Jack Daniels Six Pack

by J. A. Konrath

  “Whatever. Anyway, we pull up to this crack house, and sure enough, there’s a uniform down on the sidewalk right in front.”

  I drank more beer and looked around the room. We’d wound up at the Cubby Bear, a Chicago bar and grill across the street from Wrigley Field, just a few blocks from my apartment. Harry’s face was a mess of BBQ sauce, and he gnawed at his two-dozenth buffalo wing while he spoke.

  “So Jack gets out of the car, checks the guy. He’s out.”

  “Was he shot?” Latham asked. He’d been humoring McGlade for the last half an hour, and I wished he’d quit it. Neither he nor Harry had gotten around to telling me the reasons they wanted to talk to me, and I was antsy, overdressed, and getting very bored with the cigarette smoke and loud noise and college kids bumping the back of my chair.

  “That’s the thing. He wasn’t shot, but he’s got this big goose egg on his head. Won’t wake up—the guy’s even snoring. Anyway, Jackie uses this as probable cause for entering the crack house. She marches right inside, which was suicidal. Crack houses are like fortresses. I even remember a raid where Vice nabbed a rocket launcher. Those guys don’t play around.”

  Latham looked at me with such frank admiration I almost blushed.

  “They didn’t have a rocket launcher,” I said.

  “Let me finish the story. So anyway, because I’m Jackie’s partner, I go in after her. Jackie’s in there, screaming and waving her gun, and scares the absolute shit out of them. They practically trip over themselves trying to surrender. We made eighteen felony arrests, all by ourselves, not a single shot fired. Even made the nightly news.”

  “What about the cop?”

  “That’s the best part. Turned out the cop was there to score some coke for his personal use, and he tripped on a shoelace and knocked himself out.”

  Harry laughed, slapping his thigh and staining it with sauce.

  “That’s a great story,” Latham said. He took a pull on his beer. “Jack really doesn’t talk about herself.”

  “Do you know about the time she loaned out to Vice to go undercover as a hooker?”

  “No. I’d like to hear that one.”

  I didn’t mind hearing stories about my past so much as I minded Latham getting chummy with Harry McGlade, whom I couldn’t stand for a handful of reasons. This was a good time to change topics.

  “So what’s the problem you’re having with Sergeant Pierce?” I asked Harry.

  “Oh. I tagged his wife.”

  “Tagged?”

  “Slipped her the Harry Special, with extra sauce. She’s a fine woman—too good for him.” Harry licked his fingers and reached for the last wing.

  “And you need me because . . . ?”

  “Apparently—and Mrs. Pierce failed to mention this before we did the worm—her husband plays golf with the mayor.”

  “And?”

  “And now the City of Big Shoulders refuses to let me renew my PI license.”

  I was about to express my amusement at this fortuitous news, when the pop-pop of handgun fire cut through the bar.

  Harry and I, both instantly recognizing the sound, dropped to the floor. I yanked Latham down with me.

  “You get a fix?” McGlade had his gun already out. A .44 Magnum, one of the biggest hand cannons on the market. Insert Freudian overcompensation joke here.

  “Near the entrance,” I told him, thumbing open my purse and yanking out my S&W .38.

  Another gunshot. Half of the crowd still didn’t know what was happening, and stood around looking confused or oblivious. I peered through the sea of legs and spied the perp by the front door. He was white, thin, his face nearly as disheveled as his clothing. He had a semiautomatic in his hand—looked like a 9mm—and was waving it around without direction.

  At his feet, the bouncer lay in a widening pool of blood.

  “Looks homeless and whacked out on something. Nine mil. One person down that I can see.”

  “I’ll flank him. Cover me.”

  Harry scooted off to the right, heading for the far wall. I dug out my badge with my left hand.

  “Stay down,” I told Latham. Then I stood up and raised my badge over my head.

  “Police! Everybody get down!”

  The people around me screamed, yelled, ran, panicked, and some actually listened. The rock music playing through the house speakers stopped. I slipped off my heels and drew a bead on the perp, who stared up at the ceiling with his mouth open.

