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

by J. A. Konrath

  McGlade’s companion led him off by the hand. “Private dance,” he told me. “See you in a few.”

  “Want to dance?” the other one asked me. “Twenty per song.”

  I was familiar with the service. She would take me to a back room and grind on me while a bouncer sat a few feet away, making sure I didn’t get grabby.

  “Do you like your job?” I asked. Maybe that was curt, but I wanted to know.

  “It’s okay. You like yours?”

  “Not really. I don’t think I’m good at it.”

  “What do you do?” she asked.

  “I solve people’s problems.”

  She winked. “So do I. Want to dance?”

  “Maybe later. But I do have a question.” I handed her a twenty. Rather than take it, she placed her spike heeled boot on my chair and used a finger to stretch open her leg garter. I slipped the bill against her thigh.

  “Thanks, honey.” She gave me a quick, soft kiss on my ear.

  “Is Mr. Kahdem around?” I asked.

  “I’ll check.”

  She wiggled away. My waitress came back and set down my drink. It was pink.

  “Thanks. And Mr. Kahdem?”

  “I passed along your message. Five dollars for the drink.”

  I gave her twenty, waved off change. Then I raised my glass. The bartender had used sweet vermouth rather than dry, making a tequila Manhattan as opposed to a tequila martini.

  I took a sip.

  Terrible.

  Maybe you should drink Manhattans from now on.

  I curled my upper lip and poured the booze down my throat. In lieu of drugs, I’d have to use liquor to dull the pain and make Earl shut up.

  The song ended, and the DJ announced, “Let’s hear it for Sherri, Devone, and Roxy,” drawing a smattering of claps from the crowd as the girls stepped off the stage, a bouncer standing next to the stairs and holding their hands as they came down. Safety first.

  “Is there an Andrew in the audience?” the DJ boomed. A man with a seat by the stage stood up, the guys at his table cheered and applauded.

  “Come on up, Andrew!”

  Two Bathing Beauties escorted him up on stage and sat him in a chair.

  “Poor Andrew’s getting married next week,” the DJ mocked, causing the crowd to moan their disapproval. “But Cherry and Sheila are going to try to make him change his mind!”

  More cheering. Cherry and Sheila took off Andrew’s shirt, and the bouncer stood behind his chair, holding the bachelor’s arms behind him. Another terrible 90s dance song came on, and Cherry and Sheila rubbed and bumped their firm, nubile bodies against Andrew, at one point each of them straddling one of his legs and wiggling their butts in his face.

  Andrew whooped and grinned, loving every minute of it. When the song was over, Cherry and Sheila were given permanent markers, and they wrote sexual innuendos and cute double entendres on his bare chest. When the frivolity ended, Andrew was gifted his shirt back and each girl gave him a peck on the cheek.

  I was searching for my waitress to get another awful drink, when I noticed a man approach. Kahdem, the guy from the mayor’s office. He wore jeans that were tucked into his boots, a silk shirt that had too many buttons open, and enough gold chains to make a rap star jealous. A bouncer trailed behind him a few steps, flexing and trying to look mean.

  “Can I help you?” Kahdem asked.

  “Have you taken Mulrooni’s offer?”

  Kahdem’s dark eyes narrowed. “The answer is still no. Tell your boss—”

  “He’s not my boss.”

  “Who are you?”

  I chose my words carefully. “I’m an interested third party.”

  “Interested in what way?”

  “You’re not the only place in town that Mulrooni and LaBeck are trying to push out.”

  He didn’t flinch or seem confused when I mentioned LaBeck. So far, so good.

  “How much did they offer you?” I continued.

  “Fifty thousand.” He snorted. “I can make that in a weekend. But that bastard mayor is trying to revoke my liquor license. His crooked cops hassle me, my patrons. I’m just trying to earn an honest buck.”

  “Pimping ain’t easy,” I said.

  Kahdem took noticeable offense, puffing out his chest. “I’m not a lousy pimp. These ladies earn over two hundred an hour. Cash. They like working here. Ask them.”

  “If it’s so much fun, why aren’t you on stage?”

  “Because I’m too busy keeping the place running.”

