Jack Daniels Stories

by J. A. Konrath

  “You looking for action?” she said after introducing herself.

  “I'm always looking for action.”

  “Tonight's your lucky night, handsome. I'm getting out of this biz. You give me a ride, you can have whatever you want for free.”

  I opened the door, rolled up the window, and got back on the road.

  Thor spent five miles trying to pay for her ride, but the painkillers had rendered me numb and useless in that area, and eventually she gave up and reclined her seat back, settling instead for conversation.

  “So where are you headed?” she asked. She sounded like she'd been sucking helium. Hormone therapy, I guessed. I couldn't tell if her breasts were real under the tube top, but her pink micro mini revealed legs that were nice no matter which sex she was.

  “Rice Lake.”

  I yawned, and shifted in my seat. It was past one in the morning, but the oppressive July heat stuck around even when the sun didn't. I had the air conditioning in the Ford Ranger cranked up, but it didn't help much.

  “Why are you going to Rice Lake?” she asked.

  I searched around for the drink holder, picked up the coffee I'd bought back in the Dells, and forced down the remaining cold dregs, sucking every last molecule of caffeine from the grit that caught in my teeth.

  “Business.”

  She touched my arm, hairless like the rest of me.

  “You don't look like a businessman.”

  The road stretched out ahead of us, an endless black snake. Mile after mile of nothing to look at. I should have gotten a vehicle with a manual transmission, given my hand something to do.

  “My briefcase and power ties are in the back seat.”

  Thor didn't bother to look. Which was a good thing.

  “What sort of business are you in?”

  I considered it. “Customer relations.”

  “From Chicago,” Thor said.

  She noticed the plates before climbing in. Observant girl. I wondered, obliquely, how far she'd take this line of questioning.

  “Don't act much like a businessman, either.”

  “How do businessmen act?” I said.

  “They're all after one thing.”

  “And what's that?”

  “Me.”

  She tried to purr, and wound up sounding like Mickey Mouse. Personally, I didn't find her attractive. I had no idea if she was pre-op, post-op, or a work in progress, but Thor and I weren't going to happen, ever.

  I didn't tell her this. I might be a killer, but I'm not mean.

  “Where are you headed?” I asked.

  She sighed, scratching her neck, posture changing from demure seductress to one of the guys.

  “Anywhere. Nowhere. I don't have a clue. This was a spur of the moment thing. One of my girlfriends just called, said my former pimp was coming after me.”

  “How former?”

  “I left him yesterday. He was a selfish bastard.”

  She was quiet for a while. I fumbled to crank the air higher, forgetting where the knob was. It was already up all the way. I glanced over at Thor, watched her shoulders quiver in time with her sobs.

  “You love him,” I said.

  She sniffled, lifted up her chin.

  “He didn't care about me. He just cared that I took his shit.”

  This got my attention.

  “You holding?” I asked. Codeine didn't do as good a job as coke or heroin.

  “No. Never so much as smoked a joint, if you can believe it.”

  I would have raised an eyebrow, but they hadn't grown back yet. Maybe I'd be dead before they did.

  “It's true, handsome. Every perverted little thing I've ever done I've done stone cold sober. Lots of men think girls like me are all messed up in the head. I'm not. I have zero identity issues, and my self esteem is fine, thank you.”

  “I've never met a hooker with any self esteem,” I said.

  “And I've never met a car thief on chemotherapy.”

  I glanced at her again. Waited for the explanation.

  “You couldn't find the climate control,” Thor said. “And you're so stoned on something you never bothered to adjust the seat or the mirrors. Vicodin?”

  I nodded, yawned.

  “You okay to drive?”

  “I managed to pick you up without running you over.”

  Thor clicked open a silver-sequined clutch purse and produced a compact. She fussed with her make-up as she spoke, dabbing at her tears with a foundation sponge.

  “So why did you pick me up?” she asked. “You're not the type who's into transgender.”

