His dining companions all had that look. That thousand yard stare ex-con look.
“That bitch State’s Attorney was giving away Get Out Of Jail Free cards. Cutting deals left and right. So, hell yeah, we’re celebrating.”
I should have told him to behave himself, and left it at that.
But I went a different route.
Instead of acting like an adult and a good police officer, I slapped my palms on the table, hard enough to rattle their silverware, and leaned close to him. “Go celebrate someplace else.”
He tried to stare me down, and blinked first.
“It’s a free country, cop. I can eat where I want to. And you can suck it.”
He laughed, a little too hard, and his friends joined in.
I noticed that we’d drawn the attention of several customers.
“You really want to eat here, Lester? Fine. Let me help you out.”
I walked to the hostess stand, grabbed a few items, and came back to his table. Then I slammed the children’s menu in front of him, along with a packet of crayons.
“Circle what you want if you can’t read it,” I said. “And let me know if you need a booster seat.”
His buddies laughed. Lester turned a shade of red normally found on stop signs. He looked like he was ready to throw a punch.
“You want to hit a police officer?” I dared. “In front of all these witnesses?”
He got up, glared at me, and stormed out of there.
“Maybe you should go make sure his feelings aren’t hurt,” I told his friends.
They stood and moved to leave, and I stepped in front of the biggest of them. He looked like he wanted to kick my ass, and part of me wanted him to try.
“I don’t want trouble,” he said.
“Then tip your waitress,” I told him.
He threw down a few bucks, I let him pass, and the drama was over. I went back to my table to some mild applause, and a sick stomach.
Nice job, Jack. Real professional. Get a few beers in you and you’re Dirty Harry.
You hate bullies, then act like a bully, in public.
Way to go.
My potato skins came, and when my waitress dropped them off, she whispered, “Thank you.”
It didn’t make me feel any better. And the potato skins were greasy and burnt.
After my fourth beer I switched to water, watched two sports teams play sports on one of the restaurant’s forty-six televisions, and tried without success to figure out my life.
An hour passed. Maybe more. The sun set and night came. I tipped thirty percent, which was all the cash I had left on me, and then went outside and wondered if my Nova would start because my auto club membership had expired and I didn’t want to call Latham and couldn’t afford a cab.
I’d parked in front of a hydrant, and as I was approaching my car I noticed them. Three guys, standing across the street, staring at me, ski masks over their faces. I would have spotted them sooner, but I was in my own head, still feeling the beer, and my eyes hadn’t quite adjusted to the dark.
Then, behind me, three more guys, also in ski masks. One of them a lot shorter than the other two.
I thought about the .38 Colt Detective Special in my shoulder holster.
I thought about how firing a gun on a busy downtown street could, and probably would, hurt someone innocent.
I thought about how stupid it was of me to insult Lester in front of his friends, knowing what I knew about men in general and criminals in particular.
I thought I was about to get my ass kicked, and how it was smarter for me to take the punches than draw my weapon.
So I clenched my fists.
Six against one?
I was going to break at least four of their bones before I went down.
“This is a bad move, Lester,” I said. “Stealing cars is one thing. You don’t get to plea bargain when you assault a cop.”
“Who’s Lester?” said Lester. “Any of you guys know anyone named Lester?”
I felt my sphincter clench, and considered my gun again. I could practically hear the review board.
“Did any of them have a weapon, Lieutenant?”
“Not that I could see.”
“Did you fear for your life?”
“Not really. They were car thieves, not killers.”
“So how could you justify lethal force? On a crowded street?”
I assumed niunja seogi; a taekwondo defense stance, my years of training immediately coming back to me, letting myself feel the fear, forcing myself to push through it. If it looked like they were going to kill me, I’d pull my gun. If not, I’d take my lumps.
Hell, I probably deserved it.
And then the worst possible thing happened. The one person in the world I didn’t want there was suddenly jogging across the street, heading straight into this mess I’d made.
