Dead On My Feet - A Thriller (Phineas Troutt Mysteries Book 1)

by J. A. Konrath

  Meatball marinara. Still warm.

  I went back into the lobby.

  “What now?” Pasha said.

  “You go to work. I need a phone.”

  She took me to the front desk. I called Information, and had them connect me to the number.

  “McGlade. Talk, it’s your dime.”

  “It’s Phineas Troutt. And phone calls haven’t cost a dime since the seventies.”

  “Hey, Phin. I figured you were dead by now. I thought I got away with avoiding the funeral.”

  “You can still avoid it. I need you on something. Busy?”

  “Yeah. I was just leafing through the latest issue of Motorcycle Bondage Queens Monthly. I get it for the insightful articles.”

  “I bet.”

  “Don’t judge. Human sexuality is a mysterious thing, Phin. Is it my fault that ball gags and twin cam engines give me a rager?”

  “Everything gives you a rager.”

  “You saying that hurts, Phin. It also gives me a rager.”

  I rubbed my eyes, wishing I hadn’t pissed off practically everyone I’d ever met, because then I could have asked someone else for help. “It’s a protection job,”

  “We’re handing out condoms?”

  “We’re protecting a doctor. How’s your civil disobedience?”

  “Not very civil. But very disobedient. What do you got?”

  I ran it down while listening to him snort something.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I asked. “Coke?”

  “Magazine has a new feature. Scratch ‘N’ Sniff.”

  “You’re sniffing your magazine?”

  “Pretty accurate, too. It smells like forty weight oil and daddy issues.”

  “Did you hear a word I just said about Dr. Kapoor?”

  “Not really. Want to know the point where I stopped paying attention?”

  I wasn’t sure if McGlade simply liked to test people to see what they’d put up with, or if he had learning disabilities and severe ADHD.

  “You in or do I have to hire someone competent?”

  “Ouch. You dying guys are so touchy. What’s the risk level?”

  “Yellow. Could escalate to red.”

  “How do I know you won’t keel over on me if some heavy shit comes down?”

  “Says the guy with only one hand.”

  “My prosthetic is robotic. I can crush a wine bottle. Which, believe it or not, doesn’t turn on the ladies like you’d think.” He grunted. “Might have something to do with them being covered in broken glass.”

  “Do you just like testing people, or do you have some kind of disorder?”

  “Both. Want to hear about it?”

  “No. You in or out?”

  I heard an exaggerated sniff, then he said, “In. It’s always fun to fuck around with protestors. Self-righteous people amuse me. I’ve got this super soaker squirt gun that I fill with—”

  “Get to the Hearst Clinic, on Salem in Flutesburg,” I said, cutting him off. I didn’t want to hear about McGlade’s idea of fun. “An hour.”

  “Make it two. I’m not done with the magazine yet.”

  “An hour, McGlade. I need someone here with Dr. Kapoor.”

  “Where are you going to be?”

  I could already hear the sirens through the storefront window.

  “Jail,” I said.

  I hung up, briefed Pasha, and then tried the sandwich. Normally I wouldn’t advocate eating food you found abandoned in the street during an anti-abortion rally, but what was the worst that could happen? Getting sick?

  On my worry list, salmonella wasn’t even in the top forty.

  I’d just swallowed my third bite when the cops hauled me away.

  It took them less than thirty minutes to book me. The Flutesburg Police Department wasn’t exactly a hotbed of criminal activity. The only other detainee was a crying teenager, caught shoplifting.

  The police I dealt with were professional and polite, facilities were modern and clean, and my only complaint was a pungent odor that the lemon disinfectant couldn’t quite mask.

  I invoked my right to remain silent. After providing a digital mug shot and prints, I got my phone call. She answered on the second ring.

  “Lieutenant Daniels, Homicide.”

  “Hi, Jack. Phin.”

  After a pause that was probably short but felt really long to me, she said, “I’m guessing this isn’t a social call.”

  “I’ve been arrested. Flutesburg.”

  I ran it down for her.

