Painkiller, Princess

by Chester Gattle

  “Nothing. It’s the only one.”

  Breeland handed him the phone back. “Can you just go over the chain of events once more?”

  “Sure.” Jacob started with his walk back from the Coffee Princess, crescendoed with his aerial attack, and finished with the sicario’s escape.

  “Could be right out of a movie,” Breeland said as he finished jotting in his notepad.

  “I know. Like The Bourne Identity,” Jacob said.

  “No. Was thinking more like Snatch, but it doesn’t matter.” He looked at Missy. “Anything to add?”

  “Not really.” She asked, “Is our stuff still in the room?”

  “Still there,” Breeland answered.

  “Could we maybe get it out?”

  “That’s the other reason I’m down here. Let’s go.” Breeland looked at Quincy. “He okay?”

  “Just an infection.” Missy patted the dog’s head.

  “It’s not contagious or anything,” Jacob added.

  “Uh…I’m no vet, but that looks horrific. An eye patch or something wouldn’t help?”

  “We’ve got a patch,” Missy said.

  “Now might be as good a time as any to start using it.” Breeland turned to his partner, who was standing near the front desk. “Clint, can you watch their dog?”

  The officer scratched his strawberry stubble and said something to the manager, who nodded, buttoned his jacket, and walked over. “I’d be happy to keep an eye on him for you.” His practiced smile hid any concern he might have had upon confronting Quincy’s red protrusion.

  Breeland led Jacob and Missy upstairs to their room. Walking in, they encountered an officer snapping pictures of a dark, slightly glossy puddle that sparkled with bits of broken beer bottle near the foot of the bed.

  “That’s a lot of blood,” Missy whispered as she snuck over to the bathroom for her toiletries.

  Jacob had no comment. He quickly collected their suitcases from the closet and then his pepper spray from the nightstand, where Missy had said it was.

  All together again back in the hall, Jacob asked Breeland, “You need me for anything else?”

  “Not this second,” the officer said.

  “You might later? I was thinking we’d leave town.”

  Breeland gave a few small nods, then crossed his arms. “Well, you’re technically free to do what you want, but I’d prefer it if you stuck around for a day or two. You said there was a second attacker.”

  “Yeah. That’s why we should leave.”

  Breeland’s eyes flicked back to the room. “Like I said, you’re free to do what you want, but there’s going to be some follow-up questions. And if we arrest someone, it’d be nice if you were around to identify him. And on a more personal level,” Breeland continued, “if you go and I hear something happens to you next week…well, I’d feel responsible.”

  “Wouldn’t be your fault,” Jacob said, pressing the call button for the elevator.

  “But I could’ve convinced you to stay.” Breeland leaned forward. “Listen, we can watch over you. I’ll even get you a hotel near the station.”

  “Kinda just wanna get out of here,” Jacob said, turning to Missy.

  She shrugged. “Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. I mean, we left Minneapolis and look what still happened.”

  Breeland added, “You run off to Bemidji or Brainerd, those guys won’t know what’s going on. They won’t be watching out for you.”

  “We should stay,” Missy said. “It’ll be safer.”

  “She’s right,” Breeland said. “As long as you’re here, we’ll be watching.”

  Jacob scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah, but they know I’m here.”

  “And we know they’re here,” Breeland said.

  “I guess.”

  “Where’s the hotel?” Missy asked.

  Breeland pointed toward the west. “Ten minutes’ drive. Right off Highway 53. And the station’s just down the road from there. The fire department is literally a stone’s throw from the hotel.”

  The elevator arrived with a screech.

  Breeland said, “It’s the Days Inn. No lake view, but the elevator’s definitely better.”

  Missy chuckled. She poked Jacob. “Let’s stay.”

  Jacob sighed. “Know where I can take a gun-safety class?” he asked Breeland.

  XI.

  Day Ten, Saturday

  Two Dead

  To Gregory’s amusement, the Google AdWords were working. His private investigator/personal security website was seeing a nice little uptick in traffic. Anyone who typed in “security Duluth” or “private investigator Duluth” or even left off “Duluth” but still searched from a local ISP saw his site at the top of the page.

