Shot of Tequila

by J. A. Konrath

  This was risky, because many of Marty’s people liked to work out here. It had been Marty who’d gotten him the membership. Tequila just hoped that all of them would be with Marty right now during his time of crisis, rather than lurking around here someplace. If he could have gone without a shower, he would have, but in the daytime it was too obvious that the stains all over him were blood rather than dirt, and that might attract unwanted attention.

  Snapping the padlock shut, Tequila walked naked with his towel and his lock key to the showers. Finding a solitary one in the corner, he turned it up to scorch and let the hot water revitalize him.

  Dirt and blood swirled around his feet as he showered. He thought of the many times he’d taken showers here before, after workouts, and how life had seemed so different then. Or maybe not life so much, but his attitude towards life. Even though Tequila had always been a pretty tough bastard, he’d still known when Marty hired him years ago that Marty was one of the bad guys. He hadn’t cared. The money was good, and Tequila was treated adequately. He figured that if something better ever came along, he’d take it, but for the time being it was fine.

  Now Sally was dead, and it was probably Tequila’s fault as much as Marty’s. If you keep company with dogs, one day you’ll eventually get bitten. Except he wasn’t the one who suffered. It had been his poor, innocent sister.

  He soaped the wounds on his body, stripping away the filthy scabs with his scrubbing. The reason he’d taken the job with Marty was because he thought it would benefit Sally. But if he’d really cared about his sister, shouldn’t he have gotten a different job? One that allowed him to stay home with her, rather than having to hire China? What did Sally care about an $1800 a month apartment? Wouldn’t she have wanted to spend more time with him instead?

  Tequila knew that he’d not only killed his sister, but failed her as well. He wasn’t any better than his old man after all. The sins of the father became the sins of the son.

  He finished rinsing and began to dry off, the towel soon becoming pink with blood. Tequila didn’t notice. He was too busy preoccupied with this new feeling he was experiencing. Guilt. He’d never questioned his actions before. He’d never deeply analyzed his motivations. And now, in the shower room at Remmy’s Health Club, he was having a dual attack of the should-have-dones and could-have-beens.

  Tequila walked slowly back to his locker, so into beating himself up that he didn’t notice the massive form of Terco enter the locker room.

  Terco’s idea had been the same as Tequila’s. He’d spent the night at Spill, and since Marty needed him on call and his home was half an hour away, Terco had come here to take a shower and change into the set of spare clothes that he always kept in his locker to wear after a workout.

  The bodybuilder passed Tequila up without noticing him, absorbed in his own thoughts. He stopped six lockers down the same row and began to open his combination lock as Tequila got dressed.

  The men noticed each other at the same time. Terco’s attention was drawn by Tequila’s familiar blond crew cut, and Tequila’s reverie was broken when he noticed he was being stared at.

  Both recoiled in shock and surprise. Tequila considered the .38 in his money bag, the one that he’d taken from Terco. It was empty, but he might be able to use it to threaten.

  He didn’t have a chance to try, because the big man was charging at him within an intstant.

  Terco had no fear, even though Tequila had thoroughly trounced him their last meeting. All he could see was the smile on Marty’s face when he brought Tequila in. Driven by the urge to please his master, he reached out to snatch Tequila’s shirt.

  Tequila dodged the move and brought his foot up into Terco’s face. It had about as much effect as a slap, and Terco shrugged it off. Not only was Tequila barefoot, not having gotten around to putting on his shoes yet, but his ankle still hurt too much to be an effective weapon. He switched legs and kicked out with his good foot, but this put all his weight on the bad ankle. Even though he solidly connected with Terco’s ribs, Tequila fell onto his ass.

  Terco reeled slightly from the second kick, but then he was lashing out with his own foot at Tequila on the floor. He whacked Tequila hard in his dislocated shoulder and rolled him across the wet tile several yards away. The grunt Tequila emitted energized Terco, and the big man hurried after him.

  Seeing stars, Tequila used the momentum of his roll to gain his footing, just in time to face the charging Terco. Since he couldn’t use his feet too well, Tequila adopted a boxing stance and planted them far apart. As Terco neared, Tequila twisted his upper body and snapped a right cross at the big man’s ear.

