by Jude Hardin
SATURDAY, 5:33 P.M. CST
Herb grabbed his magnetic strobe, opened the window and planted it on the roof while simultaneously screeching into a U-turn. He punched the accelerator and shot back in the other direction, pinning me against my seat. Tires smoking, engine growling like some sort of angry beast. The Chrysler had a lot more power than I would have imagined, and Herb a lot more coordination as a driver.
“What do you have under the hood?” I said. “A rocket?”
“Five-point-seven liter Hemi. You didn’t think I’d trade my Camaro for something totally boring, did you?”
He made it to the expressway without killing us, weaving in and out of traffic, passing cars as if they were standing still. We headed south on I-90, exiting on 35th right next to U.S. Cellular Field, affectionately remembered by all Chicagoans of a certain age as Comiskey Park. We went west, blowing through a red light, then executing a hairpin turn onto S. Morgan Street, in the working class community of Bridgeport. Herb skidded to a halt right behind a police cruiser, double-parked in front of Rush’s address.
Other than the patrol car, we were first on the scene. I could make out someone slumped in the front seat.
“I’m going to check the car,” I said. “Cover me.”
“It’s no good, Jack. We need to secure the scene.”
“He’s still alive, Herb. He called it in. I sent him here. You think I’m going to just sit here and watch him bleed to death?”
A shot came from one of Rush’s front windows and pinged off the Chrysler’s hood, taking a thumb-sized chunk of silver paint with it. I pulled my .38 from its shoulder holster, slung the door open, crouched down and sighted on the house, waiting. Herb did likewise on his side. When we saw the flash of Rush’s pistol, we fired two rounds each from the car. Then I made my move.
Revolver in hand, I crab-walked toward the patrol car, using our vehicles as shields. Sirens wailed in the distance. Backup was on the way, but I knew from experience that our guy might not last that long.
When I finally made it to the car, I noticed blood on the door. I reached up and grabbed the handle and opened it, and a man fell out on top of me. Young, black, in his CPD uniform, a hole in his chest the size of a dime, blood everywhere. I checked his neck for a pulse. Nothing.
Pulling him to the street, I rose to my knees, tilted his head back and gave him two quick rescue breaths, mouth-to-mouth.
No response.
I holstered my .38, straddled him, and started chest compressions, knowing I was probably an easy target for the shooter now.
In my peripheral vision, I saw Herb hurrying around the side of the house, toward the back, moving fast for a fat guy.
More gunshots. Three from Herb’s .40 caliber, two from something smaller, the weapons easily distinguishable by their reports. Rush, or whoever it was, was shooting a much smaller caliber. Probably a .380, or a .22. It sounded like a firecracker compared to Herb’s cannon.
I continued compressions—always a concern when someone had a chest wound. But the danger of me pumping more blood out of him was tempered against the danger of his heart not pumping at all.
The officer’s nametag said J. Grappa. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-five years old. Short hair, looked like he went to the gym a lot. I bet his parents were proud. And I wanted them to continue being proud. I didn’t want them to have to bury their son in a couple of days.
It was my fault he’d been sent here in the first place. I should have made the run myself. Then it would have been me on the ground instead of him.
The bleeding got worse, so I tore at his shirt buttons to expose the wound. It was on the right side, a couple of inches below his collar bone. A small hole, probably a .22 as I’d guessed, but it had stopped his heart just the same, and it was gushing like crazy.
I jammed my pinky in the wound and continued compressions as tears streamed down my face. “Come on, Grappa. You’re not going to let a twenty-two keep you down, are you? You’re a tough guy. I can tell. You eat twenty-twos for breakfast. You’re not going to let the lowlife piece of scum take you away from us, are you?”
His eyelids fluttered.
I stopped CPR.
Officer Grappa turned his head to the side and started vomiting on the street. It was the most beautiful sight I’d ever seen. I continued to maintain pressure on his wound, pressing my other palm against his back.
Somewhere off in the distance, Herb shouted, “On the ground!”
