Shot of Tequila

by J. A. Konrath

  “Knife. Probably the thin guy who killed China Johnston and Mitch Comsteen.”

  “Hector Slake.”

  “Could be. We’ll never know now, without a witness to ID him. We should have put someone on him right away.”

  “Especially after the Binkowski murders. Goddammit, Herb, why weren’t we thinking?”

  “We did think. We had men on Frank Michaels, but just too late. Who would have figured they’d go after the doorman, Jack? This is turning into a 1930’s gangster movie.”

  “They charge Tequila with this one too?”

  “No. They’re calling it a murder/suicide. But I talked to the Homicide dick in charge. Woman was stabbed eighteen times. Man was stabbed through the eye. How many people off themselves with a knife through the eye?”

  Jack felt her stomach drop. “Maybe you’re right to get out of town, Herb.”

  Herb laughed. “I’m leaving because of Bernice, not because I fear for our lives. I think we’re safe, Jack. Cops may turn a blind eye for some cash, or cover up some Outfit business, but I can’t picture boys in blue killing one another.”

  “How about girls in blue?”

  Herb was silent.

  “Thanks for the word, Herb. If you hear anything else, let me know.”

  “I’ll keep my ears open. And… be careful, Jack.”

  Daniels hung up, the weight of two more souls heavy on her conscience. Frank must have been killed shortly after coming up with the Identikit drawing of the thin man calling himself Mr. Collins. How could Jack have known they’d get to him that quickly?

  But she should have known. She should have put a watch on him.

  Not that it would have mattered. If the corruption went that high up, there’s nothing she could have done.

  But there was something she could do now.

  Jack found a shirt and worked her way into it. She put on her heavy coat, grabbed her gun, some extra speed-loaders, and her stake out kit, which was a bottle of water, three candy bars, and a coffee can to piss in. Then she left the apartment..

  The cold, freezing night welcomed her as she got on her way.

  The night labored on, and as Tequila slept his rage burned hot in his dreams.

  There were no homeless shelters in the suburbs. The police picked up anyone wandering the streets and escorted them out of town. If they returned, they were arrested for vagrancy, and not handled very nicely while serving their term. So the suburbs didn’t have the homeless problem that the city did, and Tequila had no anonymous place to stay for the night.

  The problem with motels was that they kept records. Even if he gave a false name, Tequila figured both the police and the Outfit were checking every hotel and motel in Illinois, looking for him. A desk clerk would talk, and Tequila would get nailed. His size, and the condition of his clothing, would make him memorable. And even a sizeable bribe to erase the desk clerk’s memory would pale next to the Mafioso threat of cutting off his gonads.

  So he eschewed hotels in favor of a different idea.

  Earlier, in a strip mall in nearby Hoffman Estates, Tequila found a thrift shop. It sold second hand furniture, old books, and most importantly used clothing. Tequila had cleaned himself up as best he could in a gas station bathroom, but he still looked like a ragged, tattered, beaten man. That image would be conspicuous at JC Penny’s, but wasn’t out of place at all at a charity run resale shop.

  He’d found a pair of jeans that fit loosely, and bought a belt to go with them. He had also bought a sweat shirt, a watch cap, and a black down-filled camping jacket. The elderly woman who rang up his purchase was a volunteer, as were the two other old ladies in the shop, and none of them gave him a second glance. His purchase amount came to fifteen dollars and some change. He’d gone back to the fitting room—an alcove in the corner of the store partitioned off by a sheet on a pole—and changed into his new but used clothes.

  Looking like a normal person again, Tequila next went to a Burger King and kept ordering cheeseburgers until he was full. The pain from his various injuries had gotten worse, so he took four more of Slake’s aspirin. After the restaurant he visited a clothing store and bought underwear and socks and a new pair of Nikes. Again he brought his purchases into the dressing room to change.

  Next he’d gone to a U-Store-It and rented a locker for a year under a false name. He’d told the clerk he’d forgotten his driver’s license, and had given him a fifty to smooth things through. The suitcases of Slake’s money went into the locker, and the lock on it was a combination Tequila memorized and then threw away.

