Dead On My Feet - A Thriller (Phineas Troutt Mysteries Book 1)

by J. A. Konrath

  “Good thing one of us had restraint.” I raised a partial eyebrow. “Are you really a republican?”

  “I vote the candidate, not the ticket. I’m guessing your civic awareness doesn’t extend to the polls.”

  It was a diss. But my opinion of elections was simple. “Any person who wants to be in charge of others is an asshole. Politicians are supposed to be public servants, not kings or dictators.”

  “The problem is that the people best suited to be in office never run for office. Like most politicians, LaBeck is a sociopathic grandiose narcissist. He craves power. He thinks he’s irresistible. And he wants to be governor.”

  “How did you figure that out?”

  “Wasn’t it obvious to you? The way he spoke. The way he sat.”

  I rolled my eyes. “The way he sat?”

  Jack grinned. “Okay, I’m full of shit. Eva, his secretary, was doodling Governor Dennis LaBeck on her notepad. I just steered him into admitting it.”

  “How did I miss the doodling?”

  “You were staring at her boobs.”

  “She had boobs? I hadn’t noticed.”

  “What color were her eyes?”

  “Uh… hazel… ish?”

  “Hair?”

  “She had hair?”

  “You wouldn’t make a very good cop.”

  You don’t make a very good anything, Earl said.

  I rubbed my temples. My pharmaceuticals were in my car, and I needed pills like Pinocchio needed nasal spray.

  “Think the secretary’s sleeping with him?” I asked.

  “Of course.”

  “He’s married.”

  Jack gave me mock shock. “Wait… married men don’t ever sleep around? I take back every negative thing I’ve said about your gender.”

  “Do you have any aspirin?”

  “I’m out.”

  I tried to focus. “How do you know they’re intimate?”

  “When Eva brought us into his office, she and the mayor didn’t make eye-contact.”

  “Shouldn’t it be the opposite? If they’re banging, they’d stare at each other.”

  “Not if it’s a secret. She lowered her head when she introduced us. He averted his gaze. The clincher was when I shook his hand. He smelled like her perfume.”

  I was feeling really out of it. “I didn’t even notice she was wearing perfume.”

  “You were too busy being mesmerized by her tits.” Jack picked up her pace. “So we know this scumball is ambitious, and he’s working with the mob, and he wants Dr. Kapoor out of town. What’s the connection?”

  I didn’t have a single idea. I began to wobble a little, and Jack caught my elbow.

  “You okay?”

  I took a few deep breaths. Cancer, pain, drugs, withdrawal, exhaustion; one of them was catching up with me.

  “Fine,” I said.

  “You sure?”

  “I’m good.”

  You’re not good. You’re dead on your feet.

  That Earl. Quite the punster.

  We walked out of the Village Hall, into the parking lot, and Jack said, “Oh, hell.”

  Her Nova was tipped on its side, balancing on the driver-side door.

  She put her hands on her hips. “That musclehead son of a bitch.”

  “You sure you didn’t park it like that?”

  If she found me amusing, she didn’t show it. “What do we do? Call a tow truck?”

  “We can probably push it over, back onto all four wheels.”

  “Won’t that wreck it?”

  “How can I put this delicately, Jack?” I searched for gentle words, and went with, “Your car is a piece of shit.”

  Her jaw jutted out. “It’s a classic.”

  I walked over and ran my finger along the undercarriage, turning the digit dark orange. “There’s more rust than metal here.”

  “That can be brushed off.”

  “If you brush it all off, there won’t be any car left.”

  “Just get on the other side and help me push.”

  We had to rock it back and forth a bit, but we managed to tip the classic piece of shit back onto its tires.

  Jack frowned. “My door is all scratched up and dented.”

  “It’s barely noticeable,” I lied.

  “Did you hear something break off the car?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  She got on all fours and reached around underneath it, coming back with some rusty metal car part, about a foot long.

  “What’s this thing?”

  “I’m not sure. Too rusty to tell.”

  “Is it important, you think?”