  “Sounds hard.”

  “Hard? It’s the American dream. For me.” He jerked a thumb at his bodyguard. “For Parviz. For everyone here. You want to feel sorry for someone? Go find a nurse on a twenty hour shift.”

  Supposedly, you form opinions of people within a few seconds of meeting them. And your first impression, more often than not, is correct.

  It could have been the tequila hitting me on an empty stomach, but I liked Kahdem.

  “Maybe I can help you,” I said.

  “Like you helped the guy who messed up your face and hands? I don’t need hired muscle. I have that.” He snapped his fingers and the bouncer came up to the table. “Parviz, how much can you bench?”

  “Five-twenty.”

  “Impressive,” I said. “How much does he have to press for you to keep you liquor license?”

  Kahdem folded his arms. “That is but one of my current problems.”

  “What’s it worth to you to make it all go away?”

  “All of it?”

  “LaBeck. Mulrooni. All of it.” I picked a number he already mentioned as tiny. “Is it worth a weekend of profits?”

  He seemed to consider it, then asked, “Are you wearing a wire?”

  “If I were wearing a wire,” I said, raising my voice, “all it would pick up is C+C Music Factory.”

  Kahdem rubbed his chin, then nodded. “It would be worth that to me. How would you be able to accomplish this task?”

  “Better you don’t know.”

  More thinking. Then, “You want money up front?”

  “Money when it’s over. Do we have a deal?”

  Kahdem held out his hand. We shook. He gripped me hard and stared at me equally hard. “What is your name, my friend?”

  “Troutt. Phineas Troutt.”

  “I pray for an angel, Phineas Troutt, and God sends me you.” He narrowed his eyes. “Don’t make me lose my faith in God.”

  “I’ll drop by when it’s done.”

  Kahdem released my hand, nodded at me, and walked off with his bodyguard. My waitress came back, and I ordered another drink.

  “Mr. Kahdem says it’s on the house.”

  “Then I’ll take two.”

  I handed her another twenty bucks for her trouble.

  “Harry’s getting married next week!” bellowed the DJ. “What do you guys think about that?”

  The crowd booed. I looked on stage and saw McGlade sitting in the chair with his shirt off, four Bathing Beauties standing around him.

  “But Bambi, Lexxi, Wilona, and Stevie are going to try and talk him out of it!”

  A burst of cheers and the music began. Harry’s eyes were the size of dinner plates as the girls bumped him with their shapely butts and boobs. My drinks came. I killed them both, wondering how I was going to earn my fifty grand from Kahdem, and what the connection was between abortion clinics and adult entertainment.

  Maybe it was time to have another talk with Mayor LaBeck. One without any police officers present.

  I approached the stage, and yelled to Harry, “We’re going!”

  “I’m staying!” he said between bouncing boobs. “Maybe forever! Meet you back at Pasha’s!”

  As I was leaving, I had one of the bouncers call me a cab. When it arrived, we headed to Chinatown.

  Before I saw LaBeck, I needed to pick up a few things.

  Halfway to Chicago, the drinks hit me hard enough to make Earl slur. One more would knock him out, but the
re weren’t many places to buy tequila on the expressway.

  My taxi driver was Latino, short and dark with the thickest mustache I’d ever seen. His dashboard served as a Catholic altar, various figurines and symbols glued there, and a large crucifix hanging from the rearview mirror sporting a highly detailed Jesus, his mouth screaming in silent agony.

  I hadn’t grown up with any sort of religious affiliation, and found it odd that people could believe in an all loving, all powerful creator who would allow horrible things to happen to little children.

  Like the things that had happened to me.

  I was just buzzed enough to ask my driver that very question.

  He shrugged. “It’s God. You don’t have to understand it. You just gotta accept it.”

  “Do you pray?”

  “Si. Yes.”

  “What do you pray for? A thicker mustache?”

  “Do you like my mustache?”

  “It’s intimidating.”

  “When I was a boy, my father had a glorious mustache. I prayed and prayed for one like his.”

  I’d thought I was being sarcastic, but this dude actually prayed for a mustache. And judging by how mighty that stache was, there might have been something to prayer after all.

