Shot of Tequila

by J. A. Konrath

  “In cold blood?”

  “That’s the only way a reptile can die.”

  Tequila holstered his .45 and turned back to face Slake. Slake howled, his entire body shaking the chair in spasms.

  “Do something!” Slake yelled. “You’re a cop!”

  “Drop it!” Jack screamed. “I swear, I’ll shoot you, Tequila!”

  “Sorry, Jack. We all have to do what we have to do.”

  Tequila jammed the needle into Slake’s arm.

  Jack fired.

  The bullet sailed over Tequila’s head and buried itself into a wall. A warning.

  Tequila didn’t flinch.

  Jack didn’t have a clear shot at Tequila’s legs with Slake in the way, and she didn’t want to try a body shot because it might kill him. The only option was overpower him. Daniels burst into a sprint and dove at the small man, aiming high.

  She caught him in a clothesline across the neck and they tumbled to the floor. Jack wound up on top and hit Tequila with a serious right cross.

  Tequila’s head reeled back from the punch, but he was able to get a leg up onto Jack’s chest and kick her off. The cop suddenly found herself airborne for the second time that day, and she pin-wheeled her arms to try and get her feet under her. As luck would have it, Jack landed ass-first on the living room couch, bouncing back to her feet.

  Tequila assumed a fighting stance, feet a shoulder-width apart and hands clenched to hit. But his face was peaceful. He felt no anger towards Jack, and didn’t want to hurt her. But Slake had to die, and Tequila wasn’t about to be stopped by Daniels or anyone else.

  Jack clenched her fists as well, feeling weak, sick, and wondering why she was bothering to try and save a dickhead like Slake anyway. Slake was no better than Royce, and Jack had no problem killing Royce.

  In self-defense.

  This wasn’t self-defense. It was execution. Jack had to try and stop it. It was her job.

  Tequila advanced, pivoting on his hips and whipping around his right leg, sending a reverse kick at Jack’s shoulder.

  Daniels wasn’t a stranger to the fighting arts. Raising up an arm to block a kick was a natural motion for Jack. So was stepping into the kicker and swinging at his unprotected body.

  The block surprised Tequila, but even more of a shock was the pop Daniels delivered to his ribs. Tequila staggered back, hurt by the blow, and Jack followed up the punch with an opened handed slap across the face that spun Tequila to the ground.

  Daniels moved on him, taking out her handcuffs. Her shoulder began to ache—the anesthetic was wearing off.

  Tequila decided that enough was enough. He kipped-up to his feet, kicked the cuffs out of Jack’s hand, and whipped his foot around again and smacked her across the face. Jack twirled, and Tequila twirled, and after they’d both made a complete turn around and were facing each other once again, Tequila repeated the kick.

  The Homicide Detective went down.

  Tequila moved on Slake, intending to press down the plunger on the syringe, which was sticking straight out of Slake’s shoulder like a dart.

  Daniels was as dizzy as she was hurt, but she opened her eyes to the spinning room and took Terco’s .38 from her belt, her own gun having been lost in the scuffle.

  Squeezing one eye shut, Jack fired twice at the space between Tequila and Slake, trying to scare the gymnast off.

  Tequila didn’t scare. Jack was going to have to shoot him.

  “Help me!” Slake cried.

  Jack took aim on Tequila’s right leg, hoping the wound wouldn’t kill from this close a range.

  Slake tried to scoot away from Tequila’s advancing form. He rocked back on the chair, pushing with his toes, becoming frantic.

  Tequila was two steps away when Slake, with energy brought about by sheer terror, tipped his chair over on its side.

  The side with the syringe in his arm.

  He balanced there for a moment on two chair legs, realizing what was happening, eyes wide and seeking some other reality.

  Then he went over, landing hard on his shoulder, an entire syringe full of air being forced into his veins before the needle snapped off from his falling weight.

  Jack held her fire.

  Tequila looked down on Slake as the man began to convulse. The shaking became so palsied that he twisted out of his ropes, his arms flailing around like unheld fire houses, flapping through the air at invisible bugs.

