Dead on My Feet Read online

“Tired. Haven’t eaten.”

  “Plus you drank too much. Do I want to know if you had anything to do with that shootout in Chinatown?”

  “I had nothing to do with it. Those bastards all dead?”

  “All but some guy who had his nuts shot off. Get this; he walked into a gunfight with bandages over his eyes. Moron thought he was Zatoichi.”

  “Who?”

  “Shintaro Katsu. The blind samurai. Do you watch movies?”

  “I like westerns.”

  “Samurai films are the same thing. Except they all wear bathrobes and carry swords and sound cooler when they talk. Where are you?”

  “Parking lot.”

  “Try to be more specific.”

  “Pasha’s parking lot.”

  “So go crash there.”

  “Too drunk.”

  “Phin, as fascinating as I find this conversation, I was just about to order a pizza, so I’m hanging up.”

  “Pizza sounds good. Anything but green peppers… McGlade? Hello?”

  He’d hung up.

  So what’s it gonna be, loser? Humiliate yourself in front of the women? Or crawl into the garbage? Passing out in the parking lot and freezing to death might be the best option.

  I shook my head. “There’s another option, Earl.”

  What’s that?

  “I take my butterfly knife… and cut you out of my body.”

  You’ll die, too.

  “Be worth it to shut you up.”

  I hunted around in the bag for my knife, got dizzy, and stumbled, landing on my ass.

  You’re helpless, like a baby.

  I shook my head, trying to get Earl to shut up.

  Baby want his bottle? That sound familiar?

  I looked around for the dropped bag.

  I do a pretty good impression, don’t I? Stop your crying, you worthless little bastard. You see what I’m doing to your brother? You see what I’m doing to Hugo? Watch close, because you’re next.

  “My father’s dead,” I whispered.

  He’s alive. Just look in the fucking mirror.

  This insane conversation with myself had taken a very bad turn.

  “I’m not like him.”

  Drunk. Junkie. Criminal. Asshole. Which part doesn’t fit?

  “I… I don’t hurt people…”

  You take money for hurting people. You worthless, stupid, piece of shit.

  “I don’t hurt good people.”

  How about Annie? Did you hurt her?

  “No. I left her… I left her so I wouldn’t hurt her.”

  You left her because you wanted to get high. You wanted to snort, and drink, and fuck whores.

  “I didn’t want Annie to see me die.”

  Don’t kid yourself, Phineas Troutt. You don’t know what unselfish even means.

  I found the bag. My hand fit around the butt of the Taurus like I’d been born holding it.

  Finally going to do it? Or you going to chicken out, like you always do?

  Point blank in the temple would do the trick. But I’d heard in the mouth was better. Less of a chance to miss.

  But with a .357, it shouldn’t matter either way. Even a miss would be good enough.

  “Phin!”

  The strong, female voice was familiar.

  Jack.

  Now you’re in trouble.

  I released the gun, squinting in the general direction I thought the voice came from. Jack was walking toward me, through the parking lot. When she was finally standing over me she looked ten feet tall.

  “Pissed?” I asked, trying not to slur.

  “Worse.”

  “Disappointed?”

  “Worse. Right now I feel sorry for you.”

  She was right. Pity was the worst of all.

  “That hurt,” I mumbled.

  “If the shoe fits.”

  “You… really want to judge me, Jack? Jack Daniels, you want to judge me? You’re a mess, too. But I have better excuses.”

  Jack squatted, looking me in the eyes. “When I was a rookie, I had a case. Hospital orderly was raping kids in the pediatric cancer ward. And those kids were a lot tougher than you’re acting right now.”

  “Give them twenty years,” I said. “We’ll see what they do to cope.”

  Jack stared hard at me. She stared right into the soul I knew I didn’t have. “You were sexually abused.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Father?”

  It wasn’t any of her damn business, so I had no reason at all to answer. This was some shit Annie didn’t even know about.

  “Have you ever gotten counseling?”

  That made me laugh. It was a strangled, hateful laugh. “Do I fucking look like I ever got counseling?”

