65 Proof

by Jack Kilborn

Buster’s neighborhood was several rungs above Ajax’s as far as quality of life went. No junkies shooting up in the alleys, hookers on the corners, or roving gangs of teens with firearms.

  There were, however, lots of kids drunk out of their minds, moving in great human waves from bar to bar. The area was a hot spot for night life, and Friday night meant the partying was mandatory.

  Even the hydrants were taken, so I parked in an alley, blocking the entrance. I took the duffle bag from the passenger seat and climbed out into the night air.

  The temp had dropped, and I imagined I could smell Lake Michigan, even though it was miles away. There were voices, shouting, laughing, cars honking. I stood in the shadows.

  The security door on Buster’s apartment had a lock that was intact and functioning, unlike Ajax’s. I spotted someone walking out and caught the door before it closed, and then I took the elevator to the seventh floor.

  The cop impersonation wouldn’t work this time; Jasmine was on the run and wouldn’t open the door for anybody.

  But I had a key.

  It was another online purchase. There were thirty-four major lock companies in the US, and they made ninety-five percent of all the locks in America. These lock companies each had a few dozen models, and each of the models had a master key that opened up every lock in the series.

  Locksmiths could buy these master keys. So could anyone with a credit card who knew the right website.

  The lock on Buster’s apartment was a Schlage. I took a large key ring from my duffel bag and got the door open on the third try.

  Jasmine and Buster were on a futon, watching TV. I was on him before he had a chance to get up.

  When he reached for me, I grabbed his wrist and twisted. Then, using his arm like a lever, I forced him face down into the carpeting.

  “Buster!”

  I didn’t have time to deal with Jasmine yet, so she got a kick in the gut. She went down. I took out roll of duct tape and secured Buster’s wrists behind him. When that was done, I wound it around his legs a few times.

  “Jazz, run!”

  His mouth was next.

  Jasmine had curled up in the corner of the room, hugging her knees and rocking back and forth. She was a little thing, no older than Ajax, wearing sweatpants and an extra large t-shirt. Her black hair was pulled back and fear distorted her features.

  I made it worse by showing her my Glock.

  “Tell me about Artie Collins.”

  She shrunk back, making herself smaller.

  “You’re going to kill me.”

  “No one is killing anyone. Why does Artie want you dead?”

  “The book.”

  “What book?”

  She pointed to the table next to the futon. I picked up a ledger, scanned a few pages.

  Financial figures, from two of Artie’s clubs. I guessed that these were the ones the IRS didn’t see.

  “Stupid move, lady. Why’d you take these from him?”

  “He’s a pig,” she spat, anger overriding terror. “Artie doesn’t like it straight. He’s a real freak. He did things to me, things no one has ever done.”

  “So you stole this?”

  “I didn’t know what it was. I wanted to hurt him, it was right there in the dresser. So I took it.”

  Gutsy, but dumb. Stealing from one of the most connected guys in the Midwest was a good way to shorten your life expectancy.

  “Artie is offering ten thousand dollars for you. And there’s a bonus if it’s messy.”

  I put the book in the duffle bag, and then removed a knife.

  Artie Collins was a slug, and everyone knew it. He had his public side; the restaurants, the riverboat gambling, the night clubs, but anyone worth their street smarts knew he also peddled kiddie porn, smack cut with rat poison, and owned a handful of cops and judges.

  Standing before me, he even looked like a slug, from his sweaty, fat face, to the sharkskin suit in dark brown, of all colors.

  “I don’t know you,” he said.

  “Better that way.”

  “I like to know who I’m doing business with.”

  “This is a one time deal. Two ships in the night.”

  He seemed to consider that, and laughed.

  “Okay then, Mystery Man. You told my boys you had something for me.”

  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.

  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.