  “You're smart. Figure it out.”

  She studied me, staring for almost a full minute. I shifted in my seat. Being scrutinized was a lot of work.

  “You stole the car in Chicago, so you've been on the road for about six hours. You're zonked out on painkillers, probably sick from chemotherapy, but you're still driving at two in the morning. I'd say you just robbed a bank, but you don't seem jumpy or paranoid like you're running from something. That means you're running to something. How am I doing so far?”

  “If I had any gold stars, you'd get one.”

  She stared a bit longer, then asked.

  “What's your name?”

  “Phineas Troutt. People call me Phin.”

  “Sort of a strange name.”

  “This from a girl named Thor.”

  “My father loved comic books. Wanted a tough, macho, manly son, thought the name would make me strong.”

  I glanced at her. “It did.”

  Thor smiled. A real smile, not a hooker smile.

  “Are you going to Rice Lake to commit some sort of crime, Phin?”

  “That isn't the question. The question is why I picked you up.”

  “Fair enough. If I still believed in knights in shining armor, I'd say you picked me up because you felt bad for me and wanted to help. But I think your reason was purely selfish.”

  “And that reason is?”

  “You were falling asleep behind the wheel, and needed something to keep you awake.”

  I smiled, and it morphed into a yawn.

  “That's a damn good guess.”

  “But is it true?”

  “I'm definitely enjoying the company.”

  She kept watching me, but it was more comfortable this time.

  “So who are you going to kill in Rice Lake, Phin?”

  I stayed quiet.

  “No whore ever gets into a car without checking the back seat,” Thor said. “A forty dollar trick can turn into a gang rape freebie, a girl's not careful.”

  I wondered what she meant, then remembered what was lying on the back seat. What I hadn't bothered to put away. “You saw the gun.”

  “People normally keep those things hidden. You should try to be inconspicuous.”

  “I'm not big on inconspicuous.”

  “That box of baby wipes. Are you a proud papa, or are they for something else?”

  “Sometimes things get messy.” Which was an understatement. “So if you saw the gun, why did you get in?”

  Thor laughed, throaty and seductive. She could shrug the whore act on and off like it was a pair of shoes.

  “The streets are dangerous, Phin. A working girl has to carry more protection than condoms.”

  She reached into the top of her knee high black vinyl boot, showed me the butt of a revolver.

  “Mine's bigger,” I said.

  “Mine's closer.”

  I nodded. The road stretched onward, no end in sight.

  “So how much do you charge, for your services?” Thor asked.

  “Depends.”

  “On what?”

  “The job. How much I need the money.”

  “Does it matter who the person is?”

  “No.”

  “Don't you think that's cold?”

  “Everyone has to die sometime,” I said. “Some of us sooner than others.”

  Another stretch of silence. Another stretch
of road.

  “I've got eight hundred bucks,” Thor said. “Is that enough?”

  “For your pimp. The selfish bastard.”

  “He is. I earned this money. Earned every cent. But in this area, every whore, from the trailer girls to the high class escorts, has to pay Jordan a cut.”

  “And you didn't pay.”

  “He knows how important my transformation is. One more operation, and I'm all woman. Holding out was the only way I could make it.”

  “I thought you loved him.”

  “Just like he says, love and business are two separate things.”

  Her breathing sped up. Over the hum of the engine, I thought I heard her heart beating. Or maybe it was mine.

  “Why don't you kill him yourself, with your little boot revolver.” I said.

  “Jordan has the cops in his pocket. They'd catch me.”

  “Unless you had an alibi when it happened.”

  Thor nodded. “Exactly. You drop me off at a diner. I spend three hours with a cup of coffee. We both get something we need.”

  I considered it. Eight hundred was twice as much as I was making on this job. Years ago, if someone told me that one day I'd drive twelve hours both ways to kill a man for a lousy four hundred bucks, I would have laughed it off.

  Things change.