  “Drop the weapon!”

  No response. I couldn’t tell if he even heard me. I glanced to the right but couldn’t see Harry with all of the people running around.

  Three steps closer, right arm at full extension, left arm supporting it from underneath, my gun fully cocked. I aimed for his heart.

  “Drop the weapon, sir!”

  He might as well have been deaf. I closed the distance between us to less than fifteen feet. An easy shot. I didn’t have extra rounds, and I hoped six would be enough.

  “This is your last warning, sir! Drop the weapon!”

  He didn’t move. I had no other options.

  Breathe in, breathe out, squeeze, squeeze, squeeze.

  Three rounds, a tight grouping in the chest.

  He staggered back, stared at me, raised his 9mm.

  Harry’s cannon went off just as I fired my last three bullets.

  I hit high, two in the shoulder and one in the neck.

  Harry hit all over the place. His slugs were larger, faster, and ripped through the perp like stones through tissue paper.

  The guy went down, hard. I moved in, kicked away his gun. There were cuffs in my purse, but I didn’t think I’d need them; he looked like chicken Parmesan with a slice of Swiss cheese on top.

  I turned my attention to the fallen bouncer. Stomach wound. Pulse strong, but irregular. I heard sirens coming closer, looked around for something to stop the bleeding.

  “Well, shit on my head and call me a toilet.”

  Harry tapped me on the shoulder. He’d been removing the spent brass from his cylinder, and when I looked up at him he pointed forward with his chin.

  The perp, our perp, was running out the front door.

  I glanced at Harry. He shrugged.

  We went after the guy.

  I bolted out the door, barefoot, the heat pressing down on me. The blood trail went left, and I saw the shooter sprinting through traffic—a helluva lot faster than should have been possible.

  Harry whistled. “Damn. You miss every shot?”

  “I landed all six. How did you miss with a barrel that long?”

  “All mine were sweet. That guy had more holes than a golf course.”

  We jogged after him.

  The pavement was hot underfoot, and little bits of rock and debris dug into my soles. For the first time in my life I was grateful for my ugly calluses.

  “Jesus!” McGlade huffed next to me. “I’m not used to exercise in the vertical position.”

  “Have another buffalo wing.”

  The perp rounded the north entrance to Wrigley Field, bystanders giving him a wide berth. He was bleeding, but not as much as I would have guessed. Maybe the layers of filthy clothes were absorbing it all.

  McGlade dropped a few paces behind me, lost to a coughing jag. I lengthened my stride. My dress clung to my legs, but the slit was big enough to give me room. I still had the gun in my right hand, where it was beginning to get heavy. With my left hand I tried to adjust my underwire, which dug painfully into my ribs.

  I took a short detour to avoid a broken beer bottle, turned a corner, and almost wet myself.

  The perp had changed directions and was charging straight at me.

  I skidded to a halt, losing some skin on my pinkie toes, and recovered quickly enough to fall into a front stance; right leg straight behind me, left leg forward, knee slightly bent, left fist clenched and parallel with the leg. A blocking position.

  Tae kwon do originated in Korea. Students progress through ten belts b
efore reaching black. Testing for each belt was broken down into four parts: forms, which were memorized steps similar to karate’s katas, breaking boards, which partially accounted for my callused feet, Korean terminology, and sparring.

  My forte was sparring.

  The perp swung with his right arm, bringing it down overhead in a chopping motion.

  I blocked easily, spun, and back-kicked him in the spine, adding to his momentum.

  He ate pavement, hard, then rolled onto his side. The sidewalk under him was soaked with blood. I stared into his eyes—nothing but pupil, focused on someplace other than the here and now. His chest wounds oozed like a squeezed sponge.

  I’d seen corpses in better shape.

  But this guy didn’t die. He sat up, trying to get to his feet.

  I switched the grip on my gun and tapped him, butt-first, on the forehead.

  He fell back, then sat up again, head wound gushing.

  For years I’d heard the stories about PCP crazies breaking out of handcuffs, jumping off ten-story buildings and surviving, getting shot a dozen times and still putting up a fight. But I’d never believed them.

