65 Proof

by Jack Kilborn

  The trip wasn’t a long one. I followed them over to their table.

  “Please, Mr. Dombrowski. Sit.”

  “I’d rather stand.”

  Bling Tooth made a dismissive gesture, but he and his buddies stayed standing too.

  “You put on a pretty good show tonight,” he said. His accent seemed to get thicker. “Your opponent, however… the show he put on was much better.”

  I waited, not liking where this was going, but not jumping to conclusions.

  “We paid him ten thousand dollars to put on that show.”

  I felt the burn coming up my neck, to my ears. I’d gone eight rounds with the fat guy, but all of my energy had suddenly returned, tenfold. It all clicked what Kelley wanted from me, but I couldn’t hold back the anger and my fists clenched involuntarily, which probably wouldn’t be good for the voice recorder in my palm.

  “I’ve heard the rumors,” I said, making sure my rage wasn’t in my voice. “New guys in town. Russians. Paying fighters to take falls. But the guy tonight, he hit back. Hard. I know him from the circuit. He’s legit. You’re telling me you owned him?”

  “We can be… persuasive.”

  I wondered how much his diamond tooth was worth, and where I could pawn it after I knocked it out of his mouth. But they had guns, and like an idiot I was standing between them and Kelley, my back-up. Plus, Kelley’d told me to say yes. Get it on tape, they go to jail, win-win. All I had to do was swallow my pride and agree to take a dive.

  But then Bling Tooth made a big mistake. Two fingers scissored into his vest pocket and removed a photograph.

  “We hope you agree to help us, Mr. Dombrowski. Or else we’d be forced to hurt someone you care very much about.”

  He flashed the picture at me. It was Al, my basset hound.

  These fuckers had my dog.

  It didn’t sink in right away. It had already been a long night of getting punched in the head. I looked up to see Bling Tooth smile at me.

  “You want I send you a floppy ear for proof?” he said. He went to smile but before the corners of his mouth turned something went bad inside me and I hit him with a straight left. It caught part nose and part upper lip. He went down hard, grasping his face. Blood already spurted from between his fingers, and I guessed it was nose blood by the way it shot.

  I sat on the bastard’s chest and grabbed his thorax with my right. My grip remained sore from the eight rounder, so it wasn’t as tight as I would have liked.

  “Listen mother—” I didn’t get to finish.

  I heard a series of clickety-clacks and realized his two buddies held guns pointed at my head.

  Then one of them bent down next to me, picking something up off the floor.

  I’d dropped the pen drive recorder.

  Jack

  The trail led us to Crawford, about fifty miles out of New York City. When a murderer crossed state lines, the Feds had jurisdiction. At least, they were supposed to. But neither Herb nor I gave them a call. We didn’t even tell our boss, Captain Bains, we were leaving Chicago.

  Sometimes being a law enforcement officer meant tip-toeing around the law.

  Our suspect, a Russian mobster named Vladimir Polchev, had skipped town before we could haul him in. Polchev had made two big mistakes.

  First, he’d murdered a friend of mine. Dirk Wendt, a semi-pro boxer who happened to be my taekwondo instructor for the last six years.

  Second, he’d done it on my turf.

  The Russians scared the crap out of people, so most weren’t willing to talk. But when I’ve got my mean on, I can be pretty damn persuasive. Herb and I shook down a pimp owned by the mob, got word that Polchev was paying off fighters to throw matches. If they didn’t play along, his crew killed them. Wendt was a Chicagoan, but it didn’t take much research to find two other murders that matched Polchev’s signature.

  A tip took us to New York. We called ahead, playing nice with the locals, and were invited to visit as part of a joint task force. It seemed Polchev was a person of interest in several recent murders. The NY fuzz put a tail on him, checked with their informants, and learned Polchev was planning to put the squeeze on a boxer named Dombrowski. We met the lead investigator, Kelley, at a dive bar, to supervise a sting operation. Kelley informed us, in no uncertain terms, that this was not our collar, and we were to maintain a hands-off policy.

  Herb and I had no problem with this. I wanted Polchev, bad. It didn’t matter to me which city locked him up, as long as someone did.

