Jack Daniels Stories

I look around, find some napkins on a table, pick up the radio and hit the talk button.

“Who is this?”

“I'm doing this for you, Jacqueline. This is all for you. Do you remember Washington?”

Thoughts rush at me. Seven dead so far. He knows me. The perp has over a hundred bullets left. I don't know this guy. I've never been to Washington, the state or the capitol. He knows me. Someone I arrested before? Who is he?

I press talk. “If it's me you want, come and get me.”

“I can't right now,” the walkie says. “I'm late for class.”

I race for the front doors. When I step onto the sidewalk, I see the perp darting through traffic and running full sprint down the sidewalk.

Heading for Thomas Jefferson Middle School.

I don't hear any sirens. Too soon. Look left and right, and don't see Herb.

I rush back into the restaurant, drop the radio into the perp's bag, grab the handle and run after him.

Three steps into the street I'm clipped by a bike messenger.

He spins me around, and I land on my knees, watching as he skids down the tarmac on his helmet, a spray of loose bullets from the gunman's bag jingling after him like dropped change. A car honks. There's a screech of tires. I manage to make it to my feet, still holding the bag, still holding my gun, too distracted to sense if I'm hurt or not.

The school.

I cross the rest of the street, realize I've somehow lost a shoe, my bare right foot slapping against the cold concrete, pedestrians jumping out of my path.

An alarm up ahead, so piercing I feel it in my teeth. The metal detector at the school entrance. It's followed by two more gunshots.

“Jack!”

Herb, from across the street.

“Cars in the parking lot!” I yell, hoping he'll understand. Guy in a football helmet and ammo belts didn't walk in off the street. Must have driven.

The school rushes up at me. I push through the glass doors, the metal detector screaming, a hall monitor slumped dead in her chair, blood pooling black on the rubber mat.

I drop the bag, pocket the Beretta and a handful of brass, hit talk on the radio.

“Where are you?”

Static. Then, coming through the speaker, children's screams.

Followed by gunshots.

I run, trying to follow the echo, trying to pinpoint the cries for help, passing door after door, rushing up a staircase, hearing more gunshots, seeing the muzzle flashes coming from a classroom, going in low and fast.

“Drop the gun,” he says.

His Beretta is aimed at the head of a seven-year-old girl.

A sob gets caught in my throat, but I refuse to cry because tears will cloud my vision.

I can't watch anyone else die.

I drop my gun.

The perp begins to twitch, his face wet behind the football helmet.

“Do you have children, Jack?”

I'm not able to talk, so I just shake my head.

“Neither do I,” he says. “Isn't...isn't it a shame?”

He pats the girl on the head, crouches down to whisper.

“You did good, sweetheart. I don't need you anymore.”

I scream my soul raw when he pulls the trigger.

The little girl drops away, her pink dress now a shocking red, and I launch myself at him just as he turns his weapon on the children cowering in the corner of the room and opens fire.

One.

Two.

Three.

He manages four shots before I body-tackle him, both hands locking on his gun arm, pushing it up and away from the innocents, my head filled with frightened cries that might be from the children but might also be mine.

I grip his wrist and tug hard, locking his elbow, dropping down and forcing him to release the gun. It clatters to the ground.

His free hand tangles itself in my hair and pulls so hard my vision ignites like a flashbulb. I lose my grip and fall to my knees, and he jerks me in the other direction, white hot pain lacing across my scalp as a patch of hair rips free.

I drive an uppercut between his legs, my knuckles bouncing off a plastic supporter, then I'm being pushed away and he's leaping for the door.

My jacket is twisted up, and I can't find my pocket even though I feel the weight of the gun, and finally my hand slips in and I tug a Beretta free and bury three shots into his legs as he runs into the hallway.

I chance a quick look at the children, see several have been hit, see blood on the wall covering two dozen construction paper jack-o-lantern pictures, then I crawl after the perp with the gun raised.

He's waiting for me in the hall, sitting against the wall, bleeding from both knees. I hear him sobbing.

“You weren't supposed to drop your gun,” he says.

My breath is coming quick, and I blow it out through my mouth. I'm shaking so bad I can't even keep a bead on him. I blink away tears and repeat over and over, “he's-unarmed-don't-shoot-he's-unarmed-don't shoot-he's-unarmed-don't shoot...”

Movement to my left.

Herb, barreling down the hall. He stops and aims.

“You okay?” Herb asks.

I think I nod.

“Hands in the air!” he screams at the perp.

The perp continues to moan. He doesn't raise his hands.

“Put your hands in the air now!”

The sob becomes a howl, and the perp reaches into his trench coat.

Herb and I empty our guns into him. I aim at his face.

My aim his true.

The perp slumps over, streaking the wall with red. Herb rushes up, pats down the corpse.

“He's clean,” Herb says. “No weapons.”

I can hear the sirens now. I manage to lower my gun as the paramedics storm the stairs. Kids flood out of the classroom, teachers hurrying them down the hall, telling them not to look.

Many of them look anyway.

I feel my vision narrow, my shoulders quake. I'm suddenly very cold.

“Are you hurt?” Herb asks, squatting down next to me. I'm covered with the blood of too many people.

I shake my head.

“I found the car,” Herb says. “Registered to a William Phillip Martingale, Buffalo Grove Illinois. He left a suicide note on the windshield. It said, 'Life no longer matters.'”

“Priors?” I ask, my voice someone else's.

“No.”

And something clicks. Some long ago memory from before I was a cop, before I was even an adult.

“I think I know him,” I say.

William Phillip Martingale. Billy Martingale. In my fifth grade class at George Washington Elementary School.

“When we were kids. He asked me to the Valentine's Day dance.” The words feel like stale bread crust stuck in my throat. “I turned him down. I already had a date.”

“Jesus,” Herb says.

But there was more. No one liked Billy. He had a bad front tooth, dark gray. Talked kind of slow. Everyone teased him. Everyone including me.

I crawl past the paramedics, over to the perp, probing the ruin of his face, finding that bad tooth he'd never bothered to get fixed.

The first body is wheeled out of the classroom, the body bag no larger than a pillow.

I begin to cry, and I don't think I'll ever be able to stop.

Suffer

Another Phin story. Phin comes from a long tradition of anti-heroes, and was influenced by Mickey Spillane's Mike Hammer, Max Allan Collins' Quarry, and Richard Stark's Parker. But he's mostly a direct descendant of F. Paul Wilson's Repairman Jack, with decidedly less humanity. I wrote this story at the request of the editor for the anthology Chicago Noir. He rejected it. So I sold it to EQMM and wrote another Phin story for him, Epitaph. He rejected that as well, and I sold that to James Patterson for the ITW Thriller anthology. I'm happy how things worked out.

“I want you to kill my wife.”

The man sitting across from me, Lyle Tibbits, stared into my eyes like a dog stares at the steak you're eating. He was mid to late thirties, a few inches taller than my six feet, wearing jeans and a button down shirt that pinched his thick wrists.

I sipped some coffee and asked why he wanted his wife dead.

“Do you care?” he asked.

I shrugged. “No. As long as I get paid.”

Lyle smiled, exposing gray smoker's teeth.

“I didn't think it mattered. When I called you, I heard you did anything for money.”

I rubbed my nose. My nostrils were sore from all the coke I'd been snorting lately, and I'd been getting nosebleeds.

“Any particular way you want it done?”

He looked around Maxie's Coffee Shop—his choice for the meeting place—and leaned forward on his forearms, causing the table to shift and the cheap silverware to rattle.

“You break into my house, discover her home alone, then rape and kill her.”

Jaded as I was, this made me raise an eyebrow.

“Rape her?”

“The husband is always a suspect when the wife dies. Either he did it, or he hired someone to do it. The rape will throw the police off. Plus, I figured, with your condition, you won't care about leaving evidence.”

He made a point of glancing at my bald head.

“Who gave you my number?” I asked.

“I don't want to say.”

I thought about the Glock nestled between my belt and my spine, knew I could get him to tell me if I needed to. We were on Damon and Diversey in Wicker Park, which wasn't the nicest part of Chicago. I could follow him out of the diner and put the hurt to him right there on the sidewalk, and chances were good we'd be ignored.

But truth be told, I didn't really care where he got my number, or that he knew I was dying of cancer. I was out of money, which meant I was out of cocaine. The line I'd done earlier was wearing off, and the pain would return soon.

“I get half up front, half when it's done. The heat will be on you after the job, and you won't have a chance to get the money to me. So you'll put the second half in a locker at the train station, hide the key someplace public, and then give me the info when I'm done. Call from a payphone so the number isn't traced. You fuck me, and I'll find you.”

“You can trust me.”

Like your wife trusts you? I thought. Instead I said, “How would you like me to do it?”

“Messy. The messier the better. I want her to suffer, and suffer for a long time.”

“You've obviously been living in marital bliss.”

“You have to hurt her, or else we don't have a deal.”

I made a show of thinking it over, even though I'd already made my decision. I assumed this was a way to cash in on life insurance, but what life insurance policy paid extra for torture and rape?

“You have the money on you?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“Pass it under the table.”

He hesitated. “Trust goes both ways, you know.”

“I could just walk away.”

Like hell I could. I needed a snort worse than Wimpy needed his daily hamburger. But I'm a pretty decent bluffer.

Lyle handed me the paper bag he'd brought with him. I set it on the booth next to me and peeked inside. The cash was rubber-banded in stacks of tens and twenties. I stuck my fingers in and did a quick count.

Six grand, to take a human life.

Not bad for a few hours work.

“When?” I asked.

“Tomorrow night, after 10pm. I'll be out, and she'll be home alone. I'll leave the front door open for you. I'm at 3626 North Christiana, off of Addison. Remember, rape and pain.”

He seemed to be waiting for a reply so I said, “Sure.”

“And Mr. Troutt...” Lyle smiled again, flashing gray. “Have fun with it.”

#

After the diner meeting, I called a guy about securing some fake ID. Then I called my dealer and scored enough coke to keep me high for a while. I also bought some tequila and refilled my codeine prescription.

Back at my ratty apartment, Earl and I had a party.

Earl is what I call the tumor growing on my pancreas. Giving my killer a name makes it a little easier to deal with. Each day, Earl eats a little more of my body. Each day, I try to prevent Earl from doing that. There's chemo, and radiation, and occasional surgery. And in the off-times, there's illegal drugs, pharmaceuticals, and alcohol.

Earl was winning.

Luckily, being a drug abuser has some excellent side benefits, such as not caring about anything, erasing all emotion, and helping to forget the past.

Just a few months ago I had a well paying job in the suburbs, a beautiful fiancée, and a life most would be envious of. Earl changed all that. Now, not even the roaches in my tenement building were envious of me.

I drank, and popped, and snorted, until the pain was gone. Until reality was gone. Until consciousness was gone.

Earl woke me up the next morning, gnawing at my left side with jagged, rabid teeth.

I peeled myself from the floor, stripped off the jeans and underwear I'd soiled, and climbed into a shower slick with mildew. I turned the water as hot as it would go, and the first blast came out rusty and stung my eyes. I had no soap, so I used shampoo to scrub my body. I didn't eat well, if I remembered to eat at all, and I could count the ribs on my hairless chest. I made a note to eat something today. Who would hire a thug that weighed ninety pounds?

