Text copyright ©2015 by the Author.
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Snake Wine
A Jack Daniels / Det. Frank O'Ryan Thriller
Bernard Schaffer
writing in the world of
JA Konrath
About Snake Wine
They've come for Jacqueline "Jack" Daniels before. Serial killers, maniacs, rapists, all to her front door looking for revenge. It didn't turn out well for any of them. Now, in the middle of a high-profile trial against one of Chicago's top drug lords, it's happened again. Except this time, Jack isn't the target.
Someone, or something, has taken her partner, Herb Benedict, and the fate that awaits him is worse than anything they've ever faced before. Now, Jack must team with former Detective Frank O'Ryan, in a white knuckle race to the finish that will leave readers looking over their shoulders in terror.
SNAKE WINE is a full length (55k+ novel) written by Bernard Schaffer and edited by J.A. Konrath. The two previously collaborated on CHEESE WRESTLING, a work so twisted, readers refuse to reveal what "cheese wrestling" is to anyone who hasn't read it. Fusing the worlds of Konrath's bestselling Lt. Jack Daniels Thrillers and Schaffer's acclaimed Superbia series, SNAKE WINE is bottled literary venom.
SNAKE WINE
1 cobra
1 jug rice wine or grain alcohol
Assorted snakes, scorpions, spices
Gut and clean cobra.
Place snake inside full jug and cork.
Allow contents to ferment for three months.
Garnish with smaller snakes and scorpions.
Add large Herb, if desired.
1.
She got the shakes just looking at him. It hit her like someone walked up behind her and yanked the plug out of her spine, sending her vital reserves splashing down onto the courthouse floor. The quivering started in her hands, then it traveled up her arms and kept going until she actually started to feel light-headed. Light headed? she thought angrily. I am not going to faint. I refuse to. And if I am going to faint, it's not going to be in front of these people, and definitely not in front of that son of a bitch.
She backed away from the crowd of officers coming through the door, backing up until she was able to slip into one of the dark waiting rooms in the hall. The walls inside were cool and dark as she pressed her face against them and closed her eyes, trying to get a hold of herself, waiting for the shakes to go away.
There was a reporter in the lobby. One of the uniforms had probably tipped him off, probably for nothing more than twenty bucks, and he called out, "Mr. Marvin! Keenan!" When the angry looking prisoner wouldn't turn his head, the white reporter shouted, "Ack Trife! Dog, just let me holler at you a second before they take you in!" It was painful for her to listen to this drivel from the other side of the door. Like listening to a gringo trying to speak Spanish. In fact, it was damn near comical.
"Man, what?" the prisoner shouted at the reporter.
Jack Daniels closed her eyes, trying to breathe. The handle of her revolver was warm in her palm, seated in its holster, but unsnapped. Ready to go. When did I do that? she wondered. She'd imagined herself drawing her weapon and firing a round that would burst Keenan Marvin's head open like a watermelon so many times, wanted to do it so badly, that it worried her. Sweat trickled down her forehead now, soaking her hairline. Breathe, she told herself. One good goddamn breath is all you need.
"How do you feel about these new charges appearing the night before you're supposed to start trial?" the reporter called out.
"It's bullshit, that's what I feel. How you gon' arrest me in jail? I'm already in jail! Whatever it is, I ain't do it, it's just y'all tryin' to pile more charges on me. I'm innocent. Auburn-Gresham, what up? Holla at me!"
One of the officers said, "Get your ass in the court, scumbag. This isn't an interview." There was the sound of people scuffling on the floor, someone being jostled around, and finally the quiet sound of heavy wooden doors coming to rest.
Jack took a deep breath and stood up, straightening her back and lifting her head until she could breathe clearly. She wiped her face and checked the buttons on her shirt and blazer, making sure everything was in place. She re-snapped her holster.
There was something backed into the doorway, blocking it. Something larger than two of her put together. Three, probably. She poked the soft fleshy cushion of Herb Benedict's right shoulder blade and said, "Hey. Move, will ya?"
