65 Proof

by Jack Kilborn

  I searched around for the drink holder, picked up the coffee I’d bought back in the Dells, and forced down the remaining cold dregs, sucking every last molecule of caffeine from the grit that caught in my teeth.

  “Business.”

  She touched my arm, hairless like the rest of me.

  “You don’t look like a businessman.”

  The road stretched out ahead of us, an endless black snake. Mile after mile of nothing to look at. I should have gotten a vehicle with a manual transmission, given my hand something to do.

  “My briefcase and power ties are in the back seat.”

  Thor didn’t bother to look. Which was a good thing.

  “What sort of business are you in?”

  I considered it. “Customer relations.”

  “From Chicago,” Thor said.

  She noticed the plates before climbing in. Observant girl. I wondered, obliquely, how far she’d take this line of questioning.

  “Don’t act much like a businessman, either.”

  “How do businessmen act?” I said.

  “They’re all after one thing.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Me.”

  She tried to purr, and wound up sounding like Mickey Mouse. Personally, I didn’t find her attractive. I had no idea if she was pre-op, post-op, or a work in progress, but Thor and I weren’t going to happen, ever.

  I didn’t tell her this. I might be a killer, but I’m not mean.

  “Where are you headed?” I asked.

  She sighed, scratching her neck, posture changing from demure seductress to one of the guys.

  “Anywhere. Nowhere. I don’t have a clue. This was a spur of the moment thing. One of my girlfriends just called, said my former pimp was coming after me.”

  “How former?”

  “I left him yesterday. He was a selfish bastard.”

  She was quiet for a while. I fumbled to crank the air higher, forgetting where the knob was. It was already up all the way. I glanced over at Thor, watched her shoulders quiver in time with her sobs.

  “You love him,” I said.

  She sniffled, lifted up her chin.

  “He didn’t care about me. He just cared that I took his shit.”

  This got my attention.

  “You holding?” I asked. Codeine didn’t do as good a job as coke or heroin.

  “No. Never so much as smoked a joint, if you can believe it.”

  I would have raised an eyebrow, but they hadn’t grown back yet. Maybe I’d be dead before they did.

  “It’s true, handsome. Every perverted little thing I’ve ever done I’ve done stone cold sober. Lots of men think girls like me are all messed up in the head. I’m not. I have zero identity issues, and my self esteem is fine, thank you.”

  “I’ve never met a hooker with any self esteem,” I said.

  “And I’ve never met a car thief on chemotherapy.”

  I glanced at her again. Waited for the explanation.

  “You couldn’t find the climate control,” Thor said. “And you’re so stoned on something you never bothered to adjust the seat or the mirrors. Vicodin?”

  I nodded, yawned.

  “You okay to drive?”

  “I managed to pick you up without running you over.”

  Thor clicked open a silver-sequined clutch purse and produced a compact. She fussed with her make-up as she spoke, dabbing at her tears with a foundation sponge.

  “So why did you pick me up?” she asked. “You’re not the type who’s into transgender.”

  “You’re smart. Figure it out.”

  She studied me, staring for almost a full minute. I shifted in my seat. Being scrutinized was a lot of work.

  “You stole the car in Chicago, so you’ve been on the road for about six hours. You’re zonked out on painkillers, probably sick from chemotherapy, but you’re still driving at two in the morning. I’d say you just robbed a bank, but you don’t seem jumpy or paranoid like you’re running from something. That means you’re running to something. How am I doing so far?”

  “If I had any gold stars, you’d get one.”

  She stared a bit longer, then asked.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Phineas Troutt. People call me Phin.”

  “Sort of a strange name.”

  “This from a girl named Thor.”

  “My father loved comic books. Wanted a tough, macho, manly son, thought the name would make me strong.”

  I glanced at her. “It did.”

  Thor smiled. A real smile, not a hooker smile.

  “Are you going to Rice Lake to commit some sort of crime, Phin?”

  “That isn’t the question. The question is why I picked you up.”