  The pinch in my side, growing bit by bit as the minutes passed, would eventually blossom into a raw explosion of pain. I was down to my last three Vicodin, and only had twenty-eight cents left to my name. I needed more pills, along with a bottle of tequila and a few grams of coke.

  Codeine for the physical. Cocaine and booze for the mental. Dying isn't easy.

  “So what do you say?” Thor asked.

  “What kind of man is Jordan?”

  “You said it doesn't matter. Does it?”

  “No.”

  I waited. The car ate more road. The gas gage hovered over the E.

  “He's a jerk. A charming jerk, but one just the same. I thought I loved him, once. Maybe I did. Or maybe I just loved to have a good looking man pay attention to me, make me feel special.”

  “Murder will pretty much ruin any chance of you two getting back together.”

  “I'll try to carry on,” she said, reapplying her lipstick.

  Gas station, next exit. I made up my mind. A starving dog doesn't question why his belly is empty. His only thought is filling it.

  “I'll do it,” I said.

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  Thor smiled big, then gave me a hug.

  “Thanks, Phin. You're my knight in shining armor after all.”

  “I'll need the money up front,” I said. “You got it on you?”

  “Yeah. Take this exit. There's a Denny's. You can drop me off there.”

  I took the exit.

  We pulled into the parking lot. It was close to empty, but I killed the lights and rolled behind the restaurant near the Dumpsters, so no one would see us together. When I hit the breaks, Thor stayed where she was.

  “Second thoughts?” I asked.

  “How do I know you won't take my money and run?”

  “All I have left is my word,” I said.

  She considered it, then fished a roll of bills from her purse. When she was counting, I put my hand on her leg.

  Thor smiled at me.

  “I didn't think you were into me,” she said. “Finish the job, and then I'll throw in a little bonus for you.”

  “I just need to finish my other job first,” I told her.

  “I understand.”

  My hand moved down her knee, found the revolver, and tugged it out.

  With the windows closed I doubt anyone heard the gunshots, even though they were loud enough to make my ears ring.

  I took the cash, hit the button to recline Thor's seat until she was out of sight, and rolled down her window. I hated to let the heat in, but the glass was conspicuously spattered with her blood, and I didn't need to make any more mistakes. Then I pulled out of the parking lot and got back on the highway, heading south.

  Jordan had told me, over the phone, that I'd find Thor working the Eau Claire off ramp. He said to dump the body somewhere up the road, then meet him in the morning. The few hours wait were so he could establish an alibi.

  A few miles up the road I pulled over, yanked Thor out of the car, and got behind the wheel again before another car passed. Then I grabbed the box of baby wipes in the back seat. As I drove I cleaned up my hands, then the passenger side of the vehicle. There wasn't too much of a mess. Small gun, small holes. I was lucky Thor got in the car at all, after spying the gun I'd sloppily left in plain sight. Stupid move on my part.

  Hers, too.

  When I reached Eau Claire I headed to where I thought Jordan would be. He'd be angry to see me so soon, but that wouldn't last very long. Just until I shot him in the head.

  I had nothing against Jordan. I had nothing against Thor, either. But a deal is a deal, and as I told the lady, all I had left was my word.

  ?The Necro File

  A word of warning. If this isn't the most offensive thing I've ever written, it comes close. I began this as an experiment, to try and write an anti-story. Stories normally have rules that need to be followed in order for them to work. I kept all of these rules in mind while writing this, and threw each of them out the window. It was a lot of fun, and other people feel the same way. The brave folks at Dark Arts books published it in their anthology Like A Chinese Tattoo, edited by Bill Breedlove. Readers beware—this one doesn't pull any punches. It's Harry McGlade Uncensored.

  Jack Daniels Stories

  Chapter 1

  “It's my husband, Mr. McGlade. He thinks he can raise the dead.”

