The Complete Matt Jacob Series

by Klein, Zachary;

  I stopped at a fancy liquor store, took a short course on single malts, then bought two of the best. I knew if I had somehow slipped my attackers’ net, I might be waltzing right back in. I just didn’t see any alternative. The dull nerve noise mushroomed into a roar when I parked a block from the variety store. Before leaving the car I checked the safety on my gun and gripped my bag of presents tighter.

  Pearse kept his attention on the customers in front of the counter as I walked through the door. I nervously paced the entire store twice before the place emptied. When the door finally closed on the last customer, Pearse called from the front, “Surely you can do something better than strut around my business like a rooster in the henhouse?”

  I felt more like a chicken in the coop with a fox, but I grunted appreciatively and returned to the counter. “How are you feeling?” I asked, estimating the amount of liquor he must have drunk the night before.

  Mr. Pearse looked at me strangely from behind his large red veined nose, and pulled a bottle up from behind his counter.

  “You’re asking me how I feel? Take a gander in the mirror, son. You don’t look none too well yourself. A fight with a she-cat?” he asked, nodding toward my scratched face.

  “No,” I managed a smile. “Fell into a bush.”

  Pearse dipped his head and shoulders. “Had to be a big bush. Or, a very long fall.”

  “Big bush,” I muttered.

  “Perhaps some of this will ease the pain.”

  “No pain, but it will definitely help with the memory.”

  Pearse produced two clean water glasses but I stopped him from pouring. “We drank yours last night.” I eased my grip on the brown paper bag, reached inside with my other hand, and placed one of the bottles on the counter. Then I clanked the bag down about six inches away.

  “You are a surprising find, young man. Not the sort of person Father Collins usually introduces me to.” Pearse came out from behind the counter, walked to the door, turned the hanging sign around, and pulled the shade. “I don’t want to chance the good Father strolling by,” he said on his way back. “We have this tussle, you know. It would be a shame to get caught.”

  His resentment was real. I grunted my support and forced myself to look forward to the drink.

  “This is a fine Scotch you’ve brought,” he commented, holding the glass in front of his eyes.

  I nodded and lit a cigarette.

  “I don’t imagine you brought it here just to have drinking company?”

  I nodded again.

  “And, if I am willing to help you, I will be rewarded with the contents of that brown paper bag. I hope it’s as good as this?”

  “Better.”

  “I suppose I’ll have to try, then. It’s a sinful thing, to play upon a man’s weakness. A person’s vice.”

  I smiled at his enjoyment of our game. “I don’t know you well enough to play on your virtues.”

  “That’s always the rub, isn’t it? Our worst is the first aspect anyone observes.”

  “I don’t know”—I winked—”I’m sure you have more going for you than whisky.”

  Pearse shot me a glum look as he downed his double and poured another. “If you are a gambling man I’d advise you not to take the bet,” he said. He stared pointedly at my untouched drink. “It’s troubling to talk when I’m drinking alone.”

  I hoisted my glass and took a healthy swallow. It was smoother than last night’s, but the chestfilling burn was the same.

  “What is it you want to know?” Pearse asked.

  “I want to find Blue.”

  He looked disgusted. “That’s what everybody wants. I was hoping for better. Or at least different.”

  “Who else has been asking?”

  “That wouldn’t be right, would it? I’ll tell you what I told the others. Ask around Buzz’s. Now, does that get me the mysterious bag?”

  I shook my head.

  “Ah,” he said, “I didn’t think so. I’d best drink more of this.” He topped his glass, waited until I’d drunk more of mine, then replenished my drink. “Why is it you want to know Blue’s whereabouts?”

  “We have some unfinished business.”

  “And what might that business be?”

  I had to think about that one. Pearse hadn’t sent me packing, but I’d be out the door if he nailed me in a lie. “He broke a friend’s hands. I want to return the favor.”

  It was his turn to pause. He looked into my face then drank from his glass. “You mean that literally, don’t you?”

  I nodded. “Maybe. I don’t know for sure.”

  “So you think I’ll inform on Blue because his gang broke a Negro’s bones?”