After the shower I found some fresh jeans and a white t-shirt. I did a line, choked down three painkillers, and dug out an old Chicago phone book.

“Walker Insurance.”

“I had a couple questions about life insurance.”

“I'll transfer you to one of our agents.”

I took my cell over the fridge and listened to a Musak version of Guns N Roses while rummaging through the ice box. Nothing in there but frost.

“This is Brad, can I help you?”

“I'm thinking of taking out a life insurance policy on my wife. We live in a nice neighborhood, but she has this unrealistic fear—call it a phobia—of being raped and killed. I'm sure that would never happen, but do you have policies that cover that?”

“Accidental death includes murder, but not suicide.”

“And rape?”

“Well, I've heard of some countries like India and Africa that offer rape insurance, but there's nothing like that in the US. But if she's afraid of being attacked, a good life insurance policy can help bring some peace of mind.”

“What if she doesn't like the idea of insurance? Could I insure her without her knowing it?”

“For certain types of insurance, the person covered doesn't need to sign the policy. You can insure anyone you want. Would you like to schedule an appointment to talk about this further?”

I thought about asking him if he covered people dying of cancer, but I resisted and hung up. My next call was to the 26th District of the Chicago Police Department.

“Daniels.”

“Hi, Jack. It's Phineas Troutt.”

“Haven't seen you at the pool hall lately. What's up?”

“I need a favor. I'm looking for paper on a guy named Lyle Tibbits.”

“And I should help you because?”

“Because you're a friend. And because he owes me money. And because I probably won't live to see Christmas.”

Jack arrested me a few years back, but she'd been cool about it, and we had an on-again-off-again eight ball game on Monday nights. I'd missed a few lately, too stoned to leave my apartment. But I'd helped Jack out a few times, and she owed me, and she knew it.

“Let's see what Mr. Computer has to say. Lyle Tibbits. Prior arrest for—it looks like trafficking kiddie porn. Did a nickel's worth at Joliet. Paroled last year.”

“Anything about a wife or kids?”

“Nope.”

“Address?”

“Roscoe Village, on Belmont.”

She gave me the numbers, and I wrote them down.

“Nothing on Addison?”

“Nope.”

“Can you give me his vitals?”

Jack ran through his birth date, social security number, mother's maiden name, and some other choice info cops are privy to.

“You coming this Monday?” she asked when the litany ended. “I finally bought my own cue.”

“A Balabushka?”

“A custom stick on my salary? More like Wal-Mart.”

“I'll try to make it. Thanks, Jack.”

“Take care, Phin.”

I tucked the Glock into my pants, pocketed my set of master keys and a pair of S & W handcuffs, and hit the street. It was cool for July, in the low seventies, the sun screened by clouds or smog or both. I grabbed some sweet and sour chicken at a local shop, and then spent an hour at a place on Cermak filling out paperwork. When I finished, I hopped in a cab and took it to Roscoe Village.

Lyle's apartment had a security door, which I opened on the fourth try. One of my first acts as a criminal had been to rob a locksmith, earning me a set of sixty master keys. They opened ninety percent of the locks in the US. It was much easier than learning how to use picks and tension wrenches, which is something I didn't have the time to learn anyway.

The halls were empty, befitting midday. I found Lyle's apartment number and knocked twice, holding my pistol behind my back.

No answer.

I got through this door on the second try, set the security chain so no one could pop in on me, and began my search.

In the living room were six double DVD recorders, all which seemed to be running. In a box next to the TV were a hundred plastic clamshell boxes, and a spindle of blank recordable DVD-Rs. In the corner of the room were three digital camcorders and a PC. I powered up the computer, spent ten minutes trying to get his password, then gave up and turned it off.

The kitchen revealed a smorgasbord of junk food—he had enough sugar in here to put an elephant into a diabetic coma. On the counter, next to the phone, was a receipt for a glazier, the total more than five hundred bucks. Stuck to the fridge with a banana-shaped magnet was a picture of Lyle drinking a beer. I put the picture in my pocket.

In the bedroom, I found an extensive collection of porno DVDs. Bondage, watersports, S/M, D/s, extreme spanking, and even a kink new to me; latex vacuum mummification. All legal.

I found his illegal stuff in a padlocked trunk, in the back of the bedroom closet. The lock opened with the seventh key I tried.

Child porn. Movies with titles like “See Billy Cry” and “Maxie's Birthday Surprise.” Some of the covers had pictures.

I tried not to look.

There were also a few other illegal movies, along with a bag full of cash. Over twenty grand worth.

I took the money, locked the trunk back up, and left the apartment.

Satisfied that I knew who I was dealing with, I bided my time until 10pm.

Then I could finish the job.

#

As promised, Lyle had left the door open for me.

The house was dark and quiet, just like the neighborhood. I walked down Christiana and up the porch stairs without encountering a soul. Once inside, I locked the door behind me and held my breath, listening for sounds of life.

Nothing.

The lights were on in the living room, and I held my Glock before me and did a quick search of the first floor. The furnishings leaned towards the feminine side; pink drapes and flower patterns on the couch. On the end table, copies of Glamour and Cosmo. In the kitchen, a half-eaten container of lowfat yogurt sat on the counter, a spoon alongside it. I checked the back door, found it locked, and then crept over to the staircase.

The stairs were carpeted, but they squeaked with my weight. I paused after every two steps, ears open. I didn't hear a damn thing.

The second floor revealed an empty bathroom, an empty guest room, and a bedroom.

The bedroom was occupied.

A woman was tied to the bed, naked and spread-eagled. She was white, late twenties, her blond hair tangled up in the red leather ball gag buckled around her mouth. Leather straps around her ankles and wrists twisted around the four bedposts. Her eyes were wide with terror, and she screamed when she saw me, the sound lost in her throat.

There was a note next to her head.

Give it to her. And leave the gag in, or she'll wake the neighbors.

The room was unusually well-lit. Besides the ceiling light, there were lamps on either side of the bed, one in the corner next to the mirrored closet, and an extra work-light—the portable kind that clips to things—attached to the bed canopy.

“Hello,” I said to the woman.

She screamed again.

“Shh. I'll be with you in just a minute.”

I took two steps backwards, toward the closet, and then spun around, facing the mirrored sliding door. My free hand pulled back the handle while my business hand jammed the Glock into the closet, into the chest of Lyle Tibbits.

Lyle yelped, dropping the camcorder and trying to push me away. I brought the gun up and clipped him in the teeth with the butt.

He fell forward, spitting blood and enamel. I gave him another chop on the back of the head, and he ate the floor.

“Dontkillmedontkillme!”

I put my foot on his neck and applied some weight, glancing back to check the rest of the closet. Empty. The mirror was one-way, and I could see the bed through the door's glass. The original mirror rested against the rear wall.

“Who is she, Lyle?”

He yelled something, the carpet muffling his words. I eased up some of the pressure from my foot.

“I just met her last week!”

“She's not your wife.”

“No! She's just some chick I'm dating!”

“And you hired me to rape and kill her so you could videotape it. I saw the other films back at your apartment. Does snuff sell for more than kiddie porn?”

Lyle wiggled, trying to crane his neck around to look at me.

“It's worth a fortune! I'll cut you in, man! It's enough money for both of us!”

I glanced at the woman, tied up on the bed.

“How much money?” I asked.

“I've got over half a mil in advance orders! We'll be rich, man!”

“That's a lot of money, Lyle. But I'm not greedy. I don't need that much.”

“How much do you want? Name the price!”

“You're worth eighty grand to me.”

“Eighty grand? No problem! I can—”

I knelt on his back, cutting off his breath. Pressing the Glock to the back of his head, I yanked the handcuffs out of my pocket.

“Put your left hand behind your back, Lyle.”

He complied. I yanked his arm back in a submission hold, slapped on the cuffs, then climbed off.

“Let's go into the bathroom, Lyle.”

I was a bit too eager helping him to his feet, because I hyper-extended his arm and felt it snap at the elbow.

Lyle howled loud enough to hurt my ears, and I gave his broken arm a twist and told him to shut the hell up. In the bathroom, I chained him to the drainage pipe under the sink, then I went back into the bedroom.

“You're safe,” I told the woman. “No one can hurt you now. I'm going to call the police. Are you okay to talk to them?”

She nodded, frantic. I took off her gag.

“He was gonna kill me.”

“I know.” I picked up the phone next to the bedside and dialed 911, then placed it on the bed next to her mouth.

I walked out of the room as she began talking.

#

I was in a drugged haze when Jack called on my cell.

“Missed you on Monday.”

“Sorry. Been busy.”

“Remember that guy you called me about? Lyle Tibbits? He got picked up a few days ago.”

“Is that a fact?”

“It seems as if Mr. Tibbits was planning on making a snuff film, but someone came and rescued the snuffee.”

I wiped some blood off my nose. “Sounds like she got lucky.”

“She said it was a bald man.”

“Poor guy. It's tough being bald. Society discriminates.”

“It would help the case if this mysterious bald man came forward and testified.”

“If I see him, I'll let him know. But you probably don't need him. If you check out Lyle's apartment, you might find plenty of reasons to lock him up for good.”

“We did that already. Mr. Tibbits will be eligible for parole when he's four hundred years old.”

“So why the call?”

“The woman who was saved wants to thank her hero. In person.”

An image flashed through my head of Linda, my fiancée. I'd left her because I didn't want her to see me suffer and die.

No one should be subjected to that. To me.

“That's not possible,” I told Jack.

“I'll let her know. Pool Monday?”

“I'll try to make it. Jack?”

“Yeah?”

“They holding Tibbits over at Cook County?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“General population?”

“I think so. He's in for kidnapping and attempted murder. The State's Attorney is putting together the illegal porn case.”

“Thanks, Jack.”

I staggered to the bathroom and rinsed the blood and powder off my face. Then I threw on some clothes, left my apartment, and staggered to the corner news vendor. The daily paper set me back a buck. I sat on the curb and read the police blotter until I found what I needed. Then I picked up three cartons of Marlboros and took a cab to Cook County Jail on 26th and California.

I spent two hours waiting before I was able to see Jerome Johnston. He was black, twenty-two years old, a member of the Gangsta Disciples. Jerome was being held for first degree murder.

“Who the hell are you, cracker?” he said upon meeting me in the visitation room.

“I've got a deal for you, Jerome. A good deal.” I handed him the three cartons of smokes that the guards had already searched. “This is for your valuable time.”

“What do you want?”

“There's a white boy in your division. Name of Lyle Tibbits. He's a baby raper. Likes to have sex with five-year-old boys and girls.” I stared hard into Jerome's lifeless eyes. “I want you to spread the word. Anyone who takes care of him will get twenty cartons of cigarettes. He'll be an easy mark—he's got a broken arm. Here's a picture.”

I handed him the photo I'd taken from Lyle's apartment.

“How do you know me?” Jerome asked.

“I don't. Just read about your drive-by in the paper. Thought you'd be the right man for the job. Are you, Jerome?”

Jerome looked at the picture, then back at me. “Hell yeah, dog.”