Herb turned around slowly, looking down at her after he was sure no one else was in the lobby. The heavy jowls under his chin were compressed like books stacked on a shelf, and his thick mustache made him look like a concerned walrus. He didn't get out of the way, though.
"I've gotta get in there," Jack said. "Get out of my way, Herb."
"Are you all right?"
"What?" she said stiffly. "Of course I'm all right. What the hell are you talking about?"
"You know exactly what I'm talking about," he said. "Are you all right?"
She looked at him for a moment, feeling her eyes pulse with sudden, horrible anger. "Get your fat ass out of my way right now, Detective, before I shove my foot inside it! That is my suspect in court, and I'll be goddamned if you'll stop me from seeing those charges read!"
"Jack," Herb whispered, but his voice fell short. Her face didn't reveal any hope of reasoning. Herb finally stepped back and waved his hand at the court's front door and said, "After you, Lieutenant."
"No," Jack snapped. "You're sequestered for the trial tomorrow. Go sit in the witness room where you belong, understand?"
Herb took a deep, labored breath, said, "You're the boss" and with that, he watched her go.
For Herb Benedict, it all ended tomorrow.
He poked around the thick puddle of blue cheese, finding each small chunk of chicken bathed in hot sauce and plunked them into his mouth one at a time, telling himself to enjoy it because starting tomorrow, it all came to an end. He'd realized the time had come earlier that day when he happened to walk past a window in the station, and caught sight of his reflection.
Herb was good at avoiding mirrors. He was good at looking away from himself. He was good at laughing off the jokes guys made around the station, and he was good at thinking that Bernice didn't see what he saw and that women didn't pay attention to trivial things like two thighs that rubbed together and a pregnant kangaroo-sized paunch under his waistband and the fact that he was thinking seriously about buying a seat belt extender for their car.
And no, it wasn't that Jack had called him a fat ass, he told himself.
Regardless of the reason, for Herb, that all ended tomorrow.
"You want anything else, sir?" the bartender said.
Herb frowned at the bartender's tight-fitting T-shirt and gelled-up hair. He was a good looking kid, even with the crazy tattoos going up and down each arm. Christ, if I looked like that I wouldn't cover any of it up with ink, Herb thought. I'd just walk around in tank tops all day and flex when people looked at me. Herb looked down at the empty plate and said, "They're on sale tonight, right?"
The kid nodded, "Ten cent apiece for twenty."
"It's a deal." He picked up his glass of beer and downed the rest of it, wiped the white foam off his mustache and said, "And another beer."
> He wasn't sure when he saw the woman at first, but she'd been looking at him when he did. Asian, in her thirties, or maybe older, he thought. She took good enough care of herself for it not to matter. Her hair was a rich ebony color with thick curls that came down to the center of her back. The makeup was discreet, done to accentuate the ovals of her eyes, to draw out the lashes like thick picture frames. The lipstick was understated and pink because anything bright would have made the natural fullness of her mouth seem too provocative. She tucked her hair back over her ear as she played with her drink, stirring it casually with a straw. She looked up at Herb again, and this time she smiled.
What the hell? Herb thought. He looked away, sure there was somebody else sitting behind him. He looked back at her and she was still smiling.
"Hey," someone said, as if from very far away. It broke the spell and Herb's head snapped around to see the bartender standing before him with a new plate of wings. "Here's your order. You want some napkins? Some Handi wipes?"
Herb looked down at his shirt and tie and saw small red dots of buffalo sauce spattered across it like a crime scene. He nodded and said, "Sure. If you have some. I'll take a bib if you've got one."
"Only on seafood night," the bartender said.
Herb grunted and said, "Just my luck."
"Cold water," the woman said.
Herb turned and looked at her, "What was that?"
"I said, put some cold water on it and it will come out when you wash it."
