Racked (A Lt. Jack Daniels / Nicholas Colt mystery)

by Jude Hardin

I finally found a yellowed roll of packaging tape.

  And a hammer.

  “I want to go home,” Molly said.

  The tears were really gushing now. She could barely even talk.

  “Lie on the floor, facedown.”

  She did. And then something terrible happened.

  THE PRIVATE EYE

  2:26 P.M.

  Police,” Jack shouted. “Open the door and walk out slowly. Backwards. Hands laced behind your head.”

  Rey Aquino was up by the bar, lying on the floor in a puddle of his own blood. He’d told us that the bad guy was in the manager’s office with Molly. I’d called 911, and help was on the way. In the meantime, Jack had stopped the bleeding with some pressure dressings fashioned from bar towels and Saran wrap. She said Rey’s wounds were superficial, but his agonized expressions screamed excruciating pain. They say that about buckshot. They say it hurts like hell.

  Jack and I were in the storage area that led to the office now, kneeling behind some cases of Budweiser stacked two-deep.

  We waited. After a couple of minutes, I said, “I don’t think he’s coming out.”

  “Let’s just hope he doesn’t come out shooting.”

  “I’m not worried. It’s a known fact that beer makes you bulletproof.”

  “Shut up, Colt.”

  Jack and I had really hit it off. People usually don’t tell me to shut up until an hour or two after they’ve met me.

  My cell phone vibrated in my pocket. I pulled it out and looked at the caller ID. It said Kelly’s Pool Hall. I answered, put it on speakerphone.

  “This is Colt,” I said.

  “I know. I saw your business card sticking out of Molly’s pocket. If she’d have told me there were people upstairs in the first place, we wouldn’t be in this situation right now. I would have hightailed it right away.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I need a clear path to the door,” he said. “If anything happens to me, Molly dies.”

  His voice sounded muffled, and I could hear clanging in the background. Metal on metal. The clanging stopped. The caller said something incomprehensible, and then I heard some sort of ripping sound.

  “The police are on the way,” I said. “SWAT team, the whole nine yards. You need to give up now, or this is not going to end well for you.”

  “If it doesn’t end well for me, then it’s not going to end well for Molly, whose neck is being taped to the barrel of my shotgun as we speak. After I tape her neck to the barrel, I’m going to tape my hand to the stock. So, in essence, Molly and I are going to be a single unit. Two peas in a pod. A team. Kind of like we’re married, you know? Till death do us part. We’re going to climb into my car together, and then I’m going to put some distance between point A and point B. I’ll let her go somewhere in between. That’s the deal, bro. What say you?”

  I looked at Jack. Her eyes and her gun were trained on the office door.

  “Don’t do anything stupid,” she said to the caller. “We can talk this out. There’s no need for anyone else to get hurt.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Lieutenant Daniels, Chicago Police Department.”

  “Chicago. A little out of your jurisdiction, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I’d say you picked the wrong day to rob a tavern, bro. What Mr. Colt said is true. There’s a SWAT team coming, and those boys don’t play. So we can either—”

  “I don’t play either, bitch. I’m coming out in thirty seconds. When I do, I want to see both of you face down on the floor with your hands behind your head. If that’s not what I see, then Molly is not going to have a head. Understand?”

  He hung up.

  “I don’t like being called a bitch,” Jack said. “I’m liable to get angry.”

  She kept the .38 aimed at the door, rock steady.

  I put the phone back in my pocket. “Don’t you think we should do as he says?”

  “Is that what you think?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Wrong answer,” she said. “If we let him go, he’ll kill her anyway.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “He’s a criminal. He’s already shot one person. Why would he let Molly live? So she can identify him in a lineup? So she can testify against him in court?”

  “So what’s the plan?” I said.

  “I’m going to take him out as soon as he opens the door. I’ll stop his heart before he has a chance to pull the trigger.”