“One more thing. It can't happen until tomorrow. Okay?”

“I'm straight.”

I left the jail and cabbed it back home. In my room I did more coke, ate some codeine, and stared at the eighty-thousand dollar life insurance policy I'd taken out on Lyle Tibbits, which I'd bought posing as his brother, using fake identification. It would become effective tonight at midnight.

Eighty grand would buy a lot of pain relief. It might even be enough to help me forget.

I drank until I couldn't feel Earl anymore, and then I drank some more.

When Monday rolled around I cashed my policy and met Jack at Joe's Pool Hall and whipped her butt with my new thousand dollar Balabushka custom-made pool cue.

School Daze

Jack Daniels fans are usually polarized when it comes to Harry McGlade. Some love him. Some hate him. Personally, I love the guy. Harry let's me be goofy, which is something I really enjoy writing, but normally have to tone it down because it takes away from the storyline. But in a Harry McGlade short story, the storyline takes a back seat to the goofiness, and I try to see how many jokes I can cram into the least amount of space. This one sold to the anthology Uncage Me edited by Jennifer Jordan.

“Cute kid,” I said.

The kid looked like a large pink watermelon with buck teeth and bug eyes. If I hadn't already known it was a girl, I couldn't have guessed from the picture. What was that medical name for children with a overdeveloped heads? Balloonheadism? Bigheaditis? Melonoma? Freak?

“She takes after her mother.”

Yeeech. My fertile mind produced an image of a naked Mrs. Potatohead, unhooking her bra. I shook away the thought and handed the picture back to the proud Papa.

“Where is Mom, by the way?”

Mr. Morribund leaned close enough for me to smell his lunch—tunafish on rye with a side order of whiskey. He was a thin guy with big eyes who wore an off-the-rack suit with a gold Save The Dolphins tie tack.

“Emily doesn't know I'm here, Mr. McGlade. She's at home with little Rosemary. Since we received the news she's been... upset.”

“I sympathize. Getting into the right pre-school can mean the difference between summa cum laude at Harvard and offering mouth sex in back alley Dumspters for crack money. I should know. I've seen it.”

“You've seen mouth sex in back alley Dumpsters?”

I nodded my head in what I hoped what looked like a sad way. “It isn't pretty, Mr. Morribund. Not to look at, or to smell. But I don't understand how you expect me to get little Rotisserie—”

“It's Rosemary.”

“—little Rosemary into this school if they already turned down your application. Are you looking for strong-arm work?”

“No, nothing like that.”

I frowned. I liked strong-arm work. It was one of the perks of being a private eye. That and breaking and entering.

“What then? Breaking and entering? Some stealing, maybe?”

I liked stealing.

Morribund swallowed, his Adam's apple wiggling in his thin neck. If he were any skinnier he wouldn't have a profile.

“The Salieri Academy is the premier pre-school in the nation, Mr. McGlade. They have a waiting list of thousands, and to even have a chance at attending you have to fill out the application five years before your child is conceived.”

“That's a long time to wait for nookie.” But then, if I were married to Mrs. Potatohead, I wouldn't mind the wait.

“It's the reason we took so long to have Rosemary. We paid the application fee, and were all but assured entrance. But three days after Rosemary was born, our application was denied.”

“Did they give a reason?” Other than the fact that your kid looks like an albino warthog who has been snacking on an air compressor?

“No. The application says they reserve the right to deny admittance at their discretion, and still keep the fee.”

“How much was the fee?”

“Ten thousand dollars.”

Ouch. You could rent a lot of naughty videos for that kind of money. And you'd need to, because those things get boring after the third or fourth viewing.

“So what's the deal? You want me to shake the guy down for the money.”

He shook his head. “Nothing of the sort. I'm not a violent man.”

“Spell it out, Mr. Morribund. What exactly do you want me to do? Burn down the school?”

I liked arson.

“Goodness, no. The Salieri School is run by a man named Michael Sousse.”

“And you want me to kidnap his pet dog and take pictures of me throwing it off a tall building, using my zoom lens to capture its final barks of terror as it takes the express lane to Pancakeville? Because that's where I draw the line, Mr. Morribund. I may be a thug, a thief, and an arsonist, but I won't harm any innocent animals unless there's a bonus involved.”

Morribund raised an eyebrow. “You'd do that to a dog? The Internet said you love animals.”

“I do love animals. Grilled, fried, and broiled. Or stuffed with cheese. I'd eat any animal if it had enough cheese on top. It wouldn't even have to be dead first.”

“Oh.”

Morribund made a face, and I could tell he was thinking through things. I glanced again at his Save the Dolphins tie tack and realized I might have been a little hasty with my meat-lovers rant.

“I had a dog once,” I said.

“Really?”

“Never tried to eat him. Not once.”

I mimed crossing my heart. Morribund stared at me. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, softer.

“Headmaster Sousse, he's a terrible man. A hunter. Gets his jollies shooting poor little innocent animals. His office is strewn with so-called hunting trophies. It's disgusting.”

“Sounds awful,” I said, stifling a yawn.

“Mr. McGlade,” he leaned in closer, giving me more tuna and bourbon. “I want you to find out something about Sousse. Something that I could use to convince him to accept our application.”

I scratched my unshaven chin. Or maybe it was my unshaved chin. I get those words confused.

“I understand. You want me to dig up some dirt. Something you can use to blackmail Sousse and get Rheumatism—”

“Rosemary.”

“—into his school. Well, you're in luck, Mr. Morribund, because I'm very good at this kind of thing. And even if I don't find anything incriminating in his past, I can make stuff up.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can take pictures of him in the shower, and then Photoshop in the Vienna Boy's Choir washing his back. Or I can make it look like he's pooping on the floor of the White House. Or being intimate with a camel. Or eating a nun. Or...”

“I don't want the sordid details, Mr. McGlade. I simply want some kind of leverage. How much will something like that cost?”

I leaned back in my chair and put my hands behind my head, showing off my shoulder holster beneath my jacket. I always let them see the gun before I discussed my fees. It dissuaded haggling.

“I get four hundred a day. Three days minimum, in advance. Plus expenses. I may need to bring in a computer expert to do the Photoshop stuff. He's really good.”

I took a pic out of my desk drawer and tossed it to him. Morribund flinched. I smiled at his reaction.

“Looks real, doesn't it?”

“This is fake?”

“Not a single baby harp seal was harmed.”

“Really?”

“Well actually, they were all clubbed to death and skinned. But the laughing guy in the parka wasn't really there. We Photoshopped him into the scene. That's the beauty and magic of jpeg manipulation. Look at this one.” I threw another photo onto his lap. “Check out that bloody discharge. And those pustules. Don't they look real? It's like they're going to burst all over your hands.”

Morribund frowned. “I've seen enough.”

“Want to see one with my head on Brad Pitt's body with Ron Jeremy's junk?”

“I really don't.”

“How about one of a raccoon driving a motorcycle? He's wearing sunglasses and flipping the bird.”

Morribund stood up.

“I'm sure you'll come up with something satisfactory. When can you get started?”

I fished an appointment book out of my top drawer. It was from 1996, and only contained doodles of naked butts. I pretended to scrutinize it.

“You're in luck,” I said, pulling out a pen. I drew another butt. A big one, that took up the entire third week of September. “I can start as soon as your check clears.”

“I don't trust checks.”

“Credit card?”

“I dislike the high interest rates. How about cash?”

“Cash works for me.”

After he handed it over I got his phone number, he found his own way to the door, and I did the Money Dance around my office, making happy noises and shaking my booty.

Things had been slow around the agency lately, due to my lack of renewing my Yellow Pages ad. I didn't get many referrals, because I charged too much and wasn't good at my job. Luckily, Morribund had found me through my Internet site. The same computer geek who did my Photoshop work was also the webmaster of my homepage. Google “Chicago cheating spouse sex pictures” and I was the fourth listing. If you Google “naked rhino make-over” I was number two. I still didn't understand the whole keyword thing. That's probably why Morribund thought I was an animal lover.

A quick check of my watch told me I wasn't wearing one, so I looked at the display on my cell phone. Almost two in the afternoon. Time to get started.

I booted up the computer to search for the Salieri School and Christopher Sousse. But instead, I wound up on YouTube, and watched videos of a monkey in a funny hat, a fat woman falling down the stairs, and a Charlie Brown cartoon that someone dubbed over with the voice track to Goodfellas.

After wasting almost an hour, I went to MySpace and read all of my messages from all of my friends, all of whom seemed to work in the paid escort industry.

After that, I checked my eBay bids, my Hotmail account, and added a new entry to my blog about the high cost of parking in the city.

After that, porn.

Finally, I located the Salieri School's website, found their phone number, and dialed.

“Salieri Academy for Exceptionally Gifted Four-Year-Olds, where children are our future and should be heavily invested in, this is Miss Janice, may I help you?”

Miss Janice had a voice like a hot oil massage, deep and sensual and full of petroleum.

“My name is McGlade. Harrison Harold McGlade. I'd like to enroll my son Stimey into your school.”

“I'm sorry sir, there's a minimum five year waiting period to get accepted into the Salieri academy. How old is your son now?”

“He's seven.”

“We only accept four-year-olds.”

“He's got the mind of a four-year-old. Retard. Mom dropped him down an escalator, he fell for forty minutes. Very sad. All someone had to do was hit the off switch.”

“I don't understand.”

“Why? You a retard too?”

“Mr. McGlade...”

“I'm willing to pay money, Miss Janice. Big money. I'll triple your enrollment fee.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Okay, I'll double it.”

“I don't think that...”

“Look, honey, is Mikey there? He assured me I'd be treated better than this.”

“You know Mr. Sousse?”

“Yeah. We played water polo together in college. I saved his horse from drowning.”

“Perhaps I should put you through to him.”

“Don't bother. I'll be there in an hour with a suitcase full of cash. I won't bring Stimey, because he's with his tutor tonight, learning how to chew. Keep the light on for me.”

I hung up, feeling smug. I hadn't shared this with Morribung, but this case really hit home for me. Years ago, when I was a toddler, I'd been forced to drop out of pre-school because I kept biting and hitting the other children. The unfairness of it, being discriminated against because I was a bully, still haunted me to this day.

I hit the computer again and prowled the Internet for dirt on Sousse. Nothing jumped out at me, other than a minor news article a few weeks back about one of his teachers being dismissed for reasons unknown. According to the story, Sousse was deeply embarrassed by the incident and refused to comment.

Then I surfed for Morribund and his wife and kid, and found zilch.

Then I surfed for naked pictures of Catherine Zeta Jones until it was time for me to keep my appointment.

But first, I needed to gear up.

I wound my spy tie around my neck, careful with the wires. Concealed in the tie clip was a digital camera, a unidirectional microphone, and a 20 gigabyte mp3 player loaded with bootleg Tori Amos concerts. It weighed about two pounds, and hurt my back to wear. But it would be my best chance at clandestinely snapping a few photos of Mr. Sousse during our meeting—photos I could later retouch so it looked like he was molesting a pile of dirty laundry.

People would pay a lot of money to keep their dirty laundry out of the news.

