No Hitmen in Heaven: An Explosive Crime Thriller (Jake Hancock Universe Thriller)

by Dan Taylor

  I shake his hand.

  Before he leaves, he says, “If I’m ever in Hollywood again, we should meet up and catch up.”

  “Say hi to your lady for me, Hancock. And good luck.”

  He puts enough cash on the table for the whole check and a tip, and then leaves, shaking his head as he goes.

  Mindy comes over, asks if I’m finished, and then collects our plates. When she comes back over to collect the cash, she says, “I’ve always wondered, this MMA fighting, do people like you enjoy it?”

  I smile. “Sometimes we do. Sometimes we don’t.”

  31.

  It’s my and Sandy’s ten-year wedding anniversary. I managed to swing it with her doctor to get her out of Shady Acres for the day, as long as she’s mildly sedated, so I’ve put on my best suit, shaved, and I’m feeling nervous.

  The plan is to take her to her favorite restaurant, I’ll try to chat with her about some of my favorite memories from our marriage, and hopefully I won’t have to restrain her at some point. After dessert, I’ve got a present for her. That’s why I’m nervous.

  I recently learned there are traditional gifts for each year. For example, it’s traditional to give electrical appliances for a four-year anniversary gift, and bizarrely wood for the 6th year. Tenth is diamonds and/or jewelry. Sandy’s not allowed jewelry at Shady Acres—something about her possibly using it to attack other residents—but I got her some nonetheless. But that’s only her warm-up gift.

  The other gift, not so traditional.

  The rest of it is in my warehouse, brought all the way from Pants, Oklahoma. I sure hope she likes it.

  If she does, it’ll be a turning point in our relationship.

  I go through the reception area, and the two ladies working the desk compliment me on my appearance, and then I get taken to the main communal area, where Sandy’s waiting.

  I go up to her, find her staring into space. Bev, the nurse who’s taken to Sandy, is standing by her, smiling.

  I take in Sandy’s appearance. Bev’s done a bang-up job of her makeup, and the little amount of saliva Sandy’s dribbled onto her dress hasn’t ruined how beautiful she looks.

  I smile at Bev, letting her know my appreciation, and then I kneel in front of Sandy, say, “Sandy, dear, happy anniversary!”

  When I go to hug her, she pushes me off, digging her nails into my chest, and says, in a sassy voice, “Mike, we’re not married, you dipshit. I could get a better husband than you.”

  Bev whispers in my ear that her medication should take full effect in the next half hour, and then excuses herself, and I carry on hugging Sandy.

  Miraculously, she comes with me, despite still thinking I’m Mike Rutherford, the bully from her high school. And I only have to carry her on my shoulder from Shady Acres’s front entrance to my car, not all the way.

  After wrestling her into the front passenger seat and buckling her seatbelt, it’s time for us to drive to the first location of our romantic date, Wild Bill’s Bar and Grill, for a warm-up drink.

  Sandy’s quiet the whole way, probably on account of her medication, but I don’t care. I’m smiling like it’s prom, and I’m driving the prom queen. We haven’t been out in the real world together ever since she’s been a resident at Shady Acres, and it feels good.

  She’s much more relaxed getting out of the car than in, and we walk hand in hand into Wild Bill’s.

  A couple of the regulars notice us, and start whistling. One of them, an older guy with more nostrils than teeth, says, “You be careful with a fancy lady like that in a place like this.”

  But he seems good natured enough about it.

  I tell him I will, and we take a seat by the bar.

  I’m under strict instructions to not give Sandy alcohol, but one drink won’t hurt. Besides, I see it as therapy.

  When we would come here, before the accident, she ordered an El Presidente—a cocktail comprising of rum, lime juice, pineapple juice, and grenadine. I order that for her and a lime and soda for me.

  I tell the barman to keep an eye on her—making sure she doesn’t randomly leave or fall off her stool, that sort of thing—while I go over to the jukebox. I put on the song we first made love to, and which became a tradition: “Takin’ Care Of Business” by BTO.

  Then I rejoin Sandy at the bar.