Apparently, Terrence P. Rush didn’t listen. I heard one shot from the .22, followed by three from Herb’s Glock.
“Herb!” I shouted. “Talk to me, man.”
I wanted to run back there and help my partner, but I couldn’t leave Grappa alone.
And as it turned out, Herb managed to take care of business on his own.
“I got him,” he said, coming around to my side of the patrol car. “Dead. What’s going on with this guy?”
“Gunshot wound to the chest. Hanging on by a thread.”
“Let me take over. You look like you’re about to drop.”
“I’m good.”
“You sure?”
I stared him down. “I’m. Good.”
Four black-and-whites and an ambulance, lights flashing and sirens howling, pulled up onto the property about the same time.
The EMTs and uniformed police officers climbed out of their vehicles and ran our way. I rolled off of Grappa and lay there heaving and staring at the sky when they finally got there and took over.
COLT
SATURDAY, 9:05 P.M. CST
So,” Harry McGlade said, “you guys are a cute couple.”
The three of us were sitting, inexplicably, on large, leather bean bags in Harry’s condo. We each had a rocks glass filled with 21 year old Macallan, which seemed generous until I noticed Harry’s neon-lit bar, stocked with 25 and 30 year old bottles.
“How’s the scotch?” he asked.
“Good,” Laurie said. She’d finished almost half of hers. Perhaps to finally warm up and relax after a day of freezing and disappointment. Or perhaps she was just as disturbed by Harry McGlade’s freaky little bachelor pad as I was. Besides the bean bags (one of which had hand cuffs attached to it), there was an assortment of lava lamps, black lights, and posters of famous 80s heavy metal bands on the walls, along with a zebra skin rug. All this in a deluxe penthouse with a spectacular view of the Chicago skyline. It was like the world’s most expensive dorm room.
“When was the last time you put your mouth around a 21 year old, Nick?”
“Excuse me?”
“The Macallan,” Harry said.
I nodded. “Oh. Yeah. It’s good.”
“Laurie?” Harry asked.
“I like my scotch more mature,” she said, giving me a sidelong glance. “But I prefer the vigor of an 18 year old on occasion.”
I shrugged. Harry laughed.
“I’ve got some Viagra if you need it, Nick. I keep some around for experimental purposes.”
“I don’t need it. And my name is Nicholas.”
“Like Nicholas Sparks? You guys see that new movie yet?”
“No.” Laurie shot me a look.
“I went to the premier in LaLa land. Red carpet thingy. Sat next to Cher. Copped a feel. Her bodyguard punched me. She’s held up well for her age. So you guys need a place to crash tonight?”
There was no way in hell we were staying there tonight.
“I have a vibrating mechanical bull,” Harry said.
Laurie’s eyes bugged out. “You’re kidding.”
“Honest. Want to try it?”
She looked at me. And, truth told, I did want to see her ride a vibrating mechanical bull. But not with Harry anywhere in the same area code.
“Thanks for the scotch,” I said, trying to steer the conversation in a different direction. “Jack said you might be able to loan me a piece?”
“Sure. What do you need? An AK? M-16? Tech-9? How about one of those new Da
ewoo K7s? It’s a 9mm, 1100 rounds per minute.”
“I was thinking more of a concealed carry.”
“You can conceal a Daewoo if you’re wearing a long coat and don’t do any sort of bending. Or sitting.”
“How about a pistol?”
“You mean a handgun?”
“Yes.”
“Only handgun I have is my personal carry.” Harry reached into his jacket and removed a small cannon.
“Smith and Wesson .44 Magnum,” he said, grinning.
Laurie’s eyes went wide. “Dirty Harry’s gun.”
“I met Eastwood at a party. Told him I was a fan. His bodyguard punched me. You guys need to visit L.A. It’s awesome.”
“That gun is huge,” Laurie said. “Can I see it?”
“Nick, do you mind if your girlfriend holds my giant rod?”
“We probably should be getting going.”
Laurie nudged me. “Come on, Nicholas. Look how big it is.”