  The woman sitting in front of my desk was named Norma Cauldridge. She had the figure of a Barlett pear and so many freckles that she was more beige than Caucasian. She also came equipped with a severe overbite, a lazy eye, and a mole on her cheek. Not a Cindy Crawford type of mole, either. This one looked like she glued the end of a hotdog to her face. A hairy hotdog.

  Plus, she smelled like sweaty feet.

  Any man married to her would certainly have to raise the dead every time she wanted sex. But I didn't become a private investigator to meet femme fatales. Well, actually I did. But mostly I did it for the money. And hers was green just like anyone else's.

  I took a can of Lysol aerosol deodorizer from my desk and gave the air a spritz. Now it smelled like sweaty feet and pine trees. With a hint of lavender.

  “I get four hundred a day, plus expenses,” I told her.

  I put away the air freshener and tried to sneak a look behind her large round Charlie Brownish head. When she walked into my office a minute ago, I'd been watching the National Cheerleading Finals on cable. The TV was still on, but I had muted the sound to be polite.

  “I didn't tell you what I want you to do yet.”

  She was a whiner too. Nasally and high-pitched. It's like God took a dare to make the most unattractive woman possible.

  “You want me to take pictures of him acting crazy, so you can use them in the divorce.”

  On television a group of nubile young twenty-somethings did synchronized cartwheels and landed in splits. I love cable.

  “How did you know?” Norma asked.

  I glanced at Norma. The only splits she ever did were banana.

  “It's my job to know, ma'am. I'll need your address, his place of work, and the first three days' pay in advance.”

  Norma's face pinched.

  “I still love him, Mr. McGlade. But he's not the same man I married. He's...obsessed.”

  Her shoulders slumped, and the tears came. I nudged over the box of Kleenex I kept on the desk for when I surfed certain internet sites.

  “It's not your fault, Mrs. Drawbridge.”

  “Cauldridge.”

  “A man is talking, sweetie. Don't interrupt.”

  “Sorry.”

  “The fact is, Nora, some men aren't meant
to marry. They feel trapped, tied down, so they seek out different venues.”

  She sniffled. “Necromancy?”

  “I've seen all sorts of perversions in my business. One day he's a good husband. The next day, he's a card-carrying necrosexual. Happens all the time.”

  More tears. I made a mental note to look up “necromancy” in the dictionary. Then I made another mental note to buy a dictionary. Then I made a third mental note to buy a pencil, because I always forgot my mental notes. Then I watched the cheerleaders do high kicks.

  When Norma finally calmed down, she asked, “Do you take Visa?”

  I nodded, wondering if I could buy used cheerleading floormats on eBay. Preferably ones with stains.

  Jack Daniels Stories

  Chapter 2

  Ebay didn't have any.

  Instead I bid on a set of used pom-pons and a coach's whistle. I also bid on some old Doobie Brothers records. That led to placing a bid on a record player, since mine was busted. Then I bid on a carton of copier toner, because it was so cheap, and then I had to bid on a copier because I didn't have one. But after thinking about it a bit, I realized I didn't really need a copier, and those Doobie Brothers albums were probably available on CD for less than the cost of a record player.

  I tried to cancel my bids, but those eBay jerks wouldn't let me. The jerks.

  I buried my anger in online pornography. Three minutes later, I headed out the door, slightly winded and ready to get some work done.

  Jack Daniels Stories

  Chapter 3

  This chapter is even shorter than the last one.

  Chapter 4

  George Drawbridge worked as a teller for Oak Tree Bank. At a branch office. It was only three o'clock, and his wife told me he normally stayed until five, so I had plenty of time to grab a few beers first. Chicago is famous for its stuffed crust pizza, and I indulged in a small pie at a nearby joint and entertained myself by asking everyone who worked there if they made a lot of dough.

  An hour later, after they asked me to leave, I sat on the sidewalk across the street from the bank, hiding in plain sight by pretending I was homeless. This involved untucking my shirt and pockets, messing up my hair, and holding up a sign that said “I'm homeless” written on the back of the pizza box.