  “This is an excellent burger,” Herb said. There was so much of it on his face, shirt, and tie, I was dubious he’d gotten any of it into his mouth.

  “I’ll take your word for it.”

  “You should eat something, Jack. The food is good.”

  My stomach was still a bit queasy from our flight. The pilot called it “a little bit of turbulence,” but it had been enough to knock the ice out of my complimentary cup of water. Besides, I had a rule never to eat in a place where the main source of lighting was neon.

  I checked my watch, then glanced over at the bar. In my left side peripheral vision, Polchev and two cronies sat, drinking top shelf vodka. Polchev was the one with the diamond in his front tooth. To my right, four men argued about the merits and detriments of toothpaste.

  “You know fluoride is poisonous?”

  “Is not.”

  “Is so, Jerry. They don’t use fluoride toothpaste in space.”

  “You can’t brush your teeth in space, dumb ass. It’s a vacuum.”

  “You mean it can clean your rugs?”

  “There’s no air in space. You tried to brush your teeth, your brain would slurp out your nose.”

  “I mean on the space shuttle. No fluoride in the toothpaste, because astronauts have to swallow it.”

  “Makes sense. If they spit it out, it would float after them, following them around all mission.”

  I tuned them out. Or tried to, at least. I turned back to Herb, took a sip of my club soda and lime, glancing casually at Polchev. He and his men were all armed. Kelley said nothing was going to go down here, and I hoped he was right. The bar was crowded, and shooting would be a catastrophe. I hoped that this Dombrowski guy was good at keeping his cool. Kelley said he was a social worker. Interesting combination, social work and boxing.

  Herb finished licking his fingers and dug out the paperback he was reading. Afraid, by Jack Kilborn. He’d read a good portion of it on the plane, every once and a while pausing to whisper, “Jesus H. Christ.” Apparently, the book was supposed to be scary.

  “Jesus H. Christ,” Herb whispered again.

  I hated it when people did that, because of course I had to ask what was so upsetting.

  “This girl is hanging upside down over a pile of dead bodies,” Herb said.

  “Sounds like fun.”

  “You gotta read this, Jack.”

  “I will. Right after I order a burger.”

  The four next to us segued into The Wizard of Oz.

  “The horse of a different color died. The color they used on him was toxic.”

  “Was not. They used gelatin. He kept licking it off.”

  “You’re thinking of the tin man.”

  “The tin man licked off his paint?”

  “No, dummy. The horse.”

  “The tin man licked the horse?”

  “You guys know it’s impossible to lick your own elbow?”

  They all tried to do just that. I shook my head and inwardly wept for the gene pool.

  The front door swung open, and a guy walked in. Athletic build, not bad looking, a bit old for a boxer. But I knew it was Dombrowski by the way he walked. Economical, no movement wasted, but coiled, like he was waiting for something to happen.

  Dombrowski played it cool, walking up to the four nitwits, having a drink and joining in the conversation. Then he had a few private words with Kelley that I missed in the bar chatter.

  When Polchev and his goons approached him, I told Herb
to put away the book and pay attention. He tucked it into his inside jacket pocket.

  Dombrowski seemed confused about everything happening, and I wondered if Kelley had bothered to inform him what exactly was going down.

  Then everything went to hell. The boxer hit the mobster, and the other mobsters drew their guns. If that wasn’t bad enough, one of the goons picked up the recorder Dombrowski had dropped. A simple sting operation, where no one was supposed to get hurt, was moments away from turning into a bloodbath. I wanted to smack the shit out of Kelley for staging this in a public place, but before I could, instinct took over and I had my .38 in my hand, pointing it at the thugs.

  “Police! Drop the weapons!”

  The bar went silent. No one moved. I could hear my heart beating, and sensed Herb draw his gun next to me, and Kelley draw his as well.

  “That’s one damn sexy cop,” said one of the four. I think it was one of the Jerrys.

  “Drop them, hands in the air,” I ordered. “Or we will shoot you.”

  There was a bad moment when I thought they might be stupid enough to point their guns my way. But the moment passed, and the mobsters let their weapons fall to the floor.

