Dreamspinner Press Year Three Greatest Hits

by Jenna Hilary Sinclair

  “Give me the papers,” Miller demanded. “I’ll fill them out. I have all your information memorized anyway.”

  Danny passed them over without a fight, tilted his head back, and closed his eyes.

  Full Name: Daniel James Butler. Age: 32. Same as me. Miller filled in Danny’s address and phone number, leaving the section about employment blank. “It asks here about health insurance. I’m assuming you don’t have any in your line of work.”

  Danny didn’t respond.

  “What about 401k?” Miller prodded. “Pension?”

  “Have you thought about a career in stand-up comedy?” Danny asked without opening his eyes. “Seriously. Because you are fucking hilarious.”

  Miller allowed himself a smile only because Danny wasn’t looking, his eyes still shut, the sweep of ebony lashes resting against the tops of his pale cheeks. Miller returned the completed paperwork to the front desk, which earned him a sharp snap of gum from the clerk and not much else.

  “I’m starving,” Danny commented when Miller sat back down. “Is there anything to eat around here?”

  “How the hell should I know?”

  Danny’s stomach rumbled and Miller threw him a disgusted glance. “You are a pain in the ass,” Miller pointed out, but he stood with a sigh and went in search of food. A depleted vending machine in the basement yielded a Coke and a package of peanut butter crackers after stealing the first dollar he fed it. Back upstairs, he tossed Danny the snacks, watching as he ripped into the cellophane package with his teeth.

  “Fuck, could these be any staler?” Danny complained around a mouthful of cracker.

  Miller took a deep breath, resisting the sudden impulse to smack him in the back of the head. Danny was just downing the last of his drink when a stout woman with a humorless face appeared in the hall, barking out his name. He muttered, “This should be fun,” in Miller’s direction as he walked away.

  Miller collected the crumpled cellophane and half-crushed Coke can Danny had left on his seat and threw them in the overflowing trash can outside the bathrooms. Given the hospital’s glacial pace so far, he figured it was a safe bet that he had time to go outside for a much-needed smoke.

  “Hey, you!” someone called as he neared the exit. A petite woman in green scrubs, her ponytail askew, plowed through the swinging doors separating the waiting area from the trauma rooms. “Hey!” she yelled again, advancing on him. “Why didn’t you bring him in here earlier? He was this close,” she held up her thumb and index finger a centimeter apart, “to needing a blood transfusion. You should have called an ambulance!”

  “We got here as soon as we could.” Miller raised his hands in mock surrender, pulling on his ass-kissing smile. “Are you the doctor?”

  “Yes. Dr. Allen.” She didn’t offer her hand. Or smile back. “How did he get that gash?”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said it’s a paper cut.”

  “I don’t know what happened.”

  “Sure you don’t,” the doctor said, her mouth a thin line. “I’m going to give him sutures. Then you can take him. He’ll need antibiotics to avoid infection and he’ll have to come back in ten days to get the stitches removed.” She cocked an eyebrow at Miller. “And tell him to be more careful shuffling papers in the future.”

  Dismissed, Miller went outside and had his smoke, the wail of an approaching ambulance promising heartache for a stranger. He could already picture the look on Rachel’s face when she smelled the cigarettes on him, but was too tired to care. He lowered himself to the concrete steps, to hell with his suit, and squinted at the night sky—something he didn’t do often, always guaranteed to make him homesick. The stars were more visible now that winter was approaching than they ever were during the summer. He wondered if that was a trick of his mind or if the cold air snapped everything into clearer focus.

  When he finished his cigarette he wandered back inside, figuring he’d check on Danny’s progress. No one stopped him as he pushed through the swinging doors, craning his neck around closed curtains until he found the right room. He could hear a steady tick-tick from the IV drip running clear fluid into Danny’s arms via the crook of his elbow. The doctor had gone, leaving behind an ugly row of stitches that poked through Danny’s skin like spider’s legs.