  “Fair enough. If I still believed in knights in shining armor, I’d say you picked me up because you felt bad for me and wanted to help. But I think your reason was purely selfish.”

  “And that reason is?”

  “You were falling asleep behind the wheel, and needed something to keep you awake.”

  I smiled, and it morphed into a yawn.

  “That’s a damn good guess.”

  “But is it true?”

  “I’m definitely enjoying the company.”

  She kept watching me, but it was more comfortable this time.

  “So who are you going to kill in Rice Lake, Phin?”

  I stayed quiet.

  “No whore ever gets into a car without checking the back seat,” Thor said. “A forty dollar trick can turn into a gang rape freebie, a girl’s not careful.”

  I wondered what she meant, then remembered what was lying on the back seat. What I hadn’t bothered to put away. “You saw the gun.”

  “People normally keep those things hidden. You should try to be inconspicuous.”

  “I’m not big on inconspicuous.”

  “That box of baby wipes. Are you a proud papa, or are they for something else?”

  “Sometimes things get messy.” Which was an understatement. “So if you saw the gun, why did you get in?”

  Thor laughed, throaty and seductive. She could shrug the whore act on and off like it was a pair of shoes.

  “The streets are dangerous, Phin. A working girl has to carry more protection than condoms.”

  She reached into the top of her knee high black vinyl boot, showed me the butt of a revolver.

  “Mine’s bigger,” I said.

  “Mine’s closer.”

  I nodded. The road stretched onward, no end in sight.

  “So how much do you charge, for your services?” Thor asked.

  “Depends.”

  “On what?”

  “The job. How much I need the money.”

  “Does it matter who the person is?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t you think that’s cold?”

  “Everyone has to die sometime,” I said. “Some of us sooner than others.”

  Another stretch of silence. Another stretch of road.

  “I’ve got eight hundred bucks,” Thor said. “Is that enough?”

  “For your pimp. The selfish bastard.”

  “He is. I earned this money. Earned every cent. But in this area, every whore, from the trailer girls to the high class escorts, has to pay Jordan a cut.”

  “And you didn’t pay.”

  “He knows how important my transformation is. One more operation, and I’m all woman. Holding out was the only way I could make it.”

  “I thought you loved him.”

  “Just like he says, love and business are two separate things.”

  Her breathing sped up. Over the hum of the engine, I thought I heard her heart beating. Or maybe it was mine.

  “Why don’t you kill him yourself, with your little boot revolver.” I said.

  “Jordan has the cops in his pocket. They’d catch me.”

  “Unless you had an alibi when it happened.”

  Thor nodded. “Exactly. You drop me off at a diner. I
spend three hours with a cup of coffee. We both get something we need.”

  I considered it. Eight hundred was twice as much as I was making on this job. Years ago, if someone told me that one day I’d drive twelve hours both ways to kill a man for a lousy four hundred bucks, I would have laughed it off.

  Things change.

  The pinch in my side, growing bit by bit as the minutes passed, would eventually blossom into a raw explosion of pain. I was down to my last three Vicodin, and only had twenty-eight cents left to my name. I needed more pills, along with a bottle of tequila and a few grams of coke.

  Codeine for the physical. Cocaine and booze for the mental. Dying isn’t easy.

  “So what do you say?” Thor asked.

  “What kind of man is Jordan?”

  “You said it doesn’t matter. Does it?”

  “No.”

  I waited. The car ate more road. The gas gage hovered over the E.

  “He’s a jerk. A charming jerk, but one just the same. I thought I loved him, once. Maybe I did. Or maybe I just loved to have a good looking man pay attention to me, make me feel special.”

  “Murder will pretty much ruin any chance of you two getting back together.”

  “I’ll try to carry on,” she said, reapplying her lipstick.

  Gas station, next exit. I made up my mind. A starving dog doesn’t question why his belly is empty. His only thought is filling it.

  “I’ll do it,” I said.

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  Thor smiled big, then gave me a hug.

  “Thanks, Phin. You’re my knight in shining armor after all.”

  “I’ll need the money up front,” I said. “You got it on you?”

