Rusty Nail

CHAPTER 18

BEFORE I ALLOWED myself any alcohol, I dropped off the bag and the shell casing at the Illinois Forensic Science Center. It used to be called the Chicago Crime Lab, up until it merged with the Staties in ’96. One of the officers who worked there, Scott Hajek, had helped me on a few cases, and promised he’d do a rush job on the ballistics and burn analysis.

A rush job meant at least a week. More than enough time to have a beer.

Joe’s Pool Hall was kitty-corner to my apartment in Wrigleyville. The after-work crowd hadn’t converged yet, and I managed to snag a table near the rear and a cue that still had a tip.

I drank a Sam Adams and settled in, running a rack and trying to relax. It wasn’t easy. I had a lot on my mind, plus shooting stick with a burned hand threw me off my game.

A waitress brought me another beer, and when I pulled out a buck to tip her, I noticed she had tears in her eyes.

“Asshole customer,” she said without me asking.

I tipped her an extra buck.

Halfway through the next set, a guy I knew came over and stood by the table, watching.

“Came to watch a pro?” I asked.

“No. Came to watch you.”

His name was Phineas Troutt. Younger than me by a decade. Blue eyes set in a hard face. Tall, with the type of muscles one got from working rather than working out. Last I’d seen him, he was bald from the chemotherapy. I took the blond fuzz growing on his head to be a good sign.

I ran the table, Phin racked the next set, and we lagged for the break. He won.

“Hair looks nice.” Phin executed a sledgehammer break that sunk two solids and a stripe. He chose solids.

“Thanks. It’s the shampoo. You should pick some up.”

He touched his head.

“Maybe when it grows out a little more.”

“It’s called Vertex. Only seventy bucks a bottle.”

“How big is the bottle? Two gallons?”

“Thirty-two ounces.”

Phin grinned. “For seventy bucks, it should clean my hair and then straighten up my apartment and make me dinner.”

He pocketed the four ball. I took a pull from my Sammy and scanned the bar for the server. She was two tables over, her face shiny with tears. She tried to move forward, but the man standing next to her moved his body in her path, not letting her pass. The man was grinning.

“Excuse me a second,” I told Phin. As I approached I heard the waitress saying, “Stop it, stop it,” as the guy pawed at her.

“There a problem?” I used my best commanding tone, the one that scared suspects into confessing to crimes they didn’t commit.

The man was young, early twenties, dressed in a golf shirt, shorts, and flip-flops. He looked like he just came from the beach, though I couldn’t imagine which one, it being April.

“This is a private conversation, skank.”

He said it with a dismissive sneer, and then turned back to the waitress.

“Are you okay?” I asked her.

“She’s fine. Mind your own damn business, bitch.”

With my left hand, I liberated my badge case from my back pocket. With my right hand, I set the tip of the pool cue down on his bare big toe and leaned on it.

He yelped, jerking his chin left to face me, the perfect picture of fury and pain.

Some of the fury disappeared when he saw my star. But the pain stayed.

“Kind of early in the season for flip-flops, don’t you think so, Romeo?”

I leaned harder on the stick. He squealed.

“Let me see some ID.”

I put my badge away and took the wallet he eagerly offered. I gave his license a quick glance.

“Okay, Carl Johnson, here’s how I see it. Threatening a police officer is a felony. Plus, it pisses me off.”

I twisted the cue to indicate my displeasure.

“Shit! You’re hurting me.”

“Oh, don’t be a baby, Carl. I’m not even pushing hard. See how much worse it could get?”

I put some serious weight on the cue, for just a second, and he screamed like I was killing him. Now he had a teary face too, to match the one he gave the waitress.

“Here’s the deal, Carl. This is my bar. I never want to see you in here again. Understand?”

He nodded.

“And this lady is a personal friend of mine. If she tells me you’ve been bothering her, I’m going to pay a visit to 3355 Summit Lane and break both of your knees because you resisted arrest. Are we clear?”

I twisted hard. He moaned, “Yes.”

“Now tip your waitress and leave.”

Carl pulled out a twenty and handed it to the girl, his hand shaking. I lifted the pool cue and he ran out of there as fast as he could, bumping several customers on the way.

The waitress grasped my hands.

