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

  “Cop may be taking a trip. We can hit her on the road. Even if she’s armed, ain’t no thing.”

  T-Nail pulled at the cognac, drinking a quarter of the bottle in a few gulps. “Get my wheelchair.”

  “I got something better. Some real Tony Stark shit.”

  “Tony who?”

  Del Ray checked himself. They probably didn’t show movies in the joint.

  “Lemme show you.”

  He jogged over to the garage door, and went into his workshop. The project he’d been working on for the past week had only been completed a few hours before the escape, and Del Ray considered it one of his finest inventions. He sat down in the device, strapped himself in tight, and hit the on switch. Then he scooted over to the door, went through sideways, and rolled into the den.

  “I call this the Gyro,” he told T-Nail.

  “It’s an electric wheelchair.”

  “My brother, this ain’t a wheelchair. It’s a pimped-out all-terrain vehicle. Titanium frame. Kevlar fiber sling. Top speed of thirty miles per hour on the straightaway.”

  Del Ray took the Gyro through the paces, starting with a tight spin.

  “Mecanum wheels. So it moves any direction. Sideways.” He demonstrated. “Diagonal. Goddamn figure eights if you feelin’ it.”

  The Gyro slid across the floor like butter on a hot skillet, going whichever direction Del Ray pointed the joystick.

  “And if you want to get through a small entrance, or play a little B-ball…”

  He hit the conversion button, and the Gyro straightened itself up, picking up its rear tires and stretching to standing height.

  “This is why I call it the Gyro,” he said. “Balancing on two wheels, without the gyro inside it would fall over. But the sensors are accelerometer based, so it won’t tip. Like a Segway.”

  “I want to try.”

  Del Ray switched back to sitting position, then motored next to T-Nail. He unbuckled himself.

  “Handles are up here,” he said. “You can lift yourself in.”

  T-Nail easily hoisted his frame into the Gyro, his muscles rippling. He adjusted his considerable bulk, settling in.

  “The buckles keep you tight when you’re in a standing position. In the back are a second set of wheels. They work on stairs and other bumpy conditions, like sand and dirt.”

  T-Nail began to circle around the room, getting the hang of the controls.

  “The batteries last for eight hours. I put a holster on the right side. Got a giggled-out Glock with two hundred rounds in the drums. And on the left side, I got something special.”

  T-Nail checked under the armrest, and pulled out the nail gun from the custom holster.

  “Pneumatic,” Del Ray said. “The hose is fed from an air compressor in back. It’ll work even if the power is off. Try it out.”

  T-Nail pulled the trigger, and a 20d nail shot into the tile floor, embedding itself four inches deep.

  Del Ray didn’t expect to be thanked. Men didn’t thank each other. But there was no shake. No nod. T-Nail didn’t even look at him.

  “Where’s my room?” was all he said.

  “Down the hall, first door on the right.”

  He sailed over to his Hennessy, grabbed it, and motored away.

  Del Ray frowned. Doing time for two dimes no doubt sucked dead donkey ass, but that was no reason to be such an ungrateful SOB. Del Ray put some long hours into the Gyro. He didn’t need a hug, but what kind of brother doesn’t even offer a fist bump?

  He went back to his workshop, grabbed a bottle of tannic acid powder, and began to dust the new scalp he’d gotten last week. Untreated, it would rot and stink. Had to be cured like leather.

  T-Nail hadn’t said shit about the vest, neither. Del Ray hardly ever wore it in public. After all, it contained DNA evidence for more than two dozen murder cases. Getting caught with it could mean life in the slam. But he wore it, proud as his colors, for T-Nail. And didn’t get a damn word of praise.

  “Brother might start feelin’ unappreciated,” he said to himself, working the tannin into the skin.

  But Del Ray still wanted to give T-Nail the benefit of the doubt. The man had a rough day. Hell, he had seven thousand rough days. Twenty years behind bars was a long time.

  Maybe, when Del grabbed the cop and her family, T-Nail would be a little more appreciative.

  Del Ray ran his fingers over his vest. Lots of dead peeps. But none were white women.

  The concept intrigued him.

