Gavin English Thrillers

by Ken Lindsey

  The kitchen was all stainless steel sinks and huge, grease-stained deep fryers. The big hooded fans that hovered above everything were whirring away, as if nothing had happened.

  I took two quick steps to clear myself out of the doorway, and that’s when I saw the kid I was looking for. I remembered his name was Roland, he was twenty-two years old, and he was a con-man. Right at that moment, he was whimpering as a constant flood of tears rolled down his face, and he looked like a child.

  I guessed that he was upset because there was a short, gray-haired woman with crazy eyes holding a handful of his pretty blonde hair, and shoving the muzzle of her big ass Colt .45 into his mouth.

  She was wearing a very fancy wedding ring.

  “Hey there, Roland. How’s it goin?”

  Roland didn’t answer me.

  “You shut mouse,” said crazy eyes. “Or I keel boy.”

  All I could think of in that moment was Rocky and Bullwinkle. Honest to Buddha, it took every ounce of self-control I had not to call her Natasha.

  “I’m afraid I’ve never been very good shutting the ol’ mouse. Why don’t we talk about it?”

  She was too short for me to get the head shot with Roland playing a meat-shield, and I knew I had to bide my time and wait for the right moment if I wanted the kid to get out alive.

  JACK

  O nce English disappeared into the kitchen, I rushed to the other woman who was still there, keeping low. I guessed she was wishing she could disappear into the wall. Her body shook with each breath, and her face was hanging down into her hands as she cried.

  “Come on. Hey, let’s get you out of here.” I waved and stamped my foot on the floor until she finally looked up at me.

  “What?”

  “Move!” I didn’t shout. You can’t really shout through gritted teeth, but I’m pretty sure she got the hint that my patience was running out because she got up and started crawling as quickly as she dared toward the exit.

  I lifted my Colt to the kitchen door again as she made her way out. Ten seconds went by, I could hear voices from inside, but there was no movement. Once the woman was out the door safely, I was on my way.

  I knew whoever was in charge of the scene outside would be furious with me for not leaving. I wasn’t a cop anymore, and this was technically a hostage situation, effectively making me a hostage. Phin would be even angrier. If I got myself killed, he’d probably want to kill me.

  But I couldn’t leave. This was still my city.

  I made my way through the room in a crouch. I knew that English was back there, and unless I heard a gunshot, I was fairly certain no one would be coming through that door.

  When I came around the display I saw the shooter from before. He was obviously dead, slumped against the back of the counter. The wounds in his chest were in a tight, tidy grouping, which surprised me given my lack of practice. But I felt no pride in the accomplishment. Killing a human being, even in self-defense, felt awful.

  I turned away and stepped into the kitchen. Two voices, one of them was English. The other was a woman, with a heavy Russian accent.

  “I don’t give two shits what you think, lady.” They were around the corner from me now. “And neither do the cops that are gonna come in here and bust your skull open like a piñata if you don’t put the gun down and let the kid go.”

  “Ees too late, now,” the woman replied. “You haff alriddy keel my Vlad. Now I keel you, and the boy.”

  Jesus. She sounded like Boris’s partner in the old Bullwinkle cartoons.

  I took a quick look around, but didn’t see anyone else. Maybe the shots we’d heard earlier had been warning shots.

  “That’s not gonna happen. Drop your gun, and you can still get out of this alive.”

  I ducked beneath one of the stainless steel prep tables and squat-walked past where this exchange was going on. English kept talking, the woman kept replying, and I was pretty sure neither of them noticed me. But the kid’s eyes went wide as I lunged from the cover of one table to the next.

  I held my breath for a good five seconds, sure he would give me away. Somehow my luck held and the kid stayed silent, letting the woman keep her focus on English. On both Englishes. English the PI, and English her second language.

  Then I was past all three of them.

  I rounded the end of the table and stood up. If English saw me, it didn’t register on his face at all. His eyes stayed on his target, and he kept talking.