"Okay. I will. Thanks." He pulled the plastic tub of wings under his chin and picked one up, making sure it wasn't slathered too heavily in sauce. He took a bite, wiped his chin, dunked it in the blue cheese, bit it and wiped again. While he chewedm he looked back at the woman, and she was still stirring her drink. Still playing with her hair. A woman like that, he thought, she could have any guy in this place. Hell, she could have any guy anywhere. Why's she over here all alone then?
Must be a defective unit, he decided. Some kind of wackadoo. Any guy in his right mind who had her in his life wouldn't let her sit by herself at any bar, not with all the scumbag businessmen, hornball construction workers, and slick-talking public officials that would besiege her. God help the poor bastard if she ran into some off-duty cops. Forget it. Cops on the prowl combined the worst traits of all sorts of lechery, and they carried guns to boot. Herb had been a cop long enough and he'd known enough cops for long enough to know that while most were guys you could trust to drag your bullet-ridden body out of a burning building, they weren't the kind of people you wanted around your women and children.
Her skirt was slit along the side, showing her toned, pale legs. Her coat was draped across the back of her stool and the buttons on her blouse were stretched to capacity by the heavy weaponry barely being contained within. Herb found himself wondering what had happened in Asia that all of a sudden their women were growing big boobs? Hadn't they always been small and petite? Were they importing American beef filled with steroids that was somehow causing some sort of spike in the gene pool? He wondered this as he continued to stare, until the girl caught him looking, causing Herb to whip back around to his plate, lower his head, and resume eating.
"You have very pretty eyes," she said. "I'm sure you hear it all the time, but it's true. Not just the color. I mean, the color is beautiful, but they're also kind and…soft, too, if that's all right for me to say."
The bartender stopped pouring a beer and looked over his shoulder at Herb, not sure if someone was playing a prank on him or not.
Herb wiped off his mouth and said, "I've gotten a compliment or two about these baby blues before, it's true."
She smiled softly and went back to looking at her drink.
The bartender watched Herb retreat again and the younger man cocked an eyebrow at him that said, 'Are you nuts? Get in there, dummy.'
Herb put down his half-eaten chicken wing and wiped off his fingers with his napkin. "You don't need someone like me to tell you about how you look. I mean, why restate the obvious, right?"
She shrugged quietly and kept on stirring. It was the best stirred drink in history. She looked away then, trying to keep him from seeing her, but it was too late.
Were tears on the way? Herb wondered. Definitely a wackadoo.
Herb slid across the barstool to sit next to her and said, "You from around here?"
"No," she said. "I just moved in from the West Coast."
"For work?"
She nodded.
"What kind of work do you do?"
"We cater office parties and events. Our shop is right down the street."
Herb smiled and said, "Near the courthouse? I bet you spend all day surrounded by lawyers. I wouldn't wish that on my mother-in-law…or anybody for that matter."
"You have no idea," she said softly.
"Herb Benedict," he said, extending his hand.
Her hand was soft and small inside his and she squeezed gently, like a child, almost. "Li Xiao. I'm sorry to be so talkative. I'm not used to drinking."
"It's all right. So how do you like Chicago so far?"
She shrugged and said, "Not bad, I guess. It's a little tough starting all over again. People our age already have all their friends and families and routines down. They don't really want some new person encroaching on their lives, I guess."
She leaned in closer to him, so close he could smell how good she smelled; he could even feel her arm against his. He leaned back a little and said, "I think your drink is all mixed now."
"What kind of work do you do?" she said, ignoring or not understanding his joke.
Herb shrugged and said, "Nothing special. Quality Control for the city."
"That sounds interesting. You do inspections and stuff like that, huh?"
"Kind of. When someone's not doing what he's supposed to be doing where he's supposed to be doing it…well, I'm the guy people call to take care of ahhh business, so to speak…kinda."
"I see, I think," she said.
I doubt it, he thought.
She wrapped her knuckles on the bar and said, "That's it. It's time to go."