  He screamed a lot.

  Tequila and Jack watched as the convulsions became faster and faster until Slake’s body went rigid with one spastic jerk, breaking off the back on the wooden chair.

  Then he was still.

  Tequila went over to the computer and popped out the disk. He put it in his pocket.

  Jack felt for a pulse on Slake that she knew wasn’t there. She turned to Tequila, her gun raised.

  “Tequila Abernathy, you’re under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say—hold it!”

  Tequila walked past Jack and into the kitchen. Daniels grabbed the short man by the shoulder and spun him around.

  “I’ve got to take you in,” Jack said.

  “Later. I’ve got one thing left to do.”

  “You killed a man in front of me. I can’t cover that up. You’re under arrest.”

  “You said that already.”

  Tequila broke Jack’s grip and walked through the kitchen, over to the garage.

  “Freeze!” Jack yelled. “Hands in the air, turn around, now! “

  Tequila froze, but didn’t turn around.

  “You were right,” Tequila said.

  “Turn around!”

  Tequila turned, his face wet with tears.

  “About the hurt,” Tequila whispered. “You were right. It didn’t go away. Slake’s dead, but it didn’t go away.”

  Tequila smiled sadly, a short, broken, bleeding man, looking more alone than anyone Jack had ever seen.

  “And now there’s nothing left.”

  “Hands on your head!” Jack commanded.

  Tequila shook his head slowly and drew one of his .45s, pointing it at Daniels.

  “I’m going to count to three,” Tequila said. “When I reach three, I’m going to shoot you. Shoot me first, Jack.”

  “Tequila, don’t…”

  “One…”

  “Tequila, don’t make me…”

  “Two…”

  “Tequila!”

  “Three!”

  The videotape of the robbery, the gun barrels from the Dumpster, the computer disk, and the severed hand of Slake’s partner, all went into a cardboard box.

  Then came the phone call.

  “Put Fonti on.”

  “Who shall I say is calling?”

  “Tequila.”

  “Hold on a minute.”

  Tequila sat on Marty’s desk, waiting.

  “A lot of people are looking for you,” Fonti’s low voice came on the line.

  “I know. I want that to stop.”

  “Are you giving yourself up?”

  “No. Because I didn’t do it. A man in Marty’s employ named Hector Slake did the honors.”

  “He did, did he?”

  “He set me up. Had a partner with a tattoo on his hand to match mine. Used a voice synthesizer program on his computer to give himself an alibi and send me off on a wild goose chase. Then he killed his partner and tried to grind him up to feed his dogs. I saved the guy’s hand for you. I also saved the Voice Generator program, and I’ve got his entire confession recorded as well. Incidentally, he’s the one who killed Marty. If that isn’t enough to clear me, I’m also leaving you two .45s—mine, registered in my name, used to kill Billy Chico in the Binkowski Liquor Store the night I was supposed to be robbing Marty. You’ve got friends in the Department. Have Ballistics match the slugs at the scene with my guns. I couldn’t have been robbing him while I was killing Chico.”

  “Assuming I believe you, where’s Slake?”

  “While I was getting h
is confession, he had some sort of heart attack. It’s on the recording. When the cops find the body, an autopsy will back that up.”

  “Where’s the money?”

  “He died before he could tell me.”

  “So why are you bothering me, Tequila, if you can’t bargain from a position of power?”

  “I’m going to jail, Fonti. I know you can get to me in jail. I don’t want you after me, because we aren’t enemies. I didn’t do anything, other than try to stay alive. I know you’re a man of honor and respect, and you wouldn’t kill a person loyal to the Outfit. I know your men look upon you as a fair boss, which is why I’m calling. Slake’s dead, Marty’s dead, the money is gone, it’s over.”

  “It isn’t over until I say it is.”

  “Which is why I’m leaving you all of this, in a box in Marty’s office at Spill. To prove to you I’m telling the truth, and to prove to you it is over. You’ve even come out ahead in the game.”