HARRY
I visited Jasper the doorman and gave him the forty bucks I owed him for the Jeep information. It was a terrific scene, full of humor and drama and action and even a bit of spicy sex, but this book is getting really long so the scene got cut. Apparently I’m the cuttable one because I don’t have my own series like Jack and Phin both do. Only about fifteen people read Banana Hammock, and less than half of them liked it.
I’ll have to take comfort in the fact that I’m ahead of my time, even if people skip my scenes.
Where was I? Oh yeah, the license plate number.
My old cop password worked fine for criminal records, but didn’t allow me to plate numbers. So I had to call Gina Morris at the DMV to find out who owned that Jeep.
“Harry, I’m glad you called. I mithed you.”
“Really?”
“No. No one will ever mith you.”
“That thucks,” I thaid.
Actually, I didn’t. I didn’t want to pith her off.
After agreeing on a price that seemed inflated to near-Fakir levels, Gina ran the plates and got a name.
Edward Cline.
He didn’t have a record, at least not in Illinois. But he did have an address, in Minnesota.
I Googled him, leafed through a few Facebook profiles of guys with that name, and finally found a pic of the asshole who was with Cherry. He apparently owned a chain of plant rental stores (is that a thing?) in four states. I found the phone number for the corporate office and gave it a call.
“Plantasy Zone,” answered a woman.
“This is Bill.” I was using my annoyed corporate jerk voice. “I’ve got a weeping willow that’s shedding leaves all over the lobby. My visitors are asking me if it’s autumn, for crissakes.”
“Who is this?”
“Look, just put Eddie on.”
“Mr. Cline isn’t available right now.”
“Gimme his cell number.”
“I don’t have his—”
“I’m one of your biggest accounts, and if I don’t talk to Eddie in the next thirty seconds…” What was a good threat? “…then I’m chopping down the tree.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Cline is on vacation.”
“Vacation? Where on vacation?”
“Mr. Cline doesn’t share that information.”
“I just saw him last night at Sabatino’s. You telling me he left Chicago already?”
“I’m not allowed to—”
“I’ve got an axe. I’m gonna start chopping off branches and mailing them to him, I swear to God.”
“Mr. Cline was staying at the Four Seasons, but—”
I hung up and dialed the Four Seasons.
“This is Edward Cline in room blah-blah-ba-da. I can’t remember if I checked out or not.”
“I’m sorry, sir. What room?”
“Cline. C-L-I-N-E. I better not be charged for all that pay-per-view pornography. It’s supposed to be free for the first five minutes.”
“I have you checked out as of this morning, Mr. Cline. Would you like to hear your room charges?”
Checked out. But I had a go
od idea where he took Cherry and Puma.
“Time to go back to the trailer park,” I said.
“What trailer park?” asked the Four Seasons guy.
“Sorry. Thought I hung up.”
Then I headed for Maple Hills.
Harry’s Stakeout Report.
11:51am – Arrive at trailer park. Jeep isn’t there. Go to a nearby street outside of the park so no one calls the police on me. Watch trailer with binoculars.
12:05pm – Eat a candy bar.
12:25pm – This is really boring.
12:45pm – Read back of candy wrapper. Wonder what butylated hydroxyanisole is.
1:07pm – Drink a pop. Read the back. No butylated hydroxyanisole.
1:11pm – Really bored. Try to think of words that rhyme with pickle. Can’t think of any.
1:22pm – Dickle? Is dickle a word?
1:41pm – Sickle. I know that’s a word.
1:45pm – Don Rickles. Close enough.
2:01pm – Nickle. How could I miss that one?
2:23pm – Peed in a water bottle. Concerned how dark it is. Wonder if I’m dehydrated. Drink another pop.
3:02pm – Google butylated hydroxyanisole. It’s a preservative used in animal feed. Also a known carcinogen. Wonder if that’s why my pee is dark.
3:03pm – I’m hungry, but there’s nothing to eat but candy bars, which are apparently loaded with butylated hydroxyanisole.
3:04pm – Eat another candy bar anyway.
