Dirty Martini

CHAPTER 6

MCGLADE BEAT THE BOMB SQUAD and the HazMat team to the scene, which was both a good thing and a bad thing. Good because we desperately needed his help, bad because being around McGlade was slightly less enjoyable than pulling out your own toenails with pliers.

“Hiya, Jackie,” he said through the driver’s-side window, pulling his Corvette alongside the curb. “You want me to park this big boy here, or shall I use your rear entrance?”

I briefly wondered what happened to his trademark 1968 Mustang, then realized he couldn’t drive stick shift with his newly acquired prosthesis. McGlade had been a player in a homicide investigation of mine not too long ago, and he hadn’t come out of the debacle entirely intact.

“Got the space suit?”

“I got it. You’re lucky too-I just had it cleaned. There were stains, Jack. Lots of stains.”

I put the thought from my mind. An eternity ago, Harry McGlade and I were partners. Since his dismissal, he’d been earning his living as a full-time private eye and part-time television producer. Along with boasting the IQ of a tire iron, McGlade also had the unwelcome distinction of being one of the biggest perverts I know, and I’d met quite an assortment of them working Vice. Whatever he was using this space suit for had nothing to do with science.

“Where is it?” I asked.

“In back.”

He popped the trunk, and I stared at a big pile of Day-Glo orange. I grabbed a sleeve and pulled the suit out of the car. The material felt like a combination of rubber and nylon.

“I should be the one going in,” Rick said, coming up behind me.

“Those are my people in there, Agent Reilly. I’m going.”

Herb ran over, looking even shittier than he had earlier.

“They’re not responding anymore,” he said. “Radio is silent.”

“Can you hear anything? Moaning? Breathing?” Rick asked.

Herb shook his head. I kicked off my shoes and pulled down my skirt. Rick and Herb averted their eyes. McGlade whistled.

“This is a police matter, McGlade,” I said, struggling into the suit. “You can leave.”

“Ease up, Lieutenant. We still haven’t worked out what you’re giving me because I’m letting you use my suit.”

I fought the material. The inside clung to my bare legs like plastic wrap. “It can wait.”

“I want a liquor license.”

Unbelievable. Herb must have thought so as well. He grabbed McGlade’s shoulder.

“You need to leave. Now.”

McGlade waved his artificial hand. It wasn’t a primitive pirate claw, but it didn’t look entirely realistic either. The flesh color was too light, and shiny like rubber.

“Don’t shoot me, Sergeant,” he said. “I’m unarmed.”

Herb gave McGlade a push backward.

McGlade smiled and shook his head, raising both hands in apparent supplication. Then he placed his fake one on Herb’s shoulder. There was a faint mechanical sound, like gears turning, and Herb yelped and fell to his knees.

“Modern technology,” Harry said. “Six hundred pounds of pressure per square inch.”

I got in his face. “Dammit, McGlade! People are dying! Stop screwing around!”

Harry shrugged. The mechanical hand whirred open. Herb had lost all color.

“Sorry, Jackie. I didn’t know we were in such a rush.”

I managed to snug the suit on over my shoulders. McGlade leaned close to me and whispered, “So… if I let you use the space suit, can you talk the mayor into letting me have a liquor license for the bar I’m open-IIIIEEEEEE!”

McGlade fell over, clutching himself between his legs. Herb unclenched the fist he’d used to induce McGlade’s aria, then got up off of his knees, his other hand rubbing his shoulder.

“I hate that guy,” he said.

Rick helped me strap on the SCBA tank. The gloves were thin, but not thin enough to get my finger inside of a trigger guard. Herb noted this and promised he’d be right back. The headpiece went on over the radio headset, a large hood with a Plexiglas faceplate.

It was hot in the suit. Steam-bath hot. And it smelled bad, like chili dogs. Sweat beads popped out onto my forehead, and my silk blouse clung to me at my armpits.

“Let me know when you feel the air.”

Rick turned the dials on my self-contained breathing apparatus, and a wave of cool air bathed my face and circulated throughout the suit. The chest and legs began to puff out, like a balloon.

“I’ll be with you on the radio,” Rick said through the comlink. “Keep the chatter going, describe everything you see, maybe I can help.”

Herb jogged back, cradling a Remington 870MCS shotgun with a pistol grip. He stepped over McGlade and passed it to me. My gloved finger easily fit into the oversized trigger guard.

“Bomb squad is still ten minutes away,” Herb said. “Robby took a bad hit last week and is out of commission.”

Robby was their remote-controlled robot.

“Give my respects to his family,” I said, starting for the house.

“We could still wait for them. They’ve got better protective gear.”

“No time.”

“Dammit, Jack.” Herb came up after me. “You’re not even wearing a vest.”

“Armor didn’t seem to help the SRT.”

I jogged toward the house. Herb and Rick flanked me.

“Her suit is leaking,” Herb said. “I can feel the air.”

“Positive pressure. It’s supposed to do that. With air blowing out, nothing can get in.”

Herb appeared ready to burst into tears.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this, Jack.”

“Me too.”

I paused for just a moment, and stared at my partner through the Plexiglas face shield, wondering why this moment seemed so final.

“Okay.” I took a big gulp of canned air. “Let’s do this.”