Jack Daniels Stories Page 5

  I reached into my jacket. Artie didn't flinch; he knew his men had frisked me earlier and taken my gun. I took out a wad of Polaroids and handed them over.

  Artie glanced through them, smiling like a carved pumpkin. He flashed one at me. Jasmine naked and tied up, the knife going in.

  “That's a good one. A real Kodak moment.”

  I said nothing. Artie finished viewing my camera work and carefully stuck the pics in his blazer.

  “These are nice, but I still need to know where she's at.”

  “The bottom of the Chicago river.”

  “I meant, where she was hiding. She had something of mine.”

  I nodded, once again going into my jacket. When Artie saw the ledger I thought he'd crap sunshine.

  “She told me some things when I was working on her.”

  “I'll bet she did,” Artie laughed.

  He gave the ledger a cursory flip through, then tossed it onto his desk. I took a breath, let it out slow. The moment stretched. Finally, Artie waggled a fat, hot dog finger at me.

  “You're good, my friend. I could use a man of your talents.”

  “I'm freelance.”

  “I offer benefits. A 401K. Dental. Plus whores and drugs, of course. I'd pay some good money to see you work a girl over like you did to that whore.”

  “You said you'd also pay good money for whoever brought you proof of Jasmine's death.”

  He nodded, slowly.

  “You sure you don't want to work for me?”

  “I don't play well with others.”

  Artie made a show of walking in a complete circle around me, checking me out. This wasn't going down as easy as I'd hoped.

  “Brave man, to come in here all by yourself.”

  “My partner's outside.”

  “Partner, huh? Let's say, for the sake of argument, I had my boys kill you. What would your partner do? Come running into my place, guns blazing?”

  He chuckled, and the two goons in the room with us giggled like stoned teenagers.

  “No. He'd put the word out on the street that you're a liar. Then the next time you need a little favor from the outside, your reputation as a square guy would be sullied.”

  “Sullied!” Artie laughed again. He had a laugh like a frog. “That's rich. Would you work for a man with a sullied reputation, Jimmy?”

  The thug named Jimmy shrugged, wisely choosing not to answer.

  “You're right, of course.” Artie said when the chuckles faded. “I have a good rep in this town, and my word is bond. Max.”

  The other thug handed me a briefcase. Leather. A good weight.

  “There was supposed to be a bonus for making it messy.”

  “Oh, it's in there, my friend. I'm sure you'll be quite pleased. You can count it, if you like.”

  I shook my head.

  “I trust you.”

  I turned to walk out, but Artie's men stayed in front of the door.

  If Artie was more psychotic than I guessed, he could easily kill me right there, and I couldn't do a damn thing to stop him. I lied about having a partner, and the line about his street rep was just ego stroking.

  I braced myself, deciding to go for the guy on the left first.

  “One more thing, Mystery Man,” Artie said to my back. “You wouldn't have made any copies of that ledger, maybe to try and grease me for more money sometime in the future?”

  I turned around, gave Artie my cold stare.

  “You think I would mess with you?”

  His eyes drilled into me. They no longer held any amusement. They were the dark, hard eyes of a man who has killed many people, who has done awful things.

  But I'd done some awful things, too. And I made sure he saw it in me.

  “No,” Artie finally decided. “No, you wouldn't mess with me.”

  I tilted my head, slightly.

  “A pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Collins.”

  The thugs parted, and I walked out the door.

  #

  When I got a safe distance away, I counted the money.

  Fifteen thousand bucks.

  I dropped by Manny's, spent two gees on coke, and did a few lines.

  The pain in my side became a dim memory.

  Unlike pills, cocaine took away the pain and let me keep my edge.

  These days, my edge was all I had.

  I didn't have to wait for someone to leave Buster's apartment this time; he buzzed me in.

  “Jazz is in the shower,” he told me.

  “Did you dump the bag?”

  “In the river, like you told me. And I mailed out those photocopies to the cop with the alcohol name.”