  And born from this was an early morning call from the 310 area code. Los Angeles. He imagined movie stars and athletes and entertainment execs. Someone big was coming to Duluth, or maybe, just maybe, someone wanted to fly him to LA for a job. Red-carpet security? Whee!

  When he answered, a surprisingly bright and snappy voice (it was 4 a.m. in California) asked for him by name.

  “Speaking.”

  “Great. Hello. My name’s Alexis. I’m Tina Turner’s assistant.”

  Oh, shit. A singer. An icon.

  “Ms. Turner has a literary client in Duluth. His name is Jacob White.”

  “A literary client?” He rolled out of bed and shuffled over to his computer.

  “Yes. We’re curious if you could provide Mr. White with some security.”

  “Is Tina here too?”

  “She was just in Minneapolis. But no, she’s not there. She’s probably not going back for a while. I mean, don’t get me wrong, Minnesota’s nice, but…”

  “Quinoa and Teslas, huh?” He started to type Alexis’s number into Google.

  Alexis snickered. “Anyway, do you think you could provide some security for Mr. White?”

  “Sure. When?”

  “We’d need you ASAP.”

  Alexis was calling from a business phone, a talent agency in Santa Monica a mile off the beach on Wilshire Boulevard. He clicked the team page. Tina Turner, as he’d come to suspect, was not the Tina Turner. This Tina was just some beach blonde with suspiciously perfect lips and cheekbones.

  “Starting today,” Alexis continued. “Mr. White needs security twenty-four seven. Can you do that?”

  “I can do anything,” Gregory said. “What type of service you need for JW?” He was hoping the job required his Secret Service Package. That’d bring in some serious cash for a YOLO or two on Robinhood.

  “I think it’s your basic offering,” Alexis said. “Just keep an eye on Mr. White and his girlfriend. Watch for anything funny. Call the police if you see something.”

  Gregory grunted. Seemed more like babysitting, but whatever. It was a start. He could put Tina’s name on his website as a client afterward. That’d look real nice, real high-end. No one needed to know it wasn’t the Tina Turner.

  He and Alexis settled up, and he got in his Nissan Altima and headed over to the Days Inn by the Miller Hill Mall, picking up an order of French toast sticks from the Burger King across the street. He’d need the sugar to kick in soon if he was to remain vigilant. Alexis had gotten him up a solid three hours earlier than usual.

  The parking lot, a thin strip tucked in the back of the hotel, was relatively full with some thirty vehicles—fifteen parked along the hotel and another fifteen parked facing a woody hill that led into a residential neighborhood—but all appeared quiet.

  He parked on the wooded side of the lot, backing into the space so he’d face the hotel, a two-story building with what appeared to be seven rooms per floor. He had no idea which window was JW’s, so he scanned them all, watching for trouble while slurping the extra syrup containers he’d requested. A wet wipe waited at his side, pulled from the pack in the center console, ready for the inevitable spill.

  At about seven, JW’s girlfriend, Missy, emerged from the hotel with their dog, Qui
ncy. The dog took a shit in the rocks lining the back wall; Missy picked up the deposit; and they went back inside.

  From where Gregory was parked, he could see both the back door and enough of the main entrance, which was on the side of the hotel, to catch sight of anyone coming or going. JW’s car was sitting deep in the dead-end lot, so he just sat tight.

  Alexis had told him to watch for stalkers, lurkers, psychos, and anyone else who seemed abnormal. To him, the entire human race seemed abnormal, so her request was technically absurd, but he let that slide. Alexis sounded pretty hot. She got a pass.

  He pushed the last French toast stick into his mouth and chewed and smacked the lukewarm breakfast treat into a thick wad of dough. When he started to choke, a bit of Hi-C helped clear the path. With a great belch, he flipped the empty cup and French toast container to the passenger-side floor.

  Around ten, a cop tapped on his window, but after he showed him his online-certified private investigator license, the cop left.

  Gregory then let the hours pass, doing nothing but earning money. Cash money, yo!