  Fatigue was beginning to gnaw at him as it got dark. He’d longed for a soft bed and some sleep, so that’s what he sought out. His next stop was a furniture store, and he found one in Schaumburg. It was a sprawling establishment, selling everything from dining room sets to outdoor pools. Tequila had been accosted by three different sales people, all overly helpful. He’d waved them off, saying he was just browsing. Eventually, the sales staff no longer noticed him, and the customers began to thin out.

  A half an hour before closing time, Tequila was walking through the bedding section, all alone. Making doubly sure he wasn’t being watched, he dropped to his chest and scurried under a queen sized bed. He made sure the dust cover was unruffled from where he entered, and then he’d simply waited for the lights to go out.

  When they went out, he waited another half an hour just to be safe. Then he crept out from underneath the bed and fell asleep on top.

  It wasn’t the Ritz, but it got the job done.

  The nightmares of Sally were overshadowed by the beatific dreams of his vengeance. While his body rested and began to heal, his mind wracked itself, subconsciously ripping Marty and his whole gang apart.

  He slept until the next morning, when the opening manager woke him by turning on all of the lights. Tequila then got off the bed, made his way to the front door, and left without ever being seen.

  He went back to the same Burger King as yesterday and got coffee and breakfast, using the bathroom when he’d finished. He wanted to take a shower, but the last one had turned out disastrous, so it would have to wait until he thought of a better alternative. He settled for a five Demerol injections, two Vicodin, three amphetamines to counteract the drowsiness, and a few antibiotics.

  Rested, fed, and feeling mean, Tequila made sure all of his weapons were locked and loaded, started up the car, and headed for Marty the Maniac’s to give the bastard a wake-up call.

  Marty lived in a McMansion on the outskirts of Evanston. Three stories, eighteen rooms not including baths, and the obligatory kidney shaped pool. What self-respecting mobster didn’t have a pool these days?

  The drive took forty minutes. During that time, Tequila tried to come up with some semblance of a plan. Marty was undoubtedly waiting for him, with enough hired guns on the premises to obliterate an entire housing development. Much as Tequila wanted to storm in and strangle the bastard, he’d likely get killed before he even set foot in the house.

  The way to go was reconnaissance. He would have to study the grounds, count the guards, wait for the right moment, before he had an opportunity to kill Marty. His boiling blood screamed for instant gratification, but he pushed rash thoughts aside. Best let them simmer a while longer, and then release them when he had the chance. Now wasn’t the chance. First he had to get the lay of the land straight.

  Parking almost a half mile away lest Marty have guards roaming the block, Tequila put his shoulder rig on under his camping coat. The coat was big and hid his guns effectively. Terco’s .38 went into the back of his belt, along with six extra clips and eighteen speed strips. He got out of the car and stepped into the miserably cold day, frost seeming to form on his exposed skin almost instantly.

  Evanston was a much older suburb than Palatine, and consequently it looked like Palatine would look in fifty years. The houses weren’t as flashy, but ivy and towering oak trees gave them a classier cast. Tequila strolled past one beautiful home after anot
her, hands shoved hard in his pockets, his objective clear in his freezing brain.

  When he reached the edge of Marty’s property—the northeast corner of a wrought iron fence that covered his boss’s two acres—he heard a car start up. Turning over his shoulder, he saw a plain blue sedan pull out of its space on the street fifty meters away, heading towards him. It was a Nova. An old Chevy Nova. None of Marty’s drones would drive such a crappy car. That meant cop, unless this was just some kind of strange coincidence. Or maybe the car was stolen…

  Tequila made out a single figure in the car as it came closer. Cops usually worked in pairs. So did wise guys. A sudden panic seized Tequila as he pictured a man hunched in the back seat with a machine gun. Tequila had nowhere to run, standing next to a fence. He could only move on the sidewalk, which was adjacent to the road, where he was easy pickings for a drive-by shooting.

  Digging into his rig, he came out with both .45s. Maybe he’d have a chance at them before they were able to gun him down. He pointed one barrel at the driver and one barrel at the back seat passenger window, but the driver—a woman—didn’t even look at him and drove right on by without incident.

