Jack Daniels Six Pack

by J. A. Konrath

  “Call them over here. I want a watch on the property, and I want two undercovers inside checking the guest list. It looks like Bains is going to jeopardize hundreds of lives to make his son happy.”

  “Can’t blame the guy. The bond between a father and a child is a powerful thing.”

  “Yeah,” I said, conjuring up the image of me and my father in Grant Park. “Nothing can break that bond.”

  A few minutes later I had my phone back, Manager Bob was noshing on a Caesar salad with anchovies, and Bains arrived and in no uncertain terms told everyone to get the hell out. I might have put up a fight if it was anyone other than my boss, and I might have even put up a fight with my boss, but the double vision had returned and I was so tired I could fall asleep standing up.

  Which is why I left Reynolds in charge and hopped in the car, ready to head home. It was only a little past noon, and I felt like I’d been awake for a year.

  I doubted we’d pick up the Chemist today. If he did stop by, all of the police vehicles still in the parking lot would scare him off. But I felt pretty good that we would eventually catch him. He’d gone through a lot of trouble and risk to steal the case files from Rec ords. There had to be something in there worth protecting. And though Alger and his partner were dead, and those files were gone, the information they contained was still available if I dug deep enough.

  This wouldn’t end in a dramatic gun battle, or a climactic chase. It would end in a warrant and a quiet arrest. But it would end. I was sure of it.

  I took 290, heading back to my house. I was making damn good time too, so good, I might actually make the trip in less than an hour. I would take a shower, maybe do a little napping, then visit Latham.

  Which is why it was especially surprising to me when I exited on Harlem and headed north. Bensenville wasn’t north. The hospital wasn’t north. Elmwood Park was north. Elmwood Park, where Wilbur Martin Streng lived.

  “This isn’t a good time,” I said to myself.

  But I kept going, on my way to visit a man I thought died about forty years ago.

  Chapter 33

  THE CHEMIST DRIVES PAST Chateau Élan, sees the police brigade camped out in the parking lot, and doesn’t even slow down.

  The cops figured it out fast. Very fast. But it doesn’t matter. That’s only a side bet. The big wager hasn’t been placed yet.

  He thinks about tomorrow. If everything goes according to the Plan, the death toll will be in the tens of thousands. And there will be drastic afteraffects as well. Panic. Riots. Widespread terror. Crime will spin out of control, with no one to stop it.

  It’s more than simple revenge. It will teach the world an important lesson.

  And the best part of all is that no one will see it coming.

  He heads home to make the final preparations.

  Chapter 34

  WHAT DO YOU SAY to a dead man? I started with, “Hello.”

  Elmwood Park blended into Chicago on the west side. It was small but densely packed, predominantly white middle- class, mostly residential. Wilbur Streng lived in a small beige house on a small piece of property, bordered on either side by equally small houses, at Belden and Seventy- third. There was room for me to park on the street legally, but I chose a hydrant out of habit.

  I didn’t need to psych myself up, or check my makeup, or consider what I was going to say. I was on autopi lot, acting without thinking. After parking, I walked up to his door and pressed the bell, and a minute later an old man answered.

  I expected some sort of emotion on my part, some sort of internal dam breaking. But I felt nothing. The person standing before me didn’t look anything like the memories, or photos, I had of my father. He was stooped with age, which put him at my height. More liver spots on his head than hair. Thick glasses, and a lot of loose skin on the face and neck. Slightly built, but with a small pot belly.

  “Figured you’d come by someday. Might as well come in.”

  And then the dam broke. I’d forgotten what he sounded like. Is that odd? To forget a parent’s voice? But when he spoke, I realized I hadn’t forgotten it at all. I could never forget it. That voice had read me countless bedtime stories, had answered my questions about lions and thunder and airplanes, had helped me with my homework, had said I love you so many times. That same voice had bought me three ice creams and never gotten angry.

  My father’s voice. Dad’s voice.

  I felt my throat begin to tickle and my chest get heavy, but I stayed outwardly calm.

