Jack Daniels Stories Page 9

  If I had been paying attention, I still wouldn't have understood what she wanted me to do. But I was busy looking at her legs, which weren't adequately covered by her skirt. She had great legs, curvy without being heavy, tan and long, and she had them crossed in that sexy way that women cross their legs, knee over knee, not the ugly way that guys do it, with the ankle on the knee, though if she did cross her legs that way it would have been sexy too.

  “Mr. McGlade, did you hear what I just said?”

  “Hmm? Yeah, sure I did, baby. The man, the husband, I got it.”

  “So you'll do it?”

  “Do what?”

  “Kill the man that my husband—”

  I held up my hand. “Whoa. Hold it right there. I'm just a plain old private eye. That's what is says on the door you just walked through. The door even has a big magnifying glass silhouette logo thingy painted on it, which I paid way too much money for, just so no one gets confused. I don't kill people for money. Absolutely, positively, no way.” I leaned forward a little. “But, for the sake of argument, how much money are we talking about here?”

  “I don't know where else to turn.”

  The tears came, and she buried her face in her hands, giving me the opportunity to look at her legs again. Marietta Garbonzo had found me through the ad I placed in the Chicago phone book. The ad used the expensive magnifying glass logo, along with the tagline, Harry McGlade Investigators: We'll Do Whatever it Takes. It brought in more customers than my last tagline: No Job Too Small, No Fee Too High, or the one prior to that, We'll Investigate Your Privates.

  Mrs. Garbonzo had never been to a private eye before, and she was playing her role to the hilt. Besides the short skirt and tight blouse, she had gone to town with the hair and make-up; her blonde locks curled and sprayed, her lips painted deep, glossy red, her purple eye shadow so thick that she managed to get some on her collar.

  “My husband beats me, Mr. McGlade. Do you know why?”

  “Beats me,” I said, shrugging. Her wailing kicked in again. I wondered where she worked out. Legs like that, she must work out.

  “He's insane, Mr. McGlade. We've been married for a year, and Roy always had a temper. I once saw him attack another man with a tire iron. They were having an argument, Roy went out to the car, grabbed a crow bar from the trunk, then came back and practically killed him.”

  “Where do you work out?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Exercise. Do you belong to a gym, or work out at home?”

  “Mr. McGlade, I'm trying to tell you about my husband.”

  “I know, the insane guy who beats you. Probably shouldn't have married a guy who used a tire iron for anything other than changing tires.”

  “I married too young. But while we were dating, he treated me kindly. It was only after we married that the abuse began.”

  She turned her head away and unbuttoned her blouse. My gaze shifted from her legs to her chest. She had a nice chest, packed tight into a silky black bra with lace around the edges and an underwire that displayed things to a good effect, both lifting and separating.

  “See these bruises?”

  “Hmm?”

  “It's humiliating to reveal them, but I don't know where else to go.”

  “Does he hit you anywhere else? You can show me, I'm a professional.”

  The tears returned. “I hired a man to kill him, Mr. McGlade. I hired a man to kill my husband. But somehow Roy found out about it, and he hired a man to kill the man I hired. So I'd like you to kill his man so my man can kill him.”

  I removed the bottle of whiskey from my desk that I keep there for medicinal purposes, like getting drunk. I unscrewed the cap, wiped off the bottle neck with my tie, and handed it to her.

  “You're not making sense, Mrs. Garbonzo. Have a swig of this.”

  “I shouldn't. When I drink I lose my inhibitions.”

  “Keep the bottle.”

  She took a sip, coughing after it went down.

  “I already paid the assassin. I paid him a lot of money, and he won't refund it. But I'm afraid he'll die before he kills my husband, so I need someone to kill the man who is after him.”

  “Shouldn't you tell the guy you hired that he's got a hit on him?”

  “I called him. He says not to worry. But I am worried, Mr. McGlade.”

  “As I said before, I don't kill people for money.”

  “Even if you're killing someone who kills people for money?”