  Terco got his arm up to block the punch, but Tequila followed it immediately with a left to the kidney, putting all of his weight and strength into the blow. The hit doubled Terco over, and Tequila jumped high into the air with his knee up, smacking it solidly into Terco’s jaw.

  Patches of light winked before Terco’s eyes, and his knees buckled and wobbled. Tequila took careful aim and popped Terco in the bridge of the nose, trying to shatter the cartilage and force some into the brain to kill him.

  He broke Terco’s nose, but death didn’t occur. The sight of his own blood seemed to energize the bodybuilder, and before Tequila could follow up the punch Terco lashed out with his long muscular legs and sent Tequila spinning over to the sinks.

  Tequila bounced into an automatic hand dryer and hit the floor hard. He noted it smelled like foot sweat and urine while trying to stop the spinning in his head long enough to get up. He was on his knees when Terco reappeared, gore streaming from his nose in two flowing ribbons, plastering his T-shirt to his well-defined chest.

  “This time I’m going to break your legs so you can’t run away again.”

  Terco grinned. The blood ran over his smiling mouth and soaked his teeth. Tequila saw the familiar pivot of his opponent’s hips, knowing he was going for that reverse kick he seemed so fond of.

  The predictability of the move pleased Tequila. Terco might have been a black belt, but to Tequila he seemed more like a one trick pony. He probably relied more on size and strength than skill to win his bouts. The reverse kick seemed to be the only decent move in his oeuvre.

  Tequila ducked the kick easily and got to his feet while Terco righted his stance.

  “You couldn’t hit me with that kick if I was tied up and asleep,” Tequila taunted. He moved next to the hand blower as he spoke, hoping his body hid the metal object from Terco’s sight.

  “Oh yeah?” Terco hated the reply as soon as it left his lips. Stallone would have been ashamed too. But he still moved in, ready to kick the little man into the next century.

  Tequila saw his hips pivot, then he dropped down under the automatic hand dryer.

  He had to give Terco some credit, because his kick knocked the dryer clean off the wall. It had been bolted on solidly too, and caulked as well. But steel was still harder than flesh and bone, and Terco broke five bones in his foot hitting the blower.

  The bodybuilder felt nothing at first but nausea, which told him what he’d done and warned him of the pain to come. He held the foot before him without resting it on the floor, as if he’d just stepped in dog crap and was looking for a place to scrape it off.

  Tequila, on his knees, took the offering and lunged at the wounded foot, grabbing it in both hands and twisting it with his entire body.

  Terco screamed, the pain hitting like a jackhammer. He crumpled to the ground and lashed out with his good foot, trying to kick Tequila off. The small man held firm, twisting and turning the broken foot until a few more bones snapped.

  By now, the two had drawn the attention of the entire locker room. Two jocks, tan and buff and thinking their pecs made them invincible, conspired to pull Tequila away from the bigger guy.

  One of them went to grab Tequila’s right arm, and the other zeroed in on his left.

  Tequila spun on them and knocked their noggins together with an audible clunk, Three Stooges style. T
he average man has never felt the sudden pain so often experienced in street fighting. Professionals knew how to overcome it, but amateur hard-asses who’d never been soundly thrashed couldn’t handle much damage before throwing in the towel. Or in this case, throwing up, which was what the two Samaritans did. For good measure Tequila gave each of their prone forms a hard jab, breaking their noses.

  Then he whirled back on Terco and was surprised to see the bodybuilder getting up. Taking two quick steps, Tequila launched himself at Terco, shoulder first, driving the big man backwards into the lockers. He grabbed Terco’s shirt with one hand and used the other to rub the blood from Terco’s nose into his eyes, temporarily blinding him. Then he grabbed both of Terco’s ears and rammed his forehead into his broken nose. He did it one more, twice more, turning the cartilage into splintery pulp.