  “Maybe it’s time to embrace some diversity.”

  After all, Del Ray didn’t want anyone thinking he was racist.

  PHIN

  Jack was finally asleep. Phin swiveled out from under the covers, walked silently past his daughter, and left the bedroom.

  Mr. Friskers, Jack’s cat, was sitting in the hallway, his eyes reflecting the little light coming in from the kitchen window. He stared at Phin, and Phin stared back. The cat was notorious for not liking anyone, and attacking without provocation. It had yet to attack Phin or Sam, but it had done a number on their former basset hound, Duffy, who had since gone on an extended visit with Jack’s mother in Florida. Phin would have preferred keeping the dog and ditching the cat, but Jack’s mother had refused the cat.

  Yet another concession.

  He strolled past the living room, into the garage, and over to the red tool cabinet. Three feet high, twenty drawers, it was one of the few things in the house that was uniquely his. Not by choice; Phin was no more a handyman than the average Joe. But when he married Jack and moved in, and they delegated responsibility, household repairs and general maintenance fell under his watch.

  The garage was dark, but his eyes had adjusted enough for him to maneuver without tripping over anything. He padded over to the chest, felt for the tactical flashlight on top, and hit the low beam button. Phin pulled out the third drawer, found a cardboard box of wood screws, and set it on the cabinet.

  He opened the box, shining his light on the vial. Glass, no larger than his thumb, filled with a white powder.

  Cocaine.

  He hadn’t done coke in years. It seemed like a lifetime ago. He could still vividly recall the rush it gave him. The feeling of invincibility. How it reduced every care and concern to background noise. At the time, Phin had told himself it was palliative. He’d been dying of stage 4 pancreatic cancer, nearly hobbled by unrelenting physical and emotional pain. Risk, sex, and drugs were how he dealt with it.

  He hadn’t done anything truly risky in years.

  Hadn’t had sex in months.

  And he couldn’t even remember the last time he’d snorted any coke.

  But a month ago, after a stupid argument with Jack that ended with him going for a drive to cool off, he found himself in Chicago, at an old haunt, and ran into a dealer he used to know. Phin bought the blow, but didn’t do any. When he got home, he put it in the tool chest, and hadn’t touched it since.

  But he hadn’t forgotten about it.

  Two weeks ago, he’d gone into the garage and stared at the drawer it was in.

  Last week, he’d crept into the garage at 4 A.M. to look at it.

  Now, Phin reached for it, holding it in his fingers.

  Kicking his old coke habit hadn’t been pleasant. It was an easy drug to get addicted to, and a hard one to quit.

  I’m a husband and a father now. No sign of cancer. I live in the suburbs. Maybe I’m having some relationship trouble, but a cocaine monkey on my back isn’t the way to fix it.

  So why did I buy it?

  Why did I hide it?

  Why am I here looking at it?

  Phin wasn’t sure if it was a reminder of how things used to be, or a portent of things to come.

  He closed his eyes. Thought of Samantha in her crib, asleep. Thought of her mother, the woman he loved and would always continue to love, even though she was slipping away from him.

  Phin wondered if Luther Kite was the problem. Jack hadn’t been the same since Michig
an. Phin, Harry, and Herb had a pretty rough time there, but Jack had it the worst. Knowing that Luther was out there in the world was no doubt gnawing at Jack’s soul. He was the reason for all the home security. And for Sam sleeping in their bedroom. Maybe Luther was also the reason Jack had switched off, emotionally.

  The past was a bitch that did its best to fuck with the present.

  The coke in Phin’s hand was a perfect example of that.

  He placed the vial back in the box of nails, shut the drawer, and went back into the house.

  Went back into the bedroom.

  Kissed his sleeping daughter.

  Kissed his sleeping wife.

  Climbed into bed.

  Closed his eyes.

  Twenty minutes later, he was back in the garage, cutting a small pile of coke with a utility knife blade on the side of a Trix cereal box. He snorted the line using a plastic straw from one of Samantha’s sippy cups.

  The rush hit, hard.

  Phin’s body shook with pleasure, and he laughed, for the first time in as long as he could remember.