  He gave me a beer, and Jasmine walked into the living room, wrapped in a towel. Her face and collarbone were still stained red from the stage blood.

  “What now?” she asked.

  “You're dead. Get the hell out of town.”

  I handed her a bag filled with five thousand dollars. She looked inside, then showed it to Buster.

  “Jesus!” Buster yelped. “Thanks, man!”

  Jasmine raised an eyebrow at me. “Why are you doing this?”

  “If you're seen around here, Artie will know I lied. He won't be pleased. Take this and go back home. Your parents are looking for you.”

  Jasmine's voice was small. The voice of a teenager, not a strung-out street whore.

  “Thank you.”

  “Since you're so grateful, you can do me one a small favor.”

  “Anything.”

  “Your friend. Ajax. I think she wants out of the life. Take her with you.”

  “You got it, Buddy!” Buster pumped my hand, grinning ear to ear. “Why don't you hang out for a while? We'll tilt a few.”

  “Thanks, but I have some things to do.”

  Jasmine stood on her tiptoes, gave me a wet peck on the cheek. Then she whispered in my ear.

  “You could have killed me, kept it all. Why didn't you?”

  She didn't get it, but that was okay. Most people went through their whole lives without ever realizing how precious life was. Jasmine didn't understand that.

  But someday she might.

  “I don't kill people for money,” I told her instead.

  Then I left.

  #

  All things considered, I did pretty good. The blood, latex scars, and fake knife cost less than a hundred bucks. Pizza and beer for Jack came out to fifty. The money I gave to Ajax wasn't mine in the first place, and I already owned the master keys, the badge, and the Polaroid camera.

  The cash would keep me in drugs for a while.

  It might even take me up until the very end.

  As for Artie Collins…word on the street, his bosses weren't happy about his arrest. Artie wasn't going to last very long in prison.

  I did another line and laid back on my bed, letting the exhilaration wash over me. It took away the pain.

  All the pain.

  Outside my window, the city sounds invaded. Honking horns. Screeching tires. A man coughing. A woman shouting. The el train rushing past, clackety-clacking down the tracks louder than a thunder clap.

  To most people, it was background noise.

  But to me, it was music.

  The One That Got Away

  Brilliance Audio does the books on tape for the Jack series, and every year they let me read an extra short story to include with the audio version. Sort of like a DVD bonus. This was included on the audio of Whiskey Sour. I thought it would be interesting to revisit the Gingerbread Man, the villain from that book, through the point-of-view of a victim.

  A steel crossbeam, flaking brown paint.

  Stained PVC pipes.

  White and green wires hanging on nails.

  What she sees.

  Moni blinks, yawns, tries to turn onto her side.

  Can't.

  The memory comes, jolting.

  Rainy, after midnight, huddling under an overpass. Trying to keep warm in hot pants and a halter top. Rent money overdue
. Not a single john in sight.

  When the first car stopped, Moni would have tricked for free just to get inside and warm up.

  Didn't have to, though. The guy flashed a big roll of twenties. Talked smooth, educated. Smiled a lot.

  But there was something wrong with his eyes. Something dead.

  Freak eyes.

  Moni didn't do freaks. She'd made the mistake once, got hurt bad. Freaks weren't out for sex. They were out for pain. And Moni, bad as she needed money, wasn't going to take a beating for it.

  She reached around, felt for the door handle to get out.

  No handle.

  Mace in her tiny purse, buried in condoms. She reached for it, but the needle found her arm and then everything went blurry.

  And now...

  Moni blinks, tries to clear her head. The floor under her is cold. Concrete.

  She's in a basement. Staring up at the unfinished ceiling.

  Moni tries to sit up, but her arms don't move. They're bound with twine, bound to steel rods set into the floor. She raises her head, sees her feet are also tied, legs apart.

  Her clothes are gone.

  Moni feels a scream building inside her, forces it back down. Forces herself to think.

  She takes in her surroundings. It's bright, brighter than a basement should be. Two big lights on stands point down at her.

