Rum Runner - A Thriller (Jacqueline Jack Daniels Mysteries Book 9) Page 18

  My throwing up woke Phin up, and he took the can from me and threw up.

  “Did you fix it?” he asked. “I’m afraid to look.”

  “Fix isn’t the right word.”

  “How’d you do?”

  “I’m afraid to look.”

  “Okay, we both look on three. One… two… three.”

  We both looked.

  Then we fought over the garbage can.

  Phin and I leaned back against the wall. I had no idea how we managed not to puke on each other.

  “Big gun,” he said.

  “Think McGlade is overcompensating for something?”

  “Definitely.”

  I nestled next to Phin, and he put his arm around me.

  “Am I hurting your ribs?”

  “All I feel right now is my finger. Harry doesn’t have any Demerol?”

  “I can go check again.”

  I moved to get up, but his arm stayed around me. “Just a sec.”

  “What?”

  “I haven’t held you in a long time. I just want another minute or two.”

  I snuggled up against him, body armor to body armor, listening to him breathe.

  “I should have played pool with you,” I said. “Earlier.”

  His arm tightened around me. “It’s okay.”

  But it wasn’t okay. “I should have played pool with you. And I should have sparred with you, the other day in the garage.”

  “You don’t have to do this, Jack.”

  “But I do. I do have to do this.” My shoulders began to shake. “I actually thought I didn’t love you anymore.”

  “And how do you feel now?”

  I looked at him. His eyes were as glassy as mine. “It’s me, Phin. I’m the one I don’t love. Maybe it’s hormones. Maybe it’s the baby. Maybe it’s what happened in Michigan.” I sniffled, and let out a sound somewhere between a snort and a sob. “Maybe it’s menopause. But I hate me. And I took it out on you. Because if I could get you to hate me, it would reaffirm my own feelings about myself. And now I hate me even more.”

  “Shh.” Phin leaned over, even though it probably hurt like hell, and put his cheek against mine. “Stop it. You’re saying mean things about the woman I love.”

  “Why?”

  “Why do I love you?”

  I nodded. I felt weak asking, lesser somehow, but I really wanted to know.

  “Because you’re extraordinary, Jack. Most people are average. Or less than. A few people are exceptional. But you’re… you’re just a whole different class. Smart. Strong. Brave. Successful. You put killers behind bars. You have a black belt. You’ve won shooting competitions. You’re a great mother. Great in bed. Fun to be around. Hell, if you didn’t exist, I would have to invent you somehow.”

  “So why don’t I like me?”

  “Because you’re an idiot.”

  I laughed at that.

  “I’m serious,” Phin said. “For someone so extraordinary, you’re really not self-aware. You have no concept of your impact on the world. On other people. You magnify your own faults in your head, and don’t accept or appreciate your accomplishments.”

  “So how do I fix that?”

  “Counselling. Or Prozac. Or both. You won’t change, but you can learn to live with it without being crippled by it.”

  I kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks. You’re extraordinary, too.”

  He smiled, but it was a wistful smile. “No, I’m not. See, I do have a little bit of self-awareness. You’re the hero in this family, Jack. I’m just a tough guy who got really lucky.”

  Phin kissed me on the nose.

  “I love you, Phineas Troutt.”

  “I love you, Jacqueline Daniels. Now help me find some Demerol, or I’m going to ruin my tough guy rep and start bawling.”

  T-NAIL

  When he’d motored far enough into the woods for some privacy, T-Nail undid his pants and pressed on his bladder, pissing into the woods. After he zipped up, he noticed the forest around him.

  It was quiet.

  T-Nail had known quiet before. There was the desperate quiet of his toddler years, left all alone while his mom hustled on the streets. There was the frightening quiet, walking alone at night, knowing someone was watching and waiting to jack you. There was the angry quiet, being punished in solitary confinement for committing some stupid prison infraction.

  This quiet was different. It held no threats. It caused no pain.

