn’t it? When they weren’t pushing away others and feasting on their own self-loathing?
The waitress came by, an upbeat little thing who had a lot of empty holes in her lip, nose, and face, probably because corporate wouldn’t let her wear facial jewelry. I ordered another black and tan, and some potato skins. When in Rome.
That’s when he walked in. Lester Warknuckle. The height-challenged car thief misogynist bully who ratted out his friends.
Except they must have forgiven him, because he was with three of them.
They were seated across the room and hadn’t seen me yet. My waitress stopped by their table, and they said something to her and snickered. When she walked away she didn’t look nearly as upbeat as she had a moment earlier. And when she came by a few minutes later with my drink, her eyes were red.
“You okay?”
“Yeah. Got a bad table.”
“You talk to your manager?”
“They’re just jerks. I can handle it. Your skins will be out soon.”
She left. I glanced at Lester, who had finally noticed me. He saw me staring and grinned. Then he gave me the finger.
I got up. I had a thing about bullies.
He lost his smile as I approached. I took my badge case from out of my blazer pocket, hanging it around my neck on a cord. By the time I was standing next to his table, I could see the fear in his eyes.
“Hi, Lester. You guys out celebrating something?”
His dining companions all had that look. That thousand yard stare ex-con look.
“That bitch State’s Attorney was giving away Get Out Of Jail Free cards. Cutting deals left and right. So, hell yeah, we’re celebrating.”
I should have told him to behave himself, and left it at that.
But I went a different route.
Instead of acting like an adult and a good police officer, I slapped my palms on the table, hard enough to rattle their silverware, and leaned close to him. “Go celebrate someplace else.”
He tried to stare me down, and blinked first.
“It’s a free country, cop. I can eat where I want to. And you can suck it.”
He laughed, a little too hard, and his friends joined in.
I noticed that we’d drawn the attention of several customers.
“You really want to eat here, Lester? Fine. Let me help you out.”
I walked to the hostess stand, grabbed a few items, and came back to his table. Then I slammed the children’s menu in front of him, along with a packet of crayons.
“Circle what you want if you can’t read it,” I said. “And let me know if you need a booster seat.”
His buddies laughed. Lester turned a shade of red normally found on stop signs. He looked like he was ready to throw a punch.
“You want to hit a police officer?” I dared. “In front of all these witnesses?”
He got up, glared at me, and stormed out of there.
“Maybe you should go make sure his feelings aren’t hurt,” I told his friends.
They stood and moved to leave, and I stepped in front of the biggest of them. He looked like he wanted to kick my ass, and part of me wanted him to try.
“I don’t want trouble,” he said.
“Then tip your waitress,” I told him.
He threw down a few bucks, I let him pass, and the drama was over. I went back to my table to some mild applause, and a sick stomach.
Nice job, Jack. Real professional. Get a few beers in you and you’re Dirty Harry.
You hate bullies, then act like a bully, in public.
Way to go.
My potato skins came, and when my waitress dropped them off, she whispered, “Thank you.”
It didn’t make me feel any better. And the potato skins were greasy and burnt.
After my fourth beer I switched to water, watch
ed two sports teams play sports on one of the restaurant’s forty-six televisions, and tried without success to figure out my life.
An hour passed. Maybe more. The sun set and night came. I tipped thirty percent, which was all the cash I had left on me, and then went outside and wondered if my Nova would start because my auto club membership had expired and I didn’t want to call Latham and couldn’t afford a cab.
I’d parked in front of a hydrant, and as I was approaching my car I noticed them. Three guys, standing across the street, staring at me, ski masks over their faces. I would have spotted them sooner, but I was in my own head, still feeling the beer, and my eyes hadn’t quite adjusted to the dark.
Then, behind me, three more guys, also in ski masks. One of them a lot shorter than the other two.
I thought about the .38 Colt Detective Special in my shoulder holster.
I thought about how firing a gun on a busy downtown street could, and probably would, hurt someone innocent.
I thought about how stupid it was of me to insult Lester in front of his friends, knowing what I knew about men in general and criminals in particular.
I thought I was about to get my ass kicked, and how it was smarter for me to take the punches than draw my weapon.