  “A young Black female, Mr. Pearse.” I gritted my teeth and sucked oxygen. “She’s a kid, no threat to anyone. Blue had her hands broken to send me a message. We’re not talking informing,” I said pointedly. “This isn’t betrayal. We’re talking about a twenty-one-year-old girl. This isn’t the kind of incident that helps this neighborhood’s reputation.”

  I had hit a soft spot. Scatter enough shot, something has to land. Pearse filled up his glass while I drained mine. This time I reloaded for myself. The warmth felt invigorating after a couple doses.

  “I hadn’t known the girl was as young as that,” he replied grimly.

  “As young as that, Mr. Pearse. Let’s face it, you don’t like those animals any more than I do. That’s why you’ve been willing to talk to me. I could tell that last night and I can tell it now.” I paused then guessed, “I have a feeling it wasn’t because Father Collins asked you to.”

  “That’s for damn sure,” he growled. “He’s made it impossible for me to enjoy a drink inpublic. That’s why I sneak it into the church.”

  Everybody has their own way of saying fuck you. “It’s not me, it’s not Collins, and it’s not my bottles that’s gonna get you to talk.” I pulled the bag next to the open bottle between us. “It’s who you are and your concern for the neighborhood.” I paused and cast another line. “Listen, I know what people around here are willing to fight for and it isn’t scum like Blue.”

  Pearse nodded his agreement. “It surely isn’t. There are real battles to be fought.”

  “I’d guess Ireland is pretty important to folks living here.”

  Pearse’s face closed down. I’d hooked an old boot and rushed to throw it back. “That’s why telling me about Blue has nothing to do with informing. He doesn’t stand for anything worth supporting. Look, Mr. Pearse, I know you have no reason to trust me. I’m an outsider, a stranger. But I won’t let a punk like Blue stomp on a friend. Especially a young woman. The gift is yours whether you tell me where to find him or not. And I’ll come back sometime and help you use it. But I will find Blue, Mr. Pearse, with or without your help.”

  Pearse’s tension eased as he made his decision. “I believe you will, I believe you will.”

  For a moment I thought he was finished. Then he added, “He won’t be easy to corner even if you do locate him.”

  “Why is that?”

  Pearse hesitated, tore off a piece of the bag, reached under the counter, and emerged with a pen. He scribbled on the brown paper and pushed it toward me. I glanced at the address then stuffed it into my pocket. “Why will it be hard to get to him?” I asked.

  “He has himself barricaded in the cellar of an abandoned warehouse. The address is in your pocket.”

  “Is he alone?”

  “I would expect. Right now none of his old friends want to be around him.”

  If he knew about Blue’s new friends he wasn’t talking. “You really don’t like the Avengers, do you?”

  Pearse rubbed his red nose. “I surely don’t, but I don’t want to be a party to a murder either.”

  “I won’t kill him. You already know that.” I thanked him, and waited until he hid the bottles before we walked to the door. I was on the street when he said, “Take care of yourself, will you? Way things are, I don’t have many people to shar
e a nip with.”

  I pumped his hand and promised.

  The whisky’s warmth had spread to my head. I realized that the moment I considered storming Blue’s bunker. I didn’t think it likely, but Pearse might be walking me into an IRA trap. I didn’t need a welcome wagon. Especially one without Tupperware.

  I lit a cigarette and thought about returning home. But, by the time I finished the smoke, my blood had thinned enough for me to use my head. Home meant living with an extra layer of paranoia. And my couch just wasn’t that comfortable.

  I drove around the neighborhood looking for eyes, saw none, then motored past the address Pearse had given me. The disintegrating warehouse was semi-boarded up with chicken wire and cheap plywood covering its doors and broken windows. The place was about as inviting as an abandoned ice skating rink.

  I drove back to a local hardware store, purchased a couple of tools, and shoved them into the sedan. I was pulling my head out of the rear door when I felt a heavy tap on my shoulder.

  “Whoa, Matthew. Sorry to have startled you,” Father Collins said as I swung around. “A bit jumpy, aren’t you?”