  T-Nail wasn’t big on introspection. In the joint, counselors constantly spouted crap about using the time to think and reflect. T-Nail never bothered to look at how he became who he became. Why should he? Did a wolf wonder why it hunted? And even if the wolf had the capacity to consider all of the creatures it had killed to feed itself, would that convince the wolf to give up meat?

  Hell no. A wolf is a wolf.

  Just like T-Nail was what he was. Born to lose, but too mean to accept it.

  It sure was quiet, though.

  Maybe this was what it felt like to be at peace.

  Peace was something T-Nail had never known. He wasn’t even sure if he understood what it meant. Ever since he could walk, he’d been angry. Upset with the world. Upset with his place in it. Life was an ongoing struggle. Sex and drugs could make you forget about life for a short time, but forgetting wasn’t the same as being at peace.

  Being alone with nature, T-Nail wondered if this was how other men found peace. Not in the northern Wisconsin woods like some redneck, but in the motherland. How would it feel to stand on the banks of the River Nile in Uganda, looking out over the East African Plateau? To see Mount Kadam across the savanna? To have the sun shine down on your face in a land where you weren’t a minority, misplaced and despised, brought in against your will?

  For a moment, T-Nail could almost picture it.

  A noise, nearby, ruined the moment, making him flinch because it sounded like a machine gun.

  It wasn’t a gun. It was a bird. Pecking, rapid-fire, on the side of a tree.

  T-Nail had never seen a live woodpecker before.

  He watched. The bird went about its work. Pecking and pecking. Wood chips flying everywhere. Searching for food or making a home or whatever it was woodpeckers did.

  “Just doing your thing, huh bird? I got a thing I do, too.”

  T-Nail drew his nail gun and fired, shooting the woodpecker through the head, pinning its dead body to the bark.

  Then he steered the Gyro back toward the house. There was more killing to do. And T-Nail had to do it.

  He didn’t know anything else.

  HERB

  The Crimebago stopped at a gas station next to a roadside eatery called Charlie’s Cheese Chalet. The three men exited the vehicle, McGlade fueling it up while Tom and Herb stared at their phones, finishing up the latest levels.

  “Meet you guys inside,” Harry said as he attended to the gas. “Order me a burger.”

  Tom tucked his phone into his pocket, stretched, and then stared at the RV, paying special attention to the large object hooked to the trailer hitch.

  “Remind me again why we’re towing a tank,” he said.

  Herb kept his eyes on his screen. He was only thirty seconds away from his sweet beet harvest. “Crowd control, McGlade said.”

  “We’re going to clean up Jack’s mess,” Harry said, grinning like the idiot he was.

  “Funny guy.” Tom began walking toward the restaurant. Herb followed.

  “You know it’s going to be delicious,” Tom said, “because how else could they afford a giant plastic mouse sitting on a giant plastic hunk of cheese?”

  Herb looked up from his harvest long enough to eye the obligatory anthropomorphic roadside attraction, which stood alongside the building facing the highway. The towering, smiling objet d’art was missing an eye, and the paint was peeling on the cheese making it look more gray than orange. It was meant to lure in travelers, but this close it was downright scary.

  “We should have stopped a
t the place with the giant lumberjack,” Herb said. “Or the one with the dinosaur.”

  “That was a waterslide park.”

  “Waterslide parks have food,” Herb said.

  “Sure. Some of the finest culinary establishments in the world are attached to water parks. I heard Seb’on in Paris just put in a wave pool.”

  Herb completed gathering his sweet beets and put his cell away. “There used to be this indoor waterpark in Roselle. Not much of a park, actually. Just two slides and a hot tub with so much chlorine it bleached your skin.”

  “Sounds nice.”

  “The snack bar had something called the Humungawich. Half a loaf of French bread stuffed with two quarter pound beef patties, six strips of bacon, two fried eggs, chicken strips, popcorn shrimp, fish sticks, onion rings, topped with mac and cheese. You could swim right up to the snack bar, eat it in the water.”

  “Sanitary.”

  “It was a hot zone. Place closed after an E. coli outbreak. But I miss the Humungawich.”

  “I miss it, too, and I never even had it.”