So I clenched my fists.
Six against one?
I was going to break at least four of their bones before I went down.
“This is a bad move, Lester,” I said. “Stealing cars is one thing. You don’t get to plea bargain when you assault a cop.”
“Who’s Lester?” said Lester. “Any of you guys know anyone named Lester?”
I felt my sphincter clench, and considered my gun again. I could practically hear the review board.
“Did any of them have a weapon, Lieutenant?”
“Not that I could see.”
“Did you fear for your life?”
“Not really. They were car thieves, not killers.”
“So how could you justify lethal force? On a crowded street?”
I assumed niunja seogi; a taekwondo defense stance, my years of training immediately coming back to me, letting myself feel the fear, forcing myself to push through it. If it looked like they were going to kill me, I’d pull my gun. If not, I’d take my lumps.
Hell, I probably deserved it.
And then the worst possible thing happened. The one person in the world I didn’t want there was suddenly jogging across the street, heading straight into this mess I’d made.
HARRY
I visited Jasper the doorman and gave him the forty bucks I owed him for the Jeep information. It was a terrific scene, full of humor and drama and action and even a bit of spicy sex, but this book is getting really long so the scene got cut. Apparently I’m the cuttable one because I don’t have my own series like Jack and Phin both do. Only about fifteen people read Banana Hammock, and less than half of them liked it.
I’ll have to take comfort in the fact that I’m ahead of my time, even if people skip my scenes.
Where was I? Oh yeah, the license plate number.
My old cop password worked fine for criminal records, but didn’t allow me to plate numbers. So I had to call Gina Morris at the DMV to find out who owned that Jeep.
“Harry, I’m glad you called. I mithed you.”
“Really?”
“No. No one will ever mith you.”
“That thucks,” I thaid.
Actually, I didn’t. I didn’t want to pith her off.
After agreeing on a price that seemed inflated to near-Fakir levels, Gina ran the plates and got a name.
Edward Cline.
He didn’t have a record, at least not in Illinois. But he did have an address, in Minnesota.
I Googled him, leafed through a few Facebook profiles of guys with that name, and finally found a pic of the asshole who was with Cherry. He apparently owned a chain of plant rental stores (is that a thing?) in four states. I found the phone number for the corporate office and gave it a call.
“Plantasy Zone,” answered a woman.
“This is Bill.” I was using my annoyed corporate jerk voice. “I’ve got a weeping willow that’s shedding leaves all over the lobby. My visitors are asking me if it’s autumn, for crissakes.”
“Who is this?”
“Look, just put Eddie on.”
“Mr. Cline isn’t available right now.”
“Gimme his cell number.”
“I don’t have his—”
“I’m one of your biggest accounts, and if I don’t talk to Eddie in the next thirty seconds…” What was a good threat? “…then I’m chopping down the tree.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Cline is on vacation.”
“Vacation? Where on vacation?”
“Mr. Cline doesn’t share that information.”
“I just saw him last night at Sabatino’s. You telling me he left Chicago already?”
“I’m not allowed to—”
“I’ve got an axe. I’m gonna start chopping off branches and mailing them to him, I swear to God.”
“Mr. Cline was staying at the Four Seasons, but—”
I hung up and dialed the Four Seasons.
“This is Edward Cline in room blah-blah-ba-da. I can’t remember if I checked out or not.”
“I’m sorry, sir. What room?”
“Cline. C-L-I-N-E. I better not be charged for all that pay-per-view pornography. It’s supposed to be free for the first five minutes.”
“I have you checked out as of this morning, Mr. Cline. Would you like to hear your room charges?”
Checked out. But I had a good idea where he took Cherry and Puma.
“Time to go back to the trailer park,” I said.
“What trailer park?” asked the Four Seasons guy.
“Sorry. Thought I hung up.”
Then I headed for Maple Hills.
Harry’s Stakeout Report.
11:51am – Arrive at trailer park. Jeep isn’t there. Go to a nearby street outside of the park so no one calls the police on me. Watch trailer with binoculars.
12:05pm – Eat a candy bar.
12:25pm – This is really boring.