  “Nobody else is going to die today, lady. Not over some damn ring.”

  I turned my pistol over in my hand so the butt was hanging loose and I was gripping the barrel. I took one step closer, English lowered his gun to keep the woman’s attention forward.

  Another step, then I was close enough. I swung the butt of that Detective Special for all it was worth, and it landed with a dull thud against the back of the woman’s skull.

  She crumpled, unconscious, and the cannon she had been holding skittered across the linoleum floor. The kid howled when the woman let go of him, and fell to his knees.

  English shoved his pistol back into the shoulder holster that was hidden beneath his suit jacket. “I’ll stay here with him if you wanna go bring in the assholes with the sirens.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Wanna grab a donut before we leave. A little snack? We earned it, and I bet they wouldn’t even charge us.”

  I shook my head. “I’ve had some crazy cravings this past year, but right now I’m not even the tiniest bit hungry.”

  GAVIN

  A fter Jack left the room, I dropped next to the old woman. Her pulse was good, and she was breathing. I slid the huge diamond ring from her finger and stuffed it into the inside pocket of my jacket.

  The kid stared at me, longing in his eyes as he watched his prize disappear.

  “Your ex-girlfriend sent me to retrieve her ring. You should feel lucky, because if she hadn’t, you’d be dead.”

  He nodded and turned his eyes to the floor.

  “You also might want to leave town. The Russian mob isn’t known for their capacity to forgive.”

  Another nod.

  It took about two hours for the cops to get everyone’s statement and clear out. Jack streamlined the process, saving Kara and I from having to go to the station. The giant behind the display case was pronounced dead on scene, and the old lady in the back was taken away in an ambulance, with a police escort. Another body was found in the freezer, Roland’s unfortunate uncle, the recipient of the gunshots we’d heard when we’d arrived.

  The kid gave his story to the cops more than once, and I caught it hanging around the periphery. He got into town a couple days ago and told his uncle about a ring he was looking to sell. His uncle said he knew some people, and told Roland to meet them at the donut shop that morning. Once the old lady and her son saw the diamond, they decided it would be easier to take it without paying.

  If you can’t trust Russian mobsters, who can you trust?

  Once the cops were finished, Jack and I met up with Kara back in the car.

  “It’s funny, they couldn’t find the ring,” Jack said as we pulled out of the parking lot. “I could have sworn I saw the old woman wearing one after I knocked her out.”

  “It’s a mystery, is what it is,” I laughed. “And since it was never reported stolen in the first place, I doubt they’ll ever find out what happened to it.”

  “You should tell your client to have her skeevy affairs in a hotel like normal people. And to keep her jewelry at home when she does it.”

  “I’ll let her know you said so.”

  JACK

  O n my way home, I got a call from McGlade.

  “How’s the porn show?” I asked.

  “I’m in the hospital.”

  He sounded fine, so I quipped, “Did you finally irritate someone so much they tried to kill you?”

  “I wish. It was the anal bleaching. The chemicals were too strong.”

  “You’re kidding.�
�

  “Not even a little.”

  I shook my head. “Anal bleaching is real? Why would anyone do that? Why would you do that?”

  “It was free.”

  I could picture Harry shrugging.

  “If someone offered to punch you in the face for free, would you do that, too?”

  “Who’s doing that? Do you need a coupon?”

  Sometimes Harry thinks he’s funny. I tolerate it.

  “So what happened?” I asked, trying to appear concerned. “Did you burn your asshole?”

  “Worse. The chemicals sort of fused it shut.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. “Fused shut? You mean you’re going to be even more full of shit than you were before?”

  “I’m glad my escapades are amusing to you, Jackie.”

  “Don’t you mean asscapades?” I was belly laughing now, and had to be careful I didn’t swerve off the road.

  “Yeah yeah, real funny. How’d it go with English?”

  I managed to get control over myself enough to fill him in.

  “Ten grand?” he whistled. “That’s about how much this hospital visit is going to cost.”

