Jack Daniels Stories Read online

“You guys know it's impossible to lick your own elbow?”

  They all tried to do just that. I shook my head and inwardly wept for the gene pool.

  The front door swung open, and a guy walked in. Athletic build, not bad looking, a bit old for a boxer. But I knew it was Dombrowski by the way he walked. Economical, no movement wasted, but coiled, like he was waiting for something to happen.

  Dombrowski played it cool, walking up to the four nitwits, having a drink and joining in the conversation. Then he had a few private words with Kelley that I missed in the bar chatter.

  When Polchev and his goons approached him, I told Herb to put away the book and pay attention. He tucked it into his inside jacket pocket.

  Dombrowski seemed confused about everything happening, and I wondered if Kelley had bothered to inform him what exactly was going down.

  Then everything went to hell. The boxer hit the mobster, and the other mobsters drew their guns. If that wasn't bad enough, one of the goons picked up the recorder Dombrowski had dropped. A simple sting operation, where no one was supposed to get hurt, was moments away from turning into a bloodbath. I wanted to smack the shit out of Kelley for staging this in a public place, but before I could, instinct took over and I had my .38 in my hand, pointing it at the thugs.

  “Police! Drop the weapons!”

  The bar went silent. No one moved. I could hear my heart beating, and sensed Herb draw his gun next to me, and Kelley draw his as well.

  “That's one damn sexy cop,” said one of the four. I think it was one of the Jerrys.

  “Drop them, hands in the air,” I ordered. “Or we will shoot you.”

  There was a bad moment when I thought they might be stupid enough to point their guns my way. But the moment passed, and the mobsters let their weapons fall to the floor.

  “Chick cop is wearing Armani,” said one of the four.

  “You sure? Could be Fendi.”

  “It's Armani,” I said. “Now shut the fuck up or I'll shoot you guys, too.”

  Dombrowski must have noticed he didn't have any guns aimed at his head anymore, because he resumed pounding the crap out of Polchev.

  Kelley got to him before we did.

  “Cool it, Duff. We got him.”

  “Asshole has my dog.” Punch. “He's going to tell me where A is.” Punch. “Or he's going to spend the rest of his life eating his meals through a straw.” Punch.

  Herb grabbed the recorder, zip-tied the other two mobsters hands behind their backs, and I asked everyone in the bar to kindly step outside.

  “Everyone, get the fuck out, now!”

  Okay, maybe it wasn't so kindly.

  “Duffy, ease up, man.” Kelley was trying to hold Dombrowski's arm back, and not doing a very good job. Polchev looked like someone dropped a lasagna, extra sauce, on his face.

  I pointed the gun at the boxer.

  “Shit, the Fendi cop is gonna shoot Duff.”

  “Armani. She said Armani.”

  “That the designer guy, got shot?”

  “That was Versace.”

  “Think she's the one who shot Versaci?”

  Apparently, the Four Stooges hadn't left when I'd ordered them to.

  “Mr. Dombrowski, stop hitting the mobster and get your hands up over your head.”

  Kelley stared at me. “Lieutenant, he's one of the good guys.”

  “And I'm trying to save him from a murder rap. Get ahold of yourself, Mr. Dombrowski.”

  The boxer looked at me. There was anger in his features, but some sadness too.

  “He took my dog, Al.”

  “We'll get your dog back,” I said. “I promise.”

  He nodded. But before he got up, he punched Polchev one more time, in the kidneys.

  Kelley slapped the cuffs on Polchev, and Mirandized all three suspects. I heard sirens in the distance. Back-up, and probably an ambulance. I looked for Dombrowski, but he was moving toward the front door, staring at something in his hands.

  A wallet. Polchev's wallet.

  “Duffy!” I yelled. “Don't leave the bar!”

  He glanced over at me, then ran out the entrance.

  Excerpt from Truck Stop by Jack Kilborn and J.A. Konrath

  -1-

  Taylor liked toes.

  He wasn't a pervert. At least, not that kind of pervert. Taylor didn't derive sexual gratification from feet. Women had other parts much better suited for that type of activity. But he was a sucker for a tiny foot in open-toed high heels, especially when the toenails were painted.