  “How do you figure? You killed Royce. He was my best man. “

  “Consider it a trade. Royce, for a lucrative bookmaking enterprise, already established. Plus a dance club to boot. Marty’s gone, so they’re yours now.”

  Tequila listened to the silence, knowing Fonti was thinking it over.

  “Supposing everything you said is true,” Fonti finally said, “all you want is my guarantee I won’t try to kill you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Something isn’t right here. I think that something is the stolen Super Bowl money.”

  “Forget the money, Fonti. Forget everything.”

  “That’s sounds vaguely like a threat, Tequila.”

  “Look at it this way. I go to jail for a while, and when I get out I go work for you. Or you try to kill me, fail, and when I get out I wipe out you and your family.”

  “You’re joking, threatening me.”

  “Joking, Fonti? Ask your golden boy Royce how much I’m joking.”

  Another stretch of silence. Tequila figured it could go either way. Might as well flip a coin.

  “Fine,” Fonti finally agreed. “If I look at everything and decide you’re telling the truth, I’ll leave you alone. But if you’re lying, you’re dead.”

  “I wouldn’t expect any less,” Tequila said, hanging up the phone.

  Then he left Marty’s office, left Spill, and took a cab over to the Blues Note.

  Bones noticed his entrance and segued into Dead Shrimp Blues. Tequila walked up to him and dropped eight hundred dollars into the bowl on the ancient black man’s piano.

  He sat at his usual stool, staring at the stuffed catfish on the wall that looked like a boot.

  “The usual?” The fat bartender asked him.

  He shook his head. “I’m waiting for someone.”

  “Guy came by the other day, asking after you. Big guy, muscles. Me and Bones played stupid.”

  Probably Matisse or Terco. It didn’t matter now.

  “Thanks… what’s your name?”

  “LaLinda.”

  “Thanks, LaLinda. All these years I’ve been coming in, I never knew you had such a pretty name.”

  Tequila dug into his pocket and gave her all the cash he had left on him, almost a thousand dollars.

  He didn’t see LaLainda’s eyes bug out, because he had turned to see Homicide Detective Jack Daniels walk into the bar.

  Jack sat down next to Tequila while LaLinda ran to the phone to tell her husband of her recent windfall.

  “You made good on your word,” Daniels said. “You said you’d be here, and here you are.”

  “I always keep my word.”

  “Then why didn’t you shoot me when you counted to three?”

  “The same reason you didn’t shoot me, I guess.”

  After that tense moment passed and neither killed the other, Tequila had walked into the garage and out the door. Jack followed, and Tequila told her he’d be at the Blues Note later that night, if Daniels wanted to arrest him.

  And here they were.

  “Technically, you never finished reading me my rights,” Tequila said. “You’d better finish, or I’ll get off on a Miranda violation.”

  Daniels didn’t respond for almost a whole minute. When she finally did, her voice was pitched quietly.

  “After you left Slake’s, I got to thinking. I’m sworn to uphold the law. But sometimes the law, and justice, aren’t the same thing. They should be. But they’re not. And maybe that’s not right.”

  Tequila blinked. “You’re not arresting me.”

  “I don’t even know you.” Jack winked. “Besides, I’m on vacation.”

  “Have a pleasant vacation, Detective.”

  “I will. But I do have a favor to ask.”

  “Name it.”

  “When you have a chance, I would like to talk to you about those dirty cops.”

  Tequila dug into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. He handed it to Daniels.

  “That’s everyone I know of on Marty’s payroll. I’m sure the Feds can figure out the rest.”

  Jack gave the list a quick glance, recognizing the names of an alderman, a captain, the assistant super, and several cops she knew. Herb wasn’t on there, but she wasn’t surprised. That guy was naturally honest.

  She tucked the paper into her back pocket and followed Tequila’s gaze. He was looking at something behind the bar.

  “What the hell is that?” Jack asked.

  “Catfish.”

  “It looks like a boot.”

  Tequila stared at it, memorizing every detail, because he knew he’d be seeing it for the last time.

