Beer Money (A Burr Ashland Mystery)

by Dani Amore

  I opened the door and stepped inside.

  It was a musty, dingy smell. Part mold, part rat droppings. The interior was demolished. Everywhere lay scrap lumber, chunks of plaster and old wiring. The lone structure was a weary staircase situated at the far end of the main room. I climbed them, my feet creaking with each step. I touched the warped banister and my hand came away thick with dust and grime.

  At the second floor landing, I peeked out into a room similar to the first floor in that its only features were piles of scrap building materials. A small shadow darted from one corner of the room. Either a large rat or a small cat.

  Orienting myself to the layout of the building, I climbed higher until I reached the third floor.

  The sun dipped below the horizon and what little light was left diminished quickly from the area. I pulled a pen light from my jacket and shined it up ahead. I oriented myself so I faced the north side of the building and then looked for the crime scene tape.

  I walked forward, guided in part by the flashes of yellow I saw ahead in the small beam of my penlight, as well as by the sound of the tape fluttering in the wind.

  I was no more than five feet away from the boarded up window when I heard the sound of plaster being ground behind me. Squashed by a foot.

  I made the move to duck and turn, but then I felt my head bounce forward as a funny feeling buzzed its way down my spine.

  I sank to my knees and saw three men encircle me. Two were in back, one was in front. The one in front was a big man. His black pants and black sweater hugged a large upper body. In the darkness of both the room, and the fog that was enveloping me, I could only make out vague shapes.

  "Hey-" I said.

  The man in front lifted his foot and before I could think to duck he kicked me in the head. Bright lights flashed before my eyes and I flew backward where my skull cracked against something very, very hard. Rough hands picked me up by the back of the shirt. A giant fist came out of nowhere and crashed across my jaw. Stars exploded in my head. A piece of tape went across my mouth. Another piece went across my eyes.

  I was dragged across the floor then thrown down the stairs headfirst.

  By the time I reached the bottom step, everything had gone black.

  Twenty-Nine

  A loud bang woke me from unconsciousness; another clang echoed around me and I tried to sit up, my head screaming in pain with the effort. My head felt too big for my body. Stabs of pain took turns announcing themselves. I felt like a pregnant woman trying to take deep breaths between contractions.

  I couldn't move much if I tried. A sudden thought chilled me: Is this what happened to Tim? A rage burned through me and I struggled against the cords to no avail. They certainly knew how to tie someone up. They were craftsmen, exhibiting a painstaking attention to detail.

  The metal against which my head was pressed was cool, and through it I could feel the vibrations of an engine. I was in a van. We hit a pothole and my head bounced off the floor.

  I heard no voices coming from the front of the van, no radio, and no music. I may have passed out because seemingly seconds later the van came to a sudden halt and doors slammed again, then the rear door was opened and I was dragged from the back of the van, pulled out and dropped onto the asphalt. My forehead scraped raw. They shut the van doors, jerked me to my feet and pulled me until I heard the sound of a door being unlocked. It was thrown open, and I was pushed through then tossed down yet another set of stairs. The terrifying feeling of the ground flying out from beneath me unnerved me and I braced myself as much as possible, but the steps were cement and they crashed into my chest, the wind knocked from me once again.

  As I gasped for air and felt blood trickle from my nose, I heard laughter behind me.

  Blood seeped from my nostrils and as it did so, the smell of sour bread came to my nose. No, it wasn't bread. It was yeast.

  I rose to my knees, my forehead pressed against the cement floor, its pebbled surface raked the soggy mess that was my face.

  A hand grabbed the back of my shirt. I was dragged across the floor until my head rammed into a metal pole. I heard the sound of hard-soled shoes climbing a short ladder above me, and then I was heaved and pulled upward by the neck and belt. My wind was cut off until I was dropped onto a steel mesh platform.

  Hands now grabbed my ankles. I was slid off the platform and thrust underwater. I clamped my mouth shut just as the warm water raced over my face and up my body. I had held my breath instinctively but there hadn't been time to get a good breath and my air ran out quickly. I kicked, panicking. My heart beat a million miles an hour and I wanted to scream. With what little willpower I had left, I shot a quick burst of air from my lungs, barely managing to stop from inhaling. I stopped thrashing.