  I toast our ten years of marriage, and then hold up her drink to her lips so she can experience a taste of her life before her brain injuries, while she listens to the song she was really familiar with at the start of our marriage, but which she only wanted to listen to one to two times a week at the end of it.

  After she’s swallowed a couple mouthfuls, and spilled a little on her dress, and after we’ve listened to the first chorus, I pay close attention to her demeanor, her facial expressions, for a sign that it might be working.

  She’s just staring into space, not smiling, and definitely not calling me by my real name, as she isn’t speaking at all.

  I sigh, accepting that this part of the plan to use sense memory to awaken the Sandy I know is in there somewhere isn’t working and probably won’t work.

  Time for the next part of the plan.

  We drive to her favorite restaurant.

  We order the dishes we ate on our first date. They aren’t on the menu, but I manage to persuade our server, Alberto, that today they are. As specials that I’ll pay an exorbitant price for.

  There’s not much conversation during lunch. I try to engage her in conversation about what life is like at Shady Acres, but Sandy looks a little tired, but also like she might want to kill me, which is why I ask Alberto for a plastic set of cutlery for her.

  On our first date, a guy made eyes at Sandy, and came over to flirt with her. I kindly told him that I’d smash the bottle of wine we were drinking at the time—an overpriced Merlot—over his head if he didn’t refrain. Sandy thought it was cute and endearing and that I was her hero, and she later told me it was one of the reasons she fell in love with me.

  When we’ve finished our meals, I glance at the table next to us, which I also booked. Dick-Eyed Bill is sitting by it. I bought a suit for him and paid him to come here to reenact that scene. Nodding at him, I let him know I’m ready.

  Bill starts making eyes at her, but doesn’t get her attention, so I wave him over. I don’t understand what Bill says to her, but it kinda looks like he’s flirting with her.

  I tell him I’ll smash his own bottle of overpriced Merlot over his head if he doesn’t stop, and wait for a response from Sandy.

  Nothing, but I still have high hopes her gift will work.

  I thank Bill with a nod, and we skip dessert and drive to my warehouse.

  I park outside, and tell Sandy to sit tight while I prepare her gift.

  When it’s ready, I help her out of the car and guide her to the warehouse door, my hands over her eyes, so she doesn’t see it prematurely and ruin the surprise.

  When she’s inside and standing in front of it, I ask her if she’s ready. She doesn’t respond, but I figure she is anyway, and take my hands away from her eyes.

  Upon seeing Mike Rutherford sitting there, tied to a stool, I get my first real moment with Sandy since the accident. She gasps, holding her hands to her cheeks. She recognizes him, in part because I refrained from beating the shit out of him, at least to his face, and because Mike still looks like the pipsqueak from her school days, just bigger and with a shitty goatee.

  She says, “Is that… Is that?”

  “Spotty Mike Rutherford? It is.”

  He starts to whimper, saying he’s sorry, he didn’t know the girls at school didn’t like it, so I tell him to shut his mouth.

  I then position myself next to Mike, juxtaposing us, and then say to Sandy, “See? I’m not Mike Rutherford. This is Mike. I’m—”

  “My husband?”

  Clarity of thinking for the first time. I look to the heavens, my eyes welling up. I glance at Sandy to see she’s also crying.

  I go over t
o her, embrace her, and we stand there, laughing and crying in equal intensities, as we have our first real moment as a married couple since the accident. I can’t help but glance at Mike afterwards to find him looking a little freaked out.

  I’d like to say that moment lasted, that I’d cured Sandy. But it’s fleeting. She goes back into her semi-comatose state a couple minutes after we leave Mike. But she’s showing signs of progress. The rest of the date, she doesn’t call me Mike, not even once, but calls me by another name: Douglas, the fictional guy who she thinks she’s married to.

  It’s progress, of sorts.

  I’d also like to tell you that I let Mike off with a slap on the wrist, and that he’s able to go back to High Tree Retirement Home in Pants, Oklahoma, to continue his life. But Mike’s ass-wiping days are over, and his days of eternal nothingness as his naturally mummified remains lie in a shallow grave in the desert have just begun.

  But only after I’d tortured him for a day and a half. Mike was right to assume a tough-guy persona at high school; I was really impressed by his ability to withstand pain. He didn’t shit himself, only pissed himself a couple times. A real tough guy.