  Painted toes were yummy.

  The truck stop whore wore sandals, the cork wedge heels so high her toes were bent. She had small feet—they looked like a size five—and her nails matched her red mini skirt. Taylor spotted her through the windshield as she walked over to his Peterbilt, wiggling her hips and wobbling a bit. Taylor guessed she was drunk or stoned. Perhaps both.

  He climbed out of his cab. When his cowboy boots touched the pavement he reached his hands up over his head and stretched, his vertebrae cracking. The night air was hot and sticky with humidity, and he could smell his own sweat.

  The whore blew smoke from the corner of her mouth. “Hiya, stranger. My name's Candi. With an I.”

  “I'm Taylor. With a T.”

  He smiled. She giggled, then hiccupped.

  Even in the dim parking lot light, Candi with an I was nothing to look at. Mid-thirties. Cellulite. Twenty pounds too heavy for her skirt and halter top. She wore sloppy make-up, her lipstick smeared, making Taylor wonder how many truckers she'd already blown on this midnight shift.

  But she did have very cute toes. She dropped her cigarette and crushed it into the pavement, and Taylor licked his lower lip.

  “Been on the road a long time, Taylor?”

  “Twelve hours in from Cinci. My ass is flatter than roadkill armadillo.”

  She eyed his rig. He was hauling four bulldozers on his flatbed trailer. They were heavy, and his mileage hadn't been good, making this run much less profitable than it should have been.

  But Taylor didn't become a trucker to get rich. He did it for other reasons.

  “You feeling lonely, Taylor? You looking for a little company?”

  Taylor knew he could use a little company right now. He could also use a meal, a hot shower, and eight hours of sleep.

  It was just a question of which need he'd cater to first.

  He looked around the truck stop lot. Pretty full for late night in Bumblefuck, Wisconsin. Over a dozen rigs and just as many cars. The 24 hour gas station had a line for the pumps, and Murray's Eats, the all-night diner, appeared full.

  On either side of the cloverleaf there were a few other restaurants and gas stations, but Murray's was always busy because they boasted more than food and diesel. Besides the no-hassle companionship the management and local authorities tolerated, Murray's had a full-size truck wash, a mechanic on duty, and free showers.

  After twelve hours of caffeine sweating in this muggy Midwestern August, Taylor needed some quality time with a bar of soap just as badly as he needed quality time with a parking lot hooker.

  But it didn't make sense to shower first, when he was only going to get messy again.

  “How much?” he asked.

  “That depends on—”

  “Half and half,” he cut her off, not needing to hear the daily menu specials.

  “Twenty-five bucks.”

  She didn't look worth twenty-five bucks, but he wasn't planning on paying her anyway, so he agreed.

  “Great, sugar. I just need to make a quick stop at the little girls' room and I'll be right back.”

  She spun on her wedges to leave, but Taylor caught her thin wrist. He knew she wasn't going to the washroom. She was going to her pimp to give him the four Ps: Price, preferences, plate number, parking location. Taylor didn't see any single men hanging around; only other whores, and none of them were paying attention. Her pimp was probably in the restaurant, unaware of this particular transaction, and
Taylor wanted to keep it that way.

  “I'm sorta anxious to get right to it, Candi.” He smiled wide. Women loved his smile. He'd been told, many times, that he was good-looking enough to model. “If you leave me now, I might just find some other pretty girl to spend my money on.”

  Candi smiled back. “Well, we wouldn't want that. But I'm short on protection right now, honey.”

  “I've got rubbers in the cab.” Taylor switched to his brooding, hurt-puppy dog look. “I need it bad, right now, Candi. So bad I'll throw in another ten spot. That's thirty-five bucks for something we both know will only take a few minutes.”

  Taylor watched Candi work it out in her head. This john was hot to trot, offering more than the going rate, and he'd probably be really quick. Plus, he was cute. She could probably do him fast, and pocket the whole fee without having to share it with her pimp.

  “You got yourself a date, sugar.”

  Taylor took another quick look around the lot, made sure no one was watching, and hustled Candi into his cab, climbing up behind her and locking the door.