  “Yeah. Take this exit. There’s a Denny’s. You can drop me off there.”

  I took the exit.

  We pulled into the parking lot. It was close to empty, but I killed the lights and rolled behind the restaurant near the Dumpsters, so no one would see us together. When I hit the breaks, Thor stayed where she was.

  “Second thoughts?” I asked.

  “How do I know you won’t take my money and run?”

  “All I have left is my word,” I said.

  She considered it, then fished a roll of bills from her purse. When she was counting, I put my hand on her leg.

  Thor smiled at me.

  “I didn’t think you were into me,” she said. “Finish the job, and then I’ll throw in a little bonus for you.”

  “I just need to finish my other job first,” I told her.

  “I understand.”

  My hand moved down her knee, found the revolver, and tugged it out.

  With the windows closed I doubt anyone heard the gunshots, even though they were loud enough to make my ears ring.

  I took the cash, hit the button to recline Thor’s seat until she was out of sight, and rolled down her window. I hated to let the heat in, but the glass was conspicuously spattered with her blood, and I didn’t need to make any more mistakes. Then I pulled out of the parking lot and got back on the highway, heading south.

  Jordan had told me, over the phone, that I’d find Thor working the Eau Claire off ramp. He said to dump the body somewhere up the road, then meet him in the morning. The few hours wait were so he could establish an alibi.

  A few miles up the road I pulled over, yanked Thor out of the car, and got behind the wheel again before another car passed. Then I grabbed the box of baby wipes in the back seat. As I drove I cleaned up my hands, then the passenger side of the vehicle. There wasn’t too much of a mess. Small gun, small holes. I was lucky Thor got in the car at all, after spying the gun I’d sloppily left in plain sight. Stupid move on my part.

  Hers, too.

  When I reached Eau Claire I headed to where I thought Jordan would be. He’d be angry to see me so soon, but that wouldn’t last very long. Just until I shot him in the head.

  I had nothing against Jordan. I had nothing against Thor, either. But a deal is a deal, and as I told the lady, all I had left was my word.

  A Lt. Jack Daniels/Duffy Dombrowski Mystery by JA Konrath & Tom Schreck

  Duffy

  My face hurt like a toothache.

  The boxer I’d just fought—a fat guy from Gary, Indiana who was supposedly slow and easy to hit—could punch. I hit him a lot, easily, but he countered well, and every time he did it felt like getting banged with a fabric-covered cinder block. Enough of those and it makes your head ring. Not a pleasant dull throb, but a crackling pain going through from your forehead to your jaw.

  Incidentally, I won the fight—six rounds to two in an eight rounder that left me a thousand dollars richer. Now, my true reward; a trip to AJ’s for a beer. I fought at the Armory, a two minute car ride to the bar, and got the shock of my life when I came through the front door.

  The place had a crowd.

  That never happened. Usually, the crowd, and I use that term loosely, consisted of the Fearsome Foursome, Kelley the cop, me and maybe, on a good night, a couple of cab drivers. Tonight other people had invaded my refuge.

  Luckily, the Foursome had their usual seats at the bar and saved me one. Kelley, one away from that, was also in. Maybe not so luckily, the Foursome had already started.

  “They wrapped her tits in ace bandages, you know.” TC said.

  “She sprain ‘em?” Jerry Number One said.

  Fuck, they were arguing about the Wizard of Oz again. TC loved to talk about how Judy Garland had her breasts wrapped to look younger in her famous role.

  “Jed Clampett got sick making that flick,” Rocco said. It silenced the room for a second while the others stared. I took my seat, put a hand up to my face. No swelling, yet.

  “The glue on the lion outfit gave him the hives,” Rocco said with confidence.

  “Bulger.” Jerry Number Two.

  “It is not Bulger, it’s the truth,” Rocco said.

  AJ, the owner and only bartender, slid a bottle of Schlitz in front of me. I took a long pull and held the rest of it to my forehead.

  “Let me get a Beam, too.” I said. AJ lifted his eyebrows but said nothing and put a sidecar of the brown elixir next to the Schlitz.