  They entered Charlie’s Cheese Chalet, and Herb perked up. Rather than the crumbling dive the giant mouse suggested, the inside was clean and tidy. Along the near wall were rows of glass coolers, sporting dozens—maybe hundreds—of cheese varieties. The center of the shop was strewn with shelves and racks of souvenirs and knick-knacks. Off to the right was the eating area, tables and chairs set up to receive diners.

  Herb went straight for the counter and smiled at the clerk, who was a chesty woman wearing an apron with a silk-screened picture of the giant mouse on it.

  “You probably don’t hear this much, but you’ve got a lot of cheese.”

  She nodded, but didn’t smile. Odd. Usually Wisconsinites were a lot friendlier than their Illinoisan counterparts.

  Tom tapped Herb’s shoulder, and looked to the right. Herb followed Tom’s eyes, and then understood why the cashier wasn’t smiling.

  Taking up the rear corner table of Charlie’s Cheese Chalet were youths of obvious gang persuasion. Herb whispered, “Eternal Black C-Notes. Folk outfit from Bronzeville.”

  “Black C-Notes? There’s also a white guy and a Hispanic.”

  Herb shrugged. “Maybe it’s affirmative action. Or quotas. Or maybe kids just don’t care about race anymore.”

  “Think they’re here for Jack?”

  “Unless they came all the way from Chicago for some cranberry cheddar. Actually, that sounds pretty good.” Herb turned to the cashier. “I need half a pound of cranberry cheddar. And can you show me your selection of muensters?”

  The worried-looking lady let Herb try a sample slice of hickory nut muenster.

  Herb shivered as the cheese melted in his mouth. “Oh my god. My tongue just had an orgasm.”

  Tom gave him a nudge. “Shouldn’t we do something?”

  “I am. I’m sampling cheese.”

  “I mean about the United Gangs of Benetton.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Whatever we do, when McGlade comes in he’ll mess it up. Best thing is to wait for him to make his scene, then play clean-up.” He turned back to the cashier. “Can I try some of the garlic dill muenster?”

  As the marvelous flavors of dill and garlic danced on his taste buds, the door opened and McGlade came in. Junior was under his arm. Homeboy was on his shoulder.

  “Be ready to shoot your way out,” Herb told Tom.

  McGlade walked up to the duo. “The Crimebago is going to take about ten minutes to fill. You guys order food?”

  “I’m sampling.”

  “Jesus,” Harry said, looking at all the cheese. “We may be here for weeks. Hey, sexy counter lady, do you have burgers?”

  “We have sandwiches.”

  “Got any Velveeta?” Harry asked.

  The clerk stared at him.

  “I’m just messing with you. Give me a Panini, extra provolone and onions. Want anything, Junior?”

  “Blablaba.”

  “He’ll have the same. But blend it and put it in a bottle for him.”

  McGlade then turned and walked up to the gang. Herb unbuckled the strap keeping his SIG Sauer in his shoulder holster, then leaned back on the counter to watch the show.

  “You got a problem, old man?” one of the black kids said.

  “I do. I found myself a little esurient, and was trying to decide between the Norwegian Jarlsberger and the Venezuelan Beaver Cheese. So I thought I’d come over here and see what you fromage gourmands prefer.”

  “What you say?” said the white kid. He was flicking a Zippo lighter on and off.

  “Kids today don’t watch Monty Python? Okay. What are you guys eating?”

  “We didn’t order yet. Just chillin’. You got a problem with that?”

  McGlade shrugged. “It’s a free county. Says it right there in the Bill of Rights. First Amendment. Freedom to chill.”

  “What’s that thing?” asked the Hispanic kid, pointing.

  “That’s my son, Harry Junior. Junior, say hello to these nice inner city youths.”

  “Plab,” Junior said.

  “Not the punk, that thing on your shoulder.”

  “That’s Homeboy.”

  The gangbanger sneered. “I ain’t your homeboy, old man.”

  “His name is Homeboy.”

  “What the fuck is it?”

  “He’s my service animal. He’s a seeing-eye parrot.”

  “A what?”

  “You heard of seeing eye dogs? Same thing, but in bird shape.”