  Halfway through the afternoon, his buddy showed up to give him a break. Randy wouldn’t be anywhere near as good as he was at the surveillance game, but he’d try, and he was only asking for ten dollars an hour, so the tradeoff worked.

  Gregory got out of his car and told his friend, “I’ll be back at six.”

  “Sounds good, my man.” Randy tossed Gregory the keys to his truck, pulled a joint from his pocket, and climbed into the Nissan.

  “Don’t smoke in my car.”

  “Shit, G.” Randy looked around. “What am I supposed to do?”

  “Do your job. And just so you know, people can see you.” Gregory pointed to the hotel.

  “No one’ll give a shit.”

  “Just hold off. On ev-ery-thing.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  Gregory made a jerking-off gesture. “Don’t.”

  Randy chuckled.

  “You’re an animal. Has to be said.”

  “So what’s the deal with this guy?”

  “Some VIP. That’s all we need to know. Just keep an eye on things.”

  “Okay, then.” Randy pulled the car door shut.

  Jingling the keys to the truck, a smile on his face, Gregory turned to his friend’s gargantuan Dodge Ram. While it was probably easier to let Randy watch over JW from the comfort of his own vehicle, it wouldn’t have looked right (or been very professional) to have the man staring down from the cab of a slime-green truck that sported twenty-two-inch semi tires. Not too subtle.

  But also, and maybe the real reason for the vehicle swap, Gregory just wanted to drive the truck. The thing barely fit within the lanes and towered over all. Like the Dr. Seuss book Yertle the Turtle, from up high he ruled over everything he saw.

  So Gregory cheerily climbed up into the truck, got the engine going, and drove off with a great gaseous rumble (the exhaust being another one of the many modifications done to the Ram). Gregory had never understood that particular alteration, though, given Randy’s interest in deer hunting. Surely the noise put every animal within twenty miles on high alert. But then again, there were so many deer in Minnesota (and tame ones too) that it probably didn’t matter. Randy always seemed to come back with something strapped down tightly in the back of the truck.

  Checking that there was plenty of gas in the tank, Gregory veered onto the highway. He had a couple of opioid deliveries to make that day, but for the time being, he was just going to cruise around in the elevated beast.

  He steered through the traffic to a patch of open road and gunned it, rocketing away with a manly roar.

  ~

  From within her paper-walled office, Emmelia heard the Probat’s cooling fan snap to life, then a cascade of freshly roasted coffee poured from the drum into the tray. Her regular roaster, Barry, was back at his post. The fan, the tray agitator, and the continuously rotating drum emitted a symphonic drone. It was a wonder Emmelia even heard the woman burst into the roastery and shout her name.

  “Where’s that bitch?” the voice hollered. “Where is she? Where’s Emmelia?”

  “Shit,” Emmelia groaned as she got out of her chair.

  “Hey,” Barry hollered. “Hey.”

  “Watch yourself,” the woman yelled. “Where is she?”

  Emmelia opened her office door and showed herself.

  Tiff stormed away from Barry, her black heels cutting through the roaster’s noise with quick snip-snaps.

  Emmelia backed into her office, waited for Tiff to come in, then shut the door.

  Tiff stepped close, her lilac perfume cloudy and suffocating. “Who did that? Who the fuck did that to my Baby B? Did you see what they did to him? Did you see?”

  Emmelia drew back a touch so as to get clear of Tiff’s spittle. “I saw.”

  “Who was it?” Tiff crossed her arms, then uncrossed them and planted her hands on her hips. “Who?”

  “I’m taking care of it.”

  “Now I am.”

  Emmelia smirked. “You?”

  “You don’t know me. You don’t know what I can do.”

  Emmelia forced herself not to give Tiff and her skin-tight jeans, lace-trim cami, and high heels a once-over. The phrase “sweet but psycho” came to mind.

  Emmelia repeated herself: “I’m taking care of it. Go back to Chicago.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Well, you’re wasting your time staying here.”

  Tiff bared her bleached teeth. “Then I’ll go to the police. Right now. Get your ass thrown in jail.” She spun away.

  Emmelia grabbed her arm, squeezed harder than she needed to, and growled, “You go to the police and—”

  Tiff turned around. “And what?”