Forty minutes later I was pulling into a handicapped parking spot in front of the Salieri Academy on Irving Park Road. Last year, I'd bought a handicapped parking sticker from a one-legged man in line at the DMV. It only cost me ten dollars. He had demanded five hundred, but I simply grabbed the sticker and strolled away at a leisurely pace. Guy shouldn't be driving with only one leg anyway.

The Academy was a large, ivy-covered brick building, four stories high, in the middle of a residential area. As I was reaching for the front door it began to open. A woman exited, holding the hand of a small boy. She was smartly dressed in skirt and blazer, high heels, long brown hair, maybe in her mid-thirties. The boy looked like a honey-baked ham stuffed into a school uniform, right down to the bright pink face and greasy complexion. When God was dishing out the ugly, this kid got seconds.

I played it smooth. “Wouldn't let you in, huh?”

“Excuse me?”

I pointed my chin at the child.

“Wilbur, here. All he's missing is the curly tail. The Academy won't take fatties, right?”

The boy squinted up at me.

“Mother, is this stupid man insinuating that I have piggish attributes?”

I made a face. “Who are you calling stupid? And what does insinuating mean?”

“Just ignore him, Jasper. We can't be bothered by plebeians.”

“Hey lady, I'm 100% American.”

“You're 100% ignoramus.”

“What do dinosaurs have to do with this?”

She ushered the little porker past me—no doubt off to build a house of straw—and I slipped through the doorway and into the lobby. There were busts of dead white guys on marble pedestals all around the room, and the artwork adorning the walls was so ugly it had to be expensive. I crossed the carpeted floor to the welcoming desk, set on a riser so the secretary looked down on everyone. This particular secretary was smoking hot, with big sensuous lips and a top drawer pulled all the way out. Also, large breasts.

“May I help you, Sir?”

Her voice was sultry, but her smile hinted that help was the last thing she wanted to give me. I got that look a lot, from people who thought they were superior somehow due to their looks, education, wealth, or upbringing. It never failed to unimpress me.

“I called earlier, Miss Janice. I'm here to see Mikey.”

Her smile dropped a fraction. “I informed Mr. Sousse that you were coming, and he regrets to inform you that—”

“Cork up that gas leak, sweetheart. I'm really a private detective. I'd like a chance to talk with Mr. Sousse about some embarrassing facts I've uncovered about one of your teachers here,” I said, referring to that incident I'd Googled. “Of course, if he doesn't want to talk with me, he can hear about it on the ten o'clock news. But I doubt it will do much for enrollment, especially after that last unfortunate episode.”

Miss Janice played it coy. “Whom on our staff are you referring to?”

“Are you Mr. Sousse? I can avert my eyes if you want to lift your skirt and check.”

She blushed, then picked up the phone. I gave her a placating smile similar to the one she greeted me with.

“Do you have ID?” she asked, still holding the receiver.

I flashed my PI license. She did some whispering, then hung up.

“Mr. Sousse will see you now.”

“How lucky for me.”

She stared. I stared back.

“You gonna tell me where his office is, or should I just wander around, yelling his name?”

She frowned. “Room 315. The elevator is down the hall, on the left.”

I hated to leave with an attractive woman annoyed with me, so I decided to disarm her with wit.

“You know, my father was an elevator operator. His career had a lot of ups and downs.”

Miss Janice kept frowning.

“He hated how people used to push his buttons,” I said.

No response at all.

“Then, one day, he got the shaft.”

She crossed her arms. “That's not funny.”

“You're telling me. He fell six floors to his death.”

Her frown deepened.

“Tell me, do they have heat on your planet?” I asked.

“Mr. Sousse is expecting you.”

I nodded, my work here done. Then it was into the elevator and up to the third floor.

Sousse's office was decorated in 1960's Norman Bates, with low lighting that threw shadows on the stuffed owls and bear heads and antlers hanging on the walls. Sousse, a stern-looking man with glasses and a bald head, sat behind a desk the size of a small car shaped like a desk, and he was sneering at me when I entered.

“Miss Janice said you're a private investigator.” His nostrils flared. “I don't care for that profession.”

“Don't take it literally. I'm not here to investigate your privates. I just need to ask you a few questions.”

A stuffed duck—of all things—was propped on his desktop, making it impossible for me to get a clear shot of his face with my cleverly concealed camera tie. I moved a few steps to the left.

“Which of my staff are you inquiring about?”

“That's confidential.”

“If you can't tell me who we're discussing, why is it you wanted to see me?”

“That's confidential too.”

I shifted right, touched the tie bar, heard the shutter click. But the lighting was pretty low.

“I don't understand how I'm supposed to—”

“Does this office have better lights?” I interrupted. “I'm having trouble seeing you. I'm getting older, and got cadillacs in my eyes.”

“Cadillacs?”

I squinted. “Who said that?”

“Do you mean cataracts?”

“I don't like your tone,” I said, intentionally pointing at a moose head.

Sousse sighed, all drama queen, and switched on the overhead track lighting.

Click click went my little camera.

“Did you hear something?” he asked.

I snapped a few more pics, getting him with his mouth open. My tech geek should be able to Photoshop that into something particularly rude.

“Does your tie have a camera in it?” he asked.

I reflexively covered up the tie and hit the button for the mp3 player. Tori Amos began to sing about her mother being a cornflake girl in that whiney, petulant way that made her a superstar. I fussed with the controls, and only succeeded in turning up the volume.

Sousse folded his arms.

“I think this interview is over.”

“Fine,” I said, loud to be heard over Tori. “But you'll be hearing from me and Morribund again.”

“Who?”

“Don't play coy. People like you disgust me, Mr. Sousse. Sure, I'm a carnivore. But I don't get my jollies hunting down ducks and mooses and deers and squirrels.” I pointed to a squirrel hanging on the wall, dressed up in a little cowboy outfit. “What kind of maniac hunts squirrels?”

“I'm not a hunter, you idiot. I abhor hunting. I'm a taxidermist.”

“Well, then I'm sure the IRS would love to hear about your little operation. You better hope you have a good accountant and that your taxidermist is in perfect order.”

I spun on my heels and got out of there.

Mission accomplished. I should have felt happy, but something was nagging at me. Several somethings, in fact.

On my way through the lobby, I stopped by Miss Janice's desk again.

“When Sousse fired that teacher a few weeks ago, what was the reason?”

“That's none of your business, Mr. McGlade.”

“Some sex thing?”

“Certainly not!”

“Inappropriate behavior?”

“I won't say another word.”

“Fine. If you want me to pick you up later and take you to dinner, stay silent.”

“I'd rather be burned alive.”

“We can do that after we've eaten.”

“No. I think you're annoying and repulsive.”

“How about a few drinks? The more you drink, the less repulsive I get.”

She folded her arms and her voice went from sultry to frosty. “Employees of the Salieri Academy don't drink, Mr. McGlade.”

“I understand. How about we take a handful of pills and smoke a bowl?”

“I'm calling security.”

“No need. I'm outtie. Catch you later, sweetheart.”

I winked, then headed back to my office. When I arrived, I spend a good half hour on the Internet, digging deeper into the Salieri story, using a reverse phone directory to track a number, and looking up the words insinuating, plebian, ignoramous, and taxidermist. Then I gave Morribund a call and told him I had something for him.

An hour later he showed up, looking expectant to the point of jubilation. Jubilation is another word I looked up.

“Did you get the pictures, Mr. McGlade?”

“I got them.”

“You're fast.”

“I know. Ask my last girlfriend.”

We stared at each other for a few seconds.

“So, are you going to give them to me?”

“No, Mr. Morribund. I'm not.”

He leaned in closer, the whiskey coming off him like cologne. “Why? You want more money?”

“I'll take all the money you give me, but I'm not going to give you the photos.”

“Why not?”

I smiled. It was time for the big revealing expositional moment.

“There are a lot of things I hate, Mr. Morribund. Like public toilets. And the Red Sox. And massage girls who make you pay extra for happy endings. But the thing I hate the most is being lied to by a client.”

“Me? Lie to you? What are you talking about?”

“You don't want to get your daughter into the Salieri Academy. You don't even have a daughter.”

His eyes narrowed.

“You're insane. Why would you think such a thing?”

“When I went to the Academy, I ran into some kid in a Salieri uniform, and he was uglier than a hatful of dingle-berries with hair on them. If he got in, then the school had no restrictions according to looks. Isn't that right, Mr. Morribund? Or should I use your real name... Nathan Tribble?”

He sighed, knowing he was beaten. “How did you figure it out?”

“You didn't pay me with a check or credit card, because you didn't have any in the name you gave me. But you did give me your real phone number, and I looked it up in the Internet. I also found out you once worked at the Salieri Academy. Fired a few weeks ago. For drinking, I assume.”

“It never affected my job! I was the best instructor that stupid school ever had!”

I didn't care about debating him, because I wasn't done with my brilliant explanation yet.

“You came to me because you found me on the Internet and thought I liked dogs. That's why you wore that Save the Dolphins tie tack. You said Sousse was a hunter, to make me dislike him so I'd go along with your blackmail scheme.”

“Enough. We've established I was lying.”

But I still had more exposing to expose, so I went on.

“Sousse isn't a hunter, Tribble. He's a taxidermist. And you're no animal lover either. You can't be pro-dolphin and also eat tuna. Tuna fisherman catch and kill dolphins all the time. But your breath smelled of tuna during our last meeting.”

“Why are you telling me things I already know?”

“Because that's what I do, Tribble. I figure out puzzles by putting together all the little pieces until they all fit together and form a full picture, made of the little puzzle pieces I've fit together. Or something.”

“You're a low-life, McGlade. All you do is take dirty pictures of people. Or you make up dirty pictures when there are none to take.”

“I may be a low-life. And a thief. And a voyeur. And an arsonist. And a leg-breaker. But I'm not a liar. You're the liar, Tribble. And you made a big mistake. You lied to me.”

Tribble snorted. “So? Big deal. I got fired, and I wanted to take revenge. I figured you wouldn't do it if I asked, so I made up the story about the daughter, and added the pro-animal garbage to get you hooked. What does it matter? Just give me the damn pictures and you can go play Agatha Christie by yourself in the shower.”

I stood up.

“Get out of my office, Tribble. I'm going to make two calls. The first, to Sousse, to tell him what you've got planned. I bet he can make sure you'll never get a teaching job in this town again. The second call will be to a buddy of mine at the Chicago Police Department. She'll love to learn about your little blackmail scheme.”

Tribble looked like I just peed in his oatmeal.

“What about the money I gave you?”

“No give-backsies.”

He balled his fists, made a face, then stormed out of my office.

I grinned. It had been a productive day. I'd made a cool twelve hundred bucks for only a few hours of work, and that was only the beginning of the money train.

I got on the phone to my tech geek, and told him I was forwarding a photo I needed him to doctor. I think Sousse would look perfect Photshopped into a KKK rally, wearing a Nazi armband and goose-stepping.

Sure, I wasn't a liar. But I was a sucker for a good blackmail scheme.

Not bad for a pre-school drop-out.

Overproof

My friend Libby Fischer Hellmann edited an anthology called Chicago Blues, published by Bleak House in 2007. I wrote a Jack story for her, based on a premise I thought of while stuck in traffic downtown. Why do cars get gridlocked? Here's one possible answer...