  “What are you being charged with?”

  “A few things. Two that stand out are aggravated unlawful use of a weapon, and reckless discharge of a firearm.”

  Another long, ugly pause. “Those are felonies, Phin.”

  “The mob would have ripped her apart, Jack. They hit her with a doll covered in red paint.”

  “They take your statement?”

  “Haven’t said a word. And when I was arrested, I was unarmed.”

  “Where’s the gun?”

  I didn’t respond.

  “Did you lawyer up?” Jack asked.

  “Not yet. I was waiting to see what my powerful and famous cop friend could do for me.”

  “My fame and power are limited to Chicago. You’re in Flutesburg.”

  “Protest was big. And no police presence. Blame the cops for letting things get out of hand. Maybe I should sue.”

  “Who brought charges?”

  “No idea who did. But that’s something I’d like you to find out.”

  “I’ll add it to the list.”

  I stayed silent. I didn’t need to mention that I’d been shot, twice, because of something Jack had gotten me into. We both knew she owed me.

  “Let me make a few calls,” she said. “You okay?”

  “The station smells like ass, and I didn’t get to finish my sandwich.”

  “You know what I mean.” She lowered her voice. “The cancer.”

  “I’m… no longer in remission.”

  “You sure that’s not just an excuse to avoid me because I’m up two games?”

  Jack and I had an on-again off-again pool game that we played at a Chicago bar. I had been avoiding her, but not because I was afraid of her billiard skills. I liked Jack, and she didn’t need to see me sick, stoned, and feeling sorry for myself. Plus, I didn’t want to explain to her why I’ve given up chemo and radiation. Jacqueline Daniels was a fighter. She didn’t know how to quit, and wouldn’t understand why I did.

  When I didn’t answer, Jack said, “I’ll make a few calls. Give me about half an hour.”

  “Thanks.”

  She hung up.

  Exactly twenty-eight minutes later, the cops let me go. All charges had been dropped. I didn’t even have the chance to be placed in a cell, which was kind of a drag because the codeine was making me sleepy as hell and I could have used a nap.

  As I was getting my belongings back, the cop who arrested me warned, “I don’t want to see you in Flutesburg again.”

  “Then close your eyes,” I told him.

  I used the lobby payphone to call Pasha’s clinic.

  “Are the protestors back?” I asked her.

  “No.”

  “Has Harry shown up?”

  “Not yet.”

  “If he gets there before I do, don’t shoot him.”

  A cab ride later I was in Pasha’s waiting room, guns and drugs retrieved, leafing through an issue of Fashionista Monthly. For my efforts I learned the ten easy steps to improve orgasms, the four bras that could maximize cleavage, and the six important signs that indicated my man was having an affair. This made me think of Harry and his biker bondage magazine. Women were just as preoccupied with sex as men were. They just weren’t as sleazy.

  A young girl of no more than eighteen came in. She went straight to the reception desk and gave her name in hushed tones, head lowered like a child molester in front of news cameras.

  When she sat down across fro
m me she didn’t meet my eyes.

  I studied her. The clothes were designer and her hair was professionally done. I couldn’t recall if girls went to hair dressers when I was in high school. Maybe they did in Flutesburg, which seemed a bit more affluent than my neighborhood growing up. Gucci purse. Hundred dollar tennis shoes. Nails too long and well-kept to be real. But her face and her posture screamed pain. Emotional hurt. Guilt. Bitterness beyond her age.

  Pasha came into the hall, clad in a white doctor’s coat.

  She didn’t smile, but her face and mannerisms were the picture of concern. She approached the girl as a confidant rather than as a doctor, and put a hand on her shoulder. The girl stood up and then began to walk with her.

  “I need to talk to you for a moment,” I said, getting to my feet.

  Pasha gave me a look that would freeze water.

  “I’m with a patient,” she said through clenched teeth.

  “I only need a minute.”

  She turned reassuringly to the girl and asked her to wait in her office. The girl slumped off.