  Terco lashed out with his hands, moaning. He managed to clip Tequila across the face, and Tequila sailed backward from the blow. Though a better fighter, Tequila was still only half of Terco’s weight. The difference was most apparent when Tequila caught a hit. Even the slightest backhand, with all of Terco’s heft behind it, was as deadly as a straight on punch from someone Tequila’s own size. David couldn’t have taken on Goliath without his sling shot, and Tequila had no such luxury.

  Terco shook his head, trying to clear it. He was in incredible pain, but being a professional he was no stranger to it. He compartmentalized it into a section of his brain where he didn’t have to deal with it right away. The prime directive here was subduing Tequila, and he would suffer a lot more before giving up. He stood up, favoring his good foot but nonetheless putting some weight on his broken one. Electric ripples of agony surged up through his body, and Terco eyed the man who had caused him that agony. He advanced.

  Tequila found himself on the pissy floor again and wondered how it happened. He crawled to his hands and knees and felt the hot sting on his cheek where Terco had slapped him across the room. His ears rang, and he tried to focus on his hands and stop the double vision. Tequila blinked rapidly, shook his head, and felt his stomach begin to lurch.

  Terco bent down to snatch the smaller man’s jacket. Enough with the karate crap. Terco decided it was time to use his weight and his strength. He lifted Tequila up as if he were a small child and snugged him tight to his chest.

  Tequila, for the second time in ten hours, was being squeezed to death. His arms were pinned to his sides and his face was pressed hard against the bodybuilder’s bloody pecs. He tried to squirm but it was like being locked in a body-sized vise. Once again he couldn’t breathe, and the lack of oxygen did nothing to help his nausea or double vision.

  He tried to bite Terco, but his head was pressed too tightly into his chest. He tried to kick his legs, but Terco spread his own stance further apart so there was nothing to kick.

  That was Terco’s undoing. Spreading his legs, plus the fact that he was wearing sweat pants instead of tight jeans or spandex.

  Tequila reached down and took a handful of balls. He squeezed with powerful hands that could crush soup cans.

  Terco opened his arms like automatic doors, dropping Tequila and shoving him away. Tequila fell to his knees and followed up his squeezing attack with a left right combination to Terco’s little guy.

  Terco let out a high-pitched, keening whistle, and then both big Terco and little Terco collapsed face first onto the tile floor.

  Tequila wanted to kill him. His rage was furious, and this asshole on the floor played a part in his sister’s death. If he didn’t kill him, Tequila knew that he’d have to at some later date anyway. But the problem was he had fifteen guys watching him, and he doubted they’d let him get away if he snapped an unconscious guy’s neck.

  “Call the cops,” Tequila told the onlookers. “This guy just attacked me. Anyone see it?”

  “I saw him rush you,” one man said.

  “I saw it too.”

  Tequila worked his way through the crowd and got back to his locker. His money bag was still there, wonder of wonders. He quickly put on his socks and his shoes, followed by his holster rig and his starter jacket. Terco would have to wait for another day, he couldn’t risk it now. Cold-blooded murder didn’t bother Tequila, but cold-blooded murder in front of witnesses wouldn’t bode well at the trial, if and when Tequila was finally caught.

  Later, he promised Terco. He went to the sink and washed the blood from his face and hands. Then he continued walking and went through the showers and into the enclosed swimming pool.

  “You can’t come in here in street clothes,” the life guard warned.

  Tequila ignored him, and when the life guard strutted over, sticking out his big chest and holding up his hand like a cop at a crosswalk, Tequila broke his nose. His seventh nose of the day. Then he walked over to the emergency exit door and pushed it open. It sounded the fire alarm, which suited Tequila fine. The more confusion, the better. The door let out down a staircase and out into the alley, where the prodigal wind returned to smack his face with frost.

  His next course of action was to get weapons. He was also thinking about getting some new clothing, but that could wait a day or two. Tequila’s plan was to attack Slake first. That evil son of a bitch would be the next to die. Then he could concentrate on Marty and crew.

  The easiest place to get a firearm was a pawn shop. He knew where one was, a few blocks away.

