Jack Daniels Stories

by J. A. Konrath

  “Dammit. The bastards killed my pot roast.”

  He tore himself away from the grue and dialed 911, asking that they send the CSU over. And for the CSU to bring a pizza.

  #

  Officer Dan Rogers leaned over the pot, his face somber.

  “I'm sorry, Detective Benedict. There's nothing we can do to save the victim.”

  Herb frowned around a limp slice of sausage and pepperoni. Over two dozen gourmet pizza places dotted Herb's neighborhood, and the Crime Scene Unit had gone to a chain-store. The greasy cardboard box the pie came in probably had more flavor.

  “You might think you're amusing, but that's an eighteen dollar roast.”

  “I can tell. Look at how tender it is. It's practically falling off the bone. And the aroma is heavenly. It's a damn shame.”

  Officer Hajek snapped a picture. “Shouldn't let it go to waste. When you're done, can I take it home for the dog?”

  Herb watched Roberts attack the roast with gloved hands and wanted to cry at the injustice of it all. Another slice of pizza found its way into Herb's mouth, but it offered no comfort.

  “And...gotcha, baby!”

  Rogers held up his prize with a pair of forceps. The slug was roughly half an inch long, shaped like a mushroom and dripping gravy.

  It looked good enough to eat.

  “I think it's a 22LR. Must have been a high velocity cartridge. Punched a hole through the window without shattering it.”

  Herb and Rogers exchanged a knowing look, but didn't speak aloud because Bernice was nearby. Your typical gang member didn't bring a rifle on a drive-by shooting. Twenty-two caliber long range high speeds were favored by hunters.

  And assassins.

  Herb's mind backtracked over his career, of all the men he'd put away who held a grudge. After thirty-plus years on the force, there were too many to remember. He'd have to wade through old case files, cross-reference with recent parolees...

  “Herb?”

  “Hmm? Yes, Bernice?”

  His wife's face appeared ready to crack. Herb had never seen her so fragile before.

  “I...I called the glazier. They're open twenty-four-hours, so they're sending someone right away to fix the window, but they might not be here until late, and I don't know if–”

  Herb took her in his arms, rubbed her back.

  “It's okay, honey.”

  “It's not okay.”

  “You don't have to worry. Look how big a target I am, and they still missed.”

  “Maybe we should put an APB out for a blind man,” Hajek offered.

  Bernice pulled away, forcefully.

  “This isn't a joke, Herb. You don't know what it's like, being a cop's wife. Every morning, when I kiss you before you go to work, I don't know if...”

  The tears came. Herb reached for her, but Bernice shoved away his hands and hurried out of the kitchen.

  Herb rubbed his eyes. No pot roast, no HBO, and certainly no nookie tonight. The evening's forecast; lousy pizza and waiting around for the glass man.

  Being a cop sure had its perks.

  #

  The alarm went off, startling Herb awake.

  Bernice's side of the bed remained untouched. She'd stayed in the guest room all night.

  He found her in the kitchen, frying eggs. The stainless steel pot with the hole in it rested on top of their wicker garbage can, too large to fit inside.

  “Smells good. Denver omelet?”

  Bernice didn't answer.

  “The glass guy said that homeowner's insurance should cover the cost. If you have time later today, can you give our agent a call? The bill is by the phone.”

  Bernice remained silent, but began to furiously stir the eggs. They went from omelet to scrambled.

  “There will be a squad car outside all day. Let me give you their number in case...”

  “In case of what?” Bernice's red eyes accused him. “In case someone tries to kill me? No one's after me, Herb. I don't have any enemies. I'm a housewife.”

  Herb wanted to get up and hold her, but knew she wouldn't allow it.

  “I'll also have an escort, all day. It's standard procedure.”

  “I don't care about procedure.”

  “There's nothing more I can do, Bernice.”

  “Yes there is. You can retire.”

  Herb let the pain show on his face.

  “I've got six more years until full pension.”

  “Forget the full pension. We've got our savings. We've got our investments. We can make it work.”

  “Bernice...”

  “This isn't about money, and you know it. You'll never leave the Force. Not until they kick you out or...”