  I was pulled out, sucking air and along with it, a mouthful of the water. It wasn't water, of course. But it wasn't beer, either. It was somewhere between the two.

  Instead of bothering to take me back down the ladder, I was kicked off the platform. I landed awkwardly on my elbow and pain shot through my arm.

  The hard-soled shoes came down the ladder and clacked across the cement floor to me. I was pulled across the floor, down another short flight of stairs, across another room and then suddenly stopped.

  I was lifted and thrown into a chair. My legs were tied to the chair legs, my arms pulled behind me. The tape was stripped from my eyes; chunks of skin near my temples went with it.

  The air felt cool, almost refreshing against my face. As my vision cleared, I saw a cement block wall. It had been painted white at one point, but was now a dull, dirty taupe. The paint was peeling near the bottom.

  A door shut behind me.

  The only sound in the room was the drip-drip-drip of my clothing. I shifted in my chair, my wet ass squeaked in a puddle and I tried to break loose but once again, my hosts had been very thorough with the restraints.

  The door opened behind me, and then closed again with just a whisper of sound. I heard a match struck and soon the smell of a cigarette reached my nose.

  "Your friends call you Burr." The voice was deep and slightly aged.

  I tried to make a stinging reply but when my vocal cords collided, the acidic burn of wort produced only a muted gargle in my throat.

  I said, "No shit," but it came out garbled. I don't think he understood me.

  "You have something I would like very much."

  I heard him pace gently, the sound of slacks whishing gently against thigh, the soft fall of his shoes. I strained to get a better look at him, but he stayed behind me.

  "Now," he said, "Why don't you save yourself a great deal of trouble, not to mention, pain, and tell me where it is."

  "Who are you people?" I said, or more accurately, croaked.

  "With so many issues in the world, Mr. Ashland, why don't you simply focus on the one I have brought to your attention. The one regarding the item for which I am looking."

  "Speaking of issues, let's talk about human rights, the ACLU, citizens against battered and half-drowned men..."

  The man sighed softly, then rapped twice on the door. It banged open and a hand grabbed my hair. I was then dragged, chair and all, out of the room, across the floor, up the stairs and back to the vat.

  I was scared, and the adrenaline was pumping. The chair with me in it was hoisted up the ladder, flipped over and I was dunked into the water again. I did the same trick, but this time, they didn't let me up. I held my breath and stopped struggling, and still they didn't let me up. Wort ran up my nose and down the back of my throat. My stomach was clenched, I thrashed some more but couldn't get free.

  I inhaled and felt water fill my lungs. I retched as the chair was jerked from the vat.

  The chair was kicked off the platform and I landed on my back, the back of my head pounded into the cement floor. Once again I was dragged by my hair back to the room.

  I was propped up again, and faced the wall. Several minutes later, I heard the door open.

  My ch
air was turned to face the door.

  The man came back around and stood before me.

  He was older, maybe near sixty. Tall, solidly built, with pale blue eyes and leathery skin. His hair was gray and he had a buzzcut. He looked like an overdressed drill sergeant.

  "As you may be able to tell, Mr. Ashland, we don't like you. But in the grand scheme of things, that should be none of your concern."

  "You're not giving me a chance. I've got a great personality."

  "What should be your concern," here he breathed deeply from his cigarette, "is not that we don't like you, but that we don't believe you." He paced. "Unless you can change this mindset, I'm afraid you will die. Here. Tonight." The fact that he spoke the words so casually made it seem all the more emphatic. And the fact that he didn't seem to mind me seeing his face told me that I was probably going to die here tonight, no matter what I told them.

  He waited for me and while he did, I decided to take the initiative.

  "Look," I said. "My friend, Tim Bantien, whom I'm sure you murdered, is the only person who knows what you want. And he’s dead. Now do you understand?”

  Another silence, except for the sound of him puffing on his cigarette.

  "You were given nothing..." He gestured vaguely with the hand holding the cigarette. Smoke swirled.

  "Nothing."

