Phineas Troutt Series - Three Thriller Novels (Dead On My Feet #1, Dying Breath #2, Everybody Dies #3)

by J. A. Konrath

  Jack made a face. “Or they trust when they shouldn’t.”

  “Did she say where he was?”

  “She said we could try Murray’s.”

  “Did she say what Murray’s is?”

  “A bar off of I-72.”

  So that’s where we went.

  Murray’s was your standard southern Illinois beer and whiskey joint; it looked like a large shed in the middle of a gravel parking lot, the windows lined with neon signs promoting beer that stopped being brewed back in the 80s. It probably catered to the farmers who lived in the area, and truckers who needed a break from the Interstate.

  Jack parked in between a Jeep and a semi, and she held my shoulder when I tried to exit.

  “We need a plan.”

  “We sniff out Packer, I follow him into the men’s john when he takes a piss, and then we go get Pasha.”

  “We’ve been through this, Phin. No breaking the law.”

  “He’s a kidnapper, Jack. And a Nazi.”

  “No one is above the law, Phin.”

  I wondered if she would ever truly have to test that principle, but I knew I wasn’t going to win this argument.

  “Okay. We’re married.”

  She snorted, perhaps a little too fast.

  “Really? It’s that crazy to imagine?”

  “Well, come on, look at us. I’m in Yves Saint Laurent with Ferragamo pumps, and you look like you stepped out of a 1975 Montgomery Ward’s catalog.”

  My usual ensemble consisted of clothing bought at thrift stores. Depending on the donations that day, it sometimes tended to be a wee bit out of date. I was in a wife beater tee, a red flannel shirt that had been washed more times than my lifetime allotment of showers, and a pair of Levi’s that might have been made by Mr. Strauss himself.

  “I see what you’re saying,” I told Jack. “Plus, there’s the age thing. You’re what… fifteen years older than I am?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Ten years. Not that much older.”

  “I dunno. Anyone looking at us would instantly see the difference. Not that you don’t look good…”

  “Thank you.”

  “…for your age. But what would I know? I’m just Ugly the turtle.”

  “Touché.” Her mouth became a thin line and her brow crinkled in apparent thought. “Maybe this can work. What are you thinking?”

  “You’re a white collar executive, recently divorced, and you hooked up with some working stiff boy toy.”

  “Backstory?”

  “You’re on the rebound from being married to an accountant for ten years. I’m moving up from banging college chicks.”

  “Jobs?”

  “You’re an executive at Springfield Armory. They’re out of Geneseo, Illinois. I work in production there. It’s where we met. I’m in it to hook up with a wealthy older chick.”

  “And why am I in it?”

  “Obviously for the sex.”

  Jack made a face, but I could tell she was going with it.

  “Why are we in Argenta?”

  “Heard about the Caucasian Nation meeting. Want to check it out.”

  “Okay. Would I be wasting my breath if I said let me do the talking?”

  “I’m just the trophy husband. I’ll bring you drinks and speak when spoken to.”

  “Names?”

  “You’re Brandy.”

  “Cute.”

  “I’ll be… Earl.”

  Satisfied with our backstory, we exited the car as man and wife.

  “You look very fetching today, Brandy.”

  “Don’t push it, Earl.”

  We made our way to the bar’s entrance, gravel crackling under our feet like fallen leaves. The day was cool and overcast and I felt like killing somebody.

  “Do you really think I’m fetching?” Jack asked, pulling open the door.

  “I may kiss you any moment.”

  I grinned. Not from the dumb joke, but from thinking about the trouble I was going to start. I was a bar fight waiting to happen. If my wife didn’t know that, it was her fault for marrying me without knowing me better.

  The interior of Murray’s was suitably grimy. The walls were the color of second-hand smoke, and beneath the stale beer scent was the acrid stench of vomit. There were six tables set up on the floor, half of them occupied by guys in camo fatigues, pouring plastic pitchers into plastic cups. Seven guys in all. I didn’t know much about the military, but none of them had insignias on their outfits.

