Rum Runner - A Thriller (Jacqueline Jack Daniels Mysteries Book 9) Read online

  “Jamal sent me,” I said.

  He stuck out his chest. “Jamal ain’t here.”

  I tried to put my hand on the door, and got roughly shoved away. The kid was late teens, and stood about my height, but he had some thickness to him.

  I didn’t need to pretend I was scared, because I actually was.

  “Just wanna buy some smoke,” I mumbled.

  “Bitch want the rock, gotta suck the cock.” He grabbed himself in his loose jeans, and then the duo laughed and gave each other a low five.

  I considered my options. Blowing two teenagers wasn’t one of them. Neither was shooting two teenagers, even though each was no doubt armed. Besides, an addict wouldn’t fight back. Any show of resistance and they’d peg me as a cop.

  “Get out of there,” Herb whispered in my ear.

  Good advice. But I wasn’t ready to bail just yet.

  I rubbed my wrist across my mouth, obscuring when I bit into the inner part of my lower lip.

  “I give you head, I get it free?” I said.

  “Free? Nothin’ is free. You gonna suck off both me and my boy here, then you can buy some rock.”

  “‘Kay,” I said, opening my mouth, making sure they saw the blood.

  “Shit! Bitch got the herpes, Cleve!”

  Cleve gave me a shove. “Get that nasty shit away from us, ho.”

  I spit on the floor. “You gonna let me in?”

  They both stepped away from the door, hands up as if afraid to touch me. I turned the knob and went inside.

  The room was dingy, smoky, and smelled like burning ball point pens and piss.

  Crack. I’d busted a few dopers in my time, knew the stench.

  There was a black girl on the couch, puffing away on a sooty glass pipe, and in the near doorway a gangbanger was having sex with another girl while she bent over, her jean skirt up around her hips. She seemed oblivious to the guy slamming into her, and her eyes had the glassy look of a sleepwalker.

  A kid in reflective sunglasses and a Bulls cap, the tags still hanging from it, sat on a ratty lounger in the corner of the room. He had a Walther MP submachine gun in his lap, and was watching cartoons with the sound off. He jerked his thumb to another doorway, and I bowed my head and walked over. Inside was a guy behind a desk, purple bandana on his head. Another stood alongside the door, wearing camo pants and an El Rukin fez. Both were armed. So far, no one I’d encountered looked more than twenty years old. And none of them was T-Nail.

  “Whachooneed?” the desk guy asked.

  “Rock.”

  “How much?”

  “Quarter.”

  He opened a drawer, took out a tiny baggie that was about one centimeter square. Four tiny rocks, each the size and shape of aquarium gravel. I tugged twenty-five dollars out of my front pocket and placed it on the desk.

  No one moved. The silence stretched.

  Finally, Bandana guy held out the bag for me. When I reached for it he pulled away.

  “Never seen you ‘round here before.”

  “Other supply dried up.”

  “Who you buy from?”

  “Terrell in Bridgeport. He’s not around.”

  Bandana smiled. He knew what I knew; T-Nail had murdered Terrell and taken his territory.

  “Smoke up,” he said, tossing me the drugs.

  I caught the baggie in a fist, then turned to leave.

  Camo Pants was blocking the door.

  “Don’t you wanna smoke up here?” Bandana asked.

  “Forgot my pipe.” I tried to keep the fear out of my voice. Junkie who just scored wouldn’t be scared. She’d be eager. “Got one?”

  “Pretty thang like you can borrow mine.”

  I turned back and Bandana was holding out a glass cylinder the size of a cigarillo. Silver stuffing—steel wool—was shoved into one end.

  In case something like this happened, I had a contingency. A few weeks ago, some uniforms had confiscated several ounces of fake crack off some scam artists selling in Lincoln Park. Chunks of dried, powdered milk stained with coffee. I had some of these fake rocks in my back pocket. If needed, I could smoke them.

  But how could I get the fake stuff from my pocket while being scrutinized by two sets of eyes?

  I reached for the pipe, taking it between my two fingers, and then detected movement behind me.