  Miller took a step closer. Danny was unaware of his presence, eyes closed, head turned away. Miller’s gaze roamed over Danny’s chest, the hard muscles visible beneath the dark hair still matted with dried blood. Danny had a large tattoo on his left shoulder, the yin and yang symbol in all its black and white glory. Not what Miller expected from someone like Danny. Hearts with the word “Mother,” prison gang insignia, or even a swastika were more common among Danny’s colleagues.

  All his life, Miller had preferred looking at people while he himself remained unobserved—from across the school yard, from behind a two-way mirror, from an unmarked surveillance car. From a distance. Although he had mastered the essential skill of pinning a suspect with his eyes, it never felt natural. He always fought against the urge to duck his head and look away. Now, when Danny stirred, bringing a hand up to rub his stubble-laced jaw, Miller drifted behind the curtain and disappeared.

  DANNY WAS feeling no pain. The doctor had ordered morphine in his IV drip along with fluids and antibiotics, smiling slightly at Danny’s mumbled, “Bless you,” before she had commenced giving him what seemed like a thousand stitches.

  Now he rested his head against the cold glass of the passenger window, able to sit up front with Sutton on this ride. The reflections from the lights they passed bounced off Danny’s skin, painting his arms all the colors of the city.

  “We’re here,” Sutton said as he pulled up at Danny’s apartment.

  “Okay.” Danny made no move to get out of the car. He was enveloped in a hazy fog, as if he were suspended over his body, watching but not participating. Too bad he didn’t do drugs, because morphine might be the way to go.

  “Hey, listen to me.” Sutton’s voice was brusque as he handed Danny a cell phone. “Use this to call me. My number’s programmed into it. I’ll be calling you on this phone to set up times and places to meet for your debriefings. Got it?”

  “Got it,” Danny said, palming the phone.

  “If you notice anything out of the ordinary, Hinestroza acting suspicious, anything, call. We’ve got a couple guys watching your place. You’ll be fine.”

  “Uh-huh.” Danny wasn’t convinced, but he was too damn exhausted to argue about it now. He opened the door and put one foot on the pavement. “See ya around, Sutton.” He hesitated. “You have a first name?”

  Sutton didn’t look at him, both hands clutching the steering wheel. “Miller,” he said finally. “My name is Miller.”

  “Miller?” Danny questioned, rolling the name across his tongue. “What the hell kind of name is that?”

  “The one my parents gave me,” Sutton replied, putting the car in drive.

  “All right.” Danny smiled. “See ya around, Miller.”

  It took him longer than usual to climb the three flights of stairs. He had to pause and rest at each landing. He let himself into his apartment, switching on lights as he moved to the front windows and peered out through the blinds. Miller’s car was still there, idling at the curb—the glowing end of his cigarette winked up at Danny, a beacon in the dark.

  Unbidden, Danny thought of Miller’s burnished gold hair, his somber gray eyes, the whisper of the real man unmasked on the police station steps… his FBI badge. A small rush of heat moved up through Danny’s core. Blood swirled in his head, pounding against the backs of his eyes.

  He dropped the blinds back into place, went into his bedroom, and lay down with a weary sigh. Resentment over the bargain Miller had forced him into still stung, festering under his skin. But curiosity was creeping up behind the resentment no matter how hard he pushed it away. It had been a long time since he’d had the energy, or will, to be curious about much of anything.


  This was going to be trouble. He turned the idea over in his mind and found it didn’t frighten him. Trouble was the one thing Danny Butler felt qualified to handle.

  IT WAS hard to believe the sun down south was the same one that had shone on Danny during all his boyhood summers in Kansas. He had known it would be hotter in Texas, but he hadn’t expected such brutal, relentless heat, forever baking the tender skin of his neck and blistering the backs of his hands.

  “Next,” he called, waving a green sedan forward into the sunlight where he and Ortiz went to work drying it with their dirty chamois cloths.

  “Too bad we didn’t get indoor duty, huh?” Ortiz said, squinting at Danny over the hood.

  “Fucker never gives me indoor duty,” Danny complained. “I think he likes watching me burn.”