  The truck's windows were lightly tinted—making it difficult for anyone on the street to see inside. Not that Candi bothered to notice, or care. As soon as Taylor faced her she was pawing at his fly.

  “The bedroom is upstairs.” Taylor pointed to the stepladder in the rear of the extended cab, leading to his overhead sleeping compartment.

  “Is there enough room up there? Some of those spaces are tight.”

  “Plenty. I customized it myself. It's to die for.”

  Taylor smiled, knowing he was being coy, knowing it didn't matter at this point. His heart rate was up, his palms itchy, and he had that excited/sick feeling that junkies got right before they jabbed the needle in. If Candi suddenly had a change of heart, there wasn't anything she could do about it. She was past the point of no return.

  But Candi didn't resist. She went up first, pushing the trap door on the cab's ceiling, climbing into the darkness above. Taylor hit the light switch on his dashboard and followed her.

  “What is this? Padding?”

  She was on her hands and knees, running her palm across the floor of the sleeper, testing its springiness with her fingers.

  “Judo mats. Extra thick. Very easy to clean up.”

  “You got mats on the walls too?” She got on her knees and reached overhead, touching the spongy material on the arced ceiling, her exposed belly jiggling.

  “Those are baffles. Keeps the sound out.” He smiled, closing the trap door behind him. “And in.”

  The lighting was subdued, just a simple overhead fixture next to the smoke alarm. The soundproofing was black foam, the mats a deep beige, and there was no furniture in the enclosure except for an inflatable rubber mattress and a medium-sized metal trunk.

  “This is kind of kinky. Are you kinky, Taylor?”

  “You might say that.”

  Taylor crawled over to the trunk at the far end of the enclosure. After dialing the combination lock, he opened the lid. Then he moved his Tupperware container aside and took out a fresh roll of paper towels, a disposable paper nose and mouth mask, and an aerosol spray can. He ripped off three paper towels, then slipped the mask on over his face, adjusting the rubber band so it didn't catch in his hair.

  “What is that, sugar?” Candi asked. Her flirty, playful demeanor was slipping a bit.

  “Starter fluid. You squirt it into your carburetor, it helps the engine turn over. Its main ingredient is diethyl ether.”

  He held the paper towels at arm's length, then sprayed them until they were soaked.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Candi looked panicked now. And she had good reason to be.

  “This will knock you out so I can tie you up. You're not the prettiest flower in the bouquet, Candi with an I. But you have the cutest little toes.”

  He grinned again. But this wasn't one of his attractive grins. The whore shrunk away from him.

  “Don't hurt me, man! Please! I got kids!”

  “They must be so proud.”

  Taylor approached her, on his knees, savoring her fear. She tried to crawl to the right and get around him, get to the trap door. But that was closed and now concealed by matting, and Taylor knew she had no idea where it was.

  He watched her realize escape wasn't an option, and then she dug into her little purse for a weapon or a cell phone or a bribe or something else that she thought might help but wouldn't. Taylor hit her square in the nose, then tossed the purse aside. A small canister of pepper spray spilled out, along with a cell phone, make-up, Tic-Tacs, and several condoms.

  “You lied to me,” Taylor said, slapping her again. “You've got rubbers.”

  “Please…”

  “You lying little slut. Were you going to pepper spray me?”

  “No… I…”

  “Liar.” Another slap. “I think you need to be taught a lesson. And I don't think you'll like it. But I will.”

  Candi's hands covered her bleeding nose and she moaned something that sounded like, “Please… My kids…”

  “Does your pimp offer life insurance?”

  She whimpered.

  “No? That's a shame. Well, I'm sure he'll take care of your children for you. He'll probably have them turning tricks by next week.”

  Taylor knocked her hands away and pressed the cold, wet paper towels to her face. Not hard enough to cut off air, but hard enough that she had to breathe through them. Even though he wore a paper face mask, some of the pungent, bitter odor got into Taylor's nostrils, making his hairs curl.

  It took the ether less than a minute to do its job on the whore. When she finally went limp, Taylor placed the damp towels in a plastic zip-top bag. Then he took several bungee cords out of the trunk and bound Candi's hands and arms to her torso. Unlike rope, the elastic bands didn't require knots, and were reusable. Taylor wrapped them around Candi tight enough for her to lose circulation, but that didn't matter.