  “You a cop?” asked a low voice. Real low, with a scratchiness to it. Like a bear had learned how to talk.

  I looked.

  T-Nail.

  I recognized him from his mugshot taken years ago. He’d changed. More specifically, he’d grown.

  When T-Nail had been pinched for dealing weed, at age 15, he’d been five foot ten and a hundred eighty pounds. The giant before me was at least six-five. Barrel-chested, legs like tree trunks, biceps the size of bowling balls. He wore a black leather vest, his gang colors and symbols stitched into it. His beard was splotchy, like mange, hair unable to grow on large patches of scar tissue. Rumor was a rival threw a flaming cup of gasoline in T-Nail’s face, and T-Nail beat the man to death while still on fire.

  “Ain’t no cop,” I said.

  “Either of you clowns pat this bitch down?”

  Bandana and Fez each shrugged. T-Nail pimp-walked over to me, one hand on his crotch. He put a hand on my neck, so enormous he could almost completely encircle it. With his other hand, he groped my shirt, my breasts, my waist. Without breaking eye contact, he dropped to one knee, putting him at almost my height. When his hand touched between my legs, I thought about pissing. First, because it would stop him from frisking me. Second, because my bladder felt ready to burst from fear.

  “You’re T-Nail.” I said, my voice shaky.

  His hand brushed over my ass, then moved to my thighs.

  “You know me?”

  “Heard of you.”

  “What you hear?”

  He touched my knees. In a few more seconds he’d reach the Seecamp in my ankle holster.

  “Hear you nail people to the floor.”

  His blank expression didn’t change. But unlike the other gang members I’d encountered on this little adventure, his eyes weren’t dead. They were alert.

  I was scared, and he liked it.

  “You heard I nail peoples to the floor?”

  I nodded.

  “Caught this Vicky Lou on my turf few weeks back. Got me a nail gun. Put one here.” He squeezed above my left kneecap. “And here.” He pinched my right.

  His grip was so hard I whimpered.

  Herb would be calling the SRT. They’d be on their way. But it would take them two minutes to secure the outside building, and another minute to get upstairs, longer if T-Nail’s gang put up resistance. T-Nail had more than enough time to kill me, or worse, before they showed up.

  “Wasn’t to the floor. It was old school Roman shit. Up against the wall. Crucifixion style.” T-Nail tightened his grip.

  “I just want my smoke,” I managed to whisper.

  “So smoke, bitch.”

  I brought the glass pipe to my mouth, held it in my lips, and with trembling hands tried to open the baggie.

  T-Nail removed his hands from my knees—

  —and delicately took the bag from my hands.

  With small, precise movements, he shook out the rocks onto his palm, selected one, and pushed it into the steel wool of my pipe. He pushed hard, so the glass clinked against my teeth. Then he stood up, towering over me, his hand going into his front pocket.

  He took out a Zippo, which had a yellow smiley face on it, and flicked on the flame. His other hand wrapped around my neck, so hard he lifted me up onto my tiptoes.

  “Marco, tell the boys we got a raid coming. Carl, reach down and take this cop’s tiny gun out of her ankle holster.” T-Nail smiled, and it was an ugly thing. “After she done smoking, we gonna smoke this pig.”

  HERB

  Panic. Like a jolt of liquid electricity flushing through Herb’s body, fueling every worst case scenario at once.


  Jack was more than a co-worker. More than a partner.

  She was his friend.

  And he had to get to her. Fast.

  Herb stuck the Starsky & Hutch style cherry light to his roof, hit the ignition, and floored the accelerator, sirens wailing and tires screaming. He fishtailed out of his parking spot, adjusted for the drift, and beelined for the projects as he fumbled for the CB.

  “SRT, we’ve got a 10-1 in progress at 5326 South State Street. What’s your twenty, over?”

  “Two minutes out.”

  “Make it one,” Herb told the Special Response Team as he jumped a curb.

  When he reached the Hole he screeched brakes, watching as the C-Stone soldiers guarding the entrance scattered like roaches when the refrigerator is pulled back. He parked, unholstered his SIG Sauer, racked in a 9mm round, and ran for the front door as fast as his chubby legs could move.