  “You got friends, homes?”

  The question caught me off guard. “No,” I said. “Why?”

  “We’ve had a black Buick Park Avenue following us since we left the club.”

  I almost swung my head around to look, but a clearer head prevailed. Don’t let them know you see them.

  “You sure they just aren’t headed downtown like us?”

  “I thought that. But when I change lanes, they change lanes. When I slow down, they slow down.”

  “Two gringos?”

  “Si.”

  “Does one have a broken arm? A cast?”

  “Si. Yes.”

  Shit. Cast and Crutches. And, once again, my gun was in my car. I reached for my boot heel for my Seecamp, remembered that I wasn’t wearing boots and I lost the Seecamp, and figured I deserved to get killed for being this damn stupid.

  “Want me to call the cops?” my driver asked.

  I demurred, and then racked my brain to try and remember the last four digits of the number for the Michigan Motel. Four two eight five? Four five eight two? Eight two four five?

  You can call 411 for information, dumb ass.

  Right. I called 411, had them connect me to the number for a small fee (thank you, Bill!), and Kenny Jen Bang Ko picked up on the fifth ring.

  “It’s Phin,” I said. “Listen carefully.”

  I explained what I wanted him to do. Maybe it was the language gap, or maybe I was drunk, or maybe he was just lacking the mental capacity, but Kenny had some problems with my instructions.

  “You have a cast?” he asked, again.

  “No. But tell them I have a cast.”

  “I thought you drive a Bronco.”

  “I drive a Bronco. Tell them I drive a dark Buick Park Avenue, and I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  “Let me write this down.”

  I repeated it for him, for the third or fourth time.

  “No problem,” Kenny said.

  I remained unconvinced.

  Twenty minutes later, we drove into the Michigan Motel parking lot. As we pulled up, I noticed the Lincoln Continental, idling in the handicapped spot, four black guys sitting inside. One of them had bandages over his eyes.

  I paid my driver, tipped him fifty bucks, and asked him to wait around the corner at the bakery for ten minutes. Then I headed straight for my room, beelined for the secret stash under the floorboards, and armed myself with a .357 Taurus Model 605. I peeked out the window in time to see Cast and Crutches park and head for my door.

  The four guys in the Lincoln got out and intercepted them. My memory isn’t the best, but I recognized the guy with the eye bandages as Big Dude, who’d been assaulting the wino. The fact that he had a cast on his leg, from when I broke his knee the other day, cinched it.

  The drama quickly unfolded.

  Big Dude’s Buddy: Hold up, motherfuckers.

  Crutches: What the fuck you coons want?

  Big Dude: Is that him? Bald cracker asshole?

  Big Dude’s Buddy: This guy is certainly a bald cracker asshole. Got a cast on his arm like the chink said.

  Cast: You guys better back the fuck off.

  Big Dude: You got this coming, peckerwood.

  Crutches and Cast drew guns.

  Big Dude and his three friends drew guns, which was highly irresponsible on Big Dude’s part because he couldn’t see anything with bandages covering his eyes.

  Then, in a grand, karmic, fully anticipated lack of restraint, more than thirty shots were fired in under six seconds.

  Crutches and Cast went down. Big Dude and two of his buddies went down. The only guy still standing limped back to the Lincoln and squealed tires out of there.

  Thanks, Kenny.

  I went back to my hidey-hole, and grabbed the other things I needed; my bump key set, spare ammo for my Hardballer and Colt, a Bradley balisong knife with a spear point, binoculars, a roll of paracord, a fake ID. I put everything in a canvas bag, along with the morphine IV and the Hydro, since McGlade had taken my coke. And, what the hell, I also grabbed a grenade.

  I was drunk, judgment was faulty, blame it on the tequila.

  Then I exited the back way as the sirens screamed closer, double-timed it around the corner, and found my cabbie.

  “Flutesburg,” I said.

  If he had any questions about what the shooting was about, he didn’t ask.

  “Wait! Pull over here.”

  He stopped in front of a liquor store. I flirted with buying a two hundred dollar bottle of Patron Platinum, decided I didn’t deserve to enjoy something that nice, and instead spent six bucks on a pint of Charco tequila. I took a sip in the store, and it was so bad I didn’t even need to add vermouth.

