Rum Runner - A Thriller (Jacqueline Jack Daniels Mysteries Book 9) Page 17
“Welcome to the Crimebago, Tom,” Harry said from the driver’s seat as he pulled back into traffic. “That’s Harry Junior, and Homeboy. Harry Junior is the one wearing the diaper and napping next to Herb. Homeboy is the one in the cage. Herb is the land whale. Help yourself to whatever is in the fridge, and if the ride gets boring you and Herb can play some chess, assuming Herb knows how. Board is in the cabinet with Junior’s toys, next to the dishwasher.”
Tom took a seat across from Herb and said, “Why is the parrot named Homeboy?”
“Former owners. I don’t know whether to blame their parents, or society in general. Something went wrong somewhere.”
“Why is it naked?”
“He’s addicted to methamphetamine, so he plucked out all his feathers.”
Tom nodded, as if that answer made perfect sense. “So, how have you been, Sarge? Haven’t ran into you in a while.”
“I spent all morning with McGlade, that’s how I’ve been. You?”
“Not that bad. But close.”
Tom talked about The Snipper case; a serial killer targeting webcam models. Things weren’t going well.
“I’ve been following that one,” Harry interrupted. “Seems like a real nutjob. Herb and I have run into a few of those.”
More than a few. There was a period of a few weeks, after the Michigan incident, that Herb had been unable to sleep because he’d been afraid to close his eyes.
“Herb had his eyes sewn shut by a psycho,” Harry said.
Hence being afraid. Herb would never forget that pain, that fear. And Harry had endured even worse.
“I had it even worse,” Harry said.
Harry had been electroshocked by the same killer.
“I was electroshocked by the same guy,” Harry said.
Herb wondered, for a brief moment, if Harry was somehow reading his mind. But he dismissed the thought; it was impossible to read someone else’s mind when you didn’t have one of your own.
“One guy kidnapped me, broke my arm, and kept twisting it to lure Jack to him,” Herb said. “That one was bad.”
“Dude, electroshock is worse than a tiny little fracture,” Harry said.
“He was grinding bone on bone.”
“Bone on bone is like foreplay. I still don’t have full control over my bladder.”
“Did you ever?” Herb asked.
“When I laugh too hard, I spurt like a sprinkler. Got kicked out of Amy Schumer’s last movie, because some kid tripped on the puddle I made in the aisle. In hindsight, shouldn’t have ordered the five liter pop at the concession stand.”
“That’s not an electroshock problem, McGlade. That’s a prostate problem.”
“You’re a prostate problem.”
“That doesn’t even make sense.”
“Sure it does. You’re a pain in the ass.”
McGlade began to laugh at his own joke. Then he said, “Ah, dammit. Cleanup in aisle pants.”
“I was tied up and branded by a guy,” Tom offered.
“How much branding are we talking here?” Harry asked. He was stuffing fast food napkins into his open fly.
“Enough that I passed out. And then the killer licked the burn.”
“Sounds like a fairy princess tickle party compared to my hand.” Harry waved his prosthetic limb. “Fingers cut off, one at a time, stumps cauterized with a blowtorch. Doctors couldn’t save anything, had to amputate. Remember that one, Herb?”
“Yes. I got a chest full of roofing nails.”
“Yeah! Right! I remember making a joke about you getting nailed. You missed it because you were in the ER, under sedation. Also, I didn’t go visit you. What else you got, Tom?”
“I was just bitten by a guy.”
“Bitten, huh? Well, it’s not a contest. Because if it was, you’d lose. But you’re young yet. Plenty of time for more maniacs to torture you before your career is over.”
“Fingers crossed,” Tom said.
Harry turned the music back on and sang off-key about stupid ways to die.
“So how’s the personal life?” Herb asked Tom. Tom’s pained express was all Herb needed as an answer. “Question withdrawn. You play chess?”
“A little.”