  “You...know who I am?”

  “Saw you on TV, many times. In the paper too. Your mother finally tell you?”

  “She told me you were dead.”

  He nodded. “It was easier that way. You coming in?”

  I wasn’t sure if I wanted to. Still, my feet followed his into the house, and the door closed behind me with a surreal, otherworldly feeling.

  The house was dark, clean. It smelled of lemon polish and cigar smoke. We passed a living room with a leather couch, a TV, an old hi- fi. Paintings on the wall, mostly of wooded landscapes, in heavy ornate frames that were pop u lar in the ’70s. Lots of wood paneling. Lots of wood everything. The kitchen was also done in brown, tile and wallpaper. Tidy, but without any overt personality.

  “Would you like coffee? I have some from earlier.”

  He indicated the green percolator on the counter. I didn’t want coffee, but I suddenly felt uncomfortable and I wanted to have something to do with my hands.

  “Coffee is fine.”

  “Cream or sugar?”

  “Black.”

  He grunted, like he expected that, and took a mug out of the drying rack in the sink.

  “Got this machine about thirty years ago. Still brews a decent cup.”

  So he didn’t abandon appliances, only families. He handed me the mug, and I was grateful for the warmth.

  “Your mother tell you why?” he asked. He sat across from me at the kitchen table.

  “She wrote a letter. You said you hated her, hated me, and didn’t want to have anything to do with us ever again.”

  Wilbur grunted again.

  “Is that true?” I asked.

  “No. I was always fond of you, and your mother. It hurt like hell to leave.”

  “So why did you?”

  “I had to.”

  I pushed down the anger, which was gathering like a storm in my head.

  “Another woman?” I asked.

  Wilbur laughed.

  “No. If that were the case, I would have told your mother.”

  “So what happened? You woke up one morning, decided you no longer wanted the responsibility?”

  Wilbur stared at me for a long time, and for a moment I wondered if he’d died with his eyes open. I was almost ready to reach out and feel his pulse, when he said, “How is your mother doing?”

  “She’s doing fine. And you’re avoiding the question.”

  “I suppose I am. I’ve...thought about this moment. Many times. You, being here. Sometimes you’re yelling at me, screaming. Sometimes you’re crying. Sometimes you even pull a gun on me. I always start off by trying to explain how things were different back in the sixties. It’s not like it is today. Men were expected to act like men. I could have done the easy thing. I could have stayed and lived a lie.”

  Some anger seeped out. “You’re acting like leaving your family was courageous.”

  “You asked me if I no longer wanted the responsibility. I always wanted the responsibility.” Wilbur’s eyes got glassy. “The day you were born, I promised to—”

  “Stop.”

  “—take care of you, forever. I made that same promise to your mother, on our wedding day.”

  “Which is why you abandoned us, left us with nothing.” I folded my arms. “You never tried to contact us, never gave us a dime.”

  Wilbur stood up, walked to the percolator, and took a fresh mug from the cabinet. He poured himself some coffee, sipped it slowly.

  “It was easie
r to walk out of your lives than have you and your mother deal with...everything. I had to play the bad guy.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the truth would have hurt more.”

  “And what is the truth?”

  Wilbur didn’t answer. I decided I’d had enough of this. It was only making me angry. I stood up.

  “Thanks for the coffee, Dad. Maybe we can do this again in another forty years.”

  “Jacqueline, wait...”

  I left the kitchen, walked down the hall, and noticed some pictures hanging on the wall. One was a baby photo of me. I pulled it down and stared at it.

  “Why do you have this?” I yelled. “You don’t deserve to have this.”

  I wasn’t sure if I should keep it or throw it across the room, when I noticed another picture on the wall, of my father and another man, both wearing tuxedos. By the size of the lapels, this was mid- 1970s. Wilbur was smiling, and so was the other man, who had his arm around my father’s waist.

  And all of my anger vanished, as if a trapdoor had been pulled under it. I took the frame off the wall and walked back into the kitchen.

  “You’re gay,” I said.

