Jack Daniels Stories

by J. A. Konrath

  Sousse folded his arms.

  “I think this interview is over.”

  “Fine,” I said, loud to be heard over Tori. “But you'll be hearing from me and Morribund again.”

  “Who?”

  “Don't play coy. People like you disgust me, Mr. Sousse. Sure, I'm a carnivore. But I don't get my jollies hunting down ducks and mooses and deers and squirrels.” I pointed to a squirrel hanging on the wall, dressed up in a little cowboy outfit. “What kind of maniac hunts squirrels?”

  “I'm not a hunter, you idiot. I abhor hunting. I'm a taxidermist.”

  “Well, then I'm sure the IRS would love to hear about your little operation. You better hope you have a good accountant and that your taxidermist is in perfect order.”

  I spun on my heels and got out of there.

  Mission accomplished. I should have felt happy, but something was nagging at me. Several somethings, in fact.

  On my way through the lobby, I stopped by Miss Janice's desk again.

  “When Sousse fired that teacher a few weeks ago, what was the reason?”

  “That's none of your business, Mr. McGlade.”

  “Some sex thing?”

  “Certainly not!”

  “Inappropriate behavior?”

  “I won't say another word.”

  “Fine. If you want me to pick you up later and take you to dinner, stay silent.”

  “I'd rather be burned alive.”

  “We can do that after we've eaten.”

  “No. I think you're annoying and repulsive.”

  “How about a few drinks? The more you drink, the less repulsive I get.”

  She folded her arms and her voice went from sultry to frosty. “Employees of the Salieri Academy don't drink, Mr. McGlade.”

  “I understand. How about we take a handful of pills and smoke a bowl?”

  “I'm calling security.”

  “No need. I'm outtie. Catch you later, sweetheart.”

  I winked, then headed back to my office. When I arrived, I spend a good half hour on the Internet, digging deeper into the Salieri story, using a reverse phone directory to track a number, and looking up the words insinuating, plebian, ignoramous, and taxidermist. Then I gave Morribund a call and told him I had something for him.

  An hour later he showed up, looking expectant to the point of jubilation. Jubilation is another word I looked up.

  “Did you get the pictures, Mr. McGlade?”

  “I got them.”

  “You're fast.”

  “I know. Ask my last girlfriend.”

  We stared at each other for a few seconds.

  “So, are you going to give them to me?”

  “No, Mr. Morribund. I'm not.”

  He leaned in closer, the whiskey coming off him like cologne. “Why? You want more money?”

  “I'll take all the money you give me, but I'm not going to give you the photos.”

  “Why not?”

  I smiled. It was time for the big revealing expositional moment.

  “There are a lot of things I hate, Mr. Morribund. Like public toilets. And the Red Sox. And massage girls who make you pay extra for happy endings. But the thing I hate the most is being lied to by a client.”

  “Me? Lie to you? What are you talking about?”

  “You don't want to get your daughter into the Salieri Academy. You don't even have a daughter.”

  His eyes narrowed.

  “You're insane. Why would you think such a thing?”

  “When I went to the Academy, I ran into some kid in a Salieri uniform, and he was uglier than a hatful of dingle-berries with hair on them. If he got in, then the school had no restrictions according to looks. Isn't that right, Mr. Morribund? Or should I use your real name... Nathan Tribble?”

  He sighed, knowing he was beaten. “How did you figure it out?”

  “You didn't pay me with a check or credit card, because you didn't have any in the name you gave me. But you did give me your real phone number, and I looked it up in the Internet. I also found out you once worked at the Salieri Academy. Fired a few weeks ago. For drinking, I assume.”

  “It never affected my job! I was the best instructor that stupid school ever had!”

  I didn't care about debating him, because I wasn't done with my brilliant explanation yet.

  “You came to me because you found me on the Internet and thought I liked dogs. That's why you wore that Save the Dolphins tie tack. You said Sousse was a hunter, to make me dislike him so I'd go along with your blackmail scheme.”