  “You look like a bird with both wings broken, trying to drown yourself in a puddle.”

  I looked away, staring at my feet. Velcro gym shoes were making a comeback. I was sure of it.

  “If you’re done,” Jack said. “Really done. There are quicker ways to suicide than this.”

  I stared at her. At the pity in her eyes.

  Was that pity?

  Was it something else?

  “I almost kissed you, once,” I said. “We were playing pool. Had a few beers. You were flirting with me.”

  Her face softened. “I remember. Why didn’t you?”

  I held her eyes. “Because you can do better.”

  “Thanks for making that decision for both of us.”

  “You deserve the fairy tale, Jack. The nice husband. The kid. The house in the burbs. A dog and a cat.”

  She made a face. “I don’t deserve the cat. But what is it you think you deserve, Phin?”

  I spread out my hands. This is it. I was getting what I deserved.

  Jack didn’t react to my gesture. “Let’s get you inside.”

  She held out her hand.

  Tell her to go to hell.

  You don’t deserve her help.

  Tomorrow won’t be any better.

  Your life started as shit, and your life will end as shit.

  Take out the Taurus and finish what you started.

  But I didn’t listen to Earl. I didn’t take out the Taurus.

  I took her hand.

  When I was on my feet, I looked at her. And for just a second, a glorious second, I dared to think what it would be like to be part of that future I knew she’d have. To be that nice husband in the suburbs with a kid and a dog and a cat.

  It was like showing a starving man a picture of food.

  Jack tried to help me to walk, but I shoved her away, weaving alongside her, adjusting the weight of my bag.

  She steadied me, once, when I staggered, and I pushed her away again.

  The elevator ride was awkward. Neither of us talked.

  When I was back in the apartment, Pasha made a fuss over my bloody arm. Wet towels and bandages followed.

  Jack went into the bedroom and didn’t come back out.

  “When I was younger, I had an obsession with the legend of King Arthur,” Pasha said as she retaped my hands. “The knights of the round table, in particular. I loved the idea of rushing in to save the meek and downtrodden. I was even Sir Lancelot for Halloween, when I was eight. That’s why I became a doctor. I could have specialized, made ten times what I’m making right now. But I wanted to help others. I wanted to be someone’s knight in shining armor.”

  Pasha placed her hand on my cheek. “Your armor is not shiny, Phineas Troutt. It’s dented and rusty and it doesn’t protect you very well. But you are a knight.”

  Pasha stood up, kissed me on the forehead. “Thank you for helping me.”

  She went to bed.

  I laid back on her sofa. Groucho hopped onto my chest and began to purr.

  I closed my eyes, afraid I’d dream.

  Not that I have bad dreams. In fact, my dreams are wonderful.

  But once I start dreaming it hurts so bad to wake up.

  The smell of bacon, eggs, and c
offee woke me up. I peeked my eyes open. Next to the sofa was a garbage can.

  Placed there in case I puked.

  The night before came whooshing back to me, every bit and piece of it bad. I remembered the shootout in Chinatown, and then things got fragmented.

  Buying tequila.

  Trying Hydro, then throwing that poison away.

  Calling Harry.

  Talking to Jack in the parking lot.

  Had I hit on her?

  Pasha patching me up.

  Had I hit on her?

  At least with coke I remembered the things I’d done. Clarity was better than brain clouds.

  Except when it wasn’t.

  My head throbbed, and I was thirsty. I swung my legs over the edge of the sofa, trying to get a sense of my overall health.

  It wasn’t good. I hurt in more places than I didn’t.

  “Clint Eastwood,” Jack said. I guessed she was in the kitchen.

  “Too old,” Pasha replied. “You?”

  “When he was younger. George Clooney?”

  “Yes. Of course. Michael Jordan?”

  “Sure. Jason Statham?”

  “Who is that?”

  “Actor. In a lot of action films. He’s the strong, silent type.”

  “I like those. Do you know Shah Rukh Khan?”

  “No. Indian?”

  “Yes. Huge Bollywood star. Very cute. There’s a theater in Wicker Park that shows Indian movies. We should go sometime.”