  Emmelia looked her straight in the eyes. “I’ll have you killed.”

  Tiff’s thick eyebrows quivered, but then she steadied them. “Who. Did. That?”

  “This is my city. My business. Go home.”

  “Your city?” Tiff said. “Why’d B have to come up here if this is your city?”

  “And look how good that turned out for him,” Emmelia countered.

  Tiff’s nostrils flared as she dug into her purse.

  Before Tiff pulled out what Emmelia was sure wasn’t a loyalty card this time, she shoved the woman against the door and pinned a forearm over her neck. “Don’t you dare.”

  Tiff tensed but didn’t move a muscle.

  Emmelia let go after a moment and stepped back. “Leave.”

  Tiff smoothed out her cami and flicked her hair over her shoulder. “Hope you like the inside of a jail cell.”

  Emmelia’s eyes thinned, but then she smiled. “You know what? Fine. You want to go after that lunatic, knock yourself out. His name is Jacob. Jacob Norris.”

  Tiff curled her upper lip. “Jacob Norris. And what’s Jacob Norris look like?”

  Emmelia pulled up the same photo she’d once texted Bump. “Here you go, sweetie.”

  Tiff grabbed Emmelia’s phone, texted herself the photo, then slapped it back into Emmelia’s hand.

  “Now get out of my shop,” Emmelia said. “Go let him bash your face in too.”

  Tiff ignored her, busy inspecting the photo of Jacob.

  Emmelia put her hand over Tiff’s screen until she glanced up. The women stared at each other, then Emmelia said for the last time, “Get the fuck out.”

  Puffing her chest, Tiff said, “You hear where this Jacob Norris is, you tell me.”

  Emmelia didn’t blink.

  Tiff pointed a finger, seemingly ready to say more, but instead she dropped her hand and left the office. She yelled at Barry to “mind his own damn business” before disappearing back into the café.

  Emmelia stood in the doorway to her office.

  Barry looked at her. He scratched his Nordic beard and asked, “Should I follow her?”

  “No. She’s just a psycho puffball. Just watch her to make sure she leaves.�
��

  “Oh hey, by the way,” Barry said, walking to the viewing window. “I think I figured out why your home machine isn’t steaming right.”

  Emmelia had a countertop espresso machine in her kitchen that she’d asked Barry to help her fix.

  “The valve on the boiler, it got warped. Parts should be here next week.” Barry glanced into the café. “Yeah, she’s gone.”

  Emmelia nodded and disappeared back into her office, wondering if she had just sent the woman to her death. If Tiff somehow tracked Jacob down, he’d surely kill her. The man was a savage. He wouldn’t hesitate crushing the little puffball (which wasn’t entirely bad). Except then the city would really go into lockdown. A pretty face like that getting torn apart would be in the papers for weeks.

  Maybe she’d made a mistake giving in—even if she did give Tiff the wrong last name.

  There’s no way she’ll ever find him. No way. Her people hadn’t even found out yet if Jacob had left the city. Tiff would do no better.

  Emmelia sat at her desk to consider another issue that took the form of several clear plastic bags. Normally reserved for coffee samples, these contained a couple dozen blue pills. Opioids. While the search for Jacob was going nowhere, the fentanyl investigation that Avispón had forced upon her was producing some results.

  Even with the police doing extra patrols around the city, her associates had still managed to track down some altered pills. They had gotten eight from an orderly at a nursing home, two from some soccer dad, and one from a homeless man behind the casino just a few blocks from the café. These people were all users, though, not suppliers, so there was still work to be done. But with a little more time, she’d connect the dots and pinpoint the source. Happy Avispón?

  She straightened the bags on the desk, studying the pills inside. The impressions on them were a little loose, a little distorted—the result of inadequate pressure.

  Barry popped his head into the office. “Hey. Amy just brought this in.” He came over and set a blue pill on the desk beside the bags.

  Emmelia picked it up and inspected the impression. It had the same fuzzy, hazy imprint as the others.

  Amy, like Barry, helped Emmelia with the café, but she also worked in the distribution business. She’d been out that morning on fentanyl search.