Herb looked up at her in confusion and said, "Okay, I guess. Have a good night then. Nice to've met you. Careful getting home."
She leaned against him then, pressing her chest against his arm and said, "No, you fool. I meant both of us."
The bartender turned around again, wiping a set of glass mugs with a towel so hard they squeaked as he listened, and Herb laughed and shook his head. "Listen, I'm not sure what to say. I mean, I'm married. I really appreciate it, but−"
She stuck her hand on her hip and said, "Are you seriously going to let me walk home in the dark in this neighborhood by myself? I've been drinking and I have to go past some pretty rough places. I heard a girl got robbed and beat up the other night just around the corner."
That was true, Herb thought. He'd read the report.
"I was hoping to find at least one gentleman in this damn city. I guess not," she said, grabbing her coat from the back of the stool.
She threw down a twenty on the bar and turned without saying a word, making her way for the door as so many heads in the place snapped to follow that Herb imagined her like the lead car at the Indy 500. And in many ways, she was, he thought.
Herb dropped a twenty on the bar beside hers and moved to get his jacket. The bartender looked up as Herb headed after her, slowing only to give the bartender a wink and a nod.
The bartender laughed to see Herb pushing people aside with his stomach and apologizing over his shoulder as he squeezed by. Herb stumbled out the front door and saw her halfway down the block before he called out, "Hey! Hang on."
She stopped and looked back at him, still tucking her hair behind her ear, watching him come hustling up toward her. He was slightly out of breath as he arrived, and he said, "You're right. This can be a rough neighborhood sometimes. I'll make sure you get back safely."
"Thank you, Herb," she said, and they began what seemed to Herb a
leisurely stroll.
She put her arms around his and pressed in tight, saying that she was cold, and he didn't stop her. "I told you I'm married, right?" he asked.
"Yes, you were very clear about that," she said. "Mother-in-law and all," she giggled.
"Okay, just so you know this is just me walking you home and leaving. I don't want you to get any funny ideas about taking me hostage to have your evil way with me or anything."
Li Xiao laughed so hard she had to cover her mouth and said, "I can't make any promises."
2.
Keenan "Ack Trife" Marvin owed the City of Chicago a lifetime. In fact, he owed it several, and the full strength of the Cook County Prosecutor's Office, the Narcotics Unit, the Joint County Gang Suppression Task Force, the city Forensics Unit, and the Violent Crimes Division were pressing down hard to make sure he paid.
Alan Davidson was certainly being forced to earn his heavy paycheck defending Marvin. At forty years old, Davidson was balding in weird places. The front hairline was thin enough to show his scalp but the back of his head was thick was curly with light brown hair. He was looking into hair plugs. He ordered secret shipments of Rogaine. He wondered if the stress of this case was making the last remaining follicles snap off at the root in despair.
There were pages of witnesses for the prosecution and they were all sequestered in the hallways of the courthouse, long cordons of cops anxious to testify, glaring at the people working to free Marvin as they slinked along the corridor for the courtroom.
Marvin nodded and waved at each witness like he was greeting old friends, grinning wide enough to show off the diamond encrusted implants screwed onto his teeth that read "Ack" across the top and "Trife" across the bottom. Davidson had tried to get Marvin to remove his "grill" before the trial, but Marvin wouldn't hear of it.
Two weeks ago, Keenan Marvin had been one of the richest men in the city. Now, his Prada shirts and Louis Vuitton loafers had been replaced with a county-issued orange jumpsuit. His Rolex and rings were exchanged for steel handcuffs and shackles. The grill was all he had left, Davidson thought. That and his tattoos spelling out exactly how much of a monster he really was. Every inch of his arms and neck were scrawled with the words "Money," "Murder," "Bitches," or rather, "Bitchez," "Drugs," and all sorts of colorful euphemisms for female genitalia. Davidson had petitioned the court to allow his client to appear in long-sleeved jumpers.
Jack Daniels and Associates: Snake Wine Page 1