  “But I'd be killing someone who is killing someone who kills people for money. What prevents that killer from hiring someone to kill me because he's killing someone who is killing someone that I...hand me that bottle.”

  I took a swig.

  “Please, Mr. McGlade. I'm a desperate woman. I'll do anything.”

  She walked around the desk and stood before me, shivering in her bra, her breath coming out in short gasps through red, wet lips. Her hands rested on my shoulders, squeezing, and she bent forward.

  “My laundry,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Do my laundry.”

  “Mr. McGlade, I'm offering you my body.”

  “And it's a tempting offer, Mrs. Garbonzo. But that will take, what, five minutes? I've got about six loads of laundry back at my place, they take an hour for each cycle.”

  “Isn't there a dry cleaner in your neighborhood?”

  “A hassle. I'd have to write my name on all the labels, on every sock, on the elastic band of my whitey tighties, plus haul six bags of clothes down the street. You want me to help you? I get five hundred a day, plus expenses. And you do my laundry.”

  “And you'll kill him?”

  “No. I don't kill people for money. Or for laundry. But I'll protect your guy from getting whacked.”

  “Thank you, Mr. McGlade.”

  She leaned down to kiss me. Not wanting to appear rude, I let her. And so she didn't feel unwanted, I stuck my hand up her skirt.

  “You won't tell the police, will you Mr. McGlade?”

  “Look, baby, I'm not your priest and I'm not your lawyer and I'm not your shrink. I'm just a man. A man who will keep his mouth shut, except when I'm eating. Or talking, or sleeping, because sometimes I sleep with my mouth open because I have the apnea.”

  “Thank you, Mr. McGlade.”

  “I'll take the first week in advance, Visa and MasterCard are fine. Here are my spare keys.”

  “Your keys?”

  “For my apartment. It's in Hyde Park. I don't have a hamper, so I leave my dirty clothes all over the floor. Do the bed sheets too—those haven't been washed since, well, ever. Washer and dryer are in the basement of the building, washer costs seventy-five cents, dryer costs fifty cents for each thirty minutes, and the heavy things like jeans and sweaters take about a buck fifty to dry. Make yourself at home, but don't touch anything, sit on anything, eat any of my food, or turn on the TV.”

  I gave her my address, and she gave me a check and all of her info. The info was surprising.

  “You hired a killer from the personal ads in Famous Soldier Magazine?”

  “I didn't know where else to go.”

  “How about the police? A divorce attorney?”

  “My husband is a rich and powerful man, Mr. McGlade. You don't recognize his name?”

  I flipped though my mental Rolodex. “Roy Garbonzo? Is he the Roy Garbonzo that owns Happy Roy's Chicken Shack?”

  “Yes.”

  “He seems so happy on those commercials.”

  “He's a beast, Mr. McGlade.”

  “The guy is like a hundred and thirty years old. And on those commercials, he's always laughing and signing and dancing with that claymation chicken. He's the guy that's abusing you?”

  “Would you like to see the proof again?”

  “If it isn't too much trouble.”

  She grabbed my face in one hand, squeezing my cheeks together.

  “Happy Roy is a vicious psycho, Mr. McGlade. He's a brutal, misogynist pig who
enjoys inflicting pain.”

  “He's probably rich too.”

  Mrs. Garbonzo narrowed her eyes. “He's wealthy, yes. What are you implying?”

  “I like his extra spicy recipe. Do you get to take chicken home for free? You probably have a fridge stuffed full of it, am I right?”

  She released my face and buttoned up her blouse.

  “I have to go. My husband gets paranoid when I go out.”

  “Maybe because when you go out, you hire people to kill him.”

  She picked up her purse and headed for the door. “I expect you to call me when you've made some progress.”

  “That includes ironing,” I called after her. “And hanging the stuff up. I don't have any hangers, so you'll have to buy some.”

  After she left, I turned off all the office lights and closed the blinds, because what I had to do next, I had to do in complete privacy.

  I took a nap.

  When I awoke a few hours later, I went to the bank, cashed Mrs. Garbonzo's check, and went to start earning my money.