  “Enough. We've established I was lying.”

  But I still had more exposing to expose, so I went on.

  “Sousse isn't a hunter, Tribble. He's a taxidermist. And you're no animal lover either. You can't be pro-dolphin and also eat tuna. Tuna fisherman catch and kill dolphins all the time. But your breath smelled of tuna during our last meeting.”

  “Why are you telling me things I already know?”

  “Because that's what I do, Tribble. I figure out puzzles by putting together all the little pieces until they all fit together and form a full picture, made of the little puzzle pieces I've fit together. Or something.”

  “You're a low-life, McGlade. All you do is take dirty pictures of people. Or you make up dirty pictures when there are none to take.”

  “I may be a low-life. And a thief. And a voyeur. And an arsonist. And a leg-breaker. But I'm not a liar. You're the liar, Tribble. And you made a big mistake. You lied to me.”

  Tribble snorted. “So? Big deal. I got fired, and I wanted to take revenge. I figured you wouldn't do it if I asked, so I made up the story about the daughter, and added the pro-animal garbage to get you hooked. What does it matter? Just give me the damn pictures and you can go play Agatha Christie by yourself in the shower.”

  I stood up.

  “Get out of my office, Tribble. I'm going to make two calls. The first, to Sousse, to tell him what you've got planned. I bet he can make sure you'll never get a teaching job in this town again. The second call will be to a buddy of mine at the Chicago Police Department. She'll love to learn about your little blackmail scheme.”

  Tribble looked like I just peed in his oatmeal.

  “What about the money I gave you?”

  “No give-backsies.”

  He balled his fists, made a face, then stormed out of my office.

  I grinned. It had been a productive day. I'd made a cool twelve hundred bucks for only a few hours of work, and that was only the beginning of the money train.

  I got on the phone to my tech geek, and told him I was forwarding a photo I needed him to doctor. I think Sousse would look perfect Photshopped into a KKK rally, wearing a Nazi armband and goose-stepping.

  Sure, I wasn't a liar. But I was a sucker for a good blackmail scheme.

  Not bad for a pre-school drop-out.

  Overproof

  My friend Libby Fischer Hellmann edited an anthology called Chicago Blues, published by Bleak House in 2007. I wrote a Jack story for her, based on a premise I thought of while stuck in traffic downtown. Why do cars get gridlocked? Here's one possible answer...

  The man sat in the center of the southbound lane on Michigan Avenue, opposite Water Tower Place, sat cross-legged and seemingly oblivious to the mile of backed-up traffic, holding a gun that he pointed at his own head.

  I'd been shopping at Macy's, and purchased a Gucci wallet as a birthday gift for my boyfriend, Latham. When I walked out onto Michigan I was hit by the cacophony of several hundred honking horns and the unmistakable shrill of a police whistle. I hung my star around my neck and pushed through the crowd that had gathered on the sidewalk. Chicago's Magnificent Mile was always packed during the summer, but the people were usually moving in one direction or the other. These folks were standing still, watching something.

  Then I saw what they were watching.

  I assumed the traffic cop blowing the whistle had called it in—he had a radio on his belt. He'd stopped cars in both
directions, and had enforced a twenty meter perimeter around the guy with the gun.

  I took my .38 Colt out of my purse and walked over, holding up my badge with my other hand. The cop was black, older, the strain of the situation heavy on his face.

  “Lt. Jack Daniels, Homicide.” I had to yell above the car horns. “What's the ETA on the negotiator?”

  “Half hour, at least. Can't get here because of the jam.”

  He made a gesture with his white gloved hand, indicating the gridlock surrounding us.

  “You talk to this guy?”

  “Asked him his name, if he wanted anything. Told me to leave him alone. Don't have to tell me twice.”

  I nodded. The man with the gun was watching us. He was white, pudgy, mid-forties, clean shaven and wearing a blue suit and a red tie. He looked calm but focused. No tears. No shaking. As if it was perfectly normal to sit in the middle of the street with a pistol at your own temple.