I made a whatever gesture. Harry swung out the cylinder, emptied the cartridges into his hand, and held it out for Laurie, butt-first.
“It’s heavy,” she said. “And thick. What’s that tiny little gun you have, Nicholas?”
“It’s also a Smith and Wesson. And it’s not tiny.”
“What is it, a .38?” Harry asked.
“Yes.”
Harry held his thumb and forefinger an inch apart, and he and Laurie giggled. I thought about kicking Harry’s ass, but it would have been too easy. Besides, even though he was a jerk, he was bearable. Barely.
“So,” Harry said, “you guys want to take a bunch of ecstasy and rub peppermint oil on each other’s feet?”
Luck answered my prayers and my cell phone rang before we needed to answer that question. It was Jack.
“Got you a meeting with the assistant M.E. tomorrow morning,” she said, her voice a robotic monotone.
“You okay, Jack? You sound like a zombie.”
“Rough night. Need a drink.”
I nodded, standing up. “Sure, we can meet you for a drink. Just say when and where.”
“I’m going home.”
“Works for me,” I said, anxious to get myself and Laurie out of McGlade’s place. “What’s your address?”
Jack rattled it off.
“See you soon.” I hung up and reached for Laurie. “Sorry, Harry. We’ve got to get going.”
“Already? But I have Twister.”
He reached under the nearest sofa and produced a plastic Twister mat, which was shiny with some sort of gel.
“Thanks for the scotch,” I said, knocking it back. “Good to meet you.”
“You, too. Maybe we’ll cross paths again sometime. Private detection is a small world.”
“Maybe,” I said, hoping to hell that wasn’t the case. Laurie downed her drink as well, and I dragged her out the door and headed for the car.
“Harry was funny,” Laurie said when we were both buckled in.
“Yeah. A riot.”
“You didn’t like him?”
“I’ve killed guys I liked more.”
She leaned over, her breath against my neck. “You know you’re the sexiest man alive, right?”
“This I know. But go on.”
“I like it when you get all alpha male. It’s hot.”
“Really?”
She kissed my ear. “Is that offer still good?”
“Which one?”
“The one involving the back seat?”
I unbuckled my belt. “Absolutely.”
“I love you, Nicholas.”
“I love you, too.”
We managed to both squeeze back there, kissing and groping one another. She started breathing heavily and moaning softly and running her fingertips through my hair. I kissed her face and her neck and she reached down and removed her shirt and bra in one quick movement while I worked on getting her pants and underwear off. I kissed her breasts, the left one first, and then the right, making little circles around her nipples with my tongue. It drove her crazy. Her moans got more intense and she started calling me baby and telling me how good it felt. She had a beautiful stomach, lean and tight and tanned. I nibbled the gold stud in her belly button, kissed it and licked it and reached up and feather-stroked the length of her arm with my fingertips. She spread her legs, inviting me to go down further, and I did. I slid backward, grasping her bottom and lifting her, and kissed the inner part of her left thigh. I gently parted her with my fingers and ran my tongue lightly and slowly along the outer parts, first one side and then the other, working my way inward. I went at it gently at first, then harder, faster, kissing all of her, loving her, sliding two fingers deeply inside her, watching her stomach quiver and listening to the moans coming from somewhere in the middle of her chest.
“I can’t take it anymore,” she said.
Laurie grabbed me by the shoulders, pulling herself up, and then pushed me down flat. She ripped my shirt open and kissed my neck and my chest, and then she put her hand between my legs and slowly inched it along the length of me. She undid my belt and snap and zipper, then reached under the band of my boxers and pulled them down and helped me wriggle out of them. She raked me gently with her fingernails, and then she went down and started doing some magical things with her tongue. I knew if she kept doing what she was doing I wasn’t going to last long. I cupped her head in my hands and guided her back up toward my face. She kissed me on the lips, hard and deep, our tongues swirling and our faces on fire. She lifted her hips and reached down and guided me inside her, gliding down slowly on top of me, warmly, wetly, taking all of me, pumping, grinding, moaning, pressing on my belly with her fingers, beads of sweat forming between her breasts, her nipples fat and stiff and pretty and pink.