  “Chick cop is wearing Armani,” said one of the four.

  “You sure? Could be Fendi.”

  “It’s Armani,” I said. “Now shut the fuck up or I’ll shoot you guys, too.”

  Dombrowski must have noticed he didn’t have any guns aimed at his head anymore, because he resumed pounding the crap out of Polchev.

  Kelley got to him before we did.

  “Cool it, Duff. We got him.”

  “Asshole has my dog.” Punch. ”He’s going to tell me where A is.” Punch. “Or he’s going to spend the rest of his life eating his meals through a straw.” Punch.

  Herb grabbed the recorder, zip-tied the other two mobsters hands behind their backs, and I asked everyone in the bar to kindly step outside.

  “Everyone, get the fuck out, now!”

  Okay, maybe it wasn’t so kindly.

  “Duffy, ease up, man.” Kelley was trying to hold Dombrowski’s arm back, and not doing a very good job. Polchev looked like someone dropped a lasagna, extra sauce, on his face.

  I pointed the gun at the boxer.

  “Shit, the Fendi cop is gonna shoot Duff.”

  “Armani. She said Armani.”

  “That the designer guy, got shot?”

  “That was Versace.”

  “Think she’s the one who shot Versaci?”

  Apparently, the Four Stooges hadn’t left when I’d ordered them to.

  “Mr. Dombrowski, stop hitting the mobster and get your hands up over your head.”

  Kelley stared at me. “Lieutenant, he’s one of the good guys.”

  “And I’m trying to save him from a murder rap. Get ahold of yourself, Mr. Dombrowski.”

  The boxer looked at me. There was anger in his features, but some sadness too.

  “He took my dog, Al.”

  “We’ll get your dog back,” I said. “I promise.”

  He nodded. But before he got up, he punched Polchev one more time, in the kidneys.

  Kelley slapped the cuffs on Polchev, and Mirandized all three suspects. I heard sirens in the distance. Back-up, and probably an ambulance. I looked for Dombrowski, but he was moving toward the front door, staring at something in his hands.

  A wallet. Polchev’s wallet.

  “Duffy!” I yelled. “Don’t leave the bar!”

  He glanced over at me, then ran out the entrance.

  Duffy

  My fist hurt, but I pushed back the pain and headed for my car. When I punched Bling Tooth in the kidneys, I reached around and swiped his wallet. I had the asshole’s address. For his sake, the dog had better be there.

  I bolted to my El Dorado, my mind racing. Al saved my life, he’d been there through some of my toughest times. I couldn’t deal with someone mistreating him. It happened once before. Nightmares of the incident still woke me in the middle of the night.

  The wallet told me the guy lived in Wilmette, Illinois. But it also held a key card for the Crawford Holiday Inn.

  Picturing Polchev, with his thousand dollar suit, he wasn’t the type to take Al to his fancy house. The hotel sounded like a better bet. I adjusted my course.

  The V-8 moaned and I didn’t stop for lights or slow down through Jefferson Park or worry about one way signs. Thankfully, the Eastern Block scumbag whose blood covered my shirt kept the key card in the original cardboard holder. Room 116 awaited, as did a merciless beat down for anyone unlucky enough to be in it.

  I turned on to Washington Ave at the end of the park and a patrol car’s flashing lights fired up behind me.

  “Get in line,” I mumbled to myself, pinning the gas pedal.

  A glance into the rearview confirmed two cars fell in behind the police cruiser. Fuck ‘em. Take it minute by minute. Just like I told me AA clients.

  I hit the brakes near the entrance to the motel. I had six blocks on my pursuers and wasted no time exiting the car and sliding the room key into the lobby door. I looked at the arrows that pointed rooms 101-125 and sprinted as fast as I could. My heart pounded in time with my head, and my nerves had almost caught up with my rage.

  Almost.

  In front of 116 I paused just for a second, hearing a television tuned to CNN coming from inside. No dog sounds. Was he even in there?

  My neck twitched, a telltale sign of a looming battle. I slid the card into the electronic lock, took a deep breath, and burst into the room, ready for anything.