Herb bent over and opened the cabinet. It contained two very dirty stuffed animals, a Fisher-Price See n’ Say, an open box of wood screws, three chewed-up He-Man dolls, a dirty diaper that seemed to have petrified into stone, half a box of twelve gauge shotgun shells, and the aforementioned chess set.
Herb placed the box on a pull-out table and removed the contents: Five pawns, a checker, and a pewter race car from an old Monopoly game. Plus a cheese curl.
There wasn’t a board.
“Well, looks like it’s gonna be Zombie Sugar Jackers,” Tom said, pulling out his cell phone.
“What’s Zombie Sugar Jackers?” Herb asked. The cheese curl had a dark smudge on it, but it was still looking pretty good.
“It’s like a cross between Candy Crush and Angry Birds, with some Fruit Ninja and Clash of Clans mixed in. But with zombies.”
“I don’t know those other games. But I like zombies. It’s fun?”
“It’s like electronic crack. I had to remove the app from my phone when my girlfriend was visiting, or else I would have been playing it the whole time she was here.”
You couldn’t get a better endorsement than that. Herb took out his cell and went to the app store. He found Zombie Sugar Jackers in the Top 10 bestseller category.
“Huh. And it’s even free.”
Tom chuckled. Herb downloaded the game and settled in to play.
The tutorial was convoluted. Some silly backstory about the Queen of Sugarland having to defend her kingdom from candy-loving zombies known as the Munch Bunch. She did this, naturally, by arranging three of the same kind of chocolate candy in a row on a large grid. Herb began matching candies, and soon figured out the game was a lot deeper than he’d guessed. Getting three in a row often involved several moves. If you failed, you had to redo the level. All the while, the Munch Bunch zombies were getting closer. If they got too close, they’d surround you with a Snack Pack Attack, and it was game over.
Herb found the app to be a worthwhile distraction. There was a good mix of dexterity, intuition, and timing. Within ten minutes he was fully invested.
“How do you blow up the Gloomer Glum Rocks?” Herb asked Tom when he got to level 8.
“Peppermint mines.”
“Where do you get peppermint mines?”
“You buy them with sweet beets.”
“Where do you get—”
Tom paused his game and glanced at Herb. “Have you planted your sugar garden yet?”
“What is—”
“Lower left-hand corner. Blinking icon.”
Herb clicked the icon, and watched a quick tutorial of how to grow sweet beets and candy canes. It led to a mini-game where you had to throw coconuts at the Munch Bunch to keep them from devouring your garden before it grew to maturity. Herb was doing quite well until some giant gooey monster came by and devoured seven rounds worth of growth.
“What the hell just ate my sugar garden?” Herb said, staring at his barren field.
“The Honeybeast.”
“How do I stop the Honeybeast from eating my sweet beets and candy canes?”
“You have to join a sugar clan for protection.”
In hindsight, obvious.
“Are you in a sugar clan?” Herb asked.
“Yeah.”
“Can I join yours?”
“I’ll send you an invite, but you have to be approved by the clan leader. What’s your gamer name?”
“HBenedict1966.”
A moment later, a pop-up banner appeared on Herb’s screen from RnRSpiderCopTurbo, which Herb had to admit was a much cooler gamer name than HBenedict1966. Herb accepted the invitation.
“I put in a good word for you with the clan leader, KickAximus Scrote. He’s got a Rank 58 Garden. One of the top pl
ayers in the country.”
Herb read the latest pop-up. “KickAximus just messaged me, asking if I’m willing to die for my clan. What do I say?”
“Say you pledge your chocolate shield to his sugary cause, and give him ten candy bars in tribute.”
“Where do I get candy bars?”
“Upper right of screen.”
Herb clicked on an icon and saw they were 99 cents each.
“That’s ten bucks,” he said, frowning.
“If you don’t want to pay, you can earn the candy bars in the game.”
“How?”
“By trading in fifty sweet beets.”
“But the Honeybeast keeps eating them.”
“Better make up your mind quickly. KickAximus will be going to bed soon.”
Herb looked at his wrist, remembered he stopped wearing a watch when he got the smart phone, and then checked the time. “It’s only a little past noon.”