The man sat in the center of the southbound lane on Michigan Avenue, opposite Water Tower Place, sat cross-legged and seemingly oblivious to the mile of backed-up traffic, holding a gun that he pointed at his own head.

I'd been shopping at Macy's, and purchased a Gucci wallet as a birthday gift for my boyfriend, Latham. When I walked out onto Michigan I was hit by the cacophony of several hundred honking horns and the unmistakable shrill of a police whistle. I hung my star around my neck and pushed through the crowd that had gathered on the sidewalk. Chicago's Magnificent Mile was always packed during the summer, but the people were usually moving in one direction or the other. These folks were standing still, watching something.

Then I saw what they were watching.

I assumed the traffic cop blowing the whistle had called it in—he had a radio on his belt. He'd stopped cars in both directions, and had enforced a twenty meter perimeter around the guy with the gun.

I took my .38 Colt out of my purse and walked over, holding up my badge with my other hand. The cop was black, older, the strain of the situation heavy on his face.

“Lt. Jack Daniels, Homicide.” I had to yell above the car horns. “What's the ETA on the negotiator?”

“Half hour, at least. Can't get here because of the jam.”

He made a gesture with his white gloved hand, indicating the gridlock surrounding us.

“You talk to this guy?”

“Asked him his name, if he wanted anything. Told me to leave him alone. Don't have to tell me twice.”

I nodded. The man with the gun was watching us. He was white, pudgy, mid-forties, clean shaven and wearing a blue suit and a red tie. He looked calm but focused. No tears. No shaking. As if it was perfectly normal to sit in the middle of the street with a pistol at your own temple.

I kept my Colt trained on the perp and took another step toward him. If he flinched, I'd shoot him. The shrinks had a term for it: suicide by cop. People who didn't have the guts to kill themselves, so they forced the police to. I didn't want to be the one to do it. Hell, it was the absolute last thing I wanted to do. I could picture the hearing, being told the shooting was justified, and I knew that being in the right wouldn't help me sleep any better if I had to murder this poor bastard.

“What's your name?” I asked.

“Paul.”

The gun he had was small, looked like a .380. Something higher caliber would likely blow through both sides of his skull and into the crowd. This bullet probably wasn't powerful enough. But it would do a fine job of killing him. Or me, if he decided he wanted some company in the afterlife.

“My name is Jack. Can you put the gun down, Paul?”

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

That was about the extent of my hostage negotiating skills. I dared a step closer, coming within three feet of him, close enough to smell his sweat.

“What's so bad that you have to do this?”

Paul stared at me without answering. I revised my earlier thought about him looking calm. He actually looked numb. I glanced at his left hand, saw the wedding ring.

“Problems with the wife?” I asked.

His Adam's apple bobbled up and down as he swallowed. “My wife died last year.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't be. You married?”

“Divorced. What was your wife's name, Paul?”

“Doris.”

“What do you think Doris would say if she saw you like this?”

Paul's face pinched into a sad smile. My Colt Detective Special weighed twenty-two ounces, and my arm was getting tired holding it up. I brought my left hand under my right to brace it, my palm on the butt of the weapon.

“Do you think you'll get married again?” he asked.

I thought about Latham. “It will happen, sooner or later.”

“You have someone, I'm guessing.”

“Yes.”

“Does he like it that you're a cop?”

I considered the question before answering. “He likes the whole package.”

Paul abruptly inhaled. A snort? I couldn't tell. I did a very quick left to right sweep with my eyes. The crowd was growing, and inching closer—one traffic cop couldn't keep everyone back by himself. The media had also arrived. Took them long enough, considering four networks had offices within a few blocks.

“Waiting for things to happen, that's a mistake.” Paul closed his eyes for a second, then opened them again. “If you want things to happen, you have to make them happen. Because you never know how long things are going to last.”

He didn't seem depressed. More like irritated. I took a slow breath, smelling the cumulative exhaust of a thousand cars and buses, wishing the damn negotiator would arrive.

“Do you live in the area, Paul?”

He sniffled, sounding congested. “Suburbs.”

“Do you work downtown?”

“Used to. Until about half an hour ago.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Can you give me more than that?”

He squinted at me. “Why do you care?”

“It's my job, Paul.”

“It's your job to protect people.”

“Yes. And you're a person.”

“You want to protect me from myself.”

“Yes.”

“You also want to protect these people around us.”

“Yes.”

“How far away are they, do you think? Fifteen feet? Twenty?”

A strange question, and I didn't like it. “I don't know. Why?”

Paul made a show of looking around.

“Lot of people here. Big responsibility, protecting them all.”

He shifted, and my finger automatically tensed on the trigger. Paul said something, but it was lost in the honking.

“Can you repeat that, Paul?”

“Maybe life isn't worth protecting.”

“Sure it is.”

“There are bad people in the world. They do bad things. Should they be protected too?”

“Everyone should be protected.”

Paul squinted at me. “Have you ever shot anyone, Jack?”

Another question I didn't like.

“When I was forced to, yes. Please don't force me, Paul.”

“Have you ever killed anyone?”

“No.”

“Have you ever wanted to?”

“No.”

Paul made a face like I was lying. “Why not? Do you believe in God? In heaven? Are you one of those crazy right-to-lifers who believe all life is sacred? Do you protest the death penalty?”

“I believe blood is hard to get off of your hands, even if it's justified.”

He shifted again, and his jacket came open. There was a spot of something on his shirt. Something red. Both my arms were feeling the strain of holding up my weapon, and a spike of fear-induced adrenalin caused a tremor in my hands.

“What's that on your shirt, Paul? Is that blood?”

He didn't bother to look. “Probably.”

I kept my voice steady. “Did you go to work today, Paul?”

“Yes.”

“Did you bring your gun to work?”

No answer. I glanced at the spot of blood again, and noticed that his stomach didn't look right. I'd first thought Paul was overweight. Now it looked like he had something bulky on under his shirt.

“Did you hurt anyone at work today, Paul?”

“That's the past, Jack. You can't protect them. What's done is done.”

I was liking this situation less and less. That spot of blood drew my eyes like a beacon. I wondered if he was wearing a bullet proof vest under his business suit, or something worse.

“I don't want to go to jail,” he said.

“What did you do, Paul?”

“They shouldn't have fired me.”

“Who? Where do you work?”

“Since Doris died, I haven't been bringing my 'A Game.' That's understandable, isn't it?”

I raised my voice. “How did you get blood on your shirt, Paul?”

Paul glared at me, but his eyes were out of focus.

“When you shot those people, did they scream?” he asked.

I wasn't sure what he was after, so I stayed silent.

He grinned. “Doesn't it make you feel good when they scream?”

Now I got it. This guy wasn't just suicidal—he was homicidal as well. I took a step backward.

“Don't leave, Jack. I want you to see this. You should see this. I'm moving very slow, okay?”

He put his hand into his pocket. I cocked the hammer back on my Colt. Paul fished out something small and silver, and I was a hair's breadth away from shooting him.

“This is a detonator. I've got some explosives strapped to my chest. If you take another step away, if you yell, I'll blow both of us up. And the bomb is strong enough to kill a lot of people in the crowd. It's also wired to my heartbeat. I die, it goes off.”

I didn't know if I believed him or not. Explosives weren't easy to get, or to make. And rigging up a detonator—especially one that was hooked into your pulse—that was really hard, even if you could find the plans on the Internet. But Paul's eyes had just enough hint of psychosis in them that I stayed put.

“Do you doubt me, Jack? I see some doubt. I work at LarsiTech, out of the Prudential Building. We sell medical equipment. That's where I got the ECG electrode pads. It's also where I got the radioactive isotopes.”

My breath caught in my throat, and my gun became impossibly heavy. Paul must have noticed my reaction, because he smiled.

“The isotopes won't cause a nuclear explosion, Jack. The detonator is too small. But they will spread radioactivity for a pretty good distance. You've heard of dirty bombs, right? People won't die right away. They'll get sick. Hair will fall out. And teeth. Skin will slough off. Blindness. Leukemia. Nasty business. I figure I've got enough strapped to my waist to contaminate the whole block.”

All I could ask was, “Why?”

“Because I'm a bad person, Jack. Remember? Bad people do bad things.”

“Would Doris...approve...of this?”

“Doris didn't approve of anything. She judged. Judged every little thing I did. I half expected to be haunted by her ghost after I shot her, telling me how I could have done a better job.”

I didn't have any saliva left in my mouth, so my voice came out raspy.

“What happened today at LarsiTech?”

“A lot of people got what was coming to them. Bad people, Jack. Maybe they weren't all bad. I didn't know some of them well enough. But we all have bad in us. I'm sure they deserved it. Just like this crowd of people.”

He looked beyond me.

“Like that woman there, pointing at me. Looks nice enough. Probably has a family. I'm sure she's done some bad things. Maybe she hits her kids. Or she stuck her mom in a nursing home. Or cheats on her taxes. We all have bad in us.”

His Helter Skelter eyes swung back to me.

“What have you done that's bad, Jack?”

A cop's job was to take control of the situation, and somehow I'd lost that control.

“You're not thinking clearly, Paul. You're depressed. You need to put down the detonator and the gun.”

“You have five seconds to tell me something bad you've done, or I press the button.”

“I'll shoot you, Paul.”

“And then a lot of people will die, Jack. Five...”

“This isn't a game, Paul.”

“Four...”

“Don't make me do this.”

“Three...”

Was he bluffing? Did I have any options? My .38 pointed at his shoulder. If I shot him, it might get him to drop the detonator. Or it might kill him and then his bomb would explode. Or it might just piss him off and get him to turn his gun on me.

“Two...”

It came out in a spurt. “I cheated on my boyfriend with my ex husband.”

The corners of Paul's eyes crinkled up.

“Does your boyfriend know, Jack?”

“Yes.”

“He found out, or you told him?”

I recalled the pained expression on Latham's face. “I told him.”

“He forgave you?”

“Yes.”

Paul chewed his lower lip, looking like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

“Did it feel good to hurt him, Jack?”

“No.”

Paul seemed to drink this in.

“You must have known it would hurt him, but you did it anyway. So some part of you must not have minded hurting him.”

“I didn't want to hurt him. I just cared more about my needs than his.”

“You were being selfish.”

“Yes.”

“You were being bad.”

The word stuck like a chicken bone in my throat. “Yes.”

His thumb caressed the detonator, and he licked his lips.

“What's the difference between that and what I'm doing right now?”

The gun weighed a hundred pounds, and my arms were really starting to shake.

“I broke a man's heart. You're planning on killing a bunch of people. That's worse.”

Paul raised an eyebrow. “So I'm a worse person than you?”

I hesitated, then said, “Yes.”

“Do you want to shoot me?”

“No.”

“But I'm bad. I deserve it.”

“Bad things can be forgiven, Paul.”

“Do you think your boyfriend would forgive me if I killed you?”

I pictured Latham. His forgiveness was the best gift I'd ever gotten. It proved that love had no conditions. That mistakes weren't deal breakers.

I wanted to live to see Latham again.

Regain control, Jack. Demand proof.