“Thanks so much. He’s been coming in here for a month, making comments, pinching my ass, not leaving me alone.”

I gave her a card. “I don’t think he’ll come back. Call me if he does.”

“Thanks. Really.”

I smiled. “When you’ve got a chance, we need two beers.”

“You got it. Thanks so much.”

When I came back to the table, Phin was racking the balls.

“What happened to the last game?” I asked.

“I won. You owe me a beer. You better take this next break, or you might not have a chance to play.”

I managed to sink a stripe on the break, and the waitress brought beer for me and Phin.

“On me,” she told us.

Being a hero had its perks.

We played for two hours, Phin beating me five games to one. I blamed the losses on my burned hand, though the beer went a long way to easing the pain.

I met Phin several years ago, before he had cancer. It was an odd friendship, because I was a cop, and Phin was a criminal, though I wasn’t entirely clear on what kind of criminal he was. I think he operated as some kind of unlicensed private investigator, and considered laws optional.

Thinking of private eyes made me think of Harry, and the wedding rehearsal. McGlade had told me to bring a date, and I got the impression if I showed up solo our deal would be off and my fat alter ego would continue to embarrass the CPD on a new season of Fatal Autonomy.

I wasn’t the type to call in markers, but desperate times and all that. Occasionally, Phin called me up, needing some bit of info that only cops were privy to, such as a plate trace or a criminal record search. Occasionally, I helped him. That put the karma debt in his corner.

“I need a favor,” I said to Phin when he came back from the bathroom. “What are you doing on Saturday?”

“Apparently, I’m doing you a favor.”

“It’s easy. A guy I know is getting married, and he needs some people to stand up.”

“You want me to stand up at a wedding for some guy I don’t know?”

“Yeah. But this isn’t the wedding. It’s the rehearsal dinner.”

Phin shrugged. “Sure.”

“Thanks. I don’t know the time yet. Can I call you?”

“No phone. I’ll call you, day of.”

We played one more game, he won, and then we said our good-byes and I headed home. It turned out asking guys on dates wasn’t so hard after all.

I entered my building and passed my new neighbor walking down my hall. She wore the same dirty uniform she had on that morning, and carried a large leather satchel.

Though she didn’t look at me, I heard her whisper “Bitch” as she passed. I let it go. I’d already gone Rambo on her once today. Besides, the woman was entitled to her opinion.

Back at my apartment, Mr. Friskers surprised me by leaving no surprises. No mess. No destruction. Everything was exactly as I’d left it.

This bothered me. Perhaps he was sick. Or perhaps he’d spent the day deep in thought, plotting the annihilation of the human race.

“Mr. Friskers? Where are you?”

I made a kissing sound.

There was an unbearable screech that shook my core foundations, and the cat launched himself at me from atop the refrigerator. He landed on my chest, claws digging in, and I had to clench to avoid soiling myself.

My sweatshirt protected me from any scarring, but my heart was beating so hard I could feel it thump against the inside of my rib cage.

I unhooked the cat from the fabric and placed him on the floor. He sat and stared up at me, apparently pleased.

“You’re under arrest,” I told him.

He yawned, then walked over to the litter box and began kicking litter onto the floor.

I checked my answering machine. Nothing. Then I searched for edibles and found a can of potato soup that I made easy work of. I also had some vanilla wafers, but only after promising myself I’d exercise in the morning.

My evening’s entertainment consisted of the new Robert B. Parker book, which Herb had bought me for Christmas. Why couldn’t I meet a guy like Spenser? To make it work I’d have to get rid of his shrink girlfriend, but I figured that was no big loss.

When I was getting too tired to read I turned off the light and tried to sleep.

Sleep didn’t come. I had a zillion things running through my head, and my mind refused to shut off. I thought about my mom. About Latham. About the case. About Herb. My hand hurt, and I couldn’t get comfortable, and I finally just gave up and flipped on the TV.

Big mistake. The Home Shopping Club was selling designer shoes. I bought some black Prada sling-backs, some brown Miu Miu sandals, and thankfully they were out of my size in Dolce & Gabbana, because my credit card wouldn’t have been able to handle the shock.

Two a.m. crept by. Then three. Then four. Then five. I tossed and turned, and finally dozed off trying to picture a woman stupid enough to marry Harry McGlade.