  My first instinct was to dive head-first into the belly of the beast and confront Mrs. Garbonzo's hired hitman help. My second instinct was to get some nachos, maybe a beer or two.

  I went with my second instinct. The nachos were good, spicy but not so much that all you tasted was peppers. After the third beer I hopped in my ride and headed for the assassin's headquarters, which turned out to be in a well-to-do suburb of Chicago called Barrington. The development I pulled into boasted some amazingly huge houses, complete with big lawns and swimming pools and trimmed bushes that looked like corkscrews and lollipops. I double-checked the address I'd scribbled down, then pulled into a long circular driveway and up to a home that was bigger than the public school I attended, and I came from the city where they grew schools big.

  The hitman biz must be booming.

  I half expected some sort of maid or butler to answer the door, but instead I was greeted by a fifty-something woman, her facelift sporting a deep tan. I appraised her.

  “If you stay out in the sun, the wrinkles will come back.”

  “Then I'll just have more work done.” Her voice was steady, cultured. “Are you here to clean the pool?”

  “I'm here to speak to William Johansenn.”

  “Billy? Sure, he's in the basement.”

  She let me in. Perhaps all rich suburban women were fearless and let strange guys into their homes. Or perhaps this one simply didn't care. I didn't get a chance to ask, because she walked off just as I entered.

  “Lady? Where's the basement?”

  “Down the hall, stairs to the right,” she said without turning around.

  I took a long, tiled hallway past a powder room, a den, and a door that opened to a descending staircase. Heavy metal music blared up at me.

  “Billy!” I called down.

  My effort was fruitless—with the noise, I couldn't even hear myself. The lights were off, and squinting did nothing to penetrate the darkness.

  Surprising a paid assassin in his own lair wasn't on the list of 100 things I longed to do before I die, but I didn't see much of a choice. I beer-belched, then went down the stairs.

  The basement was furnished, though furnished didn't seem to be the right word. The floor had carpet, and the walls had paint, and there seemed to be furniture, but I couldn't really tell because everything was covered with food wrappers, pop cans, dirty clothing, and discarded magazines. It looked like a 7-Eleven exploded.

  William “Billy” Johansenn was asleep on a waterbed, a copy of Creem open on his chest. He had a galaxy of pimples dotting his forehead and six curly hairs sprouting from his chin.

  He couldn't have been a day over sixteen.

  I killed the stereo. Billy continued to snore. Among the clutter on the floor were several issues of Famous Soldier, along with various gun and hunting magazines. I poked through his drawers and found a cheap Rambo knife, a CO2 powered BB gun, and a dog-eared copy of the infamous How to be a Hitman book from Paladin Press.

  I gave the kid a shake, then another. The third shake got him to open his eyes.

  “Who the hell are you?” he said, defiant.

  “I'm your wake-up call.”

  I slapped the kid, making his eyes cross.

  “Hey! You hit me!”

  “A woman hired you to kill her husband.”

  “I don't know what you're—”

  He got another smack. “That's for lying.”

  “You can't hit me,” he whined. “I'll sue you.”

  I hit him twice more; once because I didn't like being threatened by punk kids, and once because I didn't like lawyers. When I pulled my palm back for threesies, the kid broke.

  “Please! Stop it! I admit it!”

  I released his t-shirt and let him blubber for a minute. His blue eyes matched those of the woman upstairs. Not many professional killers lived in their mother's basement, and I wondered how Marietta Garbonzo could have been this naive.

  “I'm guessing you never met Mrs. Garbonzo in person.”

  “I only talked to her on the phone. She sent the money to a P.O. Box. That's how the pros do it.”

  “So how did she get your home address?”

  “She wouldn't give me the money without my address. She said if I didn't trust her, why should she trust me?”

  Here was my proof that each new generation of teenagers was stupider than the last. I blame MTV.

  “How much did she give you?”

  He smiled, showing me a mouth full of braces. “Fifty large.”

  “And how were you going to do it? With your BB gun?”