  “You’re that good with a handgun? Thirty-eights aren’t known for accuracy.”

  “But I am. I’ve won more shooting awards than I’ve got walls to hang them on. And it’s Molly’s only chance. If he gets her in his car, she’s done.”

  I took a deep breath, realizing things were going to get hairy in about fifteen seconds. Then I thought of something.

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “I bet he’s wearing a mask.”

  “What?”

  “Think about it. Rey must have seen him, and he didn’t kill Rey. He shot him in the legs. And think about what day it is. Halloween. It’s the one day of the year when a grown man can walk into a bar wearing a mask and not draw a lot of attention to himself.”

  “You might have a point,” Jack said.

  “Yeah. And I think our thirty seconds are about up.”

  Jack nodded. “We’ll play it your way for now. But if I die today, I’m going to be really pissed at you.”

  “You and me both.”

  Jack tucked the .38 into the waistband of her jeans. We moved to the other side of the beer cases and got down on the floor.

  THE COP

  2:31 P.M.

  The perp didn’t come out in thirty seconds as promised. It was more like two minutes. Colt was right. He was wearing a mask. Bugs Bunny of all things. His face was hidden, but I took note of his height, weight, hair color, and eye color. His eyes were an incredible shade of blue, almost turquoise under the overhead fluorescents in the storage area. I could see them through the jagged enlarged eyeholes in the mask.

  I thought back to my earlier plane ride. Two lunatics with guns on the same day. Was I some kind of psycho magnet?

  Molly was walking in front of him like a dog on a leash, only the leash was a sawed-off shotgun that had been strapped to the back of her neck with some sort of clear tape. She looked terrified. Bugsy had secured the stock of the gun to his right hand, his index finger hooked around the trigger. There was a canvas bag with a drawstring slung over his left shoulder, and his left hand was free.

  I can play pool with the best of them, but I’m even better at poker. I needed to bluff this guy for a while, buy some time. The local police hadn’t had time to get there yet. We’d only called them a few minutes ago. Soon the place would be swarming with them, but for now Colt and I were on our own.

  “Let her go,” I said. “The place is surrounded. You don’t have a chance.”

  Bugsy stopped walking. He and his hostage were about two feet from the doorway to the main barroom.

  “I know you’re not talking to me, bitch cop.”

  “You shouldn’t call her a bitch,” Colt said. “She doesn’t like it.”

  “So what’s the deal, Colt? Are you her bitch?”

  “Wow,” Colt said, trying his best to look hurt. “I don’t like being called that either.”

  “Let her go, and we’ll let you go,” I said. “If you walk outside with her strapped to that gun, you’re going to die.”

  “And just how do you figure that?” he said.

  “There was a similar case a few years ago. Same deal. Guy tied his girlfriend to the end of a shotgun with a leather belt. As soon as the couple walked outside, a SWAT sharpshooter drilled a seven millimeter Remington magnum into the guy’s brain from a rooftop. He died instantly, no time to pull the trigger. The girlfriend walked away without a scratch.”

  “That was stupid,” Bugsy said. “She could have been killed.”

  “The point is, the SWAT guys aren’t
going to play by your rules. Let Molly go, and I’ll make sure you get out of here alive.”

  “Why should I trust you?”

  “You shouldn’t. But think about it. You know it’s your only chance.”

  He stood there for a few seconds, looking at the back of Molly’s head. He was considering my offer. Sweat dripped down the side of his face in dirty little trails.

  “How are you going to get me out of here?” he said.

  “I’ll get in touch with whoever’s in charge outside, and I’ll let them know I’m a cop. You can take me with you instead of Molly. I know you don’t want to kill anyone. Nobody has seen your face, so it should be a clean getaway.”

  He looked at the back of Molly’s head some more. Thought about it some more. While he was doing that, I reached down and gently eased my revolver from the waistband of my jeans, the move hidden by the cases of beer.

  “All right,” he said. “I’m going to cut her loose.”