4:01pm – Am I supposed to pronounce the x? Is it hydroxy-anisole or hydro-xyanisole?
4:07pm – Feels like there’s a lump in my neck. A tumor? Because of my systemic abuse of butylated hydroxyanisole?
4:09pm – My urine is really dark. Rather than dump it out, maybe I should bring it to the doctor when I get this neck lump checked out.
4:10pm – My stomach is growling, but I’m not going to put anymore butylated hydroxyanisole into my body. Never again. I throw my last candy bar out the window.
4:11pm – Damn you, butylated hydroxyanisole, why do you taste so good?
4:12pm – I fetch the candy bar and eat the hell out of it.
4:21pm – Did I say dickle?
5:02pm – Still no sign of the Jeep. Screw it, I’m breaking into the trailer.
I once was pretty good at picking locks, but losing a hand made it nearly impossible. So I bought a set of universal keys on the Internet. These are master keys that open ninety-percent of the world’s locks.
Unfortunately, I left them at home. So I broke a back window with a crowbar.
As expected, there was no burglar alarm. After all, it was a trailer. A burglar alarm on a trailer was like locking up your donuts in a safe; too much trouble for too little value.
If you’re reading this and you live in a trailer, I’m not talking about you. I’m talking about the other people who live in trailers. You know the ones. I’m certain your personal trailer is awesome and well worth protecting.
So I knocked out all the big, sharp pieces of glass with the crowbar, and then climbed inside, agile like a cat who worked in the circus as an acrobat.
Harry McGlade: Catrobat.
Or maybe acrocat. I’d have to work on that.
The trailer didn’t take long to search, and I didn’t find much for my efforts. Besides the lighting set-up I’d seen previously, which included a backdrop, tripods, various lamps and spare bulbs, and a lot of extension cords, there wasn’t anything else out of the ordinary. Furnishings were bare minimum; a bed, a sofa, a table and two chairs, a TV. The fridge was empty except for condiments and beer. Cupboards had a few cans of soup. The only adornments were a Chicago Blackhawks poster on one wall, and a framed snapshot on another; three guys, standing on a pier. One of them was Cline.
I took the picture out of the frame and pocketed it and was ready to leave when I saw a cordless phone next to the microwave on a kitchen counter. On a hunch I clicked through the saved Caller ID numbers on the display. There were only four. I took pictures of them all with my phone, and stepped outside just as the Maple Hills police were rolling up.
I ran.
Once again, my quick speed and superior cunning helped me elude Maple Hills’s finest, and I made it back to my Vette, macho-ly puked up all the butylated hydroxyanisole I’d consumed, and then hopped in and got the hell out of Maple Hills, hopefully forever.
When I got back to Chicago I was starving. I considered all of the amazing restaurants the city had to offer, and decided that out of all the world class cuisine, five-star dining establishments, and famous bistros, I wanted some greasy, burnt potato skins. So I headed for my favorite faux-Irish pub, the kind of franchise that had fake antiques hanging on the walls, and in one of those funny coincidences that often happens in real life but seems contrived when it happens in a book, I ran into my good buddy, Jack Daniels.
Jack seemed to be having a private moment with six guys in ski masks. Knowing Jack, I felt kind of bad for the guys. She was a taekwondo black belt, and expert markswoman, and pretty much one of the biggest bad asses I knew. I’d never tell her that, but there it is. The woman was a force of nature.
I actually wasn’t sure if I should stop to help, because she really didn’t need it. But I remembered my earlier thoughts of being alone, and maybe she would be up for a bite after beating up and arresting all of these guys, I decided to stick around.
I double-parked, got out, and jogged over.
“Hiya, Jackie,” I said. “You and your friends hitting the slopes?”
“Beat it, Harry. I can deal with this.”
“I know you can.” I raised my voice. “But I’m Harry McGlade, from the hit TV show Fatal Autonomy. And if you watch that show, at 9pm Thursday nights on Fox, you know I never pass up a chance to shoot somebody.”