  Using the gun permit that Marty had gotten for him, Tequila bought two .45s to fit into his holsters. He also bought a box of .45 ammo, and a box of ammo for his new back-up piece, Terco’s .38. Bribing the pawn shop owner with a fifty, Tequila was also shown a collection of illegal knives and picked out a seven inch switchblade. Appropriately armed, he hit the streets to find a car.

  Tequila knew his own car was being watched, so he figured to steal one. He stopped at the nearest pay parking lot, picked out a sporty black Trans Am, and held one of his .45s to the attendant’s temple until he handed over the keys. The man was eager to please, and Tequila hopped into the Pontiac and drove off. Add grand theft auto to his list of felonies.

  Slake lived in a house in the northwest suburb of Palatine. Tequila had never been there, but he’d phoned Slake enough on Marty’s behalf, and he simply called information to get a street address from the number. He took Congress Parkway to 90/94, and headed west.

  An image of Sally, her mouth gaping blood and her eyes open in mute shock, wormed its way into Tequila’s thoughts.

  “Here I come,” he said quietly to Slake. “Here I come.”

  The man named Royce was smiling, and it was an ugly thing to see. As a child Royce’s eye teeth—his upper canines—had grown in pointed, and they protruded grotesquely outward from the gums. It made him look like he had a double set of fangs, and he’d never bothered to get them fixed because he liked the reaction his smile caused in people. Like the reaction he was getting at that moment from Leman.

  The ex-cop winced, and had to make a conscious effort not to look away. He was still shaking Royce’s hand in greeting, and Royce was drinking in Leman’s discomfort and refused to break the handshake.

  “Good to meet you,” Royce said. He had a hoarse, quiet voice, and a strong odor of garlic on his breath.

  At least that proved he’s not a vampire. Leman tried to gently tug his hand away, give a clue that the greeting was over, but Royce held on.

  “Tequila did that?” asked Royce, indicating Leman’s bandaged shoulder.

  “Yeah. From about sixty feet. Bastard could have killed me.”

  “You were lucky it wasn’t me. I would have.”

  Royce smiled again, and this time Leman pulled his hand away. This guy gave him the creeps. He turned and gave Marty a what the hell? look, wondering why the Maniac had to bring in this bozo. Weren’t he, Terco, Slake, and Matisse enough?

  “Mr. Royce is a specialist,” Marty said by way of explanation. “He’ll take care of Tequila for us.”

  “Do you really need outside help, Marty? I mean, betw
een the four of us…”

  “The three of you. Tequila killed Matisse last night.”

  Leman felt as if he’d been hit. Not that he liked Matisse that much, but the guy was okay. Only yesterday they’d been in the vault and watching the Super Bowl take being counted. And now…

  “How?”

  “Tequila beat him to death. So you can see we need more manpower.”

  “Besides,” Royce added, “you aren’t going to be much help with only one arm. I doubt you were much help with two.”

  Leman stung from the jab and felt his face go red. No creepy vampire son of a bitch was going to insult him like that and get away with it. He made a quick fist and threw a sucker punch at Royce’s face.

  Leman woke up staring at the ceiling, wondering what the hell happened. One eye was swelled shut, and there was something sharp pressing against his neck. He squinted and saw Royce holding a switchblade to his throat.

  “Try that again,” Royce suggested. “Try it whenever you like. But the next time, I’ll cut off your nose.”

  He gave Leman a poke in the nose with the knife tip, just enough to draw blood. Leman yelped.

  Marty grinned like a five-year-old on Christmas morning. One second, Leman had been throwing a punch at Royce. In a blur of instantaneous motion, Royce had ducked the punch, elbowed Leman in the eye, flipped him over, and knelt on his chest with the knife at his neck. It all happened so quickly that Marty thought that he’d missed it, even though he saw the whole thing.

  “As I said, Mr. Royce is a professional. He’ll take care of Tequila. You, Slake, and Terco will be with me at all times, in case the little shit decides to try for me because that moron Matisse wasted his sister. Now get your ass off the floor.”

  Leman, still dizzy, refused the hand that Royce offered and painfully got to his feet. If he’d had use of both hands, he might have been tempted to go for the gun in his holster. Who did this asshole think he was anyway?