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a knife, whipped it open with his thumb. The blade locked into place with an audible click. He started sawing through the inch or so of wadded- up tape between the shotgun barrel and Molly’s neck. As soon as the tie was severed, Molly collapsed to the floor like a ragdoll.

  And then the lights went out.

  THE BAD GUY

  2:37 P.M.

  An instant after Molly and I were separated, I lunged for the light switch on the wall by the doorway. I knew the bitch cop wasn’t going to let me go. I’d seen her reach her hand down. She was going for her gun.

  A sliver of light bled in from the barroom, enough for me to navigate by but not enough for Lieutenant Daniels of the Chicago Police Department to risk taking a shot. Not in such close quarters. If I’d been a mass murderer or something, she might have thought about it. But I wasn’t. I was just an armed robber wearing a Bugs Bunny mask. Small potatoes.

  I bolted into the barroom, killed some more lights, tripped over the guy lying on the floor as I rounded the corner and headed for the staircase. It took me a moment to get back up, and another moment to search for the loot bag I dropped. Then I sprinted as hard as I could.

  I didn’t think the cops could have gotten to Kelly’s that fast. I wanted to see for myself. I wanted to see without having to open the front door and peek out and maybe get riddled by a million or so bullets.

  I ran up the stairs, scampered into the billiards room, slammed the door shut and locked it. The street and the parking lot were clearly visible from the second floor window. No cops yet. Daniels had lied to me. Now I needed to get outside.

  The car I’d stolen for the job was parked on the side of the building. I could see it, directly below me, right behind another one. I’d left the engine running, so all I needed to do was get down there and climb in and speed away. Nobody had seen my face, and there was no way to connect me with the vehicle. The only thing between me and freedom was some old glass and a fifteen foot jump.

  It looked like this might work out after all.

  THE PRIVATE EYE

  2:38 P.M.

  I duck-walked to the doorway, reached up and switched the light back on.

  “Take care of Molly,” Jack said. “I’m going after him.”

  “Wait. I know the layout of the place better than you do. Give me the gun, and I’ll go after him.”

  “Not going to happen. Anyway, he’s upstairs in the billiards room. I heard his footsteps, and then I heard the door slam.”

  “There’s a bunch of blind spots between here and there,” I said. “It would make more sense for me to—”

  “I’ll manage,” Jack said.

  She walked to the door, both hands on her gun, elbows straight and angled downward. She backed up against the jamb, turned and raised the revolver level with her eyes, swept the area outside the doorway and then proceeded into the barroom.

  “I’m okay,” Molly said. “Go help your friend.”

  She rose, took a couple of wobbly steps, and then sat down on a case of wine.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. I just need some fresh air. And a cigarette.”

  “I don’t think it would be very smart to walk outside right now.”

  “Whatever. My car’s parked in back, in the alcove outside the service door. He won’t go to that side of the building. It would be stupid. There’s nowhere to go. He’d be trapped.”

  “Just stay inside,” I said.

  “No offense, but I’m really tired of people telling me what to do today.”

  She got up and turned the corner toward the back door. I wanted to grab her and stop her, but I reminded myself she was a grown woman and she could do what she wanted to do.

  Then I reminded myself that she probably wasn’t thinking straight after the emotional trauma she’d been through. I debated for about five seconds, and then I followed her outside.

  But before I did, I noticed something behind the bar, and grabbed it to take along.

  THE COP

  2:40 P.M.

  I stood at the side of the door to the billiards room, hoping the wall was thick enough to absorb the blast if Bugsy fired his shotgun.

  “It’s over,” I said. “There’s nowhere for you to go. You need to surrender now, while you still have the chance.”

  No response.

  I could have stayed there and guarded the door until the locals arrived. It would have been the safe thing to do. The prudent thing. But I knew there was a window in that room, and I was afraid he might try to escape through it. A long jump, but there might have been a way to climb down. I wasn’t familiar with the building, so I didn’t know.