“Show me the bomb,” I said to Paul. My tone was hard, professional. I wasn't going to neutralize the situation by talking. Paul was too far gone. When dealing with bullies, you have to push back or you won't gain their respect.

“No,” he said.

Louder, “Show me the bomb!”

At the word bomb a collective wail coursed through the crowd, and they began to stampede backward.

He began to shake, and his eyes became mean little slits. “What did I say about yelling, Jack?”

Paul's finger danced over the detonator button.

“You're bluffing.” I chanced a look around. The perimeter was widening.

“I'll prove I'm not bluffing by blowing up the whole—”

I got even closer, thrusting my chin at him, steadying my gun.

“I'm done with this, Paul. Drop the gun and the detonator, or I'm going to shoot you.”

“If you shoot me, you'll die.”

“I'm not going to believe that unless you show me the goddamn bomb.”

Time stretched out, slowed. After an impossibly long second he lowered his eyes, reaching down for his buttons.

I was hoping he was bluffing, praying he was bluffing, and then his shirt opened and I saw the red sticks of dynamite.

Son of a bitch. He wasn't bluffing.

I couldn't let him press that detonator. So I fired.

Thousands of hours on the shooting range meant the move was automatic, mechanical. His wrist exploded in blood and bone, and before the scream escaped his lips I put one more in the opposite shoulder. He dropped both his gun and the detonator. I kicked them away, hoping I hadn't killed him, hoping he'd be alive until help came.

I stared at his chest, saw two electrode pads hooked up to his heart. His waist was surrounded by explosives, and in the center was a black box with a radiation symbol on it.

Paul coughed, then slumped onto his back. His wrist spurted, and his shoulder poured blood onto the pavement like a faucet. Each bullet had severed an artery. He was doomed.

I shrugged off my jacket, pressed it to the shoulder wound, and yelled, “Bomb! Get out of here!” to the few dozen idiots still gawking. Then I grabbed Paul's chin and made him look at me.

“How do I disarm this, Paul?”

His voice was soft, hoarse. “...you...you killed me...”

“Paul! Answer me! How can I shut off the bomb!”

His eyelids fluttered. My blazer had already soaked through with blood.

“...how...”

“Yes, Paul. Tell me how.”

“...how does...”

“Please, Paul. Stay with me.”

His eyes locked on mine.

“...how does it feel to finally kill someone?”

Then his head tilted to the side and his mouth hung open.

I felt for the pulse in his neck. Barely there. He didn't have long.

I checked the crowd again. The traffic cop had fled, and the drivers of the surrounding cars had abandoned them. No paramedics rushed over, lugging life-saving equipment. No bomb squad technicians rushed over, to cut the wires and save the day. It was only me, and Paul. Soon it would be only me, and a few seconds later I'd be gone too.

Should I run, give myself a chance to live? How much contamination would this dirty bomb spread? Would I die anyway, along with hundreds or thousands of others? I didn't know anything about radiation. How far could it travel? Could it go through windows and buildings? How much death could it cause?

Running became moot. Paul's chest quivered, and then was still.

I knew even less about the inner working of the human body than I did about radiation. If I started CPR, would that trick the bomb into thinking Paul's heart was still beating?

I didn't have time to ponder it. Without thinking I tore off the electrodes and stuck them up under my shirt, under my bra, fixing them to my chest, hoping to find my heartbeat and stop the detonation.

I held my breath.

Nothing exploded.

I looked around again, saw no help. And none could get to me, with the traffic jam. I needed to move, to get to the next intersection, to find a place where the bomb squad could get to me.

But first I called Dispatch.

“This is Lieutenant Jack Daniels, from the 26th District. I'm on the corner of Michigan and Pearson. I need the bomb squad. A dirty bomb is hooked up to my heartbeat. I also need someone to check out a company downtown called LarsiTech, a medical supply company in the Prudential Building. There may have been some homicides there.”

I gave the Dispatch officer my cell number, then grabbed Paul's wrist and began to drag him to the curb. It wasn't easy. My grip was slippery with blood, and the asphalt was rough and pulled at his clothes. I would tug, make sure the electrodes were still attached, take a step, and repeat.

Halfway there my cell rang.

“This is Dispatch. The bomb squad is on the way, ETA eight minutes. Are you sure on the company name, Lieutenant?”

“He said it several times.”

“There's no listing for LarsiTech in the Prudential Building. I spelled it several different ways.”

“Then where is LarsiTech?”

“No place I could find. Chicago had three medical supply companies, and I called them all. They didn't report any problems. The phone book has no LarsiTech. Information has no listing in Illinois, or the whole nation.”

I looked down at Paul, saw the wires had ripped out of the black box. And that the black box had a local cable company's name written on the side. And that the radiation symbol was actually a sticker that was peeling off. And that the dynamite was actually road flares with their tops cut off.

Suicide by cop.

I sat down in the southbound lane on Michigan Avenue, sat down and stared at my hands, at the blood caked under the fingernails, and wondered if I'd ever be able to get them clean.

Bereavement

In 2005 I decided that I knew so many thriller authors I should edit an anthology. It developed into a collection of hitman stories called These Guns For Hire. I'm hugely proud of that antho, which was published in 2006 by Bleak House. I also discovered that the easiest way to get published is to stick one of your own stories in the anthology that you're editing.

“Why should you care? Guys like you got no scruples.”

If I had any scruples, I would have fed this asshole his teeth. Or at least walked away.

But he was right.

“Half up front,” I said. “Half at the scene.”

He looked at me like flowers had suddenly sprouted out of my bald head, Elmer Fudd-style.

“At the scene?”

I'd been through this before, with others. Everyone seemed to want their spouse dead these days. Contract murder was the new black.

I leaned back, pushing away the red plastic basket with the half-eaten hot dog. We were the only customers in Jimmy's Red Hots, the food being the obvious reason we dined alone. The shit on a bun they served was a felony.. If my stomach wasn't clenched tight with codeine withdrawal spasms, I might have complained.

“You want her dead,” I said, fighting to keep my voice steady. “The cops always go after the husband.”

He didn't seem to mind the local cuisine, and jammed the remainder of his dog into his mouth, hoarding it in his right cheek as he spoke.

“I was thinking she's home alone, someone breaks in to rob the place, gets surprised and kills her.”

“And why weren't you home?”

“I was out with friends.”

He was a big guy. Over six feet, neck as thick as his head so he looked like a redwood with a face carved into it. Calloused knuckles and a deep tan spoke of a blue collar trade, maybe construction. Probably considered killing the little lady himself, many times. A hands-on type. He seemed disappointed having to hire out.

Found me through the usual channels. Knew someone who knew someone. Fact was, the sicker I got, the less I cared about covering my tracks. Blind drops and background checks and private referrals were things of the past. So many people knew what I did I might as well be walking around Chicago wearing a sandwich board that said, “Phineas Troutt–He Kills People For Money.”

“Cops will know you hired someone,” I told him. “They'll look at your sheet.”

He squinted, mean dropping over him like a veil.

“How do you know about that?”

The hot dog smell was still getting to me, so I picked up my basket and set it on the garbage behind out table.

“Let me guess,” I said. “Battery.”

He shrugged. “Domestic bullshit. Little bitch gets lippy sometimes.”

“Don't they all.”

I felt the hot dog coming back up, forced it to stay put. A sickening, flu-like heat washed over me.

“You okay, buddy?”

Sweat stung my eyes, and I noticed my hands were shaking. Another cramp hit, making me flinch.

“What are you, some kinda addict?”

“Cancer,” I said.

He didn't appear moved by my response.

“Can you still do this shit?”

“Yeah.”

“How long you got?”

Months? Weeks? The cancer had metastasized from my pancreas, questing for more of me to conquer. At this stage, treatment was bullshit. Only thing that helped was cocaine, tequila, and codeine. Being broke meant a lot of pain, plus withdrawal, which was almost as bad.

I had to get some money. Fast.

“Long enough,” I told him.

“You look like a little girl could kick your ass.”

I gave him my best tough-guy glare, then reached for the half-empty glass bottle of ketchup. Maintaining eye contact, I squeezed the bottle hard in my trembling hands. In one quick motion, I jerked my wrist to the side, breaking the top three inches of the bottle cleanly off.

“Jesus,” he said.

I dropped the piece on the table and he stared at it, mouth hanging open like a fish. I shoved my other hand into my pocket, because I cut my palm pretty deep. Happens sometimes. Glass isn't exactly predictable.

“You leave the door open,” I told him. “I come in around 2am. I break your wife's neck. Then I break your nose.”

He went from awed to pissed. “Fuck you, buddy.”

“Cops won't suspect you if you're hurt. I'll also leave some of my blood on the scene.”

I watched it bounce around behind his Neanderthal brow ridge. Waited for him to fill in all the blanks. Make the connections. Take it to the next level.

His thoughts were so obvious I could practically see them form pictures over his head.

“Yeah.” He nodded, slowly at first, then faster. “That DNA shit. Prove someone else was there. And you don't care if you leave any, cause you're a dead man anyway.”

I shrugged like it was no big deal. Like I'd fully accepted my fate.

“When do we do this?”

“When can you have the money ready?”

“Anytime.”

“How about tonight?”

The dull film over his eyes evaporated, revealing a much younger man. One who had dreams and hopes and unlimited possibilities.

“Tonight is great. Tonight is perfect. I can't believe I'm finally gonna be rid of the bitch.”

“Till death do you part. Which brings me to the original question. Why don't you just divorce her?”

He grinned, showing years of bad oral hygiene.

“Bitch ain't keeping half my paycheck for life.”

Ain't marriage grand?

He gave me his address, we agreed upon a time, and then I followed him outside, put on a baseball cap and some sunglasses, escorted him down a busy Chinatown sidewalk to the bank, and rammed a knife in his back the second after he punched his PIN into the enclosed ATM.

I managed to puncture his lung before piercing his heart, and he couldn't draw a breath, couldn't scream. I put my bleeding hand under his armpit so he didn't fall over, and again he gave me that look, the one of utter disbelief.

“Don't be surprised,” I told him, pressing his CHECKING ACCOUNT button. “You were planning on killing me tonight, after I did your wife. You didn't want to pay me the other half.”

I pressed WITHDRAW CASH and punched in a number a few times higher than our agreed upon figure.

He tried to say something, but bloody spit came out.

“Plus, a large ATM withdrawal a few hours before your wife gets killed? How stupid do you think the cops are?”

His knees gave out, and I couldn't hold him much longer. My injured palm was bleeding freely, soaking into his shirt. But leaving DNA was the least of my problems. This was a busy bank, and someone would be walking by any second.

I yanked out the knife, having to put my knee against his back to do so because of the suction; gravity knives don't have blood grooves. Then I wiped the blade on his shirt, and jammed it and the cash into my jacket pocket.

He collapsed onto the machine, and somehow managed to croak, “Please.”

“No sympathy here,” I told him, pushing open the security door. “Guys like me got no scruples.”

Pot Shot

A lot of my readers like Herb, but for some reason I don't enjoy using him in shorts as much as Jack, Harry, and Phin. This is a rare exception. I originally wrote this as a chapbook, to give away at writing conferences. It deals with Herb's retirement, a topic later covered in greater detail in my novel Dirty Martini.