“I’m going to come if you keep doing that,” I said.
She kept doing it. She couldn’t stop, and neither could I. She rocked and moaned and I gripped her ass and drove myself deeper inside her and we exploded together in long slow pulsating waves that seemed to go on and on and on.
She finally stopped and looked at me. Our eyes met, and her expression said you don’t even know how good that was. But I did. I knew. It was as good as it had ever been, with anyone, and at that moment I wanted to be inside her forever.
She collapsed on top of me, rested her head on my chest. We stayed there in a panting puddle of sweat for a few minutes, and then she yelled, “Cramp!”
We quickly disentangled, laughing as she tried to straighten out her leg. I rubbed her calf until the cramp faded, and then Laurie touched the fogged rear window with her finger and drew a heart with L + N inside it.
Getting dressed in the back seat of a car was a lot harder than making love in one, and when we were finished we punched in Jack’s address on the GPS, which wasn’t too far away.
I found legal parking, amazingly, a block from her apartment, and I found her number on the security door.
“Yeah?” the intercom said.
“It’s Nicolas Colt.”
She buzzed us in. We found her unit and knocked.
Laurie and I were pretty wrinkled from our fun in the back seat, but Jack Daniels was an absolute mess.
Her long leather trench coat was open and torn, her khaki pants and cream-colored top smudged with something dark and red. For some reason, it took me a few seconds to realize it was blood. It was in her hair, too, and on her hands. The image of her standing there was just too much to process all at once. It was like bending over to tie your shoe, looking up and seeing a herd of elephants marching down the street. My brain just didn’t make sense of it right away.
“Jack!” I said. “What happened?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” she said.
Laurie and I stood there in silence as she disappeared around the corner.
Hers was a small apartment, the kitchenette and dining area visible from the living room in front. There was a narrow hallway to the right of the kitchen, which I assumed led to the bedr
oom and bathroom.
“Are you sure we should be here?” Laurie whispered.
“Something terrible must have happened.”
“You think?”
“I’m going to go talk to her, see if we need to make other arrangements.”
I closed and locked the door behind us, then walked toward the hallway and was greeted by one of the largest cats I’d ever seen. He arched his back and bared his fangs and hissed like some sort of mutant creature from a horror movie.
I decided it would be best not to go any further.
“Jack?”
“I’m just going to get cleaned up. I’ll be out in a few minutes.”
“Do you want us to leave?”
“No, no. Please, make yourselves at home. Would you do me a favor?”
“Sure,” I said. “Anything.”
“I think I’m out of bourbon. Could you make a trip to the liquor store? It’s just right around the corner.”
“I can do that.”
I told Laurie I would be back in a few minutes.
“You’re not leaving me alone with that bobcat.”
“It’s not a bobcat.”
“Then you stay here, I’ll get the booze.”
“Hell, no. You’re not leaving me alone with that bobcat.”
We both decided to go.
I didn’t want to lose my parking spot, so we walked. It wasn’t far. I bought a jug of Old Fitzgerald for Jack and me, and some wine for Laurie. For tomorrow night. She told me she’d had enough to drink over at McGlade’s.
When we got back to the apartment and were once again buzzed through the security door, Jack was sitting at the dinette in her bathrobe, the bobcat purring contentedly on her lap.
“He’s a good watch-cat,” I said. “I thought he was going to attack me a while ago when I started down the hallway toward your bedroom.”
“Mr. Friskers doesn’t like new people,” Jack said. “Or old people. Or any people.”
“He seems to like you,” Laurie said.
“He doesn’t. I have the scars to prove it. But he tolerates me because I feed him.”
“What do you feed him?”
“Dogs,” Jack said.
Since any semblance of proper etiquette seemed to have eluded me for the moment, Laurie stepped forward and introduced herself to Jack. The two of them shook hands while Mr. Friskers hissed disapproval.