12:45pm – Read back of candy wrapper. Wonder what butylated hydroxyanisole is.
1:07pm – Drink a pop. Read the back. No butylated hydroxyanisole.
1:11pm – Really bored. Try to think of words that rhyme with pickle. Can’t think of any.
1:22pm – Dickle? Is dickle a word?
1:41pm – Sickle. I know that’s a word.
1:45pm – Don Rickles. Close enough.
2:01pm – Nickle. How could I miss that one?
2:23pm – Peed in a water bottle. Concerned how dark it is. Wonder if I’m dehydrated. Drink another pop.
3:02pm – Google butylated hydroxyanisole. It’s a preservative used in animal feed. Also a known carcinogen. Wonder if that’s why my pee is dark.
3:03pm – I’m hungry, but there’s nothing to eat but candy bars, which are apparently loaded with butylated hydroxyanisole.
3:04pm – Eat another candy bar anyway.
4:01pm – Am I supposed to pronounce the x? Is it hydroxy-anisole or hydro-xyanisole?
4:07pm – Feels like there’s a lump in my neck. A tumor? Because of my systemic abuse of butylated hydroxyanisole?
4:09pm – My urine is really dark. Rather than dump it out, maybe I should bring it to the doctor when I get this neck lump checked out.
4:10pm – My stomach is growling, but I’m not going to put anymore butylated hydroxyanisole into my body. Never again. I throw my last candy bar out the window.
4:11pm – Damn you, butylated hydroxyanisole, why do you taste so good?
4:12pm – I fetch the candy bar and eat the hell out of it.
4:21pm – Did I say dickle?
5:02pm – Still no sign of the Jeep. Screw it, I’m breaking into the trailer.
I once was pretty good at picking locks, but losing a hand made it nearly impossible. So I bought a set of
universal keys on the Internet. These are master keys that open ninety-percent of the world’s locks.
Unfortunately, I left them at home. So I broke a back window with a crowbar.
As expected, there was no burglar alarm. After all, it was a trailer. A burglar alarm on a trailer was like locking up your donuts in a safe; too much trouble for too little value.
If you’re reading this and you live in a trailer, I’m not talking about you. I’m talking about the other people who live in trailers. You know the ones. I’m certain your personal trailer is awesome and well worth protecting.
So I knocked out all the big, sharp pieces of glass with the crowbar, and then climbed inside, agile like a cat who worked in the circus as an acrobat.
Harry McGlade: Catrobat.
Or maybe acrocat. I’d have to work on that.
The trailer didn’t take long to search, and I didn’t find much for my efforts. Besides the lighting set-up I’d seen previously, which included a backdrop, tripods, various lamps and spare bulbs, and a lot of extension cords, there wasn’t anything else out of the ordinary. Furnishings were bare minimum; a bed, a sofa, a table and two chairs, a TV. The fridge was empty except for condiments and beer. Cupboards had a few cans of soup. The only adornments were a Chicago Blackhawks poster on one wall, and a framed snapshot on another; three guys, standing on a pier. One of them was Cline.
I took the picture out of the frame and pocketed it and was ready to leave when I saw a cordless phone next to the microwave on a kitchen counter. On a hunch I clicked through the saved Caller ID numbers on the display. There were only four. I took pictures of them all with my phone, and stepped outside just as the Maple Hills police were rolling up.
I ran.
Once again, my quick speed and superior cunning helped me elude Maple Hills’s finest, and I made it back to my Vette, macho-ly puked up all the butylated hydroxyanisole I’d consumed, and then hopped in and got the hell out of Maple Hills, hopefully forever.
When I got back to Chicago I was starving. I considered all of the amazing restaurants the city had to offer, and decided that out of all the world class cuisine, five-star dining establishments, and famous bistros, I wanted some greasy, burnt potato skins. So I headed for my favorite faux-Irish pub, the kind of franchise that had fake antiques hanging on the walls, and in one of those funny coincidences that often happens in real life but seems contrived when it happens in a book, I ran into my good buddy, Jack Daniels.
Dying Breath - A Thriller (Phineas Troutt Mysteries Book 2) Page 27