  Bernice's eyes locked on the holey pot.

  Herb had no reply. He skipped breakfast, showered, shaved, and began to dress. Normally, Bernice laid out an ironed shirt for him.

  Not today.

  “I'll be at the Center all day.”

  Her voice startled Herb. She stood in the bedroom doorway, arms folded.

  “I'd prefer if—”

  “If I stay home? You go on with your life, and I have to hide in the house?”

  Herb sighed.

  “It's my job, Bernice.”

  “I see. Volunteering doesn't count as a job because I'm not getting paid.”

  “I didn't say that.”

  Bernice walked away. Herb took a shirt from the hanger and put it on, wrinkles and all. He instructed the team outside to follow Bernice wherever she went, and then waited for his escorts to arrive to take him to work.

  #

  “It could be a thousand different people.”

  Herb's partner, Lt. Jacqueline Daniels, looked up over the stack of printouts. Jack wore her brown hair up today, revealing gray roots. Her hands cradled a stained coffee mug.

  “You only have yourself to blame, Herb. If you were a lousy cop, this pile would be a lot smaller.”

  Herb blinked at the case files, a career's worth, propped on the desk. Though the amount was substantial, it didn't seem big enough. He opened another Twinkie and eased it in, wishing it was a Denver Omelet.

  “I always wanted to be a cop. Even as a kid. I blame Dragnet. Joe Friday was my hero. I used to talk like him all the time. Drove my parents crazy.”

  “You've got some Twinkie filling in your mustache, Mr. Friday.”

  Herb wiped at his face. “Maybe I should transfer to Property Crimes. They never get death threats.”

  “You just pushed it over two inches.”

  Herb used his sleeve.

  “What do you think, Jack?”

  “Better, but now some of it is up your nose. Want to use my hand mirror?”

  “I meant about the transfer.”

  Jack set aside the report she'd been reading. “Seriously?”

  “I'm a fin away from retirement. These are supposed to be my golden years. I should be golfing and taking cruises.”

  “You hate golf. And the ocean.”

  “I also hate getting shot at.”

  Herb picked up a case file from a few years ago, gave it a token glance, and tossed it in the maybe pile. He could feel Jack staring at him, so he met her gaze.

  “You think I'm crazy, don't you? You think after two weeks at Property Crimes I'll be going out of my mind with boredom.”

  Jack smiled, sadly.

  “Actually, I think Property Crimes will be very lucky to get you.”

  Herb let her reply sink in. The more he thought it over, the more confident he felt. This was right.

  “I'm going to tell Bernice.”

  “Good idea. But before you do, wipe the sugar out of your nose.”

  #

  The Burketold Center was a dirty, crumbling building many years older than the senior citizens it catered to. Funded by tax dollars, the Center served as a game room/social area/singles mixer for the area's ten-plus nursing homes. Buses came several times a day, dropping off seniors for bingo, swing dancing, and craft classes.

/>   The Center provided these services free of charge, the only condition being attendees had to be over sixty years old.

  Herb walked through the automatic doors and took everything in.

  To the left, four elderly men sat around a table as rickety as they were, noisily playing cards. In the pot, along with a pile of chips, were a set of dentures.

  To the left, a solitary old woman twisted the knobs on a foosball table. She mumbled to herself, or perhaps to an imaginary opponent.

  A TV blared in the corner, broadcasting the Food Network to three sleeping ladies. To the right, an ancient man with pants hiked up to his chest repeatedly kicked a Coke machine. Herb approached him.

  “Did the machine take your money, sir?”

  The old man squinted at Herb with yellow eyes.

  “No, it did not take my money. But if you kick it in the right spot, it spits out free sodas. I've gotten six Mountain Dews so far today.”

  Herb left the guy to his larceny. In just a few short years, Herb would be turning sixty. Then he, too, would be able to join the fun for free. The thought didn't comfort him.

  He located the front desk and found a cheerful-looking man holding down the fort. The man wore a loose fitting sweater with a stag's head stitched into the pattern, and his smile was so wide it looked to crack his face. Herb placed him in his early fifties.