  Wilbur opened his mouth, then closed it. He did this a few times, like a fish in a net, before he finally spoke.

  “I think I always knew. But I spent the first thirty years of my life denying it. Fighting it. Unable to accept it. Homosexuality was considered a weakness back then. A lack of self- control. Or a disease.”

  Wilbur smiled, but it was tinged with pain.

  “The University of Chicago had an experimental program at the time. I went once a week to get shocked. Electrocuted. Aversion therapy, they called it. They showed me gay images, had me read gay literature, and then gave me a jolt. Barbaric, by today’s standards. So much has changed.”

  “Mom didn’t know?” I asked softly.

  “No. And I couldn’t tell her. Not only because of the ridicule she would have gotten from her friends, her family. But it would have really hurt her. She would have felt like it was her fault, that she wasn’t trying hard enough, that she made some kind of mistake. It would have been a much harder rejection for her than me leaving because I was an uncaring bastard.”

  I looked at the tuxedo picture again. Saw how happy he looked.

  “Did you...”

  “I never cheated on your mother. Not once. But I couldn’t give her what she needed. If I’d stayed with you, I would have been living a lie, and we all would have been miserable as a result.”

  “But what about me?” I asked, my voice very small.

  “Your mother told you I was dead. How could I visit you? I sent money, of course, kept sending it up until you graduated from college.”

  Now my eyes were glassy too.

  “How responsible of you.”

  “I’m sorry, Jacqueline.”

  I turned away, unwilling to let him see me cry.

  “When I got older. When I grew up. Why didn’t you ever try to contact me?”

  “I meant to. I always meant to.”

  I wiped my cheeks.

  “I have to go now.”

  “Please stay.”

  I looked at him.

  “Forty years, Wilbur. You missed out on my entire life.”

  “I can’t tell you how hard it’s been. At least you thought I was dead. I knew you were alive. I’ve spent more time thinking about you than most fathers actually spend with their children. Every morning I’d wake up and think about calling you, about talking to you.”

  “But you didn’t call.” The tears were really coming now. “I found out you were alive, and I came. You knew I was alive, and never came.”

  “Jacqueline...”

  I whispered, “I wouldn’t have cared that you were gay.”

  “Please stay...”

  “Good- bye, Wilbur.”

  I walked out of his tidy little house, went to my car, and cried the entire way to the hospital.

  Latham was asleep when I arrived. I held his hand and thanked the universe that he was most certainly heterosexual and decided that when we got married, I wanted to have my reception at Chateau Élan because the staff was certainly dedicated.

  And when the wedding was over, I’d send Wilbur a picture of me in my dress and write See what else you missed on the back.

  Chapter 35

  THE DOORBELL WOKE ME UP. It was still strange to hear a doorbell, having spent my entire adult life in apartments. I peeked at the digital, noted it was almost nine a.m., and calculated that I’d gotten a full eight hours of sleep. After leaving the hospital late last night, I picked up a frozen pizza and a six- pack of Goose Island IPA and finished both of them, then ordered a bunch of crap from HSN that I didn’t need. If memory served, one of the items was a vacuum cleaner that could suck up a bowling ball. This was incredibly important, as most homes in Nort. America are just filthy with bowling balls.

  Another doorbell ring. I peeled myself out of bed, wincing because everything hurt, including my head. I had on one of Latham’s T-shirts, big enough to come down to my knees, and I deemed that suitable as greeting wear. That is, until I looked through the peephole and saw who was at the door.

  “Hurry up, Jackie! I gotta use the can!”

  Harry McGlade. Dressed in the traditional Harry outfit of an expensive suit, wrinkled beyond belief, and a Bogart hat. I rolled my eyes. I’d forgotten today was PoliceFest. Maybe if I didn’t answer, he’d go away.

  “I know you’re in there. Your car is parked in the driveway. Open up or I’ll piss in your mailbox.”

  I had no doubt he’d do it too. I opened the door.