  The room was empty.

  An unmade bed, a leash, a rawhide bone, an open suitcase. A teddy bear sat on the floor in front of me. I realized sweat had soaked my shirt and I began to hyperventilate. The next thing I saw kicked all that up a notch.

  The sheets of the bed were soaked in dark crimson. Blood drenched the carpet. I also noticed that the leash—Al’s leash—was caked with gore.

  I threw up on the floor in front of me.

  Jack

  This cop Kelley could drive.

  I sat up front and Herb took the back, sticking his head through the space between the front seats so he could be in the conversation.

  “So, your pal Duffy, he’s a little nuts?” Herb said. As he spoke he dug the nail of his index finger deep into his mouth to release some ground beef from a molar.

  “More than a little,” Kelley said.

  “Would you say he’s a danger to himself and others?”

  “Depends on the day.”

  I raised my eyebrows, ready to launch into an argument about civilians screwing up investigations. But I was close to one thousand miles from home, and had no authority here, so I held my tongue. The siren of the cruiser helped mask the awkward silence. That is, until Herb spoke up.

  “So if he’s committing a crime, are you willing to use force to stop him?” Herb looked hard at Kelley, adding, “Lethal force?”

  Kelley took us around a curve, pinning me against the passenger door.

  “He may be nuts, but he’s a good man. You need to cut him some slack.”

  I glanced back at Herb, who seemed to be thinking the same thing I was. Kelley’s personal relationship with Dombrowski might result in a bad ending for all concerned.

  In the distance, a Holiday Inn appeared. I noticed Dombrowski’s Cadillac double-parked in front.

  As we screeched into the motel lot a call came over the radio. The dispatcher announced, ”All units we have a missing girl, probable abduction. Four years old, light brown hair, in red striped pajamas. The girl has Down Syndrome and has the facial features associated with that condition. She was last seen in the vicinity of the Crawford Holiday Inn.”

  Kelley sighed through his teeth, then radioed Dispatch to say he was on the scene. When he pushed open this door I grabbed his shoulder.

  “Kelley, this changes things. Your friend isn’t the priority anymore.”

  “I know.”

  “
If the girl is here, and he gets in the way…”

  Kelley hooded his eyes and shook out of my grasp. “I know how to do my job, Lieutenant. Duff won’t interfere.” Kelley swallowed. “Or else he’s collateral damage.”

  Duffy

  The blood trailed down the hallway, a few drips and dribbles hard to make out on the dark carpet. I followed after it best I could.

  Through the windows on the wall that bordered the rooms I saw flashing red lights fill the parking lot. At least three patrol cars pulled in. Kelley got out of one, followed by the two cops from AJ’s. The fat guy spotted me through the window and the three of them ran toward the entrance.

  I had no intention of waiting for them to haul me away so I picked up the pace on the blood trail. It stopped at an unmarked door. A faint hand print, tiny fingers outlined in blood, was near the knob.

  I opened it and found myself in an unlit corridor. I went in running, my hands on the wall, feeling my way. After four steps I bumped into something waist high. It rocked on contact and as it did I felt a string run across my face. I grabbed the string and pulled. I sixty watt bulb went on and I realized I was in the laundry room. I’d bumped into a cart full of dirty towels and sheets.

  My shoes squeaked on the tile floor. I looked down.

  A pool of blood was at my feet.

  Noise from behind. I spun, fists clenched, and saw three figures appear.

  “Duff, its Kel, Hold up.”

  I was all out of time.

  Jack

  Dombrowski’s shirt was soaked through with blood and sweat, and he looked somewhere between panic and determination.

  “They got Al. I gotta find ‘em.”

  “Let us take it from here, Dombrowski.” I put a hand on his chest arm, not rough, but not gentle either.

  He slapped my hand away, his neck twitching.

  “Just settle down,” I said. “We’re going to find the dog. We got guns, we’re cops, let us do it.”

  He went to push past me. I grabbed his right arm, leveraged my hip into his groin and flipped him to the ground. I heard the breath whoosh out of his lungs.