  “I guess you could say I covered your ass.”

  “Not funny. Unless you think invasive ass surgery is a joke.”

  “You need surgery?” The laughter returned. “What kind? Anal reconstruction? Assoplasty? Do you have to sign up for the national asshole donor registry?”

  “This is serious, Jack. I’m not going to be able to eat solids for five weeks. Or anything spicy for six months.”

  When I finally stopped laughing, I realized Harry had hung up on me. I considered calling home, but figured what I had to say to Phin would be better face to face. I was going to have to be honest about what had happened, not only because I loved him and honesty is the best policy, but because there had been five news cameras on the scene. He’d find out sooner or later.

  I put in an order for Chinese takeout at a place near my house, and picked it up fifteen minutes later. It was Phin’s favorite meal, and I hoped it would soften the blow.

  When I got home and saw him in front of the TV, watching a newscast with the graphic “Former Cop Kills Armed Robber At Donut Shop” I realized sweet and sour shrimp and General Tsao’s chicken probably weren’t enough to get me out of the doghouse.

  Phin noticed me and stood up. Rather than yell, he hurried over and gave me a giant hug. “You okay?”

  It was so nice to be held. Protected and loved and safe. I hoped this was what Sam felt like when I held her. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

  “Just a babysitting job, huh?” Phin’s breath warmed my neck. “Won’t even get out of the car?”

  “I’m sorry,” I mumbled.

  He pulled back, looking deep into my eyes. “Hey. Don’t ever apologize for being you.”

  I began to get mushy. “How did I ever wind up with a guy like you?”

  “You lowered your standards.” His eyes crinkled and his hands dropped from my waist to my ass. “Sam’s asleep. Would the donut shop hero be interested in having some kinky sex?”

  “How kinky?”

  “Seeing you on TV, acting all alpha cop, made me think about your handcuffs.”

  I feigned surprise. “Mr. Troutt, I had no idea you were such a pervert.”

  “A pervert with a dirty mind. I’m planning on doing terrible things to you, Ms. Daniels. Terrible, terrible things.”

  “Such as?”

  He whispered something in my ear.

  We were in bed thirty seconds later.

  GAVIN

  K ara and I got the first flight home we could find; Chicago hadn’t been pleasant, and we were anxious to leave. We’d have to be back for the trial, and we promised we’d meet with Jack and Phin and grab a bite and a beer when the date rolled around.

  After takeoff, Kara and I ordered drinks

  “I was worried about you, you know,” Kara said after the plane leveled out and she finished her first rum and cola. “At the donut shop. I wanted to be in there with you.”

  I downed the tiny bottle of whiskey the flight attendant had given me, and hit the button so she would bring another. “Those were gunshots, Kara. Two people died.”

  “It could have been you getting shot in there.”

  “And since you stayed outside, it couldn’t have been you. That was the point.”

  “So it’s okay that you get shot, but not me?”

  “No, it’s not okay if either of us gets shot. But if it had to happen, I’d prefer it wasn’t you.”

  “Because you’re the man? That’s sexist.”

  “Because I’m the boss. Deal with it.”

  She pouted for a while, and I stewed, but after each of us finished another drink, we fell asleep. When I woke up an hour later, her head was on my shoulder, and the thin, soft fingers of her hand were interlaced with mine. I breathed in the top of her head; as usual she smelled like a tropical island.

  I thought about Jack Daniels, in her late forties with a baby. I was too selfish to consider having kids, but Jack seemed pretty happy being a mom.

  Then I thought about the ring in my pocket. Wondered how it would look on Kara’s hand. Wondered why I was wondering that.

  I stared out the window, watching the clouds, holding my assistant’s hand until I went back to sleep.