  Tequila watched the car turn the corner in the distance. Better safe than sorry. He put his guns back in his rig and walked along Marty’s perimeter.

  The fence covered all four sides of the property. The motorized gate was unmanned, using rollers rather than hinges. It opened with a garage door opener, Tequila had recalled during a visit to Marty’s a few months back. Marty had his collectors over for swimming and poker several times a year, and attendance was mandatory. Tequila didn’t mind because he usually won at poker. He bluffed extremely well and was equally adept at spotting bluffing in others.

  But those days were long gone now.

  Tequila hadn’t noticed any unusual activity on Marty’s grounds during his walk, but that didn’t mean he was alone in there. Tequila needed a closer look and a possible peek through the windows to see what he was up against.

  He didn’t see the security camera, hidden in the gate post. But when he passed through the camera’s line of sight he was seen by Leman, who was sitting by the security monitor in Marty’s house hoping for such a longshot.

  Oblivious to this, Tequila sighted on a portion of the fence next to a copse of trees on Marty’s property. The fence was eight feet high with spires on the top, but scaling it would prove little difficulty for a gymnast. Tequila planned on climbing to the top and then dropping down on the other side, his ascent hidden from the house’s view by the oaks.

  He was putting his hands on the wrought iron bars when he saw the woman approaching at the right.

  She was medium build, in a black overcoat, walking towards Tequila at a brisk pace. The woman from the Nova. It wasn’t unheard of for the Outfit to employ women for wet work. A bullet was just as deadly whether the shooter had one X chromosome or two.

  Tequila stepped away from the fence and began to walk at the woman, meeting her eyes, waiting for her to telegraph something. Would she try to draw on him? Tequila wasn’t worried about that, because whoever this was, he knew himself to be faster. But not yet. There was always the chance it was just some moron out for a walk, and if Tequila pulled his .45s, the woman would no doubt run to the cops with a description.

  As she drew closer, Tequila noticed two things about her. The first was that she was attractive—mid thirties, pleasant face, nice legs. The second was that the woman was smiling whistling to herself.

  They got within ten feet of each other and the woman stopped. Tequila stopped as well.

  “Shitty day for a walk,” the woman said. Then she smiled.

  Tequila didn’t answer. He searched for something in her face that indicated approaching violence, but didn’t find it. That proved nothing. A lot of the real violent types smiled while they worked.

  “I’m sure you’re armed,” the woman continued. “But I’m betting on the fact you won’t kill a cop. Homicide Detective Jack Daniels out of the two-six. Mr. Abernathy, you’re under arrest for the murder of Billy Chico. Could you please drop your weapons and put your hands on your head.”

  Tequila didn’t buy it. This wasn’t how cops arrested people. He’d seen the group in his apartment hallway. Where was the whole battalion, rushing at him with Kevlar vests and tear gas?

  He pulled his .45s in the blink of an eye.

  The woman didn’t flinch.

  “You’re pretty fast,” said the woman claiming to be Detective Daniels. “Me? I’m not so fast. See?”

  Moving slowly, Daniels pulled her coat back, revealing a badge hanging around her neck on a cord. She also revealed her shoulder holster.

  “You’re not going to arrest me.”

  “Honestly? I don’t want to arrest you, Tequila. I want to bring you in. Federal custody. You don’t matter to me. I want Marty, and the cops on Marty’s payroll. You can help me get them, then you get a new name, new location, new life.”

  “It doesn’t work that way. They’d find me.”

  “We can put them away.”

  “Not all of them. The Outfit is a hydra. Cut off one head, two others spring up.”

  “We can protect you.”

  “I don’t want protection,” Tequila said. “I want them dead.”

  Tequila took a step backward. The easiest way out of a standoff was to leave. If the cop reached for her gun, he would just shoot first.

  “Look, Tequila. I know you’ve got guts. I was there when you took the dive out of your apartment building. That was a risky move for even the most experienced skydiver. How experienced are you anyway?”

  “That was my first time. I didn’t like it too much, and I doubt I’ll try again.”