  “I guess,” I muttered as soon as my breath returned. “You look different?”

  “It’s the street clothes.”

  “I’m not used to seeing you this way.”

  His mouth twisted into an empty smile. “What are you doing here?”

  “Buying some supplies. I help take care of a couple of buildings.”

  “This hardware store is a little far from home, isn’t it?” His words were clipped.

  “I don’t remember telling you where I lived.” So were mine.

  The assertion threw him off guard, but only for a second. “You’re right. I just know that you don’t live here.” Collins immediately adjusted his attitude. “You do seem on edge today. Is something the matter? Your face is cut.”

  I lowered my throttle. “Bad day shaving.”

  “Perhaps it’s time to change the blade. What really happened?”

  I just didn’t trust his friendliness. But my suspicion might only be guilt by association since I believed the assassination caravan had followed me from the church. “I had a small car accident.”

  “Last night?”

  “On my way home from your church, actually.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it. I hope no one was hurt.”

  “No one was hurt.”

  I tried to think of a way to draw him out but the padre suddenly looked at his watch. “Part of my clerical and civilian garb, unfortunately. I’m glad you’re okay.”

  I nodded, carefully watching his face.

  “I’ve got to run. Oh,” he added casually, “are you still busy with your case?”

  “Sure, why do you ask?” He didn’t make it easy to restrain my suspicions.

  “I’d hoped you’d gotten enough information from Mr. Pearse to allow you to finish your work,” he replied easily. “I’m sorry, Matthew, but I really must go. Please call on me if I can bemore helpful.”

  “Thanks, I might take you up on that.”

  I climbed back into the car and tried to reason with my distrust. When I couldn’t, I contented myself with a long drive as the last of the late afternoon faded into evening. By now, I assumed the feeling of being followed was going to last until everything was over. It was still not understanding anything about the “everything” that bothered me. All I had was one thin string written on a bag scrap. And, as the evening drew into inevitable darkness, I knew it was getting time to pull.

  The whole block looked like a picture postcard of Berlin in 1945. Smashed streetlights; ramshackle, falling asbestos-shingled housing; padlocked, rundown streetside garages; broken and abandoned fire hydrants. It was lucky I’d driven by earlier while there had still been daylight. Otherwise, I’d need to scour the entire block, flashlight in hand, to locate the address. Even knowing the correct building didn’t jump-start my confidence. So I used the little glass bottle andfinished the last of the cocaine.

  I climbed out of the car from the passenger’s side, knelt on the sidewalk, and organized my equipment. Manuel’s sedan was tall enough for me to slip the tool belt around my waist without showing much of my head over the roof. Once I had the tools in place and the safety off my gun, I scurried up the street, crossed, and doubled back.

  Skinny concrete driveways separated each of the old large buildings or garages. A few hosted small, rusted pickups. Others were empty, their tar tops cracked and pitted. A beat-up Plymouth without plates sat deep in the driveway next to my target building. I considered disabling the engine, then didn’t bother. If Blue made it outside, I wouldn’t be chasing.

  I quietly walked to the back of the abandoned warehouse. I assumed the basement was underground and, as expected, saw no light from any of the boarded, wired, or shattered back windows. I studied the rear of the four-story before picking a ground-floor window. Better to get inside without being heard, but if not, no great loss; I planned on inviting Blue to my party.

  I raced to the building’s far side and ducked when a light flashed from a nearby building. No need for a nosy neighbor to spot me and call the police. I stayed squatted until the light snapped off, then returned to the window. I cautiously clipped the chicken wire and bent it back. Unfortunately, the window still had large shards of glass stuck in the frame so I pulled on my new work gloves to gingerly pry the pieces loose. I’d had it with cuts and scratches. I piled the glass neatly alongside the building, pulled the gloves off my hands, and hoisted myself up and over.

  And in. I held my breath and stood motionless until my eyes adjusted to the dusty darkness. For an instant the huge floor space revived memories of last night’s skating rink—with one major difference. Tonight, I was the hunter.