  The bar stretched along the far wall; an ugly, scarred, wooden thing with a pock-marked counter top and dozens of dusty booze bottles behind it. Tending bar were two burly men with matching mean faces. Brothers, or else they just spent so much time in this hole together that they began to resemble each other. The bar patrons sat on stools; three men in overalls, two guys in jeans and flannel, and a man in a suit.

  There was a wolf whistle, coming from one of the guys in camo.

  I turned to face the man, gave him a stare. He and his buddies found that hilarious. None appeared any older than twenty-five, and all seemed to be in decent physical shape. But the empty cups outnumbered them four to one, and they were just noisy enough and wobbly enough to seem drunk or damn close.

  My hand became a fist and I allowed myself a smirk. If they were with CN, I was ready to take them all on myself.

  “What are you looking at?” he asked me.

  Game on.

  I turned to Jack, smiling. Jack gave me a slight head shake.

  “Do you smell something?” I said, loud enough for the whole bar to hear. I wrinkled my nose and made an exaggerated sniffing sound.

  “What happened to being the trophy husband?” Jack whispered through clenched teeth.

  “I lied. You don’t look fetching, either.”

  “Well, what is it you smell, faggot?” asked the play-soldier. He and his six buddies were all standing up now, puffing their chests in and out and not looking nearly as tipsy as they had a moment before. The bar became silent, waiting for my answer.

  “I smell,” Jack said, cutting off my intended insult, “Mr. Ayak.”

  The guy with the mouth squinted at us, not sure what to make of it. I was right there with him.

  “I’m Mr. Akia,” said a man at the bar. “Is that close enough?”

  I turned, looked. Older guy in a cheap suit, gray hair, buzz cut.

  Jack strolled over to him, her hand out. “That’s exactly who I meant. Nice to see some good, honest white folk in these parts.”

  They shook, and I followed her silently, wondering what just happened.

  “I’m Brandy, this is my husband Earl. We’re down from Geneseo.”

  I took the man’s hand, found it firm but too moist for my liking. “Name’s Hector. Geneseo? Isn’t there a firearm company up in those parts?”

  “Springfield Armory. We both work there. I’m Chief Operating Officer.”

  “A COO? Impressive. And you, Earl?”

  “Not as impressive. I work the line.”

  “Hard work is always impressive, Earl. Factories are the backbone of this fine nation. And at a firearm manufacturer, you’re doing God’s work. Jasper! Boilermakers for my new friends.”

  Jasper, one of the overweight, surly-looking bartenders, shoved two plastic cups of beer into our hands.

  “What kind of whiskey you want?” he asked me, his pig eyes narrowing.

  “I’m thinking Jim Beam,” I said. “Jack Daniels is a little too weak for my taste.”

  Jasper waddled off, and Jack spilled some beer onto my jeans.

  “Sorry, Earl,” she said, giving me a look that actually made me feel like we were married.

  Hector invited us to join him, and lead us to one of the tables with the assholes in fatigues. He did some quick introductions that I instantly forgot. Jasper brought over a bottle of whiskey and some plastic cops, and poured everyone a healthy shot.

  “To the 14.” Hector raised his up. “We must secure the existence of our people and a
future for white children.” He looked at Jack. “Because the beauty of the White Aryan woman must not perish from the earth.”

  Everyone cheered and drank. I felt greasy, anxious, and evil all at the same time. My eyes drifted from Nazi to Nazi, measuring them up. I decided the most formidable was the eldest, Hector. He’d be the one I beat the hell out of first.

  “You guys Army?” Jack asked.

  One of the camo kids spoke up. “Hell, no. Army takes Jews, blacks, and even homer-sexuals. You see any of those sitting here?”

  Jack made an exaggerated point of studying everyone in the room.

  “Not a one,” she finally said. “So who are you guys?”

  “We are proud members of the…”

  “Can it, Lewis,” Hector interrupted, cutting the other Nazi off.

  “General Packer, these folks are our people.”

  So Hector was General Packer.

  Yeah, he was going to get the brunt of my attention.

  “These folks are strangers,” Packer said, “and we don’t tell strangers our business. No offense, Earl.”