  Daniels stared at him for a moment. Tequila took another step back.

  “Guts aren’t enough here, Tequila. You’ve got an army after you. The wrong cops catch you, you’re dead. The mob catches you, you’re dead. I’m the only friend you’ve got.”

  “I don’t need friends.”

  Tequila took one more step back. In a moment he was going to sprint across the street. This woman wasn’t fast enough to catch him.

  “Killing those responsible for Sally’s death won’t bring her back.”

  Tequila blinked. He felt a lump in his throat, so big it made his other various aches and pains seem trivial.

  “She…” His voice wavered, but he got it under control. “She was innocent.”

  “I know. But even if you kill them all, it won’t take the hurt away. You have to let us handle it.”

  “Marty owns cops. He probably owns your boss.”

  “Let me bring you in, and we’ll take them all down.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You’re going up against fifty or more. You’ll get killed.”

  “Then I get killed.”

  “Come in, Tequila. Help me put Marty, and Slake, and the rest of them away for what they’ve done to your sister. You want revenge? Send them to jail and every week send a postcard. That’s the best revenge.”

  Before Tequila had a chance to answer, two things happened. The first was that Marty’s automatic gate began to open. The second was that a black Lincoln sedan came barreling around the corner, squealing tires, heading towards Tequila and Daniels. Tequila turned at the car and emptied both clips at the driver’s side passenger window, where a gun barrel was peeking out.

  The car swerved right and went up onto a neighbor’s lawn. Tequila was jamming in two new clips when another car, coming through Marty’s gate, swung out onto the street.

  Daniels drew lightning quick and fired four shots, all into the engine block of the approaching Mercedes. Steam from the punctured radiator blew the hood off the Benz, and Jack yelled at Tequila.

  “Two more cars coming! I’m parked half a block away!”

  Tequila nodded and ran with Jack, hearing the sound of automatic weapon fire stitch a path behind him. Daniels surprised Tequila by keeping pace with him as they sprinte
d. Maybe the woman had some pep in her after all.

  They rounded the corner and both dove at the ground. Parked next to Jack’s car was another black sedan, two men standing on either side armed with wicked looking Kalishnikov AK-47s. The cop and the gymnast fired at the same time, but they both shot at the same man. He dropped, but the other scurried behind the sedan and held down the trigger on the automatic, kicking up dirt and rocks several feet before the duo. The man emptied his thirty round magazine and stopped to reload.

  “I’m parked two more blocks down,” Tequila yelled at Jack.

  She nodded. Tequila took off across the street with Jack in pursuit. Automatic weapon fire sounded off behind them, and ahead came another black sedan. The two cut across someone’s lawn and then onto another street, running like mad.

  They made it to the Trans Am without being shot at again, but more screaming tires in the distance confirmed Marty’s men hadn’t given up their chase.

  “I thought you drove a Caprice,” Jack said, getting in the passenger side.

  “Stolen,” Tequila answered. “If it bugs you, you can walk.”

  The black sedan rounded the corner and came straight at them, mirrored glass reflecting the aged trees it was rapidly passing.

  “I’ll arrest you for it later,” Daniels said.

  Tequila punched it in reverse, tires shrieking and laying down two long streaks of rubber. Jack popped in a speed loader and cranked open her window, leaning out and shooting at the oncoming sedan. The sedan swerved off the road, and Tequila yanked Jack into her seat and turned the wheel harshly. The Trans Am spun around and Tequila jammed it into drive when it reached 180 degrees. Then he hit the gas again and they were going forward.

  “Nice,” Daniels said. “But can you parallel park?”

  Tequila allowed himself a small grin, but it faded when he saw two more of Marty’s cars approaching from the left. He punched the accelerator and beat them to the intersection, but they swung into pursuit.

  The rear window of the Trans Am shattered with a gunshot, spraying Tequila and Jack with cold glass. Daniels turned around and fired two rounds at the first sedan, hitting the windshield dead center. The car careened left and smacked hard into an eighty-year-old oak tree. The tree won, spitting the occupants through the front window and onto some rich guy’s lawn.