  I kept telling myself he was just a thief, not worth risking my life over, but I knew that wasn’t exactly true. He’d started out a thief, but his list of charges now included false imprisonment and aggravated assault. He could do thirty years. He was a violent criminal, and if someone didn’t stop him he would continue on his merry violent criminal ways.

  “Last chance,” I said. “Put your gun on the floor and walk out with your hands behind your head.”

  I gave him about thirty seconds, and then I reached over and tried the knob.

  Locked.

  Then I heard glass shatter. The window. He was going for it.

  Luckily, I’d decided on a comfortable pair of Nikes for the drive from Jacksonville to Dade City. I stepped back and drove the sole of the right one into the wooden door, a few inches to the left of the lock mechanism.

  The jamb splintered and the door swung inward and I aimed my revolver into the room and said, “Freeze!”

  THE PRIVATE EYE

  2:42 P.M.

  Molly went to her car, and I went to the side of the building, back against the wall. I stealthily peered around the corner to where I had parked my ’96 GMC Jimmy, under the window to the pool room. I liked that spot, because I could keep an eye on my car while shooting stick. Not that I was worried anyone would steal it, but I was fond of the old beater and I didn’t want anyone messing with it.

  Today my car had company. There was a red Buick parked behind it, the engine running.

  The bad guy’s car. And on the ledge above it—

  Bugsy, looking to jump onto his own roof.

  A long drop. A dangerous drop.

  I could have maybe run for my car, gotten my gun, and shot it out with him. Or waited for him to get away, and given chase. But I wasn’t feeling any particular need to put myself in harm’s way at that moment, so I just hid behind the corner and raised the super soaker filled with fake Halloween blood.

  It shot at least twenty feet, and soon the top of his getaway vehicle was covered with slippery red liquid.

  Not something I’d want to land on.

  I heard Jack yell, “Freeze!”

  And then Bugs Bunny jumped.

  THE BAD GUY

  2:43 P.M.

  As soon as the bitch cop yelled, I leapt through the air like some sort of incredible super villain, aiming directl
y for the roof of my stolen car. A long way down, but I figured the impact would be minimal if I kept my ankles together and my knees bent. Then I could roll off the roof and slide into the driver’s seat and haul ass. Next stop, Mexico. I’d live like royalty if that ring from the safe was as pricey as that bartender said it was.

  My feet hit hard. But rather than sticking, my sneakers slid and I flipped and suddenly I was upside down with the pavement speeding toward my face like a freight train.

  Oops.

  THE COP

  2:43 P.M.

  I watched the bandit jump and ran to the window, peering down and seeing him on the sidewalk, his arms and legs bent at impossible angles, the shotgun lying off to the side.

  Bugsy was covered in red.

  Colt walked up to him, carrying—was that a squirt gun?

  He waved at me, then used the super soaker to push away the shotgun out of the robber’s reach. A smart move, but perhaps unnecessary, considering all the blood.

  “Is he dead?” I yelled down.

  “I don’t know. It’s a sticky situation.”

  Why did every private investigator I know think he was a stand-up comic?

  “Colt! Would you stop with the jokes for a minute and take his pulse?”

  “I’d rather not touch him. Anyway, if it matters, most of this blood isn’t his. He seems to be breathing. And he dropped a pack of Chiclets. Wait, nope. Those are his teeth.”

  “I’ll be right down.”

  THE PRIVATE EYE

  2:46 P.M.

  While Jack waited for the police to arrive, I went and found Molly. She was leaning into her car, digging through the glove compartment. When I reached her, she was holding a pack of Marlboros.

  “Can I bum one of those?” I said.

  She handed me one, took one for herself. I lit hers with my Zippo, and then I lit mine and inhaled deeply. It sure beat chewing on bar straws.

  “I really don’t need a babysitter,” she said. “You should be helping Jack.”