  I frowned. “Probably wasn’t there for decoration.”

  “Son of a bitch.”

  We stared at the part. After a bit, I said, “Are you really conservative?”

  “No. Were you looking at her boobs?”

  “I am a helpless victim of my Y chromosome.”

  “Men are pigs.”

  “Pretty much.”

  We did more staring at her Nova.

  “You going to call your insurance company?” I asked.

  “Five hundred dollar deductible. I think that exceeds the value of the car.”

  “Maybe it’s time to get something new. I’ve heard good things about SUVs.”

  “SUVs are for moms in the suburbs.”

  “There are sporty models. I think they’re called crossovers.”

  “Can you ever see yourself driving a fucking crossover?”

  “No,” I admitted.

  “Me, neither. Screw it. Get in.”

  I got in. So did she, tossing the unknown part into the back seat.

  The Nova started up right away. Maybe there was something to be said about vintage American engineering.

  It died halfway back to Pasha’s.

  After Jack’s classic car was towed to the nearest mechanic, she was in a mean mood and not up for conversation. My headache blossoming into a four alarm fire, we met Pasha and Harry at the clinic.

  Pasha played the role of sympathetic female friend.

  “That’s so awful! How long have you owned that car?”

  And Harry played the role of Harry. “She owned it when she was a kid, back during the Civil War.”

  Jack did a slow burn. “I swear, McGlade, I will take out my .38 and shoot you.”

  “You have a .38?” Pasha asked.

  They showed each other their guns, and that led to Pasha suggesting they go to a shooting range in nearby Elgin. Jack brightened at the idea, and agreed.

  “Want to come, Phin?” Pasha asked me.

  “Yes I do,” Harry said.

  “Harry and I are going to check a lead out,” I told the ladies. “You guys go have fun.”

  After Pasha locked up the clinic, McGlade gave me the stink eye. “What the hell, Phin? Women are so much fun to shoot with. They jiggle.”

  “Believe it or not, women don’t enjoy being objectified.”

  “Why not? I love being objectified. Go on, smack my ass and call me baby.”

  I did not smack his ass and call him baby.

  As we walked, McGlade asked, “So where are we going?”

  “An adult video store and a strip club.”

  “Women don’t like to be objectified, huh?”

  “It’s for the job, McGlade. We need to ask some questions.”

  “I hear you. This is work, not objectification. But first, we need to stop at an ATM that spits out singles.”

  I offered to drive, wanting to get my hands on more pills, but McGlade insisted on taking his car, probably because he knew I wanted to get my hands on more pills.

  During the ride, I asked him to get in touch with his friend at the DMV to get addresses for LaBeck and Mulrooni. Just in case. He did, and repeated them out loud. I wrote them down on a fast food napkin.

  Our first stop was the video shop that was going out of business. Upon entering, I realized it wasn’t just a place to rent porno movies, but a
full-fledged adult novelty store. One that proudly proclaimed all items were fifty percent off.

  “It’s like Disneyland for perverts,” Harry said, eyes wide.

  “Don’t make this more awkward than it is.”

  “Don’t worry, Phin. This is a safe zone. You won’t be arrested for your public erection.”

  We strolled the center aisle, Harry leading the way. The interior was brightly lit and surprisingly clean, smelling faintly of lemon disinfectant. Muzak of the Lawrence Welk-type was piped through ceiling speakers, probably to help dull the sound of heavy breathing.

  We passed an entire wall of dildos and vibrators, the biggest a meter long and wide as my bicep. It took twelve batteries, not included.

  Harry whistled, reading the names on the packages. “Look at all those sex toys. King Dong. The Cervixinator. Giganticock. The Rear Piercer. Vibratasuarus. Satan’s Jackhammer. Sir Boinks-A-Lot. Hey! I’ve never seen one of these! The Pork Fork.”

  He picked up a marital aid with three realistic penis heads on it.

  McGlade frowned. “I’m not an expert in anatomy, but I don’t think this has any practical applications.”

  “You don’t find it odd that a store catering exclusively to guys who can’t get dates has a huge selection of devices used to please women?”