  Since he wasn’t being arrested, Tequila decided to leave Chicago. After all, he had money to do whatever he wanted. And Tequila knew what he wanted.

  He was going to buy a lighthouse, somewhere out on some ocean. The only catfish he’d see were the ones he caught to eat. No more Outfit. No more killing. Just endless days of staring out over the infinite sea, like he did when he was young.

  “This is yours.”

  Jack handed Tequila the paper shopping bag she’d brought in with her. Tequila opened it and saw pictures.

  All the pictures Sally had made for him, dating back to when they were children.

  “Thanks,” Tequila said, feeling a knot in his throat.

  “Say, what does a girl have to do to get a drink in this place?” Daniels asked. “I’ve been sitting here so long my ass is flat.”

  Tequila signaled to LaLinda on the phone, and she came running over.

  “Yes sir, the usual?”

  Tequila shook his head. “Not today, LaLinda. Give me two fingers of whiskey.”

  “Yes sir, and this is on me. Any preference today?”

  “Jack Daniels,” Tequila said. “Straight up.”

  “And for you, Miss?”

  Jack was feeling pretty good, about herself, and the state of the world in general. And she still had another eight days vacation coming. Hell, she might even be able to work things out with her husband.

  “I don’t have a choice,” said Homicide Detective Jack Daniels. She turned to Tequila and grinned. He grinned back, knowing what was coming.

  “I’ll have a shot of tequila.”

  The book you just read has never been conventionally published.

  Let me backtrack a little.

  In 1999 I landed a literary agent with a technothriller novel called Origin, about the United States government keeping Satan in an underground research facility in New Mexico.

  Origin was my seventh novel, and arguably the first I’d written that was any good. The other six never got published, though they did garner me more than 400 rejections. Apparently Origin wasn’t good enough either, because it was rejected by damn near every editor in New York.

  Undaunted, I wrote another technothriller, blending in elements of science, mystery, and humor. The List, in my opinion, was better than Origin. Not only was it trendy, tying in closely to the work being done on the Human Genome Project, but it h
ad more heart than its predecessor.

  It didn’t sell either.

  I decided my problem was mixing genres. Since there’s no Thriller-Humor-Horror-Sci-Fi section in bookstores, I needed to write something that fit easily within an established genre.

  I chose a medical thriller, in the style of Robin Cook and Michael Palmer. No humor this time. Just a by-the-numbers, straightforward, homogenous thriller, with an everyman hero trapped in a terrible situation that quickly spirals out of control.

  The book was called Disturb. My agent hated it, probably because it had no humor in it, and she never sent it out. So Disturb remains my only book that has never been rejected.

  After Disturb, I wisely chose to put the humor back into my narratives, and wrote Whiskey Sour in 2002. I’ve been writing Jack Daniels thrillers ever since.

  When I started having some success with the Jack books, I looked back on my earlier novels and decided to offer Disturb, Origin and The List, and some of my short story compilations, as free downloads on JAKonrath.com and Amazon Kindle.

  The reader response took me by surprise. The books have been downloaded several thousand times each as of this writing. I’m humbled and flattered by the attention my failures have gotten, and have answered quite a bit of email about them. The question people most often ask is, “When will these be published?”

  I still don’t have an answer to that.

  Origin, The List, Disturb, and my short story collection 55 Proof aren’t available in bookstores, or libraries, or anywhere other than JAKonrath.com. They don’t have ISBN numbers or bar codes. They haven’t been catalogued by the Library of Congress. They haven’t been professionally typeset, or edited. But fans, collectors, and completests have asked for them, so I made them available.

  Which brings us to Shot of Tequila.

  Tequila was my sixth novel, written before Origin. I’ve always had a soft spot for it. It’s an Elmore Leonard type of crime thriller, with some hyperkinetic violence and pulp-type action, and a diminutive anti-hero whom the book is named for.

  I dusted it off a year ago, and did a partial rewrite, and added a few bells and whistles. One of them was putting in a young Chicago cop named Jack Daniels.