  Until now.

  Wheezing, coming from behind me. Harry trotted up, gasping for air like an asthmatic who’d just snorted pollen.

  The perp looked at Harry, screamed something unintelligible, and launched himself at the PI.

  Harry screamed as well, an octave higher, and whipped his Magnum across the perp’s face.

  Again the guy went down.

  Again the guy sat up.

  McGlade took a step back. “This isn’t right, Jackie. Maybe we should just let him go.”

  “If he gets away, he’ll bleed to death.”

  “And that would be bad?”

  The man made it to his knees, and then his feet. I didn’t want to hit him with the gun again, so I went with a roundhouse kick to the side of the head.

  He went down. Came up.

  Harry scratched his chin. “It’s like one of those old toys. The little egg-shaped people that wobble but don’t fall down.”

  “Weebles. But I don’t remember them being this bloody.”

  Harry hummed the Weebles theme from the old commercial.

  “I think I’ve got an idea.” He turned and began walking away.

  “You going to rent a tank?”

  “No. Just need a running start.”

  McGlade took four quick steps toward the guy, then punted him square in the stones.

  The perp’s howl punched through the hot Chicago night and seemed to echo on forever.

  “There.” McGlade smoothed out his jacket. “That would knock the Terminator out.”

  He was right. The guy wheezed, then toppled over, hands clutched between his legs.

  “He’s all yours, Jackie. You can go ahead and read him his Fernando rights.”

  I fitted him for bracelets, then left McGlade with the perp while I went to find backup.

  CHAPTER 12

  The cab spit us out at my place just after four in the morning. Latham, gentleman that he was, stuck with me through two debriefings and a trip to the ER to get some glass removed from my foot. He walked me up to my apartment, and I gave him a hug.

  “Some romantic evening, huh?”

  He smiled, kissed my nose.

  “Are you kidding? On our first date I get kidnapped by a serial killer, and tonight I get to see you save a bar full of yuppies from a drug-crazed maniac. Are you free tomorrow? Maybe we can find a bank robbery in progress.”

  He slipped his hand around the small of my back, pulled me gently against him.

  “Would you like to come in?” I asked.

  “That’s the best idea I’ve heard all day.”

  I opened the door, knowing that I had no sheets and wondering if I was too old to do it on the sofa.

  “Too late for a drink?” I asked. “Too early?”

  “I’d drink muscatel from a dog bowl right now.”

  “Settle for a whiskey sour?”

  Latham nodded.

  I went into the kitchen, frowned at the gigantic mess, and built two serviceable highballs. Latham stood in the living room, his jacket off. A good sign.

  “Do you like it here?” he asked, as I handed him his drink.

  “Here with you?”

  “Here in this apartment. I know you don’t really like the neighborhood, and I know some—well—bad things happened here.”

  “I guess I never really thought about it. Why do you ask?”

  He smiled; a little-boy smile tinged with mischief.

  “I just bought a condo on the lake. Big place, plenty of room, killer view.”

  “That’s great.” I took a sip of my drink. “What about the house?”

  “Sold. Move in with me, Jack.”

  Before I had a chance to answer, I noticed Mr. Friskers perched on top of my television, ready to pounce.

  “Latham, don’t move.”

  “But I have to move, I signed the papers—”

  “Shh.” I put my finger to my lips. “It’s the cat. He looks like he’s about to jump on you.”

  “Hey, I like cats. If you want to bring a cat along, that’s fine with—Jesus Christ!”

  Mr. Friskers launched through the air like a calico missile and attached himself to Latham’s face, all four claws locking in.

  Latham screamed something, but I couldn’t hear it through the fur. I grabbed the cat and gently tried to tug him free. Latham’s reaction was muffled, but came through.

  “No! Stop pulling! Stop pulling!”

  I let go, frantic. On the floor, next to the sofa, was the catnip mouse I’d bought at the pet store. I picked it up and held it under the cat’s nose.

  “Good kitty. Let go of his face. Let go of his face, kitty.”