  Between them is a tripod. A camcorder.

  Next to the tripod, a table. Moni can see several knives on top. A hammer. A drill. A blowtorch. A cleaver.

  The cleaver is caked with little brown bits, and something else.

  Hair. Long, pink hair.

  Moni screams.

  Charlene has long pink hair. Charlene, who's been missing for a week.

  Street talk was she'd gone straight, quit the life.

  Street talk was wrong.

  Moni screams until her lungs burn. Until her throat is raw. She twists and pulls and yanks, crying to get free, panic overriding the pain of the twine rubbing her wrists raw.

  The twine doesn't budge.

  Moni leans to the right, stretching her neck, trying to reach the twine with her teeth.

  Not even close. But as she tries, she notices the stains on the floor beneath her. Sticky brown stains that smell like meat gone bad.

  Charlene's blood.

  Moni's breath catches. Her gaze drifts to the table again, even though she doesn't want to look, doesn't want to see what this freak is going to use on her.

  “I'm dead,” she thinks. “And it's gonna be bad.”

  Moni doesn't like herself. Hasn't for a while. It's tough to find self-respect when one does the things she does for money. But even though she ruined her life with drugs, even though she hates the twenty-dollar-a-pop whore she's become, Moni doesn't want to die.

  Not yet.

  And not like this.

  Moni closes her eyes. She breathes in. Breathes out. Wills her muscles to relax.

  “I hope you didn't pass out.”

  Every muscle in Moni's body contracts in shock. The freak is looking down at her, smiling.

  He'd been standing right behind Moni the whole time. Out of her line of sight.

  “Please let me go.”

  His laugh is an evil thing. She knows, looking at his eyes, he won't cut her free until her heart has stopped.

  “Keep begging. I like it. I like the begging almost as much as I like the screaming.”

  He walks around her, over to the table. Takes his time fondling his tools.

  “What should we start with? I'll let you pick.”

  Moni doesn't answer. She thinks back to when she was a child, before all of the bad stuff in her life happened, before hope was just another four-letter word. She remembers the little girl she used to be, bright and full of energy, wanting to grow up and be a lawyer like all of those fancy-dressed women on TV.

  “If I get through this,” Moni promises God, “I'll quit the street and go back to school. I swear.”

  “Are you praying?” The freak grins. He's got the blowtorch in his hand. “God doesn't answer prayers here.”

  He fiddles with the camcorder, then kneels between her open legs. The torch ignites with the strike of a match. It's the shape of a small fire extinguisher. The blue flame shooting from the nozzle hisses like a leaky tire.

  “I won't lie to you. This is going to hurt. A lot. But it smells delicious. Just like cooking bacon.”

  Moni wonders how she can possibly brace herself for the oncoming pain, and realizes that she can't. There's nothing she can do. All of the mistakes, all of the bad choices, have led up to this sick final moment in her life, being burned alive in some psycho's basement.

  She clenches her teeth, squeezes her eyes shut.

  A bell chimes.

  “Dammit.”

  The freak pauses, the flame a foot away from her thighs.

  The bell chimes again. A doorbell, coming from upstairs.

  Moni begins to cry out, but he guesses her intent, bringing his fist down hard onto her face.

  Moni sees blurry motes, tastes blood. A moment later he's shoving something in her mouth. Her halter top, wedging it in so far it sticks to the back of her throat.

  “Be right back, bitch. The Fed-Ex guy is bringing me something for you.”

  The freak walks off, up the stairs, out of sight.

  Moni tries to scream, choking on the cloth. She shakes and pulls and bucks but there's no release from the twine and the gag won't come out and any second he'll be coming back down the stairs to use that awful blowtorch...

  The blowtorch.

  Moni stops struggling. Listens for the hissing sound.

  It's behind her.

  She twists, cranes her neck around, sees the torch sitting on the floor only a few inches from her head.

  It's still on.

  Moni scoots her body toward it. Strains against the ropes. Stretches her limbs to the limit.

  The top of her head touches the steel canister.

