Floaters

by Konrath, J. A.

  I wanted to see if the guy was a regular and where he would sit inside the pub. After forty-five minutes had come and gone, I dropped three dollar bills on the table—never stiff, but never over tip when you’re on a job—and walked across the street. My watch read 4:55 when I walked through the front door, then a second one directly to my left that opened into the pub.

  The place was a little better lit than most bars, or maybe it was all of that natural light spilling in through the front windows that looked out onto Lincoln Avenue. There were two tables by those windows, a few more near the bar, and some others down one side of the room. The barkeep looked over in my direction when he heard the door close, nodded, then went back to the conversation he was having with the waitress and a customer. The rest of the room faded into the darkness back by what looked like a kitchen door. Across from the bar there was a staircase to a second floor. That could present a problem.

  I decided not to worry about it too much and sat down at a corner table. I made as little eye contact as possible with the waitress when I ordered my beer. I don’t have the kind of face that people remember, which is one of the most positive traits someone in my line of work can have. It’s also one of the few that can’t be taught. I’m just lucky.

  The waitress had a pleasant look about her, and under different circumstances I might’ve tried starting something, but instead, I asked if the men’s room was upstairs.

  “No, that’s just for meetings and special events,” she said shaking her head then pointing to a door under the staircase. “What you’re looking for is over there.”

  I’d heard that the pub was supposed to be haunted. If that was the case then the place didn’t offer too much hiding space for the ghosts. Maybe that was the idea. I downed a long swig of beer. In less than twenty-four hours I would be adding to place’s already colorful history, and one more ghost to its roster of permanent customers.

  Most places are haunted, but not in the way that some folks imagine. They are haunted by memories, not by some spirit or anything like that. That’s the reason people go back to their old school or the spot where they met their wife or a lover. Places of triumph or heartache. Or it could be that it’s the individual who is haunted, maybe it’s a personal thing. Then it wouldn’t much matter where you are.

  I was hoping the sun would come out the next day and cast some confusion in the shadowy doorways, maybe shine in the eyes of potential witnesses. No such luck. As it turned out, I would have to deal with an indifferent sky. It was just after four in the afternoon when I turned north off Fullerton, drove slowly past the pub and found a parking spot half a block down the street. I adjusted the rearview mirror so that I could watch the front door. I didn’t like the idea of doing a job in a small and public place, but it was better than out in the open. Besides, I had pissed away all of my other options.

  What was Sheila doing right now? Not thinking about me, I was certain of that. I had told her to call me once she was settled in somewhere far away from anyone who was out to hurt her. That was weeks ago. She had to be some place by now, but I hadn’t heard anything. All I got for my good behavior was a beat-down and this shitty assignment.

  I had been thinking about her too much when I spotted the blond guy walking across the street on his way to the pub. He wasn’t alone. The woman was several inches taller than him and a lot more attractive. Her thick, elbow-length brown hair bounced just a little as she walked, and though each of her strides was longer than his, the two of them moved in sync, like they were attached at the waist.

  The boss had found one hell of a lure, the kind that could get a guy to volunteer to be target practice for a firing squad, and only complain that it’s all over too fast. That’s how he was able to place this guy at the pub at a specific time. He was being led there.

  Seeing the guy in the flesh, even at a distance, there was something familiar about him. Maybe I’d seen him around somewhere, maybe not. I see a lot of people, but I make it a point to remember as few of them as possible.

  I waited until they were inside, then a bit longer. I wanted to make sure they had been served so the waitress would shift her attention to another table. Then I drove around the block. Slowing just a little as I closed in on the pub, I glanced over to the front windows and saw they were seated at the first table inside the door. The woman had done her job well. Her only mistake was letting him face the door. Maybe the choice wasn’t hers.

  If it had been a little bit darker outside, closer to dusk, I could’ve done him through the window. Still, I would be able to take him out from the doorway. I turned left on the first street and parked just a few cars down from the corner.

  I put on a pair of latex gloves, then some black leather ones over them. I pulled the piece out of my bag, wiped it clean with a handkerchief until I could almost see it shine, and tucked it into the holster that was strapped to my left side. Then I snapped the bottom two buttons of my black leather coat, and went to work.

  I tried to clear my mind as I walked down Lincoln Avenue, hiding any thoughts away and letting my instincts take hold until I was just a predator, nothing more than an extension of the gun that was crowding the left side of my chest. Fast, clean, and without drama, that’s what the boss wanted, and it’s what I was there to deliver. My side of the street was almost empty, and I slowed down a bit to let a couple of college-age kids walk past the front door, then me.

  When I walked into the pub’s entryway I noticed a sign that read Cheers. Indeed. I felt the warmth from inside escaping through the inner door to the bar and leaned away from it and into the darkness. I could see my target through the small window in the door. He was casually chatting up the woman. I reached into my coat and pulled out the semi-auto as he took his last taste of beer.

  I opened the door like it was just another day and walked right to him. No need for words. He looked at me as I centered the weapon on his forehead. I pulled the trigger without any hesitation. Nothing happened. Then again, with the same lack of result. I squeezed the trigger again, more deliberately this time, like I was trying to coax the bullet out of the chamber. Click, but no bang.