  32.

  I’ve decided to stay in L.A., at least a couple more years. The doctors are wrong. I know it. Sandy’s in there, somewhere, and time will reveal her. Mu Ko Ang Thong will be just as pretty in a couple years’ time as it is now. Prettier, if I get the old Sandy back.

  Mike Rutherford was a real breakthrough. Sure, I can’t tell her doctor about it. Patient-doctor confidentiality only goes so far. So I’ll carry on my own private treatment. See what else I can dig up from her past, remind her of, and see if I can’t get a permanent breakthrough. I just haven’t figured out what, yet. But we’ve got time.

  Besides, who’ll run Sloppy Seconds, my soup kitchen, if I leave? Dick-Eyed Bill, Stinky Pete, and all those guys are relying on me for a hot meal.

  The only thing I’m not sure of is if I’m going to carry on working. I haven’t heard from Jimmy Balbone since he hung up on me.

  Curious.

  I’m sitting in a café, drinking a cup of coffee, thinking about the story I’m going to tell at AA in an hour, when my phone rings.

  I look at the phone, and then answer.

  “Get a tan while you were in England, Cuckoo?”

  It’s Bob Lamb, and he’s drunk again.

  “Hey, Bob. As a matter of fact, I did.”

  “Yeah, I bet you did, Clive. What flight did you fly in on?”

  I ignore his question, and ask, “How’ve you been, Bob?”

  “Busy. Retirement’s a bitch.”

  “Define retired.”

  “No longer active in my profession, dummy.”

  “At least not officially. Did I miss anything while I was away?”

  “A homicide. A couple missing persons: one deadbeat chef, nothing; but the second one was curious.”

  “Oh yeah. How so?”

  “Don’t act like this is news, Cuckoo. Like you’re reading it from the toilet paper you’re about to wipe your ass with.”

  “I only read British newspapers while I was there, and let me tell you, those journalists are savage.”

  “Then you should have read the ones with the broad sheets and lots of words on. The big-boy papers.”

  “Gee, thanks for the advice. Do they have bigger pictures, too?”

  He sighs. “You want to hear about this homicide and missing person or not?”

  “I’m kinda busy, Bob. Will it make the news?”

  “You know who’ll be on the news soon enough?”

  “Miley Cyrus? Justin Bieber?”

  “You, smart guy.”

  “I can’t think of anything I’ve done that’s newsworthy.”

  “I’ve got to hand it to you, Cuckoo. Hollywood Boulevard. That was a ballsy move. Dumb, but ballsy.”

  “Is that a place in Hollywood?”

  “You’re not going to get me angry this time, Clive. You’re not worth it.”

  “Is it? It sounds like a nice place. I should visit sometime.”

  Bob sighs and then I hear him order another whisky. After a brief argument with the barman, during which Bob says please three times through what sound like gritted teeth, the barman gives in.

  Then Bob says, “The aunt of some big-shot movie producer was found dead.”

  “Where? No, let me guess.”

  I pause. Bob tries to speak, but I cut him off by saying, “Some place in Texas?”

  “Boulevard, ass hat.”

  “Oh, so that’s why you mentioned that place. I figured I’d go with the second-largest state.”

  Bob takes a slurp of whisky. Then says, “Drop the act, Cuckoo. Can you guess what she got delivered that day, the day she was killed?”

  I pause, feigning thinking. “A new toaster?”

  “A cuckoo clock, Clive. But you knew that.”

  “So let me get this straight, she didn’t need a new toaster?”

  “I have no idea why I phone you.”

  “Because we’re friends, Bob. And who else are you going to have water-cooler moments with?”

  “It’s sad but true. Anyway, word on the grapevine is Dukes and Mahoney are the leads. They went around, spoke to the neighbor who phoned it in. Guy said he went to check on her, said he was worried.”

  “Nice neighbor. It warms my heart to know that Hollywood—at least on, where did you say? Bully Yard?—has a sense of community.”

  “Anyway, guy said the last time he’d seen her was the day we suspect she deceased.”