“He lives in the United Arab Emirates, ten hours ahead.”
“He’s in bed by ten?”
“He’s eight years old.”
Herb didn’t want to spend the money. After all, the reason he was on a staycation was because his financial portfolio was less than stellar. Technically, he didn’t even have a financial portfolio. He had a 401k that he never put enough into, and Bernice had a coffee can filled with Kennedy silver dollars under the bed. His wife had dreams of travelling when he retired, and Herb wanted her dreams to come true. That meant pinching pennies.
But seeing as these ninety-nine cent candy bars were for a little kid, Herb made peace with the purchase and clicked Buy Now. Two minutes and ten dollars later he was the newest member of the BigguPooPoo Clan.
“Our clan name is vaguely offensive,” Herb said.
“Eight-year-old kid. Not many things funnier than potty humor. Our co-leader is PeePeeMonkeyBooger.”
“His younger brother?”
“His dad. I think they’re oil sheiks.”
“Oil sheiks?”
“Richer than kings. Blame it on our inexhaustible appetite for fossil fuels. Have you seen KickAximus Scrote’s garden? Kid must have put ten grand into the game. Instead of upgrading by playing, he just pays for it.”
“So why did he need my ten candy bars?”
“You can always start your own candy clan. Then members would pay you tribute.”
“Can I do that?”
“Not with your crummy little Rank 7 Garden.”
Herb made a face. “This game really doesn’t seem to be fair to the people who want to play for free.”
“Welcome to the wonderful world of casual gaming.”
“And to think I used to waste my time reading fiction.”
“I know. Look what you’ve been missing. Okay… you’re in the clan, so I can give you a Nose Bopper Gun. That should keep the Honeybeast away so you can grow your sweet beets and candy canes.”
“Thanks, Tom. What level are you at?”
“Got a Rank 32 Garden, and I’m on Level 116.”
Herb wished he had a Rank 32 Garden and had reached Level 116. He went back to gardening. After defending several rounds against the Munch Bunch, he bopped the Honeybeast and had his first successful harvest. Then he was able to buy peppermint mines with the sweet beets to blow up the Gloomer Glum Rocks.
Which was when the Munch Bunch finally closed in and devoured him.
Herb tried to restart, but the app locked him out.
“My game isn’t working.”
“Did you lose?”
“Yeah. That Munch Bunch doesn’t play around.”
“You ran out of nectar fuel?”
“The Curly Whirl keeps drinking it.”
“Wait ten minutes. Your reserves will automatically refill.”
“Wait ten minutes? Doing what?”
“I check CNN.”
“The answer is on CNN?”
Tom paused his game again. “Zombie Sugar Jackers is freeware. But they make money via in-app purchases. One of the things you can purchase is more playtime, in case you lose. Or else you can wait ten minutes, and you can play again for free.”
“That’s insidious.”
Herb wished he’d thought of it. That was an even better scam than being an oil sheik. One day, the Middle East would run out of oil. It was virtually impossible to run out of sweet beets and peppermint mines.
Tom nodded. “Yeah. They’re raking it in. You can also buy cheats to make the game easier.”
“What’s the fun in that?”
“Well, let’s say you can’t get past level 58 because the Carmel Donut Dragon keeps burning up your sweet beets. You can buy a Bubblegum Bomb to gum up the dragon’s wings so you can pass the level.”
“Can’t I get a Bubblegun Bomb some other way?”
“They pop up randomly in your garden, but you have to harvest them before they disappear. It’s basically impossible.”
Herb still had nine minutes and forty-six seconds on his Sugar Timer before he could play again, so he switched to CNN. The Wisconsin wildfire was the top story. Hundreds of acres had been destroyed, and evacuations were in full effect.
In other news, one of the Kardashians did something, and North Korea was still acting like North Korea.
Herb went back to Zombie Sugar Jackers, watching the seconds tick slowly by. Still seven more minutes before he could play again.
“This waiting thing is stupid,” Herb said. “Why don’t I just go play another game?”
