by Jack Kilborn
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 noi
se.
But to me, it was music.
Jack Daniels thrillers
Whiskey Sour
Bloody Mary
Rusty Nail
Dirty Martini
Fuzzy Navel
Cherry Bomb
Shaken
Shot of Tequila
Banana Hammock
Jack Daniels Stories (collected stories)
Serial Uncut with Blake Crouch
Killers with Blake Crouch
Suckers with Jeff Strand
Planter’s Punch with Tom Schreck
Floaters with Henry Perez
Truck Stop
Symbios (writing as Joe Kimball)
Jailbait (with Ann Voss Peterson)
Wild Night is Calling (with Ann Voss Peterson)
Shapeshifters Anonymous
The Screaming
With A Twist
Other works
Afraid
Endurance
Trapped
Origin
The List
Disturb
65 Proof (short story omnibus)
Crime Stories (collected stories)
Horror Stories (collected stories)
Dumb Jokes & Vulgar Poems
A Newbie’s Guide to Publishing
Visit the author at www.jakonrath.com
STREET MUSIC copyright © 2011 by JA Konrath
STREET MUSIC is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the authors’ imaginations or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Joe Konrath.
For more information about JA Konrath, please visit www.jakonrath.com.