“How did you know pot roast is my favorite?”

Detective First Class Herb Benedict stepped into the kitchen, following the aroma. He gave his wife Bernice a peck on the cheek and made a show of sniffing deeply, then sighing.

“I've been making pot roast every Friday night for the past twenty-two years, and you say that every time you come home.”

Herb grinned. “What happens next?”

“You pinch me on the bottom, change into your pajamas, and we eat in the family room while watching HBO.”

“Sounds pretty good so far.” He gently tugged Bernice away from the stove and placed his hands on her bottom, squeezing. “Then what?”

Bernice gave Herb's ample behind a pinch of its own.

“After HBO we go upstairs, and I force you to make love to me.”

Herb sighed. “A tough job, but I have to repay you for the pot roast.”

He leaned down, his head tilted to kiss her, just as the bullet plinked through the bay window. It hit the simmering pot with the sound of a gong, showering gravy skyward.

Herb reacted instinctively. His left hand grabbed Bernice and pulled her down to the linoleum while his right yanked the Sig Sauer from his hip holster and trained it on the window.

Silence, for several frantic heartbeats.

“Herb...”

“Shh.”

From the street came the roar of an engine and screaming tires. They quickly blended into Chicago traffic. Herb wanted to go have a look, but a burning sensation in his hip stopped him. He reached down with his free hand, feeling dampness.

“Herb! You're been shot!”

He brought the fingers to his mouth.

“No—it's juice from the pot roast. Leaked down the stove.”

Motioning for his wife to stay down, Herb crawled over to the window and peered out. The neighborhood was quiet.

He turned his attention to the stove top. The stainless steel pot had a small hole in the side, pulsing gravy like a wound.

Herb wondered which was worse; his Friday night plans ruined, or the fact that someone just tried to kill him.

He looked into the pot and decided it was the former.

“Dammit. The bastards killed my pot roast.”

He tore himself away from the grue and dialed 911, asking that they send the CSU over. And for the CSU to bring a pizza.

#

Officer Dan Rogers leaned over the pot, his face somber.

“I'm sorry, Detective Benedict. There's nothing we can do to save the victim.”

Herb frowned around a limp slice of sausage and pepperoni. Over two dozen gourmet pizza places dotted Herb's neighborhood, and the Crime Scene Unit had gone to a chain-store. The greasy cardboard box the pie came in probably had more flavor.

“You might think you're amusing, but that's an eighteen dollar roast.”

“I can tell. Look at how tender it is. It's practically falling off the bone. And the aroma is heavenly. It's a damn shame.”

Officer Hajek snapped a picture. “Shouldn't let it go to waste. When you're done, can I take it home for the dog?”

Herb watched Roberts attack the roast with gloved hands and wanted to cry at the injustice of it all. Another slice of pizza found its way into Herb's mouth, but it offered no comfort.

“And...gotcha, baby!”

Rogers held up his prize with a pair of forceps. The slug was roughly half an inch long, shaped like a mushroom and dripping gravy.

It looked good enough to eat.

“I think it's a 22LR. Must have been a high velocity cartridge. Punched a hole through the window without shattering it.”

Herb and Rogers exchanged a knowing look, but didn't speak aloud because Bernice was nearby. Your typical gang member didn't bring a rifle on a drive-by shooting. Twenty-two caliber long range high speeds were favored by hunters.

And assassins.

Herb's mind backtracked over his career, of all the men he'd put away who held a grudge. After thirty-plus years on the force, there were too many to remember. He'd have to wade through old case files, cross-reference with recent parolees...

“Herb?”

“Hmm? Yes, Bernice?”

His wife's face appeared ready to crack. Herb had never seen her so fragile before.

“I...I called the glazier. They're open twenty-four-hours, so they're sending someone right away to fix the window, but they might not be here until late, and I don't know if–”

Herb took her in his arms, rubbed her back.

“It's okay, honey.”

“It's not okay.”

“You don't have to worry. Look how big a target I am, and they still missed.”

“Maybe we should put an APB out for a blind man,” Hajek offered.

Bernice pulled away, forcefully.

“This isn't a joke, Herb. You don't know what it's like, being a cop's wife. Every morning, when I kiss you before you go to work, I don't know if...”

The tears came. Herb reached for her, but Bernice shoved away his hands and hurried out of the kitchen.

Herb rubbed his eyes. No pot roast, no HBO, and certainly no nookie tonight. The evening's forecast; lousy pizza and waiting around for the glass man.

Being a cop sure had its perks.

#

The alarm went off, startling Herb awake.

Bernice's side of the bed remained untouched. She'd stayed in the guest room all night.

He found her in the kitchen, frying eggs. The stainless steel pot with the hole in it rested on top of their wicker garbage can, too large to fit inside.

“Smells good. Denver omelet?”

Bernice didn't answer.

“The glass guy said that homeowner's insurance should cover the cost. If you have time later today, can you give our agent a call? The bill is by the phone.”

Bernice remained silent, but began to furiously stir the eggs. They went from omelet to scrambled.

“There will be a squad car outside all day. Let me give you their number in case...”

“In case of what?” Bernice's red eyes accused him. “In case someone tries to kill me? No one's after me, Herb. I don't have any enemies. I'm a housewife.”

Herb wanted to get up and hold her, but knew she wouldn't allow it.

“I'll also have an escort, all day. It's standard procedure.”

“I don't care about procedure.”

“There's nothing more I can do, Bernice.”

“Yes there is. You can retire.”

Herb let the pain show on his face.

“I've got six more years until full pension.”

“Forget the full pension. We've got our savings. We've got our investments. We can make it work.”

“Bernice...”

“This isn't about money, and you know it. You'll never leave the Force. Not until they kick you out or...”

Bernice's eyes locked on the holey pot.

Herb had no reply. He skipped breakfast, showered, shaved, and began to dress. Normally, Bernice laid out an ironed shirt for him.

Not today.

“I'll be at the Center all day.”

Her voice startled Herb. She stood in the bedroom doorway, arms folded.

“I'd prefer if—”

“If I stay home? You go on with your life, and I have to hide in the house?”

Herb sighed.

“It's my job, Bernice.”

“I see. Volunteering doesn't count as a job because I'm not getting paid.”

“I didn't say that.”

Bernice walked away. Herb took a shirt from the hanger and put it on, wrinkles and all. He instructed the team outside to follow Bernice wherever she went, and then waited for his escorts to arrive to take him to work.

#

“It could be a thousand different people.”

Herb's partner, Lt. Jacqueline Daniels, looked up over the stack of printouts. Jack wore her brown hair up today, revealing gray roots. Her hands cradled a stained coffee mug.

“You only have yourself to blame, Herb. If you were a lousy cop, this pile would be a lot smaller.”

Herb blinked at the case files, a career's worth, propped on the desk. Though the amount was substantial, it didn't seem big enough. He opened another Twinkie and eased it in, wishing it was a Denver Omelet.

“I always wanted to be a cop. Even as a kid. I blame Dragnet. Joe Friday was my hero. I used to talk like him all the time. Drove my parents crazy.”

“You've got some Twinkie filling in your mustache, Mr. Friday.”

Herb wiped at his face. “Maybe I should transfer to Property Crimes. They never get death threats.”

“You just pushed it over two inches.”

Herb used his sleeve.

“What do you think, Jack?”

“Better, but now some of it is up your nose. Want to use my hand mirror?”

“I meant about the transfer.”

Jack set aside the report she'd been reading. “Seriously?”

“I'm a fin away from retirement. These are supposed to be my golden years. I should be golfing and taking cruises.”

“You hate golf. And the ocean.”

“I also hate getting shot at.”

Herb picked up a case file from a few years ago, gave it a token glance, and tossed it in the maybe pile. He could feel Jack staring at him, so he met her gaze.

“You think I'm crazy, don't you? You think after two weeks at Property Crimes I'll be going out of my mind with boredom.”

Jack smiled, sadly.

“Actually, I think Property Crimes will be very lucky to get you.”

Herb let her reply sink in. The more he thought it over, the more confident he felt. This was right.

“I'm going to tell Bernice.”

“Good idea. But before you do, wipe the sugar out of your nose.”

#

The Burketold Center was a dirty, crumbling building many years older than the senior citizens it catered to. Funded by tax dollars, the Center served as a game room/social area/singles mixer for the area's ten-plus nursing homes. Buses came several times a day, dropping off seniors for bingo, swing dancing, and craft classes.

The Center provided these services free of charge, the only condition being attendees had to be over sixty years old.

Herb walked through the automatic doors and took everything in.

To the left, four elderly men sat around a table as rickety as they were, noisily playing cards. In the pot, along with a pile of chips, were a set of dentures.

To the left, a solitary old woman twisted the knobs on a foosball table. She mumbled to herself, or perhaps to an imaginary opponent.

A TV blared in the corner, broadcasting the Food Network to three sleeping ladies. To the right, an ancient man with pants hiked up to his chest repeatedly kicked a Coke machine. Herb approached him.

“Did the machine take your money, sir?”

The old man squinted at Herb with yellow eyes.

“No, it did not take my money. But if you kick it in the right spot, it spits out free sodas. I've gotten six Mountain Dews so far today.”

Herb left the guy to his larceny. In just a few short years, Herb would be turning sixty. Then he, too, would be able to join the fun for free. The thought didn't comfort him.

He located the front desk and found a cheerful-looking man holding down the fort. The man wore a loose fitting sweater with a stag's head stitched into the pattern, and his smile was so wide it looked to crack his face. Herb placed him in his early fifties.

“May I help you?”

“I'm looking for Bernice Benedict.”

“Oh. And you are...?”

“Her husband, Herb.”

Smiling Guy hesitated, then extended a hand.

“Pleased to meet you, Herb. Bernice has told me a lot about you. I'm Phil Grabowski.”

Herb took the hand and found it plump and moist. He vaguely recalled Bernice mentioning the name Phil before.

“Hi, Phil. Great work you're doing here.”

“Thanks. We try to do our part. It's a real heartbreaker reaching the autumn years and finding there's no one to share them with.”

Phil chuckled, but it sounded painfully forced. Perhaps being around geriatrics all the time wrecked havoc on one's social skills.

“Is Bernice around?”

“She's calling bingo in room 1B, through that door and down the hall.”

“Thanks.” Herb nodded a good-bye and began to turn away.

“Bernice...she mentioned what happened last night. Terrible thing.”

Herb's first reaction was annoyance. Bernice shouldn't have been relating police matters. But shame quickly overcame irritation.

Of course Bernice would mention it to her friends at work. As she should. What other outlet did she have?

Herb could feel himself flush. Bernice had worked at the Center for seven years, and he'd never visited once. This man, Phil, was obviously a close friend of hers, and he didn't know a thing about him.

Herb wondered how much harm he'd done to his marriage by putting his job first.

He also wondered if it was too late to make it up to her.

“Yeah, well, that won't be happening anymore.”

Phil offered another face-splitting smile. “Really?”

It went against Herb's private nature to share his intentions with a stranger, but he thought it was a step in the right direction.

“I'm transferring to a different division.” He almost bit his tongue. “I'm also reducing my hours.”