  I pulled the small metal flashlight from the belt, the gun from the holster, and began to explore. Heavy steel shelving lined most of the walls and, to my initial dismay, were bolted into the concrete.

  All except the one I needed. Next to a rear window, a large stand-alone shelf assembly stood on wheels. I scouted the cavern and returned with an old Herald. The date read ‘88. No surprise. Lots of warehouse closings that year. I slid a few sheets under the metal wheels and slowly rolled the shelf across a padded newspaper trail. Splotches of moonlight snuck into the room from around the crooked plywood window slats. The place had a dank, rank stench. As if a truckload of ratty sneakers and dead squirrels had been left to rot and meld into the dirty atmosphere. Might not be as easy to get Blue up here as I had hoped.

  By the time I dragged the metal across the room I’d worked up a nervous sweat. Despite the ability to see my breath. It hadn’t been easy to do everything with my right, but my left hand wasn’t letting go of the gun. I walked back to the rear of the building, stopped next to a half-shattered window, and lit a cigarette. I didn’t much care about the smoke. Might help entice him into the stinking cave.

  I used the cigarette break to memorize the room. If the oldest trick in the book worked, it wouldn’t be necessary. But coke rush or no, I wasn’t betting on the book. I finished the cigarette and stamped it underfoot. Showtime.

  I trotted to one side of the door, grabbed hold of the shelving, and threw the whole damn thing to the floor. It landed with a terrific crash sending up a storm of dirt and dust. A couple of shelves twisted and broke loose, adding to the din. If the fucker hadn’t built himself a bomb shelter, he heard the racket.

  I stuck my head through the debris and pushed the whole unit a couple more inches to allow the nearby metal door about half its normal swing. Then I took my position and waited. For a few long minutes I went neurotic. He wasn’t there. A bunch of them were there. They weren’t going to investigate the crash. He wasn’t going to investigate.

  I could have kept grinding, but, as so often is the case, my worry turned worthless: I heard a single set of metal heel taps click sharply against concrete. I started to generate a new set of concerns but pushed them aside when I saw the door swi
ng in its obstructed arc. I listened to a grunt when it banged against my barrier. Then the door drifted back.

  I heard Blue mutter, “I’m sick of chasing fucking cats in that stink.” I tensed while I waited for someone to answer. When no one did, I reminded myself that talking aloud was the earmark of being alone for too long a time. Just as I reached out to rattle the steel and up the ante, the metal door suddenly banged against the shelves.

  I pulled my hand back as Blue leaned, grunted, and pushed the door. The steel shelves slowly scraped along the floor and I lightly grasped the knob. Blue kept grunting and pushing. As soon as the door swung free, I yanked, then slammed his exposed head as hard as I could with the side of my gun.

  He fell right on top of the shelves. I leaned down, wiped his blood from the revolver onto his shirt, and dragged him off the metal. I rolled him onto his back, put my shoe on his throat, and waited for possible reinforcements. With my free hand I reached inside my pocket, extracted a cigarette and lit up. Fuck it, if anyone else came through the door, I’d just shoot.

  I felt my mean ride a cocaine rush through my bloodstream and it took plenty of restraint not to stomp when I felt Blue wriggle. Enough time had elapsed so I was no longer worried about backup punks or pros so I balled my fist and added to his upcoming dental bill. If he made it to a dentist. He stopped moving and just lay there moaning.

  “Open your fucking eyes,” I said throwing the cigarette to the floor.

  When he didn’t respond I placed a little more weight on my good foot. The one on top of his throat.

  Blue’s eyes opened but it took him a minute to focus. I wanted him to know who belonged to the foot so I shone the flashlight on my face, then plunged the back end into his belly. When he started to double up, I pressed my shoe down harder. I remembered staring into the long barrel of his Magnum and wasn’t going to let him forget what helpless felt like. My time in the bush called for some heavy payback.

  “Hello, Blue, I happened to be in the neighborhood.”

  He tried to talk but all that emerged was blood and teeth. I used my foot to push his head and kept it on the side of his face. I waited patiently while he spat onto the floor before I slipped my shoe back down to his throat.