  JACK

  Hand trembling, I put the glass pipe to my lips.

  T-Nail held up a lighter. His expression was one of vague amusement.

  I poked the pipe into his eye, hard as I could.

  He fell to his knees, and I dropped into a squat, freeing the Seecamp.

  The gangbanger guarding the door ran through it, so fast his camo pants were a blur. Bandana, behind the desk, flung open a drawer.

  “Hands up!” I ordered, thrusting my gun forward. “Face the corner!”

  There was a split second of indecision, but incredibly he obeyed.

  “Palms on the wall!”

  Then T-Nail, still on his knees, stared up at me, his left eye swollen shut and crying blood. But his expression was oddly calm.

  In one hand was the crack pipe.

  In the other was a silver-plated fifty caliber Desert Eagle, pointed at the floor.

  “Drop the weapon!”

  “You gonna shoot me with that tiny little gun, cop lady?”

  “I said, drop it!”

  “Is that a .32?”

  “I’m counting to three. One…”

  My heart was beating so hard I could barely hear. I was gripping the small Seecamp with both hands, but couldn’t stop it from quavering.

  “How many bullets in that little thing?”

  “Two…”

  The left corner of his mouth turned up in a cold smirk. “How many rounds do you think it’ll take to put me down? More than you got, I think…”

  “Three!”

  T-Nail raised the .45.

  It took all seven bullets to drop him.

  A moment later, Herb ran into the room, heaving. Between great gulps of air he managed to say, “Sorry… sorry… I’m late…”

  But I wasn’t listening.

  I was staring down at the man I just shot. Herb’s words from earlier bounced around in my head.

  The day you’re no longer afraid is the day you’ll die.

  I wasn’t going to die that day. Because I was terrified.

  Terrified I’d killed someone, and wouldn’t be able to live with myself.

  And then I was doubled over and throwing up.

  PRESENT DAY

  JACK

  We were sitting on my couch, watching two-year old Harry McGlade Junior pull off his Mickey Mouse diaper and wave it like a flag as he ran around in circles, cheering triumphantly.

  “Just like his old man,” Harry McGlade Senior said.

  “The nudist streak?” my husband Phin asked. “Or the diaper?”

  “I’m man enough to admit to both.”

  The three of us stared as Harry Junior toddled over to my ficus tree and began to urinate into the pot.

  “Good boy, Junior!” Harry beamed. “No pee pee your pants!”

  I glanced at Samantha, playing quietly with a set of blocks. Though a little younger than McGlade’s prodigy, Sam was already potty trained. Smart kid. Well behaved. Adorable. She had Phin’s dirty blond hair and intense eyes.

  A perfect kid. I should have been happy.

  Phin had his arm around me, idly stroking the back of my neck. I shifted, drawing away from him.

  “You here?” Phin asked.

  That was our code for, “Are you living in the moment?” Phin knew I had bad memories, and sometimes they popped up and wouldn’t go away. It’s hard to be hopeful while looking at your baby when all you can see is blood from your past.

  That was a daily problem I struggled with. But I hadn’t told Phin about the other problem.

  The bigger one.

  “We can talk later,” I said.

  “Or we can talk now.”

  I looked at Harry.

  “Is this some sex problem thingy?” he asked. “Because maybe I could help. I’ve had every kind of sex problem. Sores? Discharge? Something stuck where you can’t get it out?”

  “Are we having a sex problem?” Phin asked me.

  I caught a curl of sarcasm. We hadn’t had sex in a while. Every time he reached for me, I rebuffed it.

  A few months ago he stopped reaching for me.

  “You guys having backdoor issues? If you want to tap that dumper, Phin, the key is lube,” Harry made a fist and stuck a finger of his prosthetic hand into it, indicating difficulty. “And lots of it. And Jack, try to push out while he’s getting up there.”

  “Speaking of dumpers,” Phin said.

  Harry followed his gaze, saw his son was attempting number two in my ficus pot. “Whoops. Code brown. Sorry, Jackie. I need a sink and some soap.” He stood, scooped up his child, and carried him down the hallway.