  JACK

  I peeked at the clock. A little after 8 A.M. Sam was sitting up in bed, holding a toy helicopter, one of those Fisher Price models where every detail was big and round and child-friendly. She stared at me, then dropped the toy on the floor.

  “Fly,” she said.

  I walked over to her, put my hand on her head. “It doesn’t fly, dear. It’s a toy.”

  “Hebbi-cob-der.”

  “Yes. A helicopter.” I picked it up and spun the plastic propeller. “But it can’t really fly. It’s pretend.”

  I made a foop foop foop blade sound and circled the toy around Sam’s head.

  She seemed unimpressed. I couldn’t blame her.

  “It’s an analogy for life,” I said. “Something looks like it should do something, and you get really excited about it, but instead it disappoints you.”

  “Trix,” Sam said.

  “Good idea.”

  I picked her up, carried her to the kitchen, expecting to see Phin. He wasn’t there, but I heard sounds coming from the garage. I sat Sam at the kitchen table, in her booster seat, and got her a plastic bowl. The Trix box wasn’t in the cabinet.

  “How about oatmeal, Samantha? We’re out of Trix.”

  “Pbbt,” she said.

  “I agree. I’ll pick some up later. Do you want oatmeal?”

  “Bacon.”

  I went to the fridge, found the cooked bacon in a Tupperware container.

  “Do you want it heated up?”

  “Nope.”

  “Cold?”

  She nodded, smiling.

  “Do you also want a dinosaur for breakfast?”

  Sam laughed. “Mommy, you can’t eat dine-sore.”

  “You’re right. No dinosaur, then.”

  I wondered if every mother felt like she had the smartest, most adorable child in the world. Probably. But they were mistaken, because I had her.

  I couldn’t find the straw for the kiddie cup in the sink, so I fished a clean one out of the dishwasher, set Sam up with some cold bacon and green Hi-C—the breakfast of champions—and then poured myself a cup and went to look for Phin in the garage.

  He was on the judo mat, shirtless, covered with sweat and beating the crap out of the heavy bag that hung from the rafters. He had my training gloves on, throwing punches so fast they were a blur.

  My man was formidable. And still in great shape. Broad shoulders, tapering to a toned stomach. A lot of definition in his chest and biceps. He hadn’t put on, and kept on, baby weight like the other person in this marriage.

  I watched him for a moment without him noticing, feeling a little like a voyeur. Phin was younger, attractive, still had that bad boy vibe that drew me to him in the first place. I was so used to seeing him holding Sam, walking around with a diaper bag, I’d almost forgotten this side of him.

  He stepped away from the bag, gave it a shoulder-high kick, his bare foot slapping the canvas—

  —and leaving a red streak.

  I looked at his foot, saw it was bloody.

  The mat was also bloody.

  “Your toe,” I said, and Phin whirled on me fast, a snarl on his face, and I reflexively put up my guard.

  When he realized it was me, his features softened.

  “Morning, Jack.”

  “You broke your toenail.”

  Phin looked down, saw the blood oozing from his big toe. “Shit. Didn’t even notice.”

  He walked past me, glazed with sweat and smelling like guy, and went to the gym locker. He found a roll of gauze, then put his foot up on the shelf and began to wrap his toe. I noticed the box of Trix on his tool chest.

  “Got hungry?”

  “They’re not just for kids, you know.”

  “I’ve heard.”

  Phin tied off the makeshift bandage. Then he walked up to me, staring at me hard as he took my Hi-C. He finished it in three big gulps. Then he whistled a few bars to a Helen Reddy song that he knew I hated.

  You and Me Against the World.

  When was the last time that had been true?

  “Want to go a few rounds?” he asked, his breath washing across the top of my head.

  “Sam’s eating bacon.”

  “Excuses, excuses.”

  “She could choke.”

  His eyes twinkled. “On bacon that you cut up to the size of postage stamps?”

  “Are you making fun of my parenting skills?”

  “Do you even remember how to throw someone?”

  I grabbed his wrist, twisted, then threw him over my hip. He flipped onto the mat, and I turned and knelt on him, straddling his head between my legs. My heart rate had doubled, and I felt my face flush.