  The End

  ---PART THREE---

  “For the just shall live by faith: but if any man draw back, my soul shall have no pleasure in him” -Hebrews 10:38

  “For a just man falls seven times, and rises up again: but the wicked shall fall by calamity” -Proverbs 24:16

  “Justice is subject to dispute; might is easily recognized and is not disputed. So we cannot give might to justice” -Blaise Pascal

  Prologue

  Pastor Timothy Ford Jr. woke in a cold sweat, choking the screams in his throat. He sucked in oxygen with heaving, gasping breaths which dragged his lower lip in and out of his mouth, scraping his teeth over and over until he could taste blood. He gripped the thin, ragged afghan and held it firm against his chest with his left hand, while blindly searching the nightstand with his right, until his fingers locked around the cool leather-bound cover of his father's Bible.

  As he hugged that old Book tight, he found his breath again, the hammering in his chest slowed to a dull rhythm. The musty scent of the pages beneath his chin was venerable and comforting; the feel of the leather against his bare chest, soothing. Already the nightmare faded away to only an unfocused haze of pain and death. And evil.

  But it felt so real.

  With a dying tremor of fear in his voice, Pastor Timothy whispered into the darkness, “For the wo-word of God is living and powerful, and s-sharp-sharper than any two-edged s-sword, piercing even to the division of soul and spirit, and of joints and marrow, and is a discerner of the thoughts and intents of the heart.”

  Speaking the words helped to calm the young preacher. The verse felt like a shield that made the darkness feel less... gaping. He laid the Bible in his lap and reached for the nightstand again, fingers fumbling gently across several books and loose scraps of paper until he found the thin chain which hung from the lamp.

  With a click, the naked eighty-watt bulb chased off the darkness. Timothy gritted his teeth, refusing to flinch away from the illumination as his eyes strained to adjust. He didn’t love the darkness, and no matter how weak his flesh might be, he would never hide his eyes from the light.

  And the light was everywhere. Aside from the matching three-foot mirrors, which hung on each side of the room and reflected the lamp so that no shadow could hide, Timothy's walls were bare. Bare and painted with the cleanest, whitest white the preacher had been able to find in the hardware store. Every surface in the room glistened, reflecting the light of that single bulb and turning his room into a beacon. A beacon which he knew, if it weren't for the roof on the house, would cut a brilliant swath through the soulless night sky.

  Even his solitary ni
ghtstand, the only furniture he allowed himself aside from his twin sized bed, was whitewashed. On that nightstand stood a lamp, the one thing Timothy hadn’t covered with that awful, blinding white. The lamp had no shade, of course, because Pastor Timothy knew since childhood that he had to let his light shine (hide it under a bushel? No! I'm gonna let it shine). It wasn't the brightness of the lamp, though, that made it a treasure—it was the base.

  A hundred years ago, the base of that lamp had been just a block of wood. Until his grandfather, a wholly devoted follower of the Lord, (or Lawd as the old man had said it) spent three and a half years carving it into an intricate tableau depicting the death of Christ. The Figure on the cross hung limply, His face peaceful, His eyes closed, as a tiny Roman soldier jabbed a spear into His side. Three women with featureless faces knelt feebly before the cross, hands reaching toward the Son. The colors of the lamp were stark—the blood a glistening crimson, the wooden cross all but black, the soldier's armor like rust. And the Lord's face, nearly as white as everything else in the room.

  The lamp was the only thing remaining after the family picked through his late grandfather's paltry estate. To this day, Timothy remembered watching the old man's children (the preacher's mother included) as they picked over the tiny apartment, squabbling for each morsel. Every possession the old man had gathered through his life. Pastor Timothy remembered thinking that the scene must have been much like watching grave robbers fighting over the treasures found in a pharaoh’s tomb.

  Nobody wanted the lamp. It was too old, too harsh, too ugly. Too sincere, Timothy guessed, even at his young age. He begged his mother to allow him to bring it home; when she finally relented, the boy snatched it up and hugged it like a teddy bear. Years later, when Timothy began his ministry, the lamp was one of the only fragments of his old life that he held on to. His grandfather's lamp, and his father's Bible.