  “Jesus, Jackie, I just spent an hour on the expressway with an Ultra- Mega Big Gulp. My bladder is so full, it’s putting pressure on my heart. Where’s the bathroom?”

  “Straight back, to the right,” I told him. “Don’t touch anything. Especially the towels.”

  I went into the bedroom and changed into some baggy button- fly Yanuk jeans, Nikes, and an oversized Gap golf shirt. Rather than futz with my hair, I opted for a Cubs baseball cap, pulling my ponytail through the hole in the back. I probably could have used a shower, but I was afraid to leav. McGlade unattended in my home for any period of time.

  After washing my face and carefully brushing my teeth—my lower lip was still sore—I found McGlade in the kitchen. Every cabinet was open, and he was poking through a Tupperware container, transferring a handful of something to his mouth.

  “These are all you have to eat in this entire house,” he said between bites, “and I think they’re spoiled.”

  “Really? I just bought them last week.”

  “They taste like ass.”

  “The cat likes them.”

  He stared at the cat treats and frowned.

  “This is cat food?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Liver and onion?” he ventured.

  “Liver and tuna.”

  He set the container down on the counter. “You got any mints?”

  “No. Sorry.”

  “How about floss?”

  “Bathroom cabinet.”

  He scurried off. I sniffed the treats, shuddered, and put them back in the cabinet. Then I closed all the other cabinet doors, poured a large glass of water, and drank it while silently dreading PoliceFest. Last year it had been held in Indiana, and I’d gone with Herb and his wife at their insistence. It was a crowded, hot, loud event, with carnival rides, face painting, pricey beer and hot dogs, and a lot of macho boxing and shooting contests. I snagged second place in one of the shooting contests, but that didn’t mean I enjoyed myself.

  Harry returned, scowling.

  “Were you telling the truth about the cat treats?” he asked.

  “No.”

  He seemed relieved. “They’re not for cats?”

  “Yes, they are. But they’re not fresh. I bought them a year ago, and my cat hates them.”

  I heard a humming sound, and noted that McGlade had clenche
d his robotic hand into a fist. While he was annoyed, I hit him with more bad news.

  “I’m driving.”

  “No way. I’m a guy. We can’t let chicks drive. It’s a form of castration.”

  “Well, pick up your balls. We’re leaving.”

  I double- checked to make sure Mr. Friskers had food and water, and then walked past Harry and out the front door. He tagged along behind me like a puppy.

  “I wanna drive.”

  “Not gonna happen.”

  “Did you see my Vette? It’s fast.”

  “I bet.”

  “Why can’t I drive?”

  “Because I’m driving.”

  I got behind the wheel, and Harry sat next to me.

  “Your car sucks.”

  “I know.”

  “Can I park the Vette in your garage?”

  “Garage door is broken.”

  “Your house sucks.”

  “I know.”

  I pulled out of the driveway, and Harry began to mess with my radio. Better the radio than listening to him talk. Unfortunately, he switched it off after only listening to three bars of “Freebird” by Skynard.

  “Your radio sucks.”

  “Let’s try being quiet for a while, okay?”

  He lasted a whole two minutes.

  “I’ve started to write poetry,” Harry said.

  Lord help me.

  “That’s nice.”

  “It helps me deal, you know, with the pain.”

  “VD?” I asked.

  “Of losing my hand. There isn’t much physical pain anymore. It’s on permanently. They did a bone graft. Carbon fibers. Want to see where it’s attached?”

  “No.”

  He showed me anyway, peeling up the latex covering, pointing to his wrist where the scar tissue met the prosthesis. It wasn’t as ugly as I imagined.

  “Gotta keep rubbing antiperspirant around the edges, because the latex gets hot and I sweat like crazy. Inside the hand, along with the mechanical parts, are myoelectric sensors, attached to my nerves and muscles. If I concentrate on open”—I heard a mechanical whir, and Harry’s thumb and fingers separated—“and close, the fingers move. Only three of the fingers are actually robotic. The ring finger and the pinky just go along for the ride. It’s pretty strong, though. See?”