  Jack put a hand on my shoulder, sensing I was about to jump the old man. “No offense taken. Our Klavern told us to come here. Heard about a big CN rally coming up.”

  “Really?” Packer said. “My wife told me about some lady coming by, asking questions. That was you?”

  Cell phones. Sometimes they really messed up your plans.

  Jack was silent for a moment, then ran with it. “That was us. We were told you were the man to talk to.”

  “My wife also said you looked like a cop.”

  Uh-oh.

  “I used to be a cop. Years ago. Springfield pays better.”

  “Springfield Arms makes a fine AR-15, and some decent semi-autos.” Hector pointed his chin at Jack’s blazer. “Doesn’t make revolvers, though. That’s your carry, isn’t it?”

  The camo crew was really paying attention now.

  “I like revolvers. Surely you know what it’s like to get attached to a weapon. What’s with the third degree, here? We got enough problems with all the mixed races. You want to be suspicious of one of your own?”

  “Every once and a while the Feds come snooping around,” Hector said. “Trying to get in our affairs. But they’re not so bold that they knock on the front door of my home.”

  “We’re not Feds,” Jack said. “We’re just here because we heard about the rally.”

  “You heard about it from your Klavern, did you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And what Klavern do you go to in Geneseo?”

  I stood up, playing the white trash tough guy role. Or maybe I wasn’t actually playing. “I don’t like how you’re talking to my wife.”

  All the other guys stood up as well. None of them had open carry, but this was southern Illinois. Concealed weapons would be present, possibly in abundance.

  Jack played it cool. “Easy, Earl. This is just a misunderstanding.”

  “No, it’s not,” I said. “They’re onto us. You can stop calling me Earl. Call me by my real name.” I smiled, and it was mean. “Phineas Troutt.”

  Packer’s eyes went wide.

  “That’s right. You know who I am. Why don’t we talk someplace private, General?”

  The whiskey gurgled in my stomach and I was seriously considering throwing it up. Plus Earl, my Earl, seemed to be on fire and burning me apart inside. My ass to my armpit felt like one huge charley horse.

  “General, what’s going on?” asked one of the troops.

  “You know my brother.” I spoke to Packer, hoping Jack would deal with the others if anyone made a move. “You know I just kicked his ass, knocked out his teeth, broke his nose, set him on fire, and put him in jail. I can offer you the same deluxe package, with a few bonus add-ons. Like ripping out your racist tongue and shoving it so far up your ass you taste yesterday’s breakfast.”

  “What do you want?”

  “You know what I want. The girl.”

  He nodded.

  Then he turned and ran.

  Jack burst into a full sprint, but she wasn’t chasing him. Instead, she was heading full-tilt for the bar. I watched her clear the counter, tackling the bartender, who just picked up a nasty looking sawed-off shotgun. Jack hit the fat man head-high and they both went down.

  I had my own shit to deal with.

  The first Nazi that lunged at me got a stiff elbow to the jaw, which I unhinged for him. I followed that with a right roundhouse to the man coming behind him. I connected hard with his nose, and my fist proved the stronger of the two. The man’s feet went out from under him and he laid out nearly horizontal, his head smacking against the wooden floor.

  The third guy had picked up a flimsy plastic-and-wire-frame bar chair, and as he raised it up and charged I whipped a size ten cowboy boot around in a spin kick, knocking it away. Then I let momentum carry me in a 360 and extended my arm, catching him on the cheek with my knuckles, feeling the stitches tear in my shoulder.

  Next came two guys at once, opposite directions, and I was blessed with my first ever Three Stooges moment, taking a quick step back, stretching out my hands, and knocking their heads together.

  There was no hollow sound like a coconut being thumped. But there was a lot of blood.

  Five down, two to go.

  The patrons had begun to clear out. I did a quick scan of the room, didn’t see any guns, and Jack was standing behind the bar, the shotgun in her hand. Rather than give me an assist, she broke the breach and dumped out the two shells.

  Movement, to my right. I whipped around, snarling, and the guy backpedaled and ran out with the other customers.