  I got up and poked my head into the kitchen. “Am I interrupting?”

  Both women turned toward me. Jack wore jeans and a sweat shirt, her hair tied back. Pasha wore an orange skirt and a yellow top. They regarded me warmly, which was a good sign.

  “We’re talking about which celebrities we’d sleep with,” Pasha said.

  “Women actually do that?”

  “Of course.” Pashed grinned. “You missed it earlier, when we were practicing French kissing.”

  I blinked. “You were not.”

  “We were not,” Jack said. “But we were discussing the Bechdel test.”

  “What’s that?”

  Jack answered. “Cartoonist Alison Bechdel came up with a test for works of fiction. To pass the test, the work has to have two women in it who talk about something other than men. The majority of books and movies fail.”

  “Why? Sexism?”

  “Partly,” Pasha’s face twisted in thought. “Or laziness. Hegemonywood is still male-dominated, and it makes male-oriented movies, even though half of all movie tickets are sold to women. With fiction, it’s interesting because there are a lot of women writers. But they seem to fail as often as male writers. Women are human beings. Their lives don’t center around men. Even if the book is a romance.”

  “You know I woke up to you two talking about men.”

  Pasha laughed. “I know. How meta is that?”

  “Can I have an espresso?”

  “Help yourself. There are also some eggs and bacon on the stove. Jack and I are meeting Harry at the clinic today. Workers are finishing up the repairs.”

  “When are we leaving?” I asked.

  “After yesterday,” Jack said, “we thought it would be a good idea if you just took the day off and rested.”

  The words were said lightly, but I could tell this was an order rather than a suggestion. I took the path of least resistance.

  “Sounds good. Either of you want an espresso?”

  “Me.” Pasha raised her hand.

  Jack agreed. “I never say no to coffee.”

  I got to work making three, and piled some eggs and bacon on a plate, eating as the espresso brewed. I also drank two glasses of water from the tap, Pasha and Jack resuming their who they’d sleep with conversation.

  “Brad Pitt?” Pasha asked.

  “He’s too pretty. It would be distracting. How about Donald Trump?”

  Pasha frowned. “That rich guy on TV who fires people? I don’t get the impression he respects women. You?”

  “Agree. There’s something about him I don’t like. Some guys, you can tell they’re misogynists.” Jack turned to me. “What do you think, Phin?”

  “I wouldn’t have sex with Trump, either.”

  “Can you tell if men are sexist or not?”

  “I don’t know I’ve ever tried to. Am I sexist?”

  “No,” Pasha said. “I’d call you a feminist, but not an enlightened one.”

  “Which means?” I asked.

  Jack answered, “You believe women are equals, but you don’t understand us.”

  “Unlike McGlade.”

  “I don’t think Harry is sexist,” Jack said. “I think he treats everyone equally bad.”

  “I like him.” Pasha smiled. “He’s funny.”

  Jack wasn’t smiling. “In small doses, he’s funny. But trust me, spending a lot of time with Harry is about as much fun as a trip to the dentist.”

  “My dentist is a hottie,” Pasha said. “I joined the gym he goes to just so I can watch him do squat thrusts.”

  “So,” I began passing out coffee, “if we’re all feminists here, why is it okay for Pasha to objectify and stalk her dentist, but when men do it, we’re a bunch of assholes?”

  “Because,” Jack said, “men are the primary offenders when it comes to sexual harassment and abuse. We all know that women can be just as terrible as men. But with violent crime, percentage-wise, the numbers aren’t even close.”

  I sipped some espresso. Hot. “So blame all men for what some of them do?”

  “We don’t blame. But we have to be constantly on guard. When all women are affected by misogyny to some degree, what other choice do we have?” Pasha asked.

  I knew what it felt like to be on guard all the time. I still felt that way, to a smaller degree. But I didn’t know what it was like to be verbally harassed by strangers when I was walking down the street, I didn’t have to watch my drinks to make sure I wasn’t getting drugged, and I didn’t have people calling me slurs if I turned them down for dates.