  “May I help you?”

  “I'm looking for Bernice Benedict.”

  “Oh. And you are...?”

  “Her husband, Herb.”

  Smiling Guy hesitated, then extended a hand.

  “Pleased to meet you, Herb. Bernice has told me a lot about you. I'm Phil Grabowski.”

  Herb took the hand and found it plump and moist. He vaguely recalled Bernice mentioning the name Phil before.

  “Hi, Phil. Great work you're doing here.”

  “Thanks. We try to do our part. It's a real heartbreaker reaching the autumn years and finding there's no one to share them with.”

  Phil chuckled, but it sounded painfully forced. Perhaps being around geriatrics all the time wrecked havoc on one's social skills.

  “Is Bernice around?”

  “She's calling bingo in room 1B, through that door and down the hall.”

  “Thanks.” Herb nodded a good-bye and began to turn away.

  “Bernice...she mentioned what happened last night. Terrible thing.”

  Herb's first reaction was annoyance. Bernice shouldn't have been relating police matters. But shame quickly overcame irritation.

  Of course Bernice would mention it to her friends at work. As she should. What other outlet did she have?

  Herb could feel himself flush. Bernice had worked at the Center for seven years, and he'd never visited once. This man, Phil, was obviously a close friend of hers, and he didn't know a thing about him.

  Herb wondered how much harm he'd done to his marriage by putting his job first.

  He also wondered if it was too late to make it up to her.

  “Yeah, well, that won't be happening anymore.”

  Phil offered another face-splitting smile. “Really?”

  It went against Herb's private nature to share his intentions with a stranger, but he thought it was a step in the right direction.

  “I'm transferring to a different division.” He almost bit his tongue. “I'm also reducing my hours.”

  “Why, that's wonderful. Bernice will be thrilled. She's...she's quite the trophy, you know.”

  “Nice to meet you, Phil.”

  Phil grinned wildly. Herb headed off in search of 1B, his wife's voice guiding him.

  “G-15. That's G-15. You've got a G-15 on your card there, Mrs. Havensatch. Right under the G, dear. There it is.”

  Herb paused in the doorway, watching her. Love, pride, and responsibility all balled-up together to form a big lump in his throat. He rapped his knuckle on the frame and walked in.

  “Bernice?”

  “Herb?” His wife appeared surprised, but the anger from this morning had gone from her face. “What are you doing here? Is everything okay?”

  “Look, honey, can we talk for a second?”

  “I'm in the middle of bingo.”

  Herb felt a dozen pairs of eyes on him. He rubbed the back of his neck.

  “I'm transferring to Property Crimes. And reducing my hours.”

  Bernice blinked.

  “You're kidding.”

  “I'm not.”

  “When are you going to do this?”

  “I already talked to Jack. Tomorrow morning, first thing.”

  Herb had expected a dozen different reactions form his wife, but crying wasn't one of them. She took several quick steps to him, and folded herself into his arms.

  “Oh, Herb. I've wanted this for so long.”

  “So you're happy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Bingo!”

  A geriatric in the front row held her card above her head and cackled madly.

  “I'll be with you in just a moment, Mrs. Steinmetz.”

  Herb stroked her hair. All of his indecision melted away. He'd made the right choice. Her friend Phil was right. Bernice was a real trophy.

  Trophy. The word snagged in his mind. People won trophies in sports, but they also shot trophies. Like that ten point buck on Phil's sweater.

  “Bernice—your friend Phil. Is he a hunt...”

  The bullet caught Herb in the meaty part of his upper shoulder, spinning him around. Before hitting the floor, he glimpsed Phil, clutching a rifle in the doorway.

  Screams filled the room, Bernice's among them. Herb tugged at his hip holster, freeing his Sig. His left arm went numb from his finger tips to his armpit, but he could feel the spreading warmth of gushing blood, and he knew the wound was bad.

  “Drop the gun, Herb!”

  Phil had the .22 pointed at Herb's head. Herb hadn't brought his gun around yet. Maybe, if he rolled to the side...

  Too late. Bernice stepped in his line of fire.