  Candi wouldn't be needing circulation for very much longer.

  While the majority of his murder kit was readily available at any truck stop, his last piece of equipment was specially made.

  It looked like a large board with two four-inch wide holes cut in the middle. Taylor flipped the catch on the side and it opened up on hinges, like one of those old-fashion jail stocks that prisoners stuck their heads and hands into. Except this one was made for something else.

  Taylor grabbed Candi's left foot and gingerly removed her wedge. Then he placed her ankle in the half-circle cut into the wood. He repeated the action with her right foot, and closed the stock.

  Now Candi's bare feet protruded through the boards, effectively trapped.

  He locked the catch with a padlock, and then set the stock in between the floor mats, where it fit snuggly into a brace, secured by two more padlocks.

  Play time.

  Taylor lay on his stomach, taking Candi's right foot in his hands. He cupped her heel, running a finger up along her sole, bringing his lips up to her toes.

  He licked them once, tasting sweat, grime, smelling a slight foot odor and a faint residue of nail polish. His pulse went up even higher, and time seemed to slow down.

  Her little toe came off surprisingly easy, no harder than nibbling the cartilage top off a fried chicken leg.

  Taylor watched the blood seep out as he chewed on the severed digit—a blood and gristle-flavored piece of gum—and then swallowed.

  This little piggy went to market.

  He opened up his mouth to accommodate the second little piggy, the one who stayed home, when he realized something was missing.

  Where was the screaming? Where was the begging? Where was the thrashing around in agony?

  He crawled around the stock, alongside Candi's head. Ether was a pain in the ass to get the dose right, and he'd lost more than one girl by giving her too big a whiff. Luckily, Candi was still breathing. But she was too deeply sedated to let some playful toe-munching wake her up.

 
Taylor frowned. Like sex, murder was best with two active participants. He gathered up the whore's belongings, then rolled away from her, over to the trap door.

  He'd get a bite to eat, maybe enjoy one of Murray's famous free showers. Hopefully, when he got back, Sleeping Homely would be awake.

  Taylor used one of the ether-soaked paper towels to wipe the blood off his chin and fingers, stuffed them back into the bag, then headed for the diner.

  -2-

  “Where are you?”

  “I have no idea.” My cell was tucked between my shoulder and my ear as I drove. “I think I'm still in Wisconsin. Wouldn't there be some kind of sign if I entered another state?”

  “Don't you have the map I gave you?” Latham asked. “The directions?”

  “Yeah. But they aren't helping.”

  “Are you looking at the map right now?”

  “Yes.”

  The map might have done me some good if I'd been able to see what was on it. But the highway was dark, and the interior light in my 1989 Nova had burned out last month.

  “You can't see it, can you?”

  “Define see.”

  I heard my fiancée sigh. “I just bought you a replacement bulb for that overhead lamp. I saw you put it in your purse. It's still in your purse, isn't it?”

  “Maybe.”

  “And you can't replace the bulb now, because it's too dark.”

  “That's a good deduction. You should become a cop.”

  “One cop in this relationship is enough. Why didn't you take my GPS when I insisted?”

  “Because I didn't want you to get lost.”

  A billboard was coming up on my right. MURRAY'S - NEXT EXIT. That was nice to know, but I had no idea what Murray's was, or how far the exit was. Not a very effective advertisement.

  “My interior light works, Jackie. I could have used Mapquest.”

  “Mapquest lies. And don't call me Jackie. You know I hate it when people call me Jackie.”

  “And I hate it when you say you'd be here three hours ago, and you're still not here. You could have left at a reasonable hour, Jack.”

  He had a point. This was my first real vacation—and by that I mean one that involved actually travelling somewhere—in a few years. Latham had rented a cabin on Rice Lake, and he had driven there yesterday from Chicago to meet the rental owners and get the keys. I was supposed to go with him, and we'd been planning this for weeks, but the murder trial I'd been testifying at had gone longer than expected, and since I was the arresting officer I needed to be there. As much as I loved Latham, and as much as I needed some time away from work, my duty to put criminals away ranked slightly higher.