  “I was going to follow him around and then...you know...shove him.”

  “Shove him?”

  “He's an old guy. I was thinking I'd shove him down some stairs, or into traffic. I dunno.”

  “Have you shoved a lot of old people into traffic, Billy boy?”

  He must not have liked the look in my eyes, because he shrunk two sizes.

  “No! Never! I never killed anybody!”

  “So why put an ad in the magazine?”

  “I dunno. Something to do.”

  I considered hitting him again, but didn't know what purpose it would serve.

  I hit him anyway.

  “Ow! My lip's caught in my braces!”

  “You pimple-faced little moron. Do you have any idea what kind of trouble you're in right now? Not only did you accept money to commit a felony, but now you've got a price on your head. Did Mrs. Garbonzo tell you about the guy her husband hired to kill you?”

  He nodded, his Adam's apple wiggling like a fish.

  “Are-are you here to kill me?”

  “No.”

  “But you've got a gun.” He pointed to the butt of my Magnum, jutting out of my shoulder holster.

  “I'm a private detective.”

  “Is that a real gun?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can I touch it?”

  “No.”

  “Come on. Lemme touch it.”

  This is what happens when you spare the rod and spoil the child.

  “Look kid, I know that you're a loser that nobody likes, and that you're a virgin and will probably stay one for the next ten years, but do you want to die?”

  “Ten years?”

  “Answer the question.”

  “No. I don't want to die.”

  I sighed. “That's a start. Where's the money?”

  “I've got a secret place. In the wall.”

  He rolled off the bed, eager, and pried a piece of paneling away from the plaster in a less-cluttered corner of the room. His hand reached in, and came out with a brown paper shopping bag.

  “Is it all there?”

  Billy shook his head. “I spent three hundred on a wicked MP3 player.”

  “Hand over the money. And the MP3 player.”

  Billy showed a bit of reluctance, so I smacked him again to help with his motivation.

  It helped. He also gave me f
resh batteries for the player.

  “Now what?” he sniffled.

  “Now we tell your parents.”

  “Do we have to?”

  “You'd prefer the cops?”

  He shook his head. “No. No cops.”

  “That blonde upstairs with the face like a snare drum, that your mom?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Let's go have a talk with her.”

  Mrs. Johansenn was perched in front of a sixty inch television, watching a soap.

  “Nice TV. High definition?”

  “Plasma.”

  “Nice. Billy has something he wants to tell you.”

  Billy stared at his shoes. “Mom, I bought an ad in the back of Famous Soldier Magazine, and some lady gave me fifty thousand dollars to kill her husband.”

  Mrs. Johansenn hit the mute button on the remote, shaking her head in obvious disappointment.

  “Billy, dammit, this is too much. You're a hired killer?”

  “Sorry,” he mumbled.

  “You're father is going to have a stroke when he hears this.”

  “Do we have to tell Dad?”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “I gave the money back.”

  “Who are you?” Billy's mom squinted at me.

  “I'm Harry McGlade. I'm a private eye. I was hired to find Billy. Someone is trying to kill him.”

  Mrs. Johansenn rolled her eyes. “Oh, this gets better and better. I need to call Sal.”

  “You husband?”

  “My lawyer.”

  “Ma'am, a lawyer isn't going to do much to save Billy's life, unless he's standing between him and a bullet.”

  “So what then, the police?”

  “Not the cops, Mom! I don't want to go to jail!”

  “He won't survive in prison,” I said. “The lifers will pass him around like a bong at a college party. They'll trade him for candy bars and cigarettes.”

  “I don't want to be traded for candy bars, Mom!”

  Mrs. Johansenn frowned, forming new wrinkles. “Then what should we do, Mr. McGlade?”

  I paused for a moment, then I grinned.

  “I get five-hundred a day, plus expenses.”

  #

  I celebrated my recent windfall with a nice dinner at a nice restaurant. I was more of a burger and fries guy than a steak and lobster guy, but the steak and lobster went down easy, and after leaving a 17% tip I headed to Evanston to visit the Chicken King.