  By the time I got to Pasha’s parking lot, it was nighttime and I was feeling sick as hell. Somehow, the bottle was empty. I probably spilled it. I gave the cabbie a handful of bills, gave his mustache a rub goodbye—which he didn’t seem to appreciate—and then sat on the curb and waited for the world to stop wobbling.

  When it didn’t, I threw up.

  Feeling like shit, I fished out the IV bag and tried to stick the needle into a vein in my arm.

  Poke.

  Miss.

  Poke.

  Miss.

  Poke.

  Too far. Went through the vein.

  By now things were getting pretty bloody, the bandages on my hands soaked. I wondered if drinking the morphine would have the same effect as intravenous, then threw up again at the thought of drinking anything.

  I needed some nausea meds.

  Wait… I had nausea meds. In the Bronco.

  I managed to stand up, and I staggered around the parking lot, looking for my truck, unable to remember where I parked it.

  Oh yeah. Left it at the clinic. This was Pasha’s apartment complex.

  So where was my little goose sidekick?

  I thought about honking for him, realized how stupid that was, then spent the next ten minutes looking for my canvas bag. Probably not a good idea to leave a loaded revolver, drugs, and a grenade lying around where kids could find it.

  I discovered the bag on a curb, pawed through its contents to make sure nothing was missing, and found the baggie of Hydro.

  Yes, the stuff was supposed to kill you. But I was dying anyway.

  I wiped the blood off my finger, got a tiny bump out of the bag, and did a test snort.

  For the first three seconds, nothing happened.

  Then it felt like a hit of coke, but sharper and harder.

  Then things got ugly.

  Pain and nausea didn’t go away, but I disassociated from them. I could still feel, but it didn’t seem like the sensations were mine. It was like my body belonged to someone else, and my
sense of self had vanished.

  That, plus rage. Rage and hate and anger so strong that I had an overwhelming urge to bang my head into the pavement until I’d obliterated my skull and mashed my brains out.

  I had no idea how long the effects lasted. Shouldn’t have been more than a few seconds, from the tiny amount I’d sniffed, but when I felt myself becoming myself again I was sprinting down the street at full speed, so fast that the tears in my eyes were blowing back, and I was sure I’d forgotten how to breathe even though I heard breathing and it had to be mine.

  I managed to slow down to a jog, and eventually came to a stop. Once again I’d lost the duffle bag. And I had no idea where the hell I was. I turned around, walking in the opposite direction.

  Ahead, in the distance, was the Peach Grove Apartment Complex. With zero memory of it, I’d sprinted half a kilometer from Pasha’s parking lot.

  It took a few minutes to walk back, stopping twice to vomit. I found my bag on the curb. The baggie of Hydro was still open.

  Don’t do that again, Earl said.

  Good advice. I sealed the bag, looked around for a good way to dispose of it, saw some Dumpsters nearby. I opened the lid of the nearest bin, and three-pointed the baggie into an empty Cap’n Crunch cereal box on the bottom.

  Then I tried to judge my level of sobriety by reciting the alphabet backwards.

  I got to the letter W.

  Tried again, got to V.

  I was still too wasted to see Pasha. But the night was cooling off, and I wasn’t going to sleep outside on the ground.

  That Dumpster doesn’t seem too bad. Plus, it suits you.

  “Shut up, Earl.”

  A car pulled into the lot, and I dug my hand into the canvas bag, seeking the revolver. The Taurus had a two inch barrel, five shots in the cylinder. Jack could shoot the stem off an apple from ten meters away with my gun. In my condition, with my firearm experience, I’d be damn lucky to hit a ten foot high ceiling standing directly under it.

  Turns out I didn’t need to shoot anything. The car drove past.

  I released the gun, patted my pockets, found the cell. I forgot Harry’s number, but I managed to figure out how to redial previous calls.

  “McGlade. Talk, it’s your dime.”

  “Where are you? It’s Phin.”

  “I went home. Jack is staying over at Pasha’s. They’re still working on her shitty car. Where are you?”