  “I’m going to Oldridge to follow a lead. McGlade will protect you until I get back. We’ll take shifts so one of us will always be with you.”

  “Fine,” she said, body language indicating I was a nuisance and wasting her time.

  Grin and bear it, Phin. There’s coke at the end of that thar rainbow.

  “I’ll tell you right now that you won’t like him,” I resumed. “He’s rude and in-your-face, so be prepared.”

  “You’ve said that already.”

  “I’m doing my job.”

  “And I’m trying to do mine.”

  She spun around and walked off. A perverse part of me welcomed their meeting. I just had to make sure that Harry didn’t blow everything before I got the rest of my money.

  I sat back down, picking up an issue of Beauty Weekly and reading about twenty easy steps to get rid of cellulite in the thighs and the five foods to avoid when eating out. I kept one eye on the front door. Several women of various ages came and went during my vigil. Some went directly into another part of the clinic. Others waited in the lobby until a doctor or a counselor came for them. One walked in, took a quick look at me, and walked back out. They ranged in ages from fourteen to forty, but they shared a common mannerism. All of them looked bleak at best, suicidal at worst.

  When it came to empathy, my tank was empty. But I didn’t require deep feelings about my fellow human beings to realize that a women’s health clinic was no place for men. It wasn’t my business, or any other guy’s, what the opposite sex did with their bodies.

  Harry arrived. I knew it was him before I even saw his face, because his body spray preceded him. He wore so much I could taste it.

  “Christ, you look like a bowl of shit soup,” he said. “How long have you got? Two weeks?”

  “Good to see you, too, Harry.”

  I held out my left hand, and we shook. Harry McGlade was almost my height, with a noticeable beer belly and stocky legs. Wrapped around him was a gray suit that cost a fortune, but was wrinkled enough to have been slept in. And it probably had been. With the trench coat and the two day’s growth of beard, McGlade looked like a perverse parody of a 1940’s private eye.

  “Seriously, you really look terrible. And not just in a terminal way. You strung out?”

  I ignored the question. “Let’s see the hand.”

  He held up his right arm, which ended in a somewhat realistic rubber prosthetic. I heard a faint whirring sound, and the fingers opened.

  “Myoelectric,” Harry said. “It reads my muscle impulses. It also vibrates.”

  “For phantom limb pain?”

  “Huh? Naw. For the ladies. Gotta say, though, it also feels awesome riding solo. And cleanup is so a snap. Want to try it? I carry a pack of wet wipes.”

  “I’ll say no.”

  “It wouldn’t be gay, because I have no feeling in the hand. It would be like you’re getting it on with someone else. While I watch.”

  “That would still be pretty gay.”

  “Nothing to be ashamed of. All guys go through a curious period, from their teen years, until about seventy.”

  “Maybe later. You bring your union busting gear?”

  He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Got it all in the car. Who’s the crowd? Misguided citizens or hired help?”

  “I don’t know yet. Heard of Jimmy Mulrooni?”

  “Sounds Italian. Wiseguy?”

  “No idea.”

  “Let’s Google him.”

  “Google? What, you mean on a computer?”

  “Jesus, Phin. Get with the decade.” McGlade dug into his jacket and took out… something. Something thin and rectangular and black.

  “What is that?” I asked.

  “My new iPhone 2G.”

  “Where are the buttons?”

  He rolled his eyes. “It’s a touch screen, newbie. This is a smart phone.” Harry pressed his thumb to the phone and it lit up like a tiny, thin monitor. “It’s got 4 gigabytes. Do you know how much porn I can store with four gigabytes?”

  “A lot?” I was pretty computer unsavvy.

  “How would you like to look at jpegs of different genitals, every day, for the rest of your life?”

  “On that little space phone screen?”

  “It’s not little. You can pinch and spread to enlarge.”

  “What about actual women? In real life?”

  “Of course. I love watching porn with women.”

  I decided to press onward. “So your phone connects to the Internet?”

  “When was the last time you had a cell phone, Phin? Let me guess; was it a rotary model?”