  Phin turned to me. “If you’re sick of work, why do you keep inviting him over?”

  “I didn’t invite him. Harry invited himself. You let him in.”

  “But you are sick of work.”

  “Work is work.”

  “You hate it.”

  “We need the money.”

  “It’s more than that. You miss being a cop.”

  “No.” That wasn’t true. “Yes. The private sector sucks.” Since retiring from the Chicago PD, I’d joined Harry’s private detective firm. He’d been my partner in our rookie years, before Herb, and was a major PITA back then. He still was a pain in the ass, but I guess I’d become somewhat immune to McGlade’s eccentricities.

  “You miss the streets. The excitement.”

  “I miss being relevant.”

  “Being a mother isn’t relevant?”

  “Of course it’s relevant.” I turned away from him. “I don’t want to have this conversation now.”

  “You never want to have this conversation.”

  “So how about respecting that?”

  “How about you respect our marriage and talk to me?”

  I folded my arms over my chest, staying silent.

  “I get it.” Phin said. “Your boring little life with me and Sam can’t compete with you running around, chasing serial killers.”

  “Now you’re being a dick.”

  I stood up. Phin caught my wrist, and I reflexively twisted out of it and fell into a defensive stance. As if we were about to spar.

  “Really, Jack? I’m the enemy now?”

  I took a deep breath, let it out slow. “I really don’t want to talk about this with Harry here.”

  “It’s okay!” McGlade yelled from the bathroom. “I can’t hear you!”

  Phin was as good at ignoring Harry as I was.

  “Is it some medical thing you’re not telling me?” He looked concerned.

  “No.”

  “Menopause?”

  “Kiss my ass.”

  “You’re fifty, Jack. It would explain the hormone swings. The lack of a sex drive. The anger.”

  “I’m not angry,” I said through my teeth.

  “You sound pretty angry!” Harry called from the bathroom. “Hey, do you have more towels?”

  “The cabinet,” I yelled back.

  “I used those already.”

  Phin made a face. “There were five towels in there, McGlade.”

  “This bowel movement was supe
rnatural. It’s like the Amityville Horror of baby shits.”

  “Check the hall closet,” I said.

  “Thanks. Also, I owe you a new bathroom rug.”

  “Tell me the problem, Jack,” Phin said. “Please.”

  Tell him the problem? How was I supposed to do that, when I didn’t know for sure? I’d been stressing over it for months. And the stress brought guilt, the guilt brought worry, and the worry brought more stress.

  “Is it our sex life?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Jack?”

  “I’ll tell you,” I said. “I just need some time.”

  Harry yelled, “Do you have a long handled mop?”

  “Seriously?” Phin called back.

  “Some got on the ceiling.”

  “I got this.” Phin stood up. For a moment, it looked like he was going to hug me.

  I stiffened. He walked around.

  I watched Phin head down the hall, and I slumped back down on the couch. This was a bad situation. Bad bad bad. And I didn’t see any easy way out.

  Our sex life was part of it. But it was a symptom, not the underlying problem. I hadn’t been in the mood. I felt blah. Unmotivated. Decidedly unsexy. Phin was younger. And he was a guy. He wasn’t going to wait forever. Like any man, he’d eventually cheat.

  Maybe he was already cheating. I wouldn’t blame him.

  That should have scared me. Not caring if Phin slept around wasn’t a good sign. I should have leveled with him. Told him my feelings.

  But how was I supposed to tell my husband, the father of my child, that I didn’t know if I still loved him?

  TERRENCE WYCLEAF JOHNSON

  After the three hundredth chin-up, the man known as T-Nail dropped to his cot.

  His upper body was burning with lactic acid, his muscles on fire from the work out, his shirt soaked with sweat.

  His lower body, as usual, had no feeling at all.

  Catching his breath, he stared at his useless legs. He wore an XXL shirt, necessary to cover his massive chest, and his biceps still stretched out the seams.

  For bottoms, he wore a medium, and they were baggy as hell. The twigs inside were no larger than the bones beneath the skin, the muscles long ago wasted away. They were the legs of a child.