I took out my .44 Magnum.
The ski mask guys all hesitated.
“I’ll be honest,” I said. “I’m not a very good shot. Can you guys move closer together? Stand in front of each other if you want to. My Magnum can shoot through two or three people.”
They scattered. I turned to Jack, and saw she still had her fists clenched.
“Really? You want to beat me up for saving your ass?”
She dropped her arms and made a big dramatic show about blowing out her breath. “What are you doing here, McGlade?”
“I was getting a bite to eat. Want to join me?”
“No.”
“Who were those guys? More members of your fan club?”
Jack walked past me, over to her piece of shit Chevy Nova.
“C’mon, Jack. Let’s have a beer. For old time’s sake.”
She climbed into her car. Apparently she hadn’t heard me.
I watched as she turned the ignition. Once. Twice. Three times. When it failed to turn over, she got out and opened the hood.
“Sounds like the starter,” I offered.
Jack hunted around in her back seat, found a can of starter fluid, and gave the intake a few squirts. Then she got behind the wheel again.
The Nova chugged, and then began making a clicking noise.
“Sounds like the battery,” I offered.
“Can you jump me?” Jack asked.
“Of course,” I said. “Then afterward, maybe I could help with your car.”
She didn’t laugh. Tough crowd.
“Jack, not to get weird, but you look like you’re ready to cry. You okay?”
“I’ve had a shitty week.”
“Want to grab some food and a beer? My treat.”
Jack rubbed her eyes. “No.”
“So what are you going to do? Call your boytoy, Nathan?”
“No.”
“So you’re just going to sit there all night and wait for the ski mask crew to come back?”
“Just help me get my car started.”
“Fine. But one drink first.”
“Harry…”
“One drink. Have you been to this Irish bar around the corner? The potato ski
ns are amazing.”
Jack refused to do the Irish bar, but it was Chicago so there was a bar every ten meters. We wound up in a place that didn’t seem to have an actual name, just a large Old Style sign hanging in front. I got a burger and a beer.
Jack got whiskey.
Then she got another whiskey.
Then she got chatty.
“Feebies just took it, Harry. Remember what it was like? To have cases taken away?”
“It’s the Job,” I said. “You know that.”
“You miss it?” she asked. “Being a cop?”
“Were you drinking earlier? You never get personal unless you’ve had too many.”
“Just answer the question.”
“No,” I said. “Being private is much better. No rules. Higher pay. Set your own hours. And much less of a chance of being killed.”
I neglected to mention the sniper. It wouldn’t help me make my point.
Jack ordered another drink. I thought about saying something, but it was her life, her liver. And, honestly, I was enjoying the company.
“You know the Feebies are morons,” Jack said. She was slurring ever so slightly. “They’re gonna mess it up. And this is a bad one, McGlade.”
“We’ve seen some bad ones. You want some of my burger?”
“No. This one is real bad. We think it’s more than one guy. Abducting girls. Torturing them to death. What’s wrong with people?”
“Everyone sucks,” I replied. “I’m on this case right now, this douchebag is pretending to be a talent scout in order to take naked pics. I can’t tell how bad he is yet, but a few other ladies have disappeared, and he might have just abducted two more. I may have to go to frickin’ Minnesota to track him down.”
Jack snorted. “Minnesota. That’s why the Feebies took over jurisdiction. Asshole lives there. Get this; he works at a place that rents plants.”
“Ha! My guy owns like a dozen shops that rent plants. Plantasy Zone.”
Jack squinted at me. “Tell me you’re kidding.”
I didn’t know what she meant, and then it hit me. “My guy is named Edward Cline.”
“My guy works for Edward Cline.”
I dug out the picture I took from the trailer. “That’s Cline,” I pointed out.
Jack tapped her finger on the pic. “And that’s our suspect, Garrett McConnroy.”
Phineas Troutt Series - Three Thriller Novels (Dead On My Feet #1, Dying Breath #2, Everybody Dies #3) Page 50