  “Wake up and smell 2007, Phin. I’ll bet big money that self-assured women come in here all the time, purchasing dildos by the armful. Hey there! Fellow smut aficionado!” McGlade called to a guy sheepishly eyeing some leather paddles. “How often do ladies come in here?”

  “Never seen one,” he replied.

  “So who buys all the dildos?”

  “Optimistic husbands. And gay men.”

  “Bet’s off,” Harry told me.

  Next to the fake phalluses were an assortment of mechanical devices used to get men off. Vacuum pumps, vibrating latex sleeves, sucking machines, inflatable sex dolls. Harry picked up one of the sex dolls, which was deflated and folded up in a box.

  “Everyone stand back,” he said. “Give the lady some air.”

  “You’ve been waiting your whole life to use that joke, haven’t you?”

  “Yes. I could have also said she’ll be my New Year’s Eve date. Because I’m going to the Pump Room.”

  “Any more?”

  “I’m out.”

  Next aisle, butt plugs.

  For the uninitiated, a butt plug was exactly that; a rubber pacifier shaped like a small football, meant to be inserted into the rectum of a person who enjoyed that sort of thing. The largest model was the size of a table lamp.

  “What giant asshole would use that?” Harry asked.

  Insert drum rimshot here.

  I rubbed my temples. “I think I need to gag you.”

  “Gags are on the back wall.”

  As I pondered what kind of person would buy a butt plug, we walked past other adult items, such as flavored body oils and lubricants and fur handcuffs and dog collars and riding crops and a wide variety of questionable birth control devices. I picked up a three pack of name brand condoms—couldn’t hurt to have some handy. When I turned around to look for Harry, he had predictably vanished.

  I looked down a few aisles and finally found him at the counter, buying a butt plug.

  “It’s a gift,” he told me.

  I approached the cashier. He was fat, with a Lincoln beard, and tattoos on his arms depicting skeletons eating people.

  “Are you the manager?” I asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Mr. Mulrooni wants to know when you’ll be out of here.”

  Unlike Eva, the mayor’s secretary, this guy showed immediate recognition.

  “You guys said I had until the end of next week. I just need a few more days to get rid of inventory.”

  My clever Sherlock Holmes trick had worked. McGlade picked up on it without missing a beat. “What if Mr. Mulrooni were to make you an offer on everything, right now?”

  “Everything?”

  “How much are we talking?”

  He scratched his weird beard. “Everything? Jeez, there’s the DVDs, all the magazines, the toys—you want the batteries too?”

  “What do you think the word everything means, pal?”

  “I dunno… I guess… thirty grand?”

  Harry shook his head. “Twenty-five grand. Cash.”

  The manager nodded, so fast the cannibal skeletons on his arms did a jiggle dance. “Yeah. Yeah, that would be fine. Internet is killing my business anyway.” He gave me a solemn look. “I’m going to open me one of those one hour photo booths. That technology’ll be around for a while.”

  “Smart.” McGlade tapped his temple. “And if that doesn’t work, become a travel agent. There’s a profession that will never go away.”

  “So,” I said, “on top of what we’re paying you to close up, how much have you made off my generous employer?”

  “Twenty-five, plus the fifty for the store, is seventy-five.”

  “You’re welcome,” McGlade told him. “My guys will be by later tonight with a truck. Start packing.”

  I pocketed the condoms, and we left.

  “So now we know how much Mulrooni paid to get him out of town,” I said, climbing into the car. “Nice work, McGlade.”

  “Nice work? This is the deal of a freaking lifetime!”

  “You didn’t really buy the entire inventory,” I said as we got into the car. “Did you?”

  “Hell yeah I bought it.”

  “Opening up your own adult bookstore?”

  “Hell no. This is for my personal collection.”

  “I’d ask you if you’re serious, but I know the answer.”

  “Hell yeah I’m serious. And you owe me six bucks for those rubbers you took.”

  McGlade used his cell phone to arrange for some paid acquaintances of his to show up with the cash and a moving truck.