  Moni's unsure of how much time she has, unsure if this will work, knowing she has less than a one-in-a-zillion chance but she has to try something and maybe dear god just maybe this will work.

  She cocks her head back and snaps it against the blowtorch. The torch teeters, falls onto its side, and begins a slow, agonizing roll over to her right hand.

  “Please,” Moni begs the universe. “Please.”

  The torch rolls close–too close–the flame brushing Moni's arm and the horrible heat singeing hair and burning skin.

  Moni screams into her gag, jerks her elbow, tries to force the searing flame closer to the rope.

  The pain blinds her, takes her to a place beyond sensation, where her only thought, her only goal, is to make it stop make it stop MAKE IT STOP!

  Her arm is suddenly loose.

  Moni grabs the blowtorch, ignoring the burning twine that's still wrapped tightly around her wrist. She points the flame at her left hand, severs the rope. Then her feet.

  She's free!

  No time to dress. No time to hide. Up the stairs, two at a time, ready to dive out of a window naked and screaming and–

  “What the hell?”

  The freak is at the top of the stairs, pulling a wicked-looking hunting knife out of a cardboard box. He notices Moni and confusion registers on his face.

  It quickly morphs into rage.

  Moni doesn't hesitate, bringing the blowtorch around, swinging it like a club, connecting hard with the side of the freak's head, and then he's falling forward, past her, arms pinwheeling as he dives face-first into the stairs.

  Moni continues to run, up into the house, looking left and right, finding the front door, reaching for the knob...

  And pauses.

  The freak took a hard fall, but he might still be alive.

  There will be other girls. Other girls in his basement.

  Girls like Charlene.

  Cops don't help whores. Cops don't care.

  But Moni does.

  Next
to the front door is the living room. A couch. Curtains. A throw rug.

  Moni picks up the rug, wraps it around her body. Using the torch, she sets the couch ablaze, the curtains on fire, before throwing it onto the floor and running out into the street.

  It's early morning. The sidewalk is cold under her bare feet. She's shaken, and her burned arm throbs, but she feels lighter than air.

  A car stops.

  A john, cruising. Rolls down the window and asks if she's for sale.

  “Not anymore,” Moni says.

  She walks away, not looking back.

  With a Twist

  Another locked room mystery, this one even more complicated. What's fun about Jack is that I can put her in different sub genres without changing her character. She can function as Sherlock Holmes, or Spenser, or Kay Scarpetta, depending on the story. This won 2nd place in the Ellery Queen Reader's Choice Contest.

  “His skull is shattered, and his spinal column looks like a Dutch pretzel.” Phil Blasky straightened from his crouch and locked eyes with me, his expression neutral. “This man has fallen from a great height.”

  I glanced up from my notepad, not having written a word. “You're positive?”

  “I've autopsied enough jumpers in my tenure as ME to know a pancake when I see one, Jack.”

  I stared at the body, arms and legs akimbo, splayed out on a living room carpet damp with bodily fluids. On impulse I looked up, focusing on a ceiling that couldn't be any higher than eight feet.

  “Maybe he jumped off the couch.” This from my partner, Detective First Class Herb Benedict. His left hand scratched his expansive stomach, his light blue shirt dotted with mustard stains. It was 11am, so how the mustard got there was anybody's guess.

  I frowned at Herb, then located a patch of dry beige carpeting and knelt next to the corpse, careful not to stain my heels or pants. The victim was named Edward Wyatt, and this was his house. He was Caucasian, 67 years old, and as dead as dead can be. The smell wasn't too bad—this was a fresh one—but the wake would definitely be a closed casket.

  “What do you make of the blood spatters, Phil?”

  “Unremarkable star-configuration, arcing away from the nexus of the body in all directions. Droplets coating the walls and ceiling. Notice the double pattern—see the large spot here, next to the body? It has it's own larger radius of spatters.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning he bounced once, when he hit the carpet. Consistent with jumpers, leaving a primary then a secondary spatter.”