  The kid seemed genuinely perplexed. “But… you can see.”

  “I’m color blind. Homeboy helps me distinguish between green and red.”

  “Why he naked?”

  “Homeboy is from Europe. He got used to all the nude beaches there, and refuses to conform to uptight conservative American values. I think he does it for attention.”

  The second black guy spoke up. “You fuckin’ with us.”

  “Yes, I am. So what are you children doing in a cheese shop in Wisconsin? I know your colors. Folk, right?”

  “You a cop?”

  “Naw. Cops have a badge. And rules. I’m just a concerned citizen. But those guys over there?” Harry pointed to Tom and Herb. “They’re cops. You tell by their eyes. See how they look like they’ve given up on life? How they seem to be itching to violate the rights of underprivileged urban youth? Those are pigs, Homeboy.”

  “I said I ain’t your homeboy.”

  “I was talking to my assist animal. Say, you guys got any meth on you?”

  “METH!” screeched Homeboy, making all four gangbangers startle up out of their chairs.

  It made Herb and Tom jump, too.

  “Look, man, we ain’t looking for trouble.”

  Harry smiled wide. “But I am.”

  For a moment, no one said anything. Herb stopped chewing and stepped away from the counter. He couldn’t tell if any of the youths were carrying, but maybe if McGlade pushed them far enough he’d have probable cause to search them.

  “What you want?” the white kid asked.

  “You know if you keep playing with that lighter, you’re going to set yourself on fire.”

  “My boy said what you want, cracker.”

  “You do know that your boy there is also a cracker, right?”

  The white guy made a face. “Shit, Hackqueem, racism hurts both ways. Not cool.”

  Their apparent leader shot the kid a glance. “Shut it, Jet Row.” Then he turned back to McGlade. “What you want?”

  “You guys happen to know anything about a party up north. Pig hunting party?”

  They all returned blank stares.

  “The name Jack Daniels mean anything to you?”

  “Man, I prefer Patron.”

  That was apparently clever enough to warrant group giggling and high-fives.

  “Here,” McGlade said, setting Junior on their table. “Hold my son for a second while I get my gun.”

  McGlade tugged
out a Smith & Wesson snub nosed .44. All the gangbangers went wide-eyed.

  “You guys see Dirty Harry? This is like his gun, but a smaller barrel. Long barrels are for accuracy. I only use this to kill people up close. Now I’ll ask slower, in case the first time was too fast. Do. You. Guys. Know. About. Some. Shit. Up. North?”

  There were a whole bunch of head shakes.

  “Word on the street is the Folk Nation declared war on a cop. Is that where you’re headed?”

  “No, man. We’re just out joyridin’.”

  The guy pointed out the storefront window at a car.

  “You’re out joyriding in a Prius?” Harry said.

  “It’s economical, plus better for the environment,” said the Hispanic kid.

  McGlade glanced over at Herb. Herb shrugged.

  Hackqueem seemed to grow his spine back. “Man, why you messin’ with us? This is just some bullshit racial profiling.”

  “No it isn’t,” Harry said, pointing. “He’s a cracker.”

  “We out, man.”

  Hackqueem stood up and stormed past McGlade, his posse right behind him. Tom went to follow, but Herb held him back.

  “You think they were telling the truth?” Tom asked.

  “Seems like they were. But it doesn’t matter. We can’t waste time with them. We have to get to Jack.” Herb turned to the cashier. “We need a cheese and sausage tray to go. How much for a three pounder?”

  The woman smiled for the first time since they’d walked in. “It’s on the house, officer.”

  “No, we’ll pay. And that gang kid was right. Racism hurts. Just because someone looks different, or dresses different, doesn’t mean you should be afraid of them.”

  “The fat man is correctomundo,” Harry said, sidling up with Junior on his hip. “You should treat all customers equally.”

  Herb waited for the punch line.

  “Unless they’re wearing a turban,” Harry said, in a stage whisper. “Because then they’re probably a suicide bomber.”

  Tom sighed. “Haven’t you heard, McGlade? It’s the twenty-first century. Racism isn’t funny.”