“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, if a girl’s not careful.”
I wondered what she meant, then remembered what was laying 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 Dumpter, so no one would see us together. When I hit the brakes, 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.
HP: How was the process of writing Floaters different from your other collaborations?
JAK: You're more meticulous and deliberate than the other folks I collaborated with, which was both a plus and a minus. It was good because the thought and effort you put in was a good counterbalance to the “anything goes” style which I'm accustomed to, which meant our story had a definite focus and didn't meander. But, damn, I could have written another novel in the time it took you to do your sections.
You do know how to type, right?
HP:
It’s true, I do tend to sweat every sentence, and piece of punctuation. Still, the whole process took maybe a month, certainly not much longer. That’s not bad for a 15,000 word novella. And yes, I do know how to type, in fact I’m up to using four fingers, though three of those are on one hand.
JAK: What was it like to revisit Alex Chapa after just having written Killing Red?
HP: When it comes to Alex Chapa, the biggest difference between Killing Red and our collaboration, is that the Chapa sections of Floaters are written in first person, and Killing Red was written in third. That was cool, I enjoyed being in Chapa’s head in a way that I wasn’t in the novel. Killing Red needed to be written in third person for a number of reasons, but Floaters is a very different type of story There is no character like Alex Chapa in Jack Daniel's universe, what did you enjoy most about their interaction?
JAK: Chapa's goals didn't necessarily match up with JD's goals, which added a whole new level of perspective and dimension to the material. Plus, having two protagonists meant neither could really gain the advantage, at least not for long. That sort of oneupsmanship is a lot of fun to write, and is only found in collaborations, because it involves the writers staking out territory as much as their characters.
It was nice for Jack to square off against an equal who wasn't a villain. Sort of like that Dr. Who episode with more than one Doctor, but without the silly Daleks.
HP: What surprised you most about our collaboration or direction that Floaters took?
JAK: I had a very funny exchange between Jack and Herb that you hated and we wound up cutting. I didn't fight that hard for it, because it was extraneous, and I wound up using the section in another story (Shaken, which is going to be the 7th JD novel. It's the scene with Jack and Herb in the car, and can be read in the Planter’s Punch ebook, also available for download.)
What surprised me was the strength of your conviction in cutting the material. You really wanted it gone, and a lesser writer might have given in to me, simply because I'm loud and like to throw my weight around.
But admit it, that section was funny.
HP: Let’s just say I understood what you were trying to do with that sequence but more than anything, it just seemed completely out of place in Floaters. Besides, the fact that we’re talking about it now will increase the level of interest among anyone reading this. So I did you, and Floaters, a favor.
JAK: Is your process for writing short stories different than writing a novel?
HP: With short fiction, I always have the entire story in my mind before I start writing it, and very little about the process surprises me. That wasn’t the case with Killing Red, and so far it hasn’t been the case for my second novel.
Floaters was an entirely different experience in the sense that I had to wait to see what you would come up with, and in what direction you had taken the story. But I enjoyed that, and I think it proved successful. What do you think is the key to a successful collaboration?
JAK: A common goal, reached through give and take. Also, working with someone who doesn't suck. But I only collaborate with the best.
As do you.
HP: Is it more important that the authors' styles or personalities be a good match?
JAK: Personalities. Style should be invisible, at least to the point where it doesn't get in the way of the story. I challenge readers to figure out who wrote which sections of Floaters, because you did some JD bits and I did some Chapa bits, and I think it's pretty seamless because we focused on story instead of trying to ape each other's voice.
I couldn't imagine collaborating with someone whom I didn't respect, not only as a writer, but as a person.
But going back to who wrote what. You wrote several of Jack and Herb's lines. Did that come naturally, because you've read the JD novels? Or was it more difficult because you had to work to get their voices right?
HP: Being familiar with the JD novels certainly helped. I have a strong sense of what Jack’s voice sounds like, and how she’s likely to react to a certain situation. I remember you had a bit more of a challenge with some of Chapa’s dialogue, but then again, you only had one book to draw on.
What I really enjoyed was the way our styles came together in creating some of the supporting characters, all of which were new to us when we started. The villains were especially fun to write. But then again, they usually are.
Henry Perez
As a reader, I like books that refuse to let me go to sleep at night, then haunt me the following day as I count the hours before I can return to its pages and the dire circumstances within. When I set out to write Killing Red my primary goal was to create that sort of book. I wanted my readers to spend the next morning yawning because I kept them up too late the night before.
Killing Red is the story of Chicago area reporter Alex Chapa, a man who is out of place everywhere except when he’s in a newspaper office, or chasing a story. But this time it’s not a story Chapa is after. Less than a week before mass murderer Kenny Lee Grubb’s execution Chapa learns that a copycat may be retracing the killer’s steps. and that his final victim will be Annie Sykes, the woman who, as a young girl, led police to Grubb’s house.
Alex Chapa, just a little more than a year out of college, was hiding in a corner of the cramped newsroom. The only other writer in the office that night was playing Tetris on one of the two computers in the room. Down the hall, Betty the Layout Lady—few at the Tri-Cities Bulletin seemed to know her last name—was putting the final touches on section one.
Back turned to Murphy and the annoying sounds of his game, Chapa was working on a feature story that wouldn’t earn him an extra penny, but might at least help him feel better about his job. So far, the newspaper business hadn’t been as fulfilling as he’d imagined—personally, professionally, or financially.
A phone rang two desks away.
“Wrong number,” Murphy barked, refusing to break eye-contact with the monitor.
Chapa leaned back in his office chair and looked over at his colleague.
“Might be Carter checking in. He does that.”
“Not during his fishing trips, he doesn’t. Let it go, Alex.”
Ross Carter was the Bulletin’s lone columnist. A respected pro who had been in the business longer than the lakes he loved to fish had been wet. Chapa looked up to Carter a little bit when he first started at the paper. But over time Chapa had starting wondering if the guy was just drifting along on cruise control. Counting the days until his last byline.
Another ring.
“Oh, hell.” Chapa rolled over to Carter’s desk.
“You touch it, you own it,” Murphy said as Chapa reached for the phone, lifting the handset just before the next ring cut out.
“Tri-Cities Bulletin, news desk.”
“Carter?”
“No, Alex Chapa. Carter’s not here.”
“Shit.”
“Can I help you?”
“How soon will Carter be back?”
“Not till next week.”
“Shit. Do you have a number I can get him at?”
“Not really. He’s on a lake, up in Wisconsin.”
A thick sigh.
“I can take a message if you like.”
“No. It’ll all be over by the time Carter gets it.”
Chapa turned away from Murphy and lowered his voice. “Whatever it is, I’m certain that I can help you.”
“And what makes you think that?”
“Because the urgency in your voice suggests that whatever this is about, matters, and not in a selfish way, no, it’s not about you, it’s bigger than any one person, and you have the clarity to understand that, which means you also understand that it’s bigger than Carter, or any reporter.” Chapa turned away from the mouthpiece, drew a breath, heard Murphy ask him if he was all right, ignored the question.
“Yeah, okay, buddy. But Carter has to know that this came from Bulldog.”
“Bulldog?”
“He’ll know who you’re talk
ing about.”
“So what are we talking about, Bulldog?” Chapa asked, straining to sound casual.
Silence. And Chapa feared he’d lost the guy.
“It’s a police raid. Going down in about forty-five minutes. Maybe less.”
Floaters - A Jack Daniels/Alex Chapa Mystery Page 7