  Ortiz grinned good-naturedly and went back to polishing the car. Danny rubbed large circles with the cloth, his sweat mingling with the water droplets he was trying to remove; it reminded him of those birthday cake candles that would never blow out. He could picture himself trying to dry this same car until doomsday, his own sweat always replacing whatever water he managed to wipe away.

  “Hey, kid!” a voice called, low and bottomless—something almost subterranean in the sound.

  Danny turned, holding up one hand to shield his eyes from the light reflecting off the black Town Car stopped behind him. The back window was rolled down partway, a slender column of smoke wafting out into the heat-shimmered air.

  “Yeah?” he asked, annoyed. Couldn’t the idiot see the car-wash line started at the other end of the building?

  “Come here.”

  Danny threw down his rag and walked over to the car, leaning over slightly to peer inside. He couldn’t see much, his sun-blind eyes worthless against the dark interior.

  “What?” he asked. He’d end up with his pay docked if he didn’t get back to work.

  A low chuckle from the back seat, the first of a million times that snake’s hiss would chill Danny’s blood.

  “I have a job proposition for you.”

  “I already have a job,” Danny said, pointing back toward the green sedan, but even he could recognize his half-hearted tone.

  “Ah… my mistake. I thought you looked like someone interested in more than drying cars for a living.” The back window rolled up in near silence.

  Danny stood there for a moment, debating what to do. His gut said to walk away, fast. Ortiz was gesturing to him, and he’d be fired within minutes if he didn’t go back. But he hated this job, resented this life he’d carved from other people’s leftovers. The black car hadn’t yet moved. Danny took it as a sign, reached out, and tapped on the window with his index finger.

  The window stayed shut, but the door was pushed open by an unseen hand, a rush of frigid air blasting against Danny’s feverish cheeks.

  “Get in,” the voice said, no room for disobedience.

  Ortiz was calling his name, but Danny didn’t respond. He slipped into the car in one quick movement, the slide of his sweaty back against the cold leather sending icy tendrils tiptoeing up his spine.

  Danny pulled the door shut, slowly adjusting to the gloom. A thin face swung in Danny’s direction—eyes glittering like dark diamonds, cheeks pockmarked with old scars, one gold-plated tooth playing hide-and-seek behind a ruthless smile.

  “I want out,” Danny tried to say, scrambling for the door. But it was too late—his future decided in an instant—and the car was pulling away, Ortiz’s worried face left behind in the car wash parking lot.

  RINGING. DARKNESS. Danny opened his eyes. Still dark. He fumbled on his nightstand with one hand, fingers closing around the squawking cell phone Miller had given him only hours earlier.

  “Hm?” he mumbled into what he hoped was the mouthpiece.

  “Danny?” The voice was low and smooth in Danny’s ear, like a shot of expensive liquor going down easy. “Danny!” This time louder and impatient. “Are you awake?”

  “Christ, Miller, give me a minute,” Danny barked back, squinting at his alarm clock. Four a.m. Did the man never sleep?

  “Meet me at Loose Park today. There’s a bench on the north side of the park near the Rose Garden. Three o’clock.” Miller paused. Danny could hear him murmuring to someone in the background, then the sound of a door closing.

  Miller has a wife? Or a girlfriend? Or a someone? “You wake your wife up with this call?” Danny asked. “Isn’t it weird how people like to sleep in the middle of the night?”

  Miller ignored the question and the sarcasm. “Be there. On time.”

  “Fine. Fine. Should I wear a disguise? Funny hat? Glasses? ’Cause God knows that’s probably better than anything you’ve come up with. Or I could go ahead and shoot myself now, save Hinestroza the trouble.”

  “Good-bye, Danny.”

  Danny closed the phone and tossed it to the floor, the movement jarring his side and unleashing the throbbing pain. Propped up on one elbow, he downed two morphine pills dry, the chalky powder stinging against his tongue.

  Sleep stole over him in seconds, dragging him down into murky depths as he fell back against his pillow. “God damn it,” he moaned when the familiar ring of his phone erupted through the quiet. He snatched it off the table. “Yeah?” he demanded.

  “Danny.”

  The blood froze in his veins. His throat closed up like a clogged drain as he struggled to catch a breath.