  “Not all of us have hit TV shows, McGlade.”

  For some unfathomable reason, there was a series called Fatal Autonomy based on Harry’s escapades. Proof that the American television viewer would watch anything.

  “Found him,” he said, squinting at the screen. “Joe Mulrooni, last name spelled with an i. Did some time back in the 80s for racketeering. Affiliated with the Marty “The Maniac” Martowski crime syndicate. Currently the CEO of Queen Anne Casino, Inc.”

  “So he’s mob?”

  “According to Wikipedia.”

  I didn’t know what Wikipedia was, and asking Harry would just bring more insults. The more compelling question was why the mafia had interest in Pasha.

  There was a moaning sound. It came from Harry’s phone.

  “Modern technology is truly incredible,” he marveled, staring for a moment before switching it off. “So tell me about the doctor.”

  “She’s scared. But tough. Parents were from India, died when she was young—”

  “No, I mean… is she hot?”

  “She’s attractive.”

  “You got dibs? Or can we pass her back and forth like a dorm bong?”

  “Pass who back and forth like a dorm bong?” Pasha asked, walking into the room.

  Harry looked at her and grinned. “Wow. Phin didn’t mention you were so attractive. And a doctor. Brains and beauty. I’m Harry McGlade, at your service.”

  Pasha offered her hand, and Harry shook it with his fake one. I heard a buzzing sound.

  “Your prosthetic is vibrating,” Pasha said.

  “Intrigued?” He waggled his eyebrows. “Aroused?”

  “Tolerant,” she said.

  “I can work with that. Want a backstage pass to the bone dance?”

  Pasha took her hand back. “I’m guessing that’s a colorful euphemism for sex.”

  “It would be the greatest eight seconds of your life.”

  “Your sweet talk is tempting.”

  “Really?”

  “No.”

  “I apologize. We just met. Too soon for sex. So how about a blowjob?”

  And here comes the slap.

  “I have ten bucks,” Harry said, reaching for his wallet.

  The slap didn’t come. Instead, Pasha did something that surprised me.
<
br />   She giggled.

  It was a musical sound, and it lit up the lobby. All too soon it was over.

  “Thank you for helping me on such short notice,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “We’re going to keep our relationship strictly professional.”

  “You don’t know what you’re missing.”

  “I’m certain you are correct, Mr. McGlade.”

  “Call me Harry.”

  “And you must call me Pasha.”

  “You told me she was an ice queen, Phin. She doesn’t seem like that to me.”

  Thanks, Harry.

  “I’m heading to Oldridge. I should be back tonight, or tomorrow morning. Do you work tomorrow?” I asked Pasha. Tomorrow was a Saturday.

  “I work every day, Phin.”

  Her eyes still had the laughter crinkles in the corners. I took a moment to admire it, even though her smile wasn’t for me. I nodded at Pasha, and then at McGlade, and then I left.

  I didn’t go to Oldridge. I went to Chicago to see Manny.

  In between rush hours it only took me fifty minutes to get to the Gold Coast. Manny had a three floor Tudor on Goethe Street, one of the only houses on the block with a garage. I parked in the narrow driveway, my Bronco blocking the sidewalk, put some invisible tape on my door, and pressed his buzzer, looking into the surveillance camera.

  I was buzzed through the security door. I passed a young guy in a three piece, rushing back to his job at the Chicago Stock Exchange or somewhere equally important, amused by his heroic effort to avoid eye-contact. I walked past, traversing an arched doorway leading into the lounge. I checked in with a hostess who could have been a runway model if she’d lost twenty pounds, which is to say she was the perfect weight. She smiled, asked if I wanted coffee. I asked for an espresso, and as she worked a stainless steel machine that made Pasha’s look like a toy I wandered over to the snooker table and wondered if it actually ever got played. I couldn’t picture two strangers having a casual game while they waited.

  I glanced in the corner of the room, making eye contact with a swarthy guy whose blazer wasn’t tailored to hide the gun bulge.

  “You play?” I asked him, pointing my chin at the table.