  “Put it in my storage locker, next to the duck,” he told them.

  Whatever that meant.

  When he got off the phone, mine rang. I didn’t recognize the number, and picked up.

  “I miss you, Bill. I want to see you.”

  Yet another girl for Bill, the owner of the cell. Losing it must have put a serious crimp in his love life.

  “This isn’t Bill’s number.”

  “Where’s Bill?”

  “I don’t know where Bill is.”

  “Does Bill know you have his phone?”

  I hung up.

  “Stolen cell phone?” McGlade asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Kind of a scummy thing to do.”

  “Says the guy who just bought a porn shop. Via extortion.”

  “I’m not an extortionist. I took advantage of an unfortunate situation to realize one of my lifelong dreams.”

  “Owning a collection of butt plugs.”

  He shrugged. “Some folks are into baseball cards. I like my prostate prodded.”

  I spent about a minute trying to figure out how to turn off the ringer on the stolen phone, then gave up.

  “Do you know where Bathing Beauties is?” I asked.

  “Who are you talking to? I know every gentlemen’s club in the Midwest.”

  “Does Flutesburg have more than one strip joint?”

  “No. And technically, they’re erotic dancers, not strippers. Illinois has a stupid law where you can’t serve liquor if the models are nude. So they’re forced to wear bathing suits or underwear.”

  That explained what Kahdem meant at LaBeck’s office; the city couldn’t restrict his liquor license, because his dancers weren’t topless. That comment, combined with Jack driving past Bathing Beauties and the video store, were the reasons Harry and I were on the road. There was a connection. We just needed to figure out what it was.

  The Bathing Beauties parking lot was wide and about half full on this Saturday afternoon, the long, rectangular building, paneled with white aluminum siding, devoid of any windows or side entrances.

  I
wanted to seek out Mr. Kahdem right away, but Harry suggested we scope the place first, see if we could notice anything unusual.

  Couldn’t hurt.

  We parked, paid a ten dollar cover, walked through a glass door painted black, and were immediately assaulted by 90s dance music played slightly below the pain threshold. My annoyance might have been the musical selection more than the volume. I lived through the 90s. I wasn’t nostalgic for them.

  Harry took a deep breath, and smiled big. “Can you smell that? It’s my favorite smell in the world. Single moms and silicone.”

  “Try not to get us kicked out before we get answers.”

  “No promises. I’m hitting the ATM.”

  Smaller than it looked from the outside, the place was pretty well lit, and set up like a circus in the round. In the center was a stage, about four feet off the floor, twenty meters long by two meters wide. It had two metal poles sticking up to the ceiling on either end, and one in the middle. The three dancers—all wearing barely-there bathing suits and heels so high they could cause nosebleeds—were taking advantage of these poles, swinging, strutting, and spinning around. One was hanging upside down by her hands with her legs spread open, an act that prompted lackluster applause from several of the patrons sitting around the stage in ringside seats. A short guy stood up and put a dollar bill in the garter on her outstretched thigh.

  There was a smaller stage, near the back, presently unoccupied. To our right, a long bar. Various waitresses, in fishnets and tuxedo tops, were weaving through the tables with drink trays.

  I found a table for two near the bar, sticky from the previous occupants. A server came over, wiped the surface, and set down a square napkin. I ordered a tequila martini, and asked if Mr. Kahdem was around. She said she’d check.

  Harry sat next to me. He was making a face.

  “Fifteen dollar cash station fee,” he said. “Lousy bankers, taking money straight from the mouths of exotic dancers. That’s what’s wrong with this world, Phin. Our priorities are all screwed up. Why should some guy sitting on his ass make more money than someone shaking their ass?”

  Two working ladies came over, introducing themselves with names as fake as their boobs. One sat on Harry’s lap, and he was visibly pleased with the attention. The other put her hand on my shoulder, smiling at me. She was young, attractive, but I was feeling like ten day old dog shit, and my sexual desire was being overridden by my desire for drugs. Any kind of drugs.