  “Which day’s that? Gee, there are lots of words on this grapevine of yours.”

  “The last time anyone saw her, apart from this neighbor, was the day before she got this clock delivered.”

  “So you think this delivery guy had something to do with it?”

  “Good one, Cuckoo.”

  “He sounds like a solid lead. Good police work, Bob, especially for a retired guy.”

  “Yeah, he would be, if the neighbor didn’t provide the delivery guy with an alibi.”

  “Weird. How or why’d he do that?”

  “That’s what I’ve been thinking about.” Bob takes another sip of whisky. Then says, “Just level with me, Cuckoo. How the hell did you get some neighbor to say he’d seen her after the clock was delivered?”

  “Let me take a second to get this straight.”

  “You do that, Clive.”

  “This neighbor, did he want some toast?”

  Bob sighs. “Just this one bit of information, Cuckoo. I need to know. He catch you, and you threatened him, or something? Just imply it. I need to know. I’m in no way recording this conversation. I’m in a bar for Chrissake”

  “Why didn’t he just use his grill, if his toaster was on the fritz?”

  “Don’t make me say please.”

  “You could say please, Bob, but it wouldn’t change the fact that I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.”

  “Have it your way, Cuckoo. I might’ve gone easier on you if you had.”

  “That’s nice of you, Bob. So this delivery guy, they going to try to find him?”

  “Nah, Dukes and Mahoney are taking the case in a different direction. But I’m not dumb enough to think some neighbor just coincidentally mentions he saw you, the delivery guy, before he saw her alive and well last. It’s details like that that will trip you up, one day, Cuckoo.”

  “How can it trip me up?”

  “I’m not finished yet. This missing person, the interesting one, guess who it is.”

  I pause. “Can I have a clue?”

  “You don’t need a clue.”

  “Why’s that? Because… Got it! This person also wanted toast.”

  Bob sighs. “The big-shot movie producer. He’s the one that went missing.”

  “So you figure there’s some connection between the death of this lady and the disappearance of her nephew? Sounds like you might be clutching at straws, Bob.”


  “On the same day, dummy. The same day.”

  “Still, the link’s tenuous at best.”

  “It’s solid.”

  “You know what I think, Bob?”

  “What?”

  “It sure sounds like this movie producer is your main suspect.”

  “Would be, if I didn’t know you did it.”

  “Bob, I’m hurt.”

  “Here’s my theory, Nuttree. You were hired to take out Margaret Hammer, and while you were in there, cleaning up after the hit, someone came knocking on the door. You peeked through the peephole, saw that someone had come to visit Margaret. Her nephew. He knew she was in. Maybe he’d spoken to her that day, or arranged to come by earlier in the week. Or whatever. But no one answered when he knocked, and the door was locked, so he went to the neighbor, the one he knows. Asked about Margaret. Had he seen her that morning. Maybe he had. Doesn’t matter. They went back to her apartment together, with the key the neighbor was holding on to, and they went inside. You shoot Peter Hammer. But you don’t shoot the neighbor. Maybe you couldn’t shoot him, or maybe the delivery guy needed an alibi.

  “The only thing I can’t work out is why you needed the alibi. Or why you couldn’t shoot him. Or why he’d agree to give you it.”

  “There’s a hole in that theory. A gaping one, Bob.”

  “Okay, smart guy. What is it?”

  “If Margaret Hammer’s dead, who’s making the toast for the toast party?”

  Bob breathes heavily into the phone, then says, “I’ll get you someday, Cuckoo. And then we’ll see how funny you are.”

  “Okay, Bob. I’ve got to go.”

  “Speak to you soon. I’ll let you know how it went after I’ve spoken to this neighbor myself, this Jake Hancock.”

  “I look forward to it.”

  “Yeah, I bet you do.”

  Bob hangs up.

  Poor Bob. There is a gaping hole in his theory, toast-based flippancy aside, if I shot Peter Hammer there, then how did I get his body out of the apartment building, along a heavily-populated street, and into my delivery truck without anyone seeing me?

  Bob’s probably aware of that, and didn’t want to mention it because, well, pride. Or maybe after getting shitfaced every day since he retired, Bob’s slipping a little.