  “Buddy Epson got allergic to the silver paint. Ray Bulger played the lion,” I said. “You fuckin’ guys had this discussion a month ago.”

  The Fearsome Foursome—Jerries One and Two, Rocco and TC—all stared at me.

  “Sorry, fellas,” I said, realizing I’d snapped at them. “My head hurts.”

  The unusual silence from the crew called my attention to the crowd in the bar for the first time. There were three strangers on stools on the end by the TV. They didn’t look like the usual cab drivers who drifted in. Foreign, maybe eastern block, each in a suit worth more than my payday. They seemed familiar, and it dawned on me they were at the fight. I saw them in the dressing room hanging out with Wilkerson, the fight promoter. They also had front row seats.

  I figured they probably followed me here for a drink, but then realized they were here before me. Unusual. Behind them, another group chatted quietly while sipping their drinks. A fat balding guy ate an AJ’s cheeseburger, getting mustard, ketchup and grease on his face. He didn’t bother with a napkin and instead dragged his sleeve in an upward motion across his mouth.

  He talked to a forty-something woman in a very sharp suit—way too sharp for AJ’s. No spring chicken, but hot enough in that self-confident, cougarish way.

  I reached for the whiskey, letting it burn down my throat.

  “Be cool, Duffy. Any second now, they’re going to approach you, make the offer.”

  I cocked an eyebrow at Kelley. “What the hell are you talking about? Did I just walk into a bad spy novel?”

  “Lower your voice, dumb ass. I said stay cool.”

  I was going to give Kelley more shit but his eyes made me think better. I took another pull on the Schlitz and played along.

  “You wearing the wire?” I asked.

  I guess
I was going to give Kelley shit after all. But he surprised me by saying, “No. You are. Joint effort with the Chicago cops. Stick this in your pocket.”

  He passed something into my hand. I glanced down. Looked like a pen drive.

  Kelley wasn’t the practical joker type. He wouldn’t crack a smile on his birthday in a room full of clowns. Maybe my fat opponent had jarred something loose in my head, because I truly had no idea what was going on.

  “Pocket,” Kelley said. “Here they come. Tell them yes.”

  I felt movement to my right. The three well-dressed foreign-types were standing over me.

  “Matching Rolexes,” Jerry Two said. The Fearsome Foursome were appraising the new arrivals. “Daytonas. Platinum bands.”

  “White gold,” Rocco said.

  “Platinum.”

  “I thought white gold and platinum were the same thing, just different colors.” This from KC.

  “Different elements,” said Jerry Two. “Platinum is heaver.”

  “No it ain’t, zipper-head. Gold is.”

  “Platinum. That’s why it’s more, you know, pricier.”

  The tallest of the men, the guy who stood in the middle, smiled at me. Dark hair, dark eyes, five o-clock shadow coming in strong even though he smelled like aftershave. He had something on his front tooth. A diamond.

  “Mr. Dombrowski,” he said. His accent was Russian. “May we have a word with you?”

  “You know how to tell a fake Rolex?” Jerry One. “If it’s got a ticking second hand. The real thing sweeps, don’t tick.”

  “Another dead giveaway is the plastic band with Fred Flintstone on the face,” said Rocko.

  Titters from the Foursome. I rubbed the pen drive recorder in my hand, and still couldn’t figure out what exactly was going on here. Were these the Chicago cops Kelley mentioned?

  “You guys were at the fight,” I said. Seemed like a smart thing to say. “Ringside.”

  “Yes. Your performance was…” he smiled, the diamond glinting blue from the neon beer sign, “acceptable. Now can we have a word?” His eyes flitted over to the Foursome, then back to me. “In private?”

  In between fights, I made my living as a counselor. Over the years I got pretty good at reading people. These three didn’t look like cops, sound like cops, or act like cops. But their expensive suits had bulges under their left armpits, which meant concealed weapons, and Kelley did insist I say yes to them. So I nodded, finished my beer, and stood up.