“Stronger men have tried, Sergeant. If you figure out how, let me know.”
To kill some time, Herb checked out the Sugar Store within the app. It sold more than just candy bars and bubblegum bombs. Players could buy a plethora of things to improve the game. More land. Better seeds. Fertilizer. Magic spells. Powerful weapons. Defensive walls. Troops to help guard the garden. Extra chances to collect three candy bars in a row. Faster clocks to speed up waiting time. And the purchases were so cheap, just 99 cents here and $1.99 there, Herb didn’t feel too guilty about buying a few. This was pocket change. And defending your Rank 7 Garden wall from the Honeybeast was more important than pocket change.
“Tom, who’s attacking our candy clan?”
“Rival clan. The PooBanger DeathCloud. They’re tough.”
“For a bunch of kids from the Middle East, you mean.”
“No, these guys are the graduate physics professors at MIT. Put all your sweet beets into fence defense, or they’ll steal your super soil. You won’t be able to grow anything for a week.”
“A week?” That alarmed Herb. And he became alarmed again when he realized that it alarmed him.
The PooBanger DeathCloud came closer, casting a shadow over the BigguPooPoo Clan.
“Uh-oh, they know our defense strategy,” Tom said. “Our Kangaroo Kittypults have no effect.”
“They’re stealing my fence, Tom. It took me a hundred sweet beets to build that fence. What do I do?”
“Put up your shield.”
“Where is—”
“In the Treasure Menu. Find the shield spell.”
“It cost six chocolate bars. I don’t want to pay six chocolate bars.”
“Then we might as well both quit the game. The PooBanger Death Cloud will wipe out our clan. And then my clan leader will banish you, and then me for recommending you. Without clan protection, we’ll be easy prey for the BBQ Chickenwing Buzzards, who want to peck the meat off our bones.”
“This game got dark.”
“You buying the shield, or quitting?”
Herb bought the shield.
They fended off the attack, and as a reward each received a Gummy Blizzard Spell to protect them from the Munchasaurus Rex. Tom and Herb high-fived.
“So, how much money have you spent on this app?” Herb asked.
“A few bucks. Did you just get some Marshmallow Loogies?”
“Yeah. Bonus for beating the Jelly Unicorn.”
“Want to trade some for Silly Berries?�
�
“Hell yeah.”
They gamed on.
Ten minutes later, as Herb was tending his garden, he had a small revelation.
“Have you ever noticed,” he said to Tom, “how much of life is getting through the mundane stuff to get to the good stuff?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, John Lennon said that life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans. But I think life is what happens in between getting to the things you really want.”
“You mean like tending sweet beets because you need to buy peppermint mines to blow up the Gloomer Glum Rocks to get to the next level.”
“Yeah. Well, no. I mean on a wider scale. Waiting in traffic, to get to your destination. Sitting through commercials, before your show comes back on.”
“Reading a pointless chapter in a book, so you can find out what happens to the characters.”
“Exactly.”
Tom paused his game. “I hear what you’re saying. So that’s a bad thing?”
“Actually, the opposite.”
“Explain.”
“We’re in this RV, going to help our mutual friend, Jack. So it seems like our point for being here, our purpose, is so we can do something later on. But what if our purpose is actually to do what we’re doing right now? Every second you’re alive, that’s your reason for living.”
“So we should live in the moment,” Tom said.
“Exactly. And make each of those moments count.”
“What about putting off some things so you can do others?”
“If everything counts,” Herb said, “then you should be able to prioritize what is most important. That’s what you should be doing.”
Tom took a moment, then nodded. “I like your philosophy.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t. I think I’m just trying to justify why I bought the Nougat Gnome.”
“You didn’t already have one? Man, everyone needs a Nougat Gnome.”
Herb smiled. “Then it was $4.99 well spent.”
JACK
When my husband blacked out, I immediately reached down and gave his mangled finger a hard tug, trying to twist it back into position. When I got it looking more-or-less straight, I leaned over and threw up in a waste paper can.