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  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 reco
rdable 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.<
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  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.