  “Now what?” Phin said, grinning. “Are we sparring? Or something else?”

  I stared down at him, and for some reason thought about Sam’s toy helicopter.

  “Mommy, why are you sitting on Daddy?”

  Sam was in the doorway, holding her cup.

  “Mommy and Daddy are wrestling,” Phin said. “We used to do it all the time, but haven’t in a while. Isn’t that right, Mommy?”

  His tone seemed playful, but I sensed the sarcasm underneath it. And it hurt.

  I stood up, and Phin rolled gracefully to his feet. He scooped up Sam, gave her a raspberry on the neck, and then carried her back into the house.

  I picked up the plastic cup he’d dropped when I flipped him. Then I went to the tool cabinet, grabbed the Trix box, and one of Sam’s plastic straws, and followed them back inside.

  Phin had seated Sam back in her booster chair, and they were sharing the bacon. I poured some Trix on her plate, put the box back in the cabinet, and watched them eat.

  This was the life I’d chosen. And it was a good life. It hadn’t worked out like I’d expected, but what in life ever did?

  I knew I had three choices.

  Don’t do anything.

  Try to fix what was wrong.

  Or divorce.

  I picked up the phone and called Val. To see if she could watch Sam for a few days.

  She could.

  So Phin and I would have some alone time at Harry’s cabin in Wisconsin.

  We’d either figure out how to save our marriage, or we’d figure out how to share custody of our daughter.

  I rubbed my fingertips together, stared at the faint traces of white powder that had been on the cereal box, and frowned.

  I would give us a try. But I wasn’t optimistic.

  And there was no way in hell he’d get visitation rights if he tested positive for coke.

  T-NAIL

  It had been a rough night.

  The mattress on his new bed was too soft, and T-Nail had slept on a blanket on the floor. He was used to his cellie snoring, but the clubhouse was eerily silent. The smell of his room wasn’t right, and it seemed too big. The brandy he had didn’t taste anything like the prison hootch pruno he’d come to rely on. And
coupled with the rich food he’d eaten—burgers and pie—T-Nail now had a really bad belly ache.

  Being on the outside would take some adjustments.

  The new wheelchair was cool. Almost too cool to actually exist. Del Ray had gone above and beyond. T-Nail knew he owed the man. And Del knew it, too. He showed total respect, but T-Nail saw underneath it. Resentment. Distrust. Pity.

  T-Nail didn’t like being pitied. He shanked a guy in the showers, second year in, because the man had complained to the bulls that they didn’t have wheelchair ramps in the shitter. T-Nail didn’t want to be treated any different. He might have been paralyzed, but he wasn’t weak, and he didn’t want to hear none of that special needs bullshit.

  T-Nail would rather get the shit beaten out of him than be shown special treatment. People were bastards, but there wasn’t nothing crueler than sympathy.

  It came down to two rules to live by.

  Take more punishment than the other guy.

  Give more punishment than the other guy.

  He remembered his blood-in for the C-Notes; the beating he had to take to join the gang. Thirteen years old, facing a gauntlet of eight guys, all trying to knock him down. They called it a rum runner, because by the time it was over, a brother couldn’t stand up straight, just stagger around like a drunk. But T-Nail didn’t drop. He took every punch and kick, refusing to go down even as his fellow gangstas broke his nose, busted four ribs, and knocked out three teeth. It was the bloodiest rum runner the block had ever seen, and gave T-Nail more street cred than any shorty that came before, or since.

  To hell with sympathy. T-Nail demanded respect.

  He sat himself up on the floor, pulled himself to his new chair, and reached for the support bars.

  Yeah, Del Ray had done a real good job.

  This chair was solid, and T-Nail was able to fold the seat back and do a hundred dips, breaking a sweat, exercising until his arms shook. He sat down, strapping himself into the chair, and then wheeled toward the bathroom. T-Nail hadn’t checked out the facilities last night; he’d already been dealing with too much to dwell on his bodily functions. But he ate and drank, which meant he produced waste, and that had to be dealt with.