  He smiled. It was a jagged thing that sliced across the lower half of his face. He put his beer down, then reached into his tan sports coat. That’s when it all came into focus for me. The woman wasn’t a lure, she was a decoy, meant to be the only thing that witnesses would remember. Just a shiny trinket, a distraction so that any descriptions of the shooter would be hazy, at best. And the gun wasn’t malfunctioning, it was doing exactly what someone wanted it to do when they removed the firing pin. I had been invited to my own execution.

  If I was going to change this unexpected order of events, I had to do something to slow down time. Without a glance in her direction I drove my left elbow into the brunette’s previously immaculate face and heard a small, low-pitched pop a split second before she screamed and brought her hands up to cover the pain. The guy shifted his attention away from me, but that didn’t stop him from bringing the gun out.

  A less experienced son-of-a-bitch might’ve become confused or let his anger take over. Some might’ve been resigned to their fate. But that’s some other guy’s hang-up. I reared back and threw my otherwise useless weapon at his face. You see people do this all the time in crappy gangster movies. They run out of bullets and throw their guns across the room, and it never works out the way they were hoping it would. The result is quite different, however, when the gun is thrown at a guy’s forehead from roughly five feet away.

  The piece struck soft flesh that couldn’t put up much of a fight, and hard bone that didn’t have a say in the matter, then danced through the air. The guy’s head jerked back, and he threw his arms up like a referee trying to signal something. I lunged at him, grabbed his gun hand, and pressed all of my weight against his chest.

  Our faces were no more than a couple of inches apart. I looked into his eyes and then through them. The guy was just conscious enough to panic. I ignored the punch
es he was trying to throw with his free hand and slid my finger around his, inside the trigger guard. I jammed the gun into his chest and squeezed.

  His body shook from the force of the gunshot, and the woman stopped screaming. He wasn’t trying to punch me anymore. I knew one shot was enough to take care of him, but I fired again, anyway. The second one was for the boss, or maybe for myself. The woman was trying to swear at me through blood and mucus, but I didn’t take it personally.

  I walked out, calm but deliberate. There was blood on my black gloves and coat, but it wasn’t dripping and wouldn’t leave a trail. The few people I passed on my way back to the car didn’t even notice we were sharing a sidewalk. I took off my gloves and coat and shoved the whole mess into a garbage bag, then disappeared into traffic.

  I was almost at the Wisconsin state line before I started trying to regain control of my thoughts. The boss had seen what I couldn’t. I was finished, of no use to him. That was clear to me now, and what scared me the most was realizing it had been true since before I met Sheila. I’d lost my edge, my taste for it. In my world, I was just a major liability now. And the whole set-up, the public kill, the ruse—I was supposed to be an example for anyone in the organization who ever thought of doing something other than their job.

  I drove north along the interstate and kept going until the sky grew dark and the woods filled the landscape. I left the main highway and drove through the night and deep into a wilderness that was unfamiliar, but could not possibly be as dangerous as the one I’d left behind.

  In the past, I might’ve found a hidden away place and taken it from whoever was there. But I couldn’t do that anymore, didn’t have it in me, hadn’t for some time. I was like that old joke about the guy who died but is still walking around because no one cares enough to bury him.

  I decided I would try to find a cabin, somewhere deep in the woods. I’d disappear inside, light a fire, and haunt the place. At least until some guy from the other side of the picture came for me.

  J.A. Konrath

  Besides Herb Benedict (Jack’s partner, who appears in Floaters), Jack has several other supporting characters who help her out in her books. One member of that supporting cast is Jack’s friend, a criminal named Phineas Troutt.

  Phin wasn’t always a criminal. But when he was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, he decided to drop out of society and make as much money as possible, any way he could. That meant taking jobs which weren’t exactly law-abiding.

  In Last Request, Phin takes one such job, with potentially disastrous results.

  I picked up a transsexual hooker named Thor, all six feet of her, at the off ramp to Eau Claire, Wisconsin, as I was driving up north to kill a man.

  She had on thigh-high black vinyl boots, red fishnet stockings, a pink mini skirt, a neon green spandex tube top, and a huge blonde wig that reminded me of an octopus. I could have spotted her from clear across the county.

  “You looking for action?” she said after introducing herself.

  “I’m always looking for action.”

  “Tonight’s you’re lucky night, handsome. I’m getting out of this biz. You give me a lift, you can have whatever you want for free.”

  I opened the door, rolled up the window, and got back on the road.

  Thor spent five miles trying to pay for her ride, but the painkillers had rendered me numb and useless in that area, and eventually she gave up and reclined her seat back, settling instead for conversation.

  “So where are you headed?” she asked. She sounded like she'd been sucking helium. Hormone therapy, I guessed. I couldn’t tell if her breasts were real or falsies under the tube top, but her pink micro-mini revealed legs that were nice no matter which sex she was.

  “Rice Lake.”

  I yawned, and shifted in my seat. It was past one in the morning, but the oppressive July heat stuck around even when the sun didn’t. I had the air conditioning in the Ford Ranger cranked up, but it didn’t help much.

  “Why are you going to Rice Lake?” she asked.

  I searched around for the drink holder, picked up the coffee I’d bought back in the Dells, and forced down the last 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 wasn't mean.

  “Where are you headed?" I asked.

  She sighed, scratching her neck, posture changing from demure seductress to just 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’s 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 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?”