  “Mr. Hinestroza. What’s up?”

  “Danny….” Hinestroza chuckled. “You know what’s—” a breathy pause between words, “up.”

  Fuck. How’d he find out so fast? Danny stayed silent; he’d learned the hard way to keep his mouth shut when Hinestroza spoke.

  “I heard there was an incident with the police last night,” Hinestroza continued.

  Danny sat up, flicking on the bedside lamp with one hand, the warm, yellow glow chasing away the monsters in the corners.

  “Nothing happened,” Danny explained. “I ran a red light.”

  Hinestroza made a tsk-tsk sound. “Very foolish, Danny. We’ve talked before about your recklessness.”

  “It was no big deal. I only got a ticket,” Danny said, his voice relaxed even as his fingers twisted nervous knots into his sheets. He’d had plenty of practice covering his fear. Learned it early on his daddy’s knee, pretending he wasn’t scared, pretending to be the boy his daddy wanted. He’d honed it to a fine art while in prison, where showing your terror or insecurity was the quickest way to die.

  “Are you sure?” Hinestroza questioned. “Or is there a need for me to come up there and check things out for myself?”

  Danny took a deep breath, exhaled with no sound. “You can do what you like, Mr. Hinestroza. I’m always glad to see you in person. But I don’t think it’s necessary. Like I said, it isn’t anything for you to worry about.”

  “I trust you, Danny,” Hinestroza said with brutal force and Danny knew without seeing that Hinestroza’s black eyes were blazing.

  “I know you do.”

  Danny had to bite his tongue to keep from filling in the silence on the line, from explaining again or, worse yet, apologizing. He dug his fingernails into his palm and waited. The tension screamed through him, almost forcing words from his mouth before Hinestroza spoke again.

  “I’ll be in touch before next month. We have that shipment to discuss.”

  “I remember,” Danny said. “It won’t be a problem.” He waited for the dial tone before closing his phone with shaking fingers.

  Sleep had fled the building, no way to turn off the internal engine after that conversation. Danny’s mind ran on an endless loop, wondering how much Hinestroza knew, where he was getting his information, how long before some of his men—men Danny had worked with for years—showed up at his door to put a bullet in his brain. But the bullet won’t come until after they have some fun with you.

  Danny calmed himself with the certainty that if Hinestroza knew all the facts he would already be dead. Hi
nestroza wouldn’t have wasted time making small talk. His only call would have been the one that ended with Danny’s death.

  THE SUN’S golden rays shone through high, white clouds, light turning amber on Miller’s face as it filtered down through the burnt-orange leaves above his head. The breeze was brisk but not cold. Two men sitting on a park bench wouldn’t look odd; there were dozens of people walking dogs on the paths, bicyclists streaming by in a rush of air.

  Miller saw Danny approaching from a distance, his easy stride unmistakable, unhindered by his injury. He moved gracefully, no hitch in his steps. Miller suffered a moment of envy as he realized that Danny was a man comfortable in his own skin, at home inside his body in a way that Miller had never experienced.

  “Hey,” Danny said, voice raspy, as he took a seat on the bench.

  “You’re late,” Miller responded in greeting.

  Danny grinned as he fished cigarettes out of his pocket. “I did that just to piss you off.” He held the pack out to Miller. “Want one?”

  “Sure.”

  Danny passed Miller a cigarette and his lighter, the metal warm from his fingers.

  “Hinestroza called me.”

  Miller snapped the lighter closed and handed it back to Danny. “What’d he say?”

  “He knew about me being pulled over.”

  “Shit.”

  “But for right now I think that’s all he knows.” Danny rested his elbows on the back of the bench and stretched his legs out, crossing them at the ankles.

  “You sure?”

  “No,” Danny admitted.

  Miller sighed. “Shit.”

  “You already said that.”

  “I thought it bore repeating.”

  Danny laughed, eyes twinkling like a kid who’d caught his parents cussing and realized they were human after all. Miller jerked his head away, studying a pair of joggers coming around the bend.

  “How does Hinestroza run the drugs up here?” Miller asked, clearing his throat.