“Why, that's wonderful. Bernice will be thrilled. She's...she's quite the trophy, you know.”

“Nice to meet you, Phil.”

Phil grinned wildly. Herb headed off in search of 1B, his wife's voice guiding him.

“G-15. That's G-15. You've got a G-15 on your card there, Mrs. Havensatch. Right under the G, dear. There it is.”

Herb paused in the doorway, watching her. Love, pride, and responsibility all balled-up together to form a big lump in his throat. He rapped his knuckle on the frame and walked in.

“Bernice?”

“Herb?” His wife appeared surprised, but the anger from this morning had gone from her face. “What are you doing here? Is everything okay?”

“Look, honey, can we talk for a second?”

“I'm in the middle of bingo.”

Herb felt a dozen pairs of eyes on him. He rubbed the back of his neck.

“I'm transferring to Property Crimes. And reducing my hours.”

Bernice blinked.

“You're kidding.”

“I'm not.”

“When are you going to do this?”

“I already talked to Jack. Tomorrow morning, first thing.”

Herb had expected a dozen different reactions form his wife, but crying wasn't one of them. She took several quick steps to him, and folded herself into his arms.

“Oh, Herb. I've wanted this for so long.”

“So you're happy?”

“Yes.”

“Bingo!”

A geriatric in the front row held her card above her head and cackled madly.

“I'll be with you in just a moment, Mrs. Steinmetz.”

Herb stroked her hair. All of his indecision melted away. He'd made the right choice. Her friend Phil was right. Bernice was a real trophy.

Trophy. The word snagged in his mind. People won trophies in sports, but they also shot trophies. Like that ten point buck on Phil's sweater.

“Bernice—your friend Phil. Is he a hunt...”

The bullet caught Herb in the meaty part of his upper shoulder, spinning him around. Before hitting the floor, he glimpsed Phil, clutching a rifle in the doorway.

Screams filled the room, Bernice's among them. Herb tugged at his hip holster, freeing his Sig. His left arm went numb from his finger tips to his armpit, but he could feel the spreading warmth of gushing blood, and he knew the wound was bad.

“Drop the gun, Herb!”

Phil had the .22 pointed at Herb's head. Herb hadn't brought his gun around yet. Maybe, if he rolled to the side...

Too late. Bernice stepped in his line of fire.

“Phil! Stop it!”

“I'm doing it for you, Bernice! He's no good for you!”

Herb chanced a look at his shoulder wound. Worse than he thought. If he didn't stop the bleeding soon, he wouldn't make it.

“I love him, Phil.”

“Love him? He's never home, and when he is, you said it's just the same, boring routine!”

“I like the same, boring routine. And I like my husband. Stop acting crazy and put down the gun.”

Bernice took a step towards him, her hands up in supplication.

“Bernice...” Herb's voice radiated strength. “He won't shoot you. Walk out and call the police.”

“Shut up!”

Bernice turned and looked at Herb. He nodded at his wife, willing her to move.

“I'll kill her! I'll kill both of you!”

Bernice stepped to the side. Phil's gun followed her.

Herb's gun followed Phil.

Detective First Class Herb Benedict fired four shots, three to the chest and one to the head.

All of them hit home.

Phil dropped, hard. Bernice rushed to her husband.

“Herb! Herb, I'm so sorry!”

Herb's eyes fluttered twice, and then closed.

“Bingo!” Mrs. Steinmetz yelled.

#

The food redefined horrible, but Herb ate everything. Even the steamed squash. Assuming it was steamed squash.

“I can't wait to get out of here and eat some real food.”

Bernice stroked his arm, below the IV.

“We need to talk, Herb.”

Herb didn't like the tone of her voice. She sounded so sad. He shook his head, trying to clear the codeine cloud, trying to concentrate.

“Bernice, honey, I'll make it up to you. I know I haven't been there. I know I've been spending too much time at work. Give me a chance, and I'll change.”

Bernice smiled.

“That's what I want to talk to you about.” Bernice took a deep breath. “I don't want you to transfer to Property Crimes.”

Herb did a damn good impression of confused.

“But I thought...”

“When you told me you wanted to transfer, it was a dream come true for me. But then, with Phil...”

Herb reached out with his good hand, held hers.

“You're a good cop, Herb Benedict. It would be selfish of me to keep you from that.”

“That's okay. You're allowed to be selfish.”

Bernice's eyes glassed over.

“You know, every day when you go to work, I worry about you. But seeing you in action...”

Herb smiled.

“Was I dashing?”

“You were magnificent. You saved more than me and you. Phil had...problems.”

“No kidding.”

After his death, a search of Phil Grabowski's apartment uncovered a large cache of weapons and eighteen notebooks full of handwritten, paranoid ranting. Herb was only one name on a long list of targets.

“I can't deprive you of your job, Herb. And I can't deprive Chicago of you. You've got six years left to do good for this city. I want you to use those years well.”

Herb pulled Bernice close and held her tight, despite the twenty-odd stitches in his shoulder.

“You know, the doctor says I'll be out of here by next Friday.”

Bernice touched his cheek.

“Just in time for pot roast.”

“Pot roast is my favorite, you know.”

“I think you've mentioned that before.”

“But this Friday, why don't we go out to eat instead? Someplace nice, romantic.”

Bernice's eyes lit up. She looked like a teenager again.

“I'd like that.”

“And then afterwards, maybe some nookie.”

“That sounds perfect, but you know what?”

“What?”

Bernice grinned, and it was positively wicked.

“We don't have to wait until Friday for that.”

She closed the door to the room and turned out the light.

Last Request

Phin has been in four of the six Jack Daniels books so far, Whiskey Sour, Rusty Nail, Fuzzy Nave, and Cherry Bomb. In those books, Jack tempers some of Phin's darker moments. Not so in this story. This is also my favorite first line of anything I've written.

I picked up a transsexual hooker named Thor, all six feet of her, at the off ramp to Eau Claire, Wisconsin, as I was driving up north to kill a man.

She had on thigh-high black vinyl boots, red fishnet stockings, a pink mini skirt, a neon green spandex tube top, and a huge blonde wig that reminded me of an octopus. I could have spotted her from clear across the county.

“You looking for action?” she said after introducing herself.

“I'm always looking for action.”

“Tonight's your lucky night, handsome. I'm getting out of this biz. You give me a ride, you can have whatever you want for free.”

I opened the door, rolled up the window, and got back on the road.

Thor spent five miles trying to pay for her ride, but the painkillers had rendered me numb and useless in that area, and eventually she gave up and reclined her seat back, settling instead for conversation.

“So where are you headed?” she asked. She sounded like she'd been sucking helium. Hormone therapy, I guessed. I couldn't tell if her breasts were real under the tube top, but her pink micro mini revealed legs that were nice no matter which sex she was.

“Rice Lake.”

I yawned, and shifted in my seat. It was past one in the morning, but the oppressive July heat stuck around even when the sun didn't. I had the air conditioning in the Ford Ranger cranked up, but it didn't help much.

“Why are you going to Rice Lake?” she asked.

I searched around for the drink holder, picked up the coffee I'd bought back in the Dells, and forced down the remaining cold dregs, sucking every last molecule of caffeine from the grit that caught in my teeth.

“Business.”

She touched my arm, hairless like the rest of me.

“You don't look like a businessman.”

The road stretched out ahead of us, an endless black snake. Mile after mile of nothing to look at. I should have gotten a vehicle with a manual transmission, given my hand something to do.

“My briefcase and power ties are in the back seat.”

Thor didn't bother to look. Which was a good thing.

“What sort of business are you in?”

I considered it. “Customer relations.”

“From Chicago,” Thor said.

She noticed the plates before climbing in. Observant girl. I wondered, obliquely, how far she'd take this line of questioning.

“Don't act much like a businessman, either.”

“How do businessmen act?” I said.

“They're all after one thing.”

“And what's that?”

“Me.”

She tried to purr, and wound up sounding like Mickey Mouse. Personally, I didn't find her attractive. I had no idea if she was pre-op, post-op, or a work in progress, but Thor and I weren't going to happen, ever.

I didn't tell her this. I might be a killer, but I'm not mean.

“Where are you headed?” I asked.

She sighed, scratching her neck, posture changing from demure seductress to one of the guys.

“Anywhere. Nowhere. I don't have a clue. This was a spur of the moment thing. One of my girlfriends just called, said my former pimp was coming after me.”

“How former?”

“I left him yesterday. He was a selfish bastard.”

She was quiet for a while. I fumbled to crank the air higher, forgetting where the knob was. It was already up all the way. I glanced over at Thor, watched her shoulders quiver in time with her sobs.

“You love him,” I said.

She sniffled, lifted up her chin.

“He didn't care about me. He just cared that I took his shit.”

This got my attention.

“You holding?” I asked. Codeine didn't do as good a job as coke or heroin.

“No. Never so much as smoked a joint, if you can believe it.”

I would have raised an eyebrow, but they hadn't grown back yet. Maybe I'd be dead before they did.

“It's true, handsome. Every perverted little thing I've ever done I've done stone cold sober. Lots of men think girls like me are all messed up in the head. I'm not. I have zero identity issues, and my self esteem is fine, thank you.”

“I've never met a hooker with any self esteem,” I said.

“And I've never met a car thief on chemotherapy.”

I glanced at her again. Waited for the explanation.

“You couldn't find the climate control,” Thor said. “And you're so stoned on something you never bothered to adjust the seat or the mirrors. Vicodin?”

I nodded, yawned.

“You okay to drive?”

“I managed to pick you up without running you over.”

Thor clicked open a silver-sequined clutch purse and produced a compact. She fussed with her make-up as she spoke, dabbing at her tears with a foundation sponge.

“So why did you pick me up?” she asked. “You're not the type who's into transgender.”

“You're smart. Figure it out.”

She studied me, staring for almost a full minute. I shifted in my seat. Being scrutinized was a lot of work.

“You stole the car in Chicago, so you've been on the road for about six hours. You're zonked out on painkillers, probably sick from chemotherapy, but you're still driving at two in the morning. I'd say you just robbed a bank, but you don't seem jumpy or paranoid like you're running from something. That means you're running to something. How am I doing so far?”

“If I had any gold stars, you'd get one.”

She stared a bit longer, then asked.

“What's your name?”

“Phineas Troutt. People call me Phin.”

“Sort of a strange name.”

“This from a girl named Thor.”

“My father loved comic books. Wanted a tough, macho, manly son, thought the name would make me strong.”

I glanced at her. “It did.”

Thor smiled. A real smile, not a hooker smile.

“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, a girl's not careful.”

I wondered what she meant, then remembered what was lying 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 Dumpsters, so no one would see us together. When I hit the breaks, 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.

?The Necro File

A word of warning. If this isn't the most offensive thing I've ever written, it comes close. I began this as an experiment, to try and write an anti-story. Stories normally have rules that need to be followed in order for them to work. I kept all of these rules in mind while writing this, and threw each of them out the window. It was a lot of fun, and other people feel the same way. The brave folks at Dark Arts books published it in their anthology Like A Chinese Tattoo, edited by Bill Breedlove. Readers beware—this one doesn't pull any punches. It's Harry McGlade Uncensored.