  “You know,” Jack said, “technically, we’re still talking about men. So our conversation here wouldn’t pass the Bechdel test.”

  “Want to talk about something else?”

  “Maybe later,” Jack told Pasha. “When do the repair guys arrive?”

  “Soon. We should be going.” Pasha turned to me. “There’s food in the fridge, I already fed Groucho, we should be back around two.”

  Each woman finished her drink, and then they were off.

  I considered showering, but it would be a complicated affair with tape and plastic bags to protect my many bandages. I settled for brushing my teeth—Pasha had set out a new toothbrush for me—and liberally applying some spray deodorant. I also searched her medicine cabinet and swallowed eleven low dose aspirin.

  Then I called a cab. I wanted to pay Mayor LaBeck a visit, but I still had to grab my Bronco, parked at the clinic. I picked up my bag, went to the door, and couldn’t open it.

  Pasha had a deadbolt, the kind that opened with a key on both sides.

  The women had locked me in.

  I was on the third floor, so the window wasn’t an option. But I remembered I’d brought along my bump key set. I set down the bag and went to work.

  Picking locks required a certain finesse, coupled with patience, and I didn’t have much of either. But bumping a lock didn’t require intricate knowledge of how pins and tumblers worked. And anyone could make a bump key with a blank and a file.

  The principal was simple; file down a key until the teeth are six evenly spaced points, all the same low height, so it looks like a saw. Then you place the key in the lock, pull it a few millimeters, apply some torque to the tension wrench, and tap the key with a small hammer or the handle of a screwdriver.

  The tap makes all of the spring-loaded pins jump up for a fraction of a second, seating them above the shear line, allowing the cylinder to turn and the lock to open.

  I selected a bump key th
at would fit Pasha’s deadbolt, and a tension wrench made from a bent jigsaw blade. I was out of practice, and shaky from the espresso and the multitude of drugs I was withdrawing from, so I had to give the key about fifteen whacks with one of Pasha’s teaspoons before I got the door open. Then I met the cab downstairs and I was off to the races.

  I got dropped off a block away from the clinic, and made a wide circle to my truck, making sure I wasn’t seen. The tape was all still intact. I stopped at a gas station, topping off the tank and picking up a local map. After finding LaBeck’s house, I set a course and planned my attack.

  LaBeck lived in a gated community, which meant his little neighborhood was surrounded by a wrought iron fence and had a guard at the front gate. I guessed there was also a patrol, maybe hourly, making the residents feel safe from proselytizing religious nuts, door-to-door salespeople, and criminals such as myself.

  I parked a kilometer or so away, in the parking lot of a 24 hour breakfast restaurant, and hiked back to LaBeck’s. For most of the population, the illusion of safety was enough to keep the law-abiders relaxed about their security, and the bad guys focused on lower hanging fruit. But safety was, indeed, an illusion. If someone wanted your stuff, or you, badly enough, they’d find a way. No matter how rich or paranoid you were.

  It was doubtful this community had been burgled recently. But I had zero faith that the front gate was the only way in. Chances were high that teenagers lived within this wrought iron sanctuary. And teens didn’t want Mom and Dad to know when they snuck out to do teen things.

  Walking along the eastside fence, I noticed a lopsided bar. I jogged up to it, and sure enough, the bar was detached at the bottom, making it possible for a person to slide through. Which I did.

  It being broad daylight, and me being without a disguise, made my hide in plain sight strategy risky. So instead, I stayed off the streets, ducking through back yards and following the tree lines; ritzy neighborhoods like these had plenty of trees. There was a lovely dividing line of snowberry bushes separating LaBeck’s quarter acre from the house next door, and I squatted among them, took out the binocs, and surveilled his mini-mansion.

  Most of his blinds were drawn, but the kitchen patio door, made of glass, offered me a perfect view. I watched for three minutes, and didn’t see anyone.

  LaBeck didn’t have any pictures of children in his office, and a man like him would use them for every possible photo op, so I guessed him to be childless. His house was large, but not large enough for live-in servants. No dog poop or dog toys or dog house in the backyard. I was betting that it was just him, and the poor woman who married him.