  He peered at me through the cigarette smoke. "Are you sure? Are you sure a third and final dive into the vat wouldn't dislodge some closely held memory?" His eyes looked lifeless and even bored. Another day at the office.

  "I'm telling you the truth. I swear to God. I don't have whatever it is you're looking for."

  He stood there a long time and then went to the door and rapped twice again. It opened and he stepped out. The door closed again.

  I was alone, while they no doubt were deciding what to do with me.

  I twisted in my chair. It had taken nearly as much abuse as I had when they'd dragged me to the wort vat for the second time. I wrapped my feet around the bottom of the legs, and twisted my body with everything I had. I heard wood crack and splinter. I twisted the other way and I heard more cracking.

  I thrust upward and lifted the chair several inches off the ground and then thrust back down. It crumpled beneath me.

  I ripped my hands from the broken framework of the chair, and kicked until my legs were free.

  There was movement outside the door and I froze. After several moments, I got my hands and feet free from the rope.

  I picked up a heavy piece of wood from the chair and hefted it.

  I pressed my ear to the door. Voices. Somewhere down the hall.

  A small square of glass was positioned three-quarters of the way up the door. I peered through it but could see no one. I looked around the room. There was no other way out. If I waited for them to come and get me, I wouldn't stand a chance.

  I thrust the butt end of my piece of wood through the glass, followed by my arm. Shards of glass sliced through the skin of my arm as I fumbled for the lock on the other side. My fingertips brushed it. I threw my shoulder into the square, glass cutting into my shoulder. My fingers found the lock and I threw it, then turned the knob with my left hand and pushed out into the hallway.

  Shots rang out and I saw small holes pucker the inside of the door. I snaked my arm back through the door and ducked down. Footsteps raced toward me.

  To my left, I saw a wide door with thick strips of plastic fluttering in a breeze. I dove through it. More shots rang out. The door slammed shut behind me.

  I faced a stairway, took the steps three at a time. Another large door, the kind found on loading docks, faced me. I looked for a switch but couldn't find any. I grabbed at the door itself but it wouldn't budge. Footsteps raced behind me.

  I saw another stairwell to my right. A figure burst through the plastic strips behind me and I swung the plank of wood and caught the man flush in the face. His nose crunched and he sank to his knees. I hit him over the head. I didn't see a gun.

  I ran to the stairs and raced up them. My breathing was shallow and ragged.

  I went up two flights and faced another door. I tried it. It opened. I stepped out onto the roof. The bitter wind ripped through my wet clothes. The air in my lungs caught and I gasped. I shut the door behind me and pushed a barrel half full of old roofing shingles in front of it. It wouldn't stop anyone, but it might slow them down.

  I ran to the edge of the roof and looked down. No good. I was at least four stories up. Too high to jump. I scanned the corners of the roof, looking for a ladder. I ran to the other side of the roof and looked down.

  The Milwaukee River roared beneath me, its waters thick and foamy. Although the current rocketed down this stretch of the river, there were still places where it probably wasn’t very deep.

  I started for the other wall when the roof door slammed into the barrel. There was a pause. And then the door was slammed open, the barrel toppled over and rolled the other way.

  A large man with an equally large gun leapt out. His eyes locked onto mine and he raised his pistol. A fancy sight mounted on the gun shot an infrared ray along the roof toward me.

  Without hesitating, I turned and leaped.

  Shots rang out.

  I felt a tugging on my sleeve and then a powerful blow twisted me around and I was falling.

  The warm water hit me with a thunderclap and I felt the current push me downstream. I slipped under the water, something sharp struck me in the side. I rolled over, my face broke the surface and then I went back under.

  Thirty

  The face before me reminded me of an old girlfriend whose face had been as weasely as her personality. The beady eyes, the twitch, the little nose and mouth. The small, sharp teeth.

  What had I ever seen in her? Then I remembered.

  The only difference was that the face before me now was definitely less than human. It was vermin. It was a river rat and it was looking right at me. I moved and the rat sat back on its haunches. He started to hiss at me and I tried to sit up, but my body didn't respond; shooting pains scorched my spine, neck and right arm. My face felt thick and lumpy. I tried to move my lips but they were swollen together. I tentatively ran my tongue along them but what I felt couldn't have been my lips. It felt more like 60-grit sandpaper.