  Mr. Friskers sniffed once, twice, then went totally limp. I carried him into the bathroom, keeping the catnip up to his nose, and then set both of them down in the bathtub and locked the door.

  I found Latham in the kitchen, liberally applying paper towels.

  “Oh, wow, are you okay, Latham?”

  He forced a smile.

  “I may need a transfusion.”

  “I’m sorry. I should have warned you.”

  “I thought it was illegal to keep mountain lions as pets.”

  I gave him the short version, helping him dab at his wounds. They weren’t as bad as Herb’s, so perhaps Mr. Friskers was mellowing down.

  “So you’re not keeping him?”

  “Not if I can help it.”

  “Good. I mean, if he was part of the package, I’d accept him. But I wouldn’t want to take off my pants with him in the room.”

  I opened my mouth to say something, but I wasn’t sure what to say. Moving in with Latham would be great. He was right—I didn’t like the neighborhood, and I didn’t like my apartment, and having him to hold every night would go a long way toward helping my insomnia.

  But instead of focusing on all of that, I focused on my mom, stranded on the floor of her bathroom.

  “Latham, I’d love to move in with you—”

  “That’s great!”

  “—but I can’t. When my mom gets out of the hospital, she’s coming to live with me.”

  I winced, watching the disappointment slowly seep into his face.

  “The condo only has one bedroom.”

  My guard went up. “Latham, I didn’t ask if my mother could move into your condo.”

  “I know. I mean, I’d want her to, if she’s with you, but the place is only one bedroom. There wouldn’t be any room for her.”

  “Hey, I didn’t ask.”

  “That came out wrong.” Latham touched my cheek. “Look, Jack, I really want to be with you. This whole I-sleep-over-at-your-place, you-sleep-over-at-my-place thing, we’re too old for that, you know what I mean?”

  “I know, Latham. I wish there was some way.”

  “Is there? Some way, I mean?”

  I didn’t like where t
his was going, but I baited him anyway.

  “What do you mean?”

  “How about she stays here, at your place? It’s only a twenty-minute drive away.”

  “She needs someone around her at all times.”

  “Okay, fine. There are facilities. Good ones. Your mother could get the assistance she needs, the medical care, and we could visit her every—”

  “I’m going to say good night now, Latham.”

  I took him by the crook of the arm and escorted him to the front door.

  “Jack, all that I’m saying is that taking care of an elderly parent is a lot of work. I don’t want you wasting your life—”

  I opened the door.

  “Caring for my mother is not wasting my life.”

  “I didn’t mean it like that. Look, Jack, it’s been an awful night and I’m not thinking clearly.”

  “Apparently not.”

  Latham’s eyes got hard. I’d never really seen him angry before, and I didn’t like the preview.

  “I may be tooting my own horn here, Jack, but I think I’m a pretty decent guy.”

  “You’re right,” I told him. “You’re tooting your own horn.”

  I felt terrible the moment it left my lips, but before I could apologize, Latham was halfway down the hall.

  “Latham . . .”

  He disappeared through the stairwell door, not giving me a backward glance.

  Nice one, Jack. You just screwed up a relationship with the last decent guy in the Midwest.

  From the bathroom, Mr. Friskers howled in agreement.

  I walked back into my apartment, finished my drink, Latham’s drink, and one more on top of that. Pleasantly tipsy, I let the screaming cat out of the john, took off my makeup, curled up on my sheetless bed, and slept for forty-five wonderful minutes before jerking awake.

  For the next three hours, sleep was a stop-and-go affair, short stretches interspersed with bouts of anxiety, nagging questions, and doubt.

  When I finally got up for work, the mirror was not kind.

  I forced myself through some push-ups and sit-ups, took a cool shower, and dressed in a tan Perry Ellis blazer, matching skirt, and a striped blouse.

  Venturing into my living room, I discovered I wasn’t the only one who had a busy night. To my endless amusement, Mr. Friskers had clawed most of the paint off my grandmother’s antique rocking chair. He perched on the sofa, staring, while I inspected the damage.