  I kept my Colt trained on the perp and took another step toward him. If he flinched, I'd shoot him. The shrinks had a term for it: suicide by cop. People who didn't have the guts to kill themselves, so they forced the police to. I didn't want to be the one to do it. Hell, it was the absolute last thing I wanted to do. I could picture the hearing, being told the shooting was justified, and I knew that being in the right wouldn't help me sleep any better if I had to murder this poor bastard.

  “What's your name?” I asked.

  “Paul.”

  The gun he had was small, looked like a .380. Something higher caliber would likely blow through both sides of his skull and into the crowd. This bullet probably wasn't powerful enough. But it would do a fine job of killing him. Or me, if he decided he wanted some company in the afterlife.

  “My name is Jack. Can you put the gun down, Paul?”

  “No.”

  “Please?”

  “No.”

  That was about the extent of my hostage negotiating skills. I dared a step closer, coming within three feet of him, close enough to smell his sweat.

  “What's so bad that you have to do this?”

  Paul stared at me without answering. I revised my earlier thought about him looking calm. He actually looked numb. I glanced at his left hand, saw the wedding ring.

  “Problems with the wife?” I asked.

  His Adam's apple bobbled up and down as he swallowed. “My wife died last year.”

  “I'm sorry.”

  “Don't be. You married?”

  “Divorced. What was your wife's name, Paul?”

  “Doris.”

  “What do you think Doris would say if she saw you like this?”

  Paul's face pinched into a sad smile. My Colt Detective Special weighed twenty-two ounces, and my arm was getting tired holding it up. I brought my left hand under my right to brace it, my palm on the butt of the weapon.

  “Do you think you'll get married again?” he asked.

  I thought about Latham. “It will happen, sooner or later.”

  “You have someone, I'm guessing.”

  “Yes.”

  “Does he like it that you're a cop?”

  I considered the question before answering. “He likes the whole package.”

  Paul abruptly inhaled. A snort? I couldn't tell. I did a very quick left to right sweep with my eyes. The crowd was growing, and inching closer—one traffic cop couldn't keep everyone back by himself. The media had also arrived. Took them long enough, considering four networks had offices within a few blocks.

  “Waiting for things to happen, that's a mistake.” Paul closed his eyes for a second, then opened them again. “If you want things to happen, you have to make them happen. Because you never know how long things are going to last.”

  He didn't seem depressed. More like irritated. I took a slow breath, smelling the cumulative exhaust of a thousand cars and buses, wishing the damn negotiator would arrive.

  “Do you live in the area, Paul?”

  He sniffled, sounding congested. “Suburbs.”

  “Do you work downtown?”

  “Used to. Until about half an hour ago.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “No.”

  “Can you give me more than that?”

  He squinted at me. “Why do you care?”

  “It's my job, Paul.”

  “It's your job to protect people.”

  “Yes. And you're a person.”

  “You want to protect me from myself.”

  “Yes.”

  “You also want to protect these people around us.”

  “Yes.”

  “How far away are they, do you think? Fifteen feet? Twenty?”

  A strange question, and I didn't like it. “I don't know. Why?”

  Paul made a show of looking around.

  “Lot of people here. Big responsibility, protecting them all.”

  He shifted, and my finger automatically tensed on the trigger. Paul said something, but it was lost in the honking.

  “Can you repeat that, Paul?”

  “Maybe life isn't worth protecting.”

  “Sure it is.”

  “There are bad people in the world. They do bad things. Should they be protected too?”

  “Everyone should be protected.”

  Paul squinted at me. “Have you ever shot anyone, Jack?”

  Another question I didn't like.

  “When I was forced to, yes. Please don't force me, Paul.”

  “Have you ever killed anyone?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever wanted to?”

  “No.”

  Paul made a face like I was lying. “Why not? Do you believe in God? In heaven? Are you one of those crazy right-to-lifers who believe all life is sacred? Do you protest the death penalty?”