  I sort of slumped some more and the rat bared his teeth. A surge of the last few drops of adrenaline went through my body and I rose to my knees. There was a thick branch of bleached driftwood beneath me. I must have clung to it before I passed out. It probably saved me from drowning and now in my hands, its heft felt good to me. I stood and the rat backed away. I took a half-swing that even the worst hitter in Pony League would probably have snickered at. But it was enough. The rodent ducked back into the water and swam away, disappearing beneath the lip of ice that separated the warm, factory run-off water from the main body of the river.

  I could hear the faint sound of traffic up ahead. Using the branch as a walking staff, I plowed ahead through the grime-covered snow up over a bluff where I saw a freeway overpass. In the distance, I saw the familiar outline of the Zoo exchange, an overlapping group of freeways a few miles from the Milwaukee County Zoo.

  The area was industrial. Several square miles of nameless, faceless warehouses known only to the people who own them or who are so unfortunate as to work there.

  I doubted whether or not I would find my way back to the place I was tortured. There were probably more than a half-dozen factories supplying the brewing industry. I could poke around, but I knew that no one would know anything. I was dealing with people far too professional to leave a trail back to them.

  On the bright side, the motherfuckers had chosen a place relatively convenient for me; I had about a forty minute walk home.

  I climbed the embankment, a slope of gravel mixed with weeds, empty potato chip bags and broken bottles. After I got my bearings, I headed for what I knew to be north, for Wisconsin Avenue. I cut through an empty storage lot replete with graffiti a
nd more smashed bottles. Empty tractor trailers sat on their steel arms, a driveway opened onto a dirt-and-gravel service drive which in turn led to a residential neighborhood. Two cross streets down, I came to Wisconsin Avenue.

  I walked one block past Wisconsin, figuring that my interrogators just might take it upon themselves to cruise around looking for a bedraggled white guy who looked like he’d had the shit kicked out of him.

  If there was fear in me as I walked along a darkened street past ramshackle duplexes and condemned row houses, I was too wiped out to notice. The internal alarm bells had all been beaten into silence.

  The houses started to get a little bigger, the lots had a little more breathing room, and I saw that I was somewhere around 40th St., slightly south of Milwaukee's core ghetto, but close enough to be in risk of collateral damage.

  I smelled like old beer and river sewage. Pity the poor bastard who chose to make me their next mugging victim.

  My legs ached, each step jarred me to the bone, and my teeth vibrated like tuning forks. With a stubborn precision brought on by shock, I walked toward my home in the Highlands. Traffic was light and by the time I got to 50th St., the area around me had begun to improve, enough so that I no longer had any nagging worries about being mugged.

  Pneumonia, now that was a different matter. I had a big fear of pneumonia. At night, in the low thirties and drenched to the bone, I figured I was a good candidate. A belly full of highly polluted Milwaukee River water didn't help matters.

  I thought of my fireplace at home. Of a hot shower, a huge fire, and a gun of some sort. Anything to be warm and dry again. A thick terrycloth robe, warm slippers, some hot rum.

  A deep cough rumbled through me, and some slop found itself on my tongue. I spit it out and watched it hit the sidewalk. At least I didn’t see any blood.

  My feet carried me forward, past Hawley Road, then up past 60th St., into my more immediate neighborhood. My breath became shallow and I felt the first inkling of fear over whether or not I would actually make it home. The sidewalk seemed to rise at angles suddenly, like a Tilt-A-Whirl at the carnival. I was obsessed with getting to my house, with opening the door and looking in the mirror. I had a First Aid kit in the bottom drawer of the upstairs cabinets, I knew there was a ton of shit in there, Band-Aids, bandages, tape, gauze, some kind of anti-infection stuff I would smear over most of my body. I'd had the damn kit for years and never used it for anything more than a paper cut or a picked over mosquito bite scab. I desperately wanted to ransack the medicine chest for antibiotics, too.