  The last man barreled into me, picking me up and driving my back into the bar. It would have hurt, but my nerves were dead there. He landed on top, driving the air from my lungs, his hands instantly coiling around my throat.

  I jabbed two fingers into his kidney hard enough to rupture it, causing him to stop his attack and roll off of me, holding his side and screaming. I got on him and reached for the scalpel in my boot.

  “That’s enough!”

  Jack was over the bar, pulling on my arm. I shrugged her off.

  “He’s Nazi trash, Jack.”

  “He’s a human being.”

  “So is Pasha.”

  I pulled the blade, and Jack grabbed my collar and yanked, forcing me to look at her.

  “You’re losing it, buddy,” she said. “Keep it together.”

  My whole body flushed. But it wasn’t with anger and rage. It was something worse.

  Shame.

  “Okay,” I said. “Okay.” I blew out a deep breath. “Okay.”

  I put the blade back, and then looked at the man I’d been ready to murder.

  “So… what’s with all the hate?” I asked, using a calm, steady voice that made me sound absolutely insane.

  He didn’t answer, so I gave him a friendly shake.

  “I don’t hate n-n-n-nobody,” he stuttered. “I just fight for white pride and white rights. Blacks and Hispanics are taking our jobs and our women. Jews got all the money. A-rabs are flying planes into our buildings. We gotta stick together as a race or we’re gonna be wiped out.”

  “How many jobs have you lost to people of color?”

  “Uh…”

  “Black guy ever taken your job?”

  “No, but…”

  “Mexican stole your girl?”

  “Ain’t got no girl.”

  “No shit. So how many Jews have taken your money?

  “Jew bank took my house,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “Why’d they do that? You didn’t make your mortgage payments?”

  “I woulda paid them. Damn Jews only care about money. That was my home.”

  “Then maybe you should have gotten a second job, asshole, instead of running around in combat fatigues playing wannabe race warrior on the weekends. Wanna hear something funny?”

  He wasn’t sure how to answer. I poked him
and he nodded.

  “I’m dying of cancer,” I said. “Wanna hear something even funnier?”

  He nodded again, and I grinned wide.

  “I’m gonna outlive you.”

  I raised my fist and he blanched the color of typing paper. If I’d given him a mirror he would have been proud, because he’d never been whiter in his life.

  “What do you want?” he squeaked. “The girl?”

  I had my hands on his collar so fast he didn’t have time to yelp.

  “What do you know about the girl?” I demanded, flecking spittle onto his face. “Where is she?”

  “Underground,” he squeaked, “in the tunnels.”

  I tangoed with a compulsion to beat the pulp out of him, reason reminding me that unconscious men can’t talk. Reason won out, so I let my rage boil away before continuing.

  “Tunnels? At the stadium?” I asked, trying to keep steady.

  “A network, below ground. We store supplies there. There are some barracks, men sometimes sleep there during the summer when it’s hot.”

  “This girl you’ve got, describe her.”

  “She’s a dot head.” He noticed my distaste for the word and corrected himself, “Indian! She’s an Indian! American Indian! Wait, no… Indian American? I don’t know the right term!”

  He almost began to cry. I gave him a light slap to keep him focused.

  “Has anyone hurt her?”

  “No one’s allowed to touch her. We bring her food twice a day, changes of clothes. She’s Hugo’s woman. He’ll come for her when he gets out of prison.”

  “She’s my woman,” I said, “and after I get her back I’m going to burn down your camp and carve her name in the forehead of every last one of you assholes.”

  I felt Jack pull my shoulder.

  “Cops are probably on their way,” she said.

  A whine, from behind the bar. I saw Jasper, holding a bloody nose. “Did you kill my brother?”

  “Just gave him a thump,” Jack assured him. “His name Murray?”

  “No. It’s Dave.”

  “You guys the owners?”

  “Hell, yes.”

  “Then who’s Murray? Why’d you name the bar Murray’s?”

  “We named it after Mama,” Jasper moaned.

  I decided I’d had enough of southern Illinois.

  I got off the racist and followed Jack out the door, feeling light-headed and ready to vomit.