  “I believe blood is hard to get off of your hands, even if it's justified.”

  He shifted again, and his jacket came open. There was a spot of something on his shirt. Something red. Both my arms were feeling the strain of holding up my weapon, and a spike of fear-induced adrenalin caused a tremor in my hands.

  “What's that on your shirt, Paul? Is that blood?”

  He didn't bother to look. “Probably.”

  I kept my voice steady. “Did you go to work today, Paul?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you bring your gun to work?”

  No answer. I glanced at the spot of blood again, and noticed that his stomach didn't look right. I'd first thought Paul was overweight. Now it looked like he had something bulky on under his shirt.

  “Did you hurt anyone at work today, Paul?”

  “That's the past, Jack. You can't protect them. What's done is done.”

  I was liking this situation less and less. That spot of blood drew my eyes like a beacon. I wondered if he was wearing a bullet proof vest under his business suit, or something worse.

  “I don't want to go to jail,” he said.

  “What did you do, Paul?”

  “They shouldn't have fired me.”

  “Who? Where do you work?”

  “Since Doris died, I haven't been bringing my 'A Game.' That's understandable, isn't it?”

  I raised my voice. “How did you get blood on your shirt, Paul?”

  Paul glared at me, but his eyes were out of focus.

  “When you shot those people, did they scream?” he asked.

  I wasn't sure what he was after, so I stayed silent.

  He grinned. “Doesn't it make you feel good when they scream?”

  Now I got it. This guy wasn't just suicidal—he was homicidal as well. I took a step backward.

  “Don't leave, Jack. I want you to see this. You should see this. I'm moving very slow, okay?”

  He put his hand into his pocket. I cocked the hammer back on my Colt. Paul fished out something small and silver, and I was a hair's breadth away from shooting him.

  “This is a detonator. I've got some explosives strapped to my chest. If you take another
step away, if you yell, I'll blow both of us up. And the bomb is strong enough to kill a lot of people in the crowd. It's also wired to my heartbeat. I die, it goes off.”

  I didn't know if I believed him or not. Explosives weren't easy to get, or to make. And rigging up a detonator—especially one that was hooked into your pulse—that was really hard, even if you could find the plans on the Internet. But Paul's eyes had just enough hint of psychosis in them that I stayed put.

  “Do you doubt me, Jack? I see some doubt. I work at LarsiTech, out of the Prudential Building. We sell medical equipment. That's where I got the ECG electrode pads. It's also where I got the radioactive isotopes.”

  My breath caught in my throat, and my gun became impossibly heavy. Paul must have noticed my reaction, because he smiled.

  “The isotopes won't cause a nuclear explosion, Jack. The detonator is too small. But they will spread radioactivity for a pretty good distance. You've heard of dirty bombs, right? People won't die right away. They'll get sick. Hair will fall out. And teeth. Skin will slough off. Blindness. Leukemia. Nasty business. I figure I've got enough strapped to my waist to contaminate the whole block.”

  All I could ask was, “Why?”

  “Because I'm a bad person, Jack. Remember? Bad people do bad things.”

  “Would Doris...approve...of this?”

  “Doris didn't approve of anything. She judged. Judged every little thing I did. I half expected to be haunted by her ghost after I shot her, telling me how I could have done a better job.”

  I didn't have any saliva left in my mouth, so my voice came out raspy.

  “What happened today at LarsiTech?”

  “A lot of people got what was coming to them. Bad people, Jack. Maybe they weren't all bad. I didn't know some of them well enough. But we all have bad in us. I'm sure they deserved it. Just like this crowd of people.”

  He looked beyond me.

  “Like that woman there, pointing at me. Looks nice enough. Probably has a family. I'm sure she's done some bad things. Maybe she hits her kids. Or she stuck her mom in a nursing home. Or cheats on her taxes. We all have bad in us.”

  His Helter Skelter eyes swung back to me.