  “Phil! Stop it!”

  “I'm doing it for you, Bernice! He's no good for you!”

  Herb chanced a look at his shoulder wound. Worse than he thought. If he didn't stop the bleeding soon, he wouldn't make it.

  “I love him, Phil.”

  “Love him? He's never home, and when he is, you said it's just the same, boring routine!”

  “I like the same, boring routine. And I like my husband. Stop acting crazy and put down the gun.”

  Bernice took a step towards him, her hands up in supplication.

  “Bernice...” Herb's voice radiated strength. “He won't shoot you. Walk out and call the police.”

  “Shut up!”

  Bernice turned and looked at Herb. He nodded at his wife, willing her to move.

  “I'll kill her! I'll kill both of you!”

  Bernice stepped to the side. Phil's gun followed her.

  Herb's gun followed Phil.

  Detective First Class Herb Benedict fired four shots, three to the chest and one to the head.

  All of them hit home.

  Phil dropped, hard. Bernice rushed to her husband.

  “Herb! Herb, I'm so sorry!”

  Herb's eyes fluttered twice, and then closed.

  “Bingo!” Mrs. Steinmetz yelled.

  #

  The food redefined horrible, but Herb ate everything. Even the steamed squash. Assuming it was steamed squash.

  “I can't wait to get out of here and eat some real food.”

  Bernice stroked his arm, below the IV.

  “We need to talk, Herb.”

  Herb didn't like the tone of her voice. She sounded so sad. He shook his head, trying to clear the codeine cloud, trying to concentrate.

  “Bernice, honey, I'll make it up to you. I know I haven't been there. I know I've been spending too much time at work. Give me a chance, and I'll change.”

  Bernice smiled.

  “That's what I want to talk to you about.” Bernice took a deep breath. “I don
't want you to transfer to Property Crimes.”

  Herb did a damn good impression of confused.

  “But I thought...”

  “When you told me you wanted to transfer, it was a dream come true for me. But then, with Phil...”

  Herb reached out with his good hand, held hers.

  “You're a good cop, Herb Benedict. It would be selfish of me to keep you from that.”

  “That's okay. You're allowed to be selfish.”

  Bernice's eyes glassed over.

  “You know, every day when you go to work, I worry about you. But seeing you in action...”

  Herb smiled.

  “Was I dashing?”

  “You were magnificent. You saved more than me and you. Phil had...problems.”

  “No kidding.”

  After his death, a search of Phil Grabowski's apartment uncovered a large cache of weapons and eighteen notebooks full of handwritten, paranoid ranting. Herb was only one name on a long list of targets.

  “I can't deprive you of your job, Herb. And I can't deprive Chicago of you. You've got six years left to do good for this city. I want you to use those years well.”

  Herb pulled Bernice close and held her tight, despite the twenty-odd stitches in his shoulder.

  “You know, the doctor says I'll be out of here by next Friday.”

  Bernice touched his cheek.

  “Just in time for pot roast.”

  “Pot roast is my favorite, you know.”

  “I think you've mentioned that before.”

  “But this Friday, why don't we go out to eat instead? Someplace nice, romantic.”

  Bernice's eyes lit up. She looked like a teenager again.

  “I'd like that.”

  “And then afterwards, maybe some nookie.”

  “That sounds perfect, but you know what?”

  “What?”

  Bernice grinned, and it was positively wicked.

  “We don't have to wait until Friday for that.”

  She closed the door to the room and turned out the light.

  Last Request

  Phin has been in four of the six Jack Daniels books so far, Whiskey Sour, Rusty Nail, Fuzzy Nave, and Cherry Bomb. In those books, Jack tempers some of Phin's darker moments. Not so in this story. This is also my favorite first line of anything I've written.

  I picked up a transsexual hooker named Thor, all six feet of her, at the off ramp to Eau Claire, Wisconsin, as I was driving up north to kill a man.

  She had on thigh-high black vinyl boots, red fishnet stockings, a pink mini skirt, a neon green spandex tube top, and a huge blonde wig that reminded me of an octopus. I could have spotted her from clear across the county.