Chaser

by J. A. Konrath

  “You mean your four sentences of chicken scratches?”

  “Remind me again, which one of us is the big shot PI that makes fat cash, and which one of us doesn’t have a job and is sitting next to me?”

  I didn’t answer, instead scanning Harry’s so-called file.

  The victim, Joline Parsimmons, was the one with the uniboob. Plastic had removed her breasts and given her a huge one in the middle, sewing one nipple back on in the center, like a bullseye.

  I read something Harry had scribbled down, and tried to wrap my head around it.

  “Does this say she’s still a model?”

  “A cam model. You know those live porn websites?”

  “She’s still doing that, after being disfigured?”

  “You can give up, or keep fighting. She’s a fighter.”

  Interesting. Despite myself, I looked at my own chest, trying to imagine one breast in the middle. Like most women over fifty, I got annual mammograms, which was my yearly reminder to not take my boobs for granted. I had nothing but admiration for those who soldiered on after a mastectomy, and sometimes thought of how I’d deal with that.

  It would be brutal.

  But a uniboob? I couldn’t imagine it.

  And I didn’t have to imagine it. After we parked in the driveway of Abigail Curtsdan’s bungalow, she greeted us at the door wearing pink underwear and a see-through robe, her push-up bra a single cup and doing what it advertised; pushing up her enormous center breast.

  Straight up bizarre.

  Especially since it didn’t look bad.

  Her single breast was bigger than my combined C cups, and it looked like any other large silicone implant, except for its solo status.

  “Hey, Abby. This is my associate, Ms. Poopersnatch.”

  “Ms. Snooperpants. Nice to meet you.”

  “I’m Abby.”

  She stuck out a hand with long, fake nails, and I shook. The rest of Abigail was standard beach bunny; bleached blonde hair, full body tan, long legs, flat belly, a symmetrical face with high cheekbones and pouty lips.

  But that uniboob…

  I couldn’t stop staring at it.

  “Come on in. I’m doing a show in five minutes, still getting ready.”

  She led us into a tidy house, and we followed the clickity clack of her pink, fluffy marabou mules (those are still a thing?).

  “A show?” I asked.

  “I’ve become a webcam model. You know? Guys pay to watch me live.”

  Abby navigated a tile hallway and into a bedroom lit with movie lights, a camera set up on a tripod.

  Everything was aimed at a bed, which contained a handful of pillows and—

  Oh, my.

  “That’s quite the dildo collection you have,” Harry said. “I think you have more than I do.”

  “That’s not even half of them. I took those out for my show today.” She leaned over and reached into a bedside drawer, taking out a quart-sized bottle of lube.

  “I see you have Count Fistula,” Harry said.

  I assumed that was the latex fist.

  “Just got it. You have one?” Abby asked.

  Harry nodded. “I got the one with the darker skin tone.”

  “My store ran out of those. The black one has a different name.”

  “It’s called Give Them The Shaft.”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Do you have the Devastator Vibrating Anaconda?”

  I assumed that was just a catchy name. But Abby stuck her hand under a pillow and pulled out a giant, full-size, rubber anaconda.

  “What do you do with that?” I asked, bewildered.

  “Head goes in slot one, tail in slot two,” Abby explained.

  “That head is the size of a football.”

  She sized me up. “It’s not for amateurs. You have to work your way up to it. Want me to show you some stretching exercises?”

  “Yes,” Harry said.

  I demurred. “We’re here to talk about Plastic.”

  “That guy. He’s responsible for my super booby. Want to see it?”

  “Yes,” Harry said.

  Before I could answer, Abby popped her top off.

  Her uniboob looked even weirder bare.

  But, strangely, it wasn’t repulsive. Two faint scars from where her breasts used to be, and another under the crease of her 1200cc middle boob.

  She shook her shoulders, and it wiggled like a gelatin dessert at a family picnic.

  I could see why people would pay to see her show. McGlade seemed hypnotized.

  “What do you remember about Plastic?” I asked.

  “Not much. He kept me doped up, and I was only there for a day or two. He was polite. Acted like a real doctor, you know?”

  “Do you remember being abducted?”

  “No. I was with a bunch of friends at MumbleStock.”

  “Traveling outdoor music festival,” Harry explained to me. “Was Lil BDub Xanie there? I did some work for him. He probably doesn’t remember me, because he’s addicted to alprazolam.”

  She pouted. “BDub might have been there. I don’t remember much. We all got wasted, I woke up in the recovery room with this.”

  She wiggled again. Seemed second nature.

  “Do you think someone drugged you?”

  “Probably. I dunno.”

  “Did your friends see who you left with?”

  “No. The police talked to them. We were all pretty crunked.”

  “You don’t remember anyone buying you drinks?”

  She smiled at me. “Men have been buying me drinks since I was fourteen. The last time I bought my own drink was in high school, when I was prom queen and bought shots for everyone.”

  I thought back to the conversation about incels from the other day, and how much easier things were for beautiful people.

  Unless some psychopath was targeting you for your looks.

  “Are you angry this was done to you?”

  “Angry?” He eyebrows furrowed. “I mean, I had to buy a bunch of new outfits, but I’m making more money and who doesn’t like to shop?”

  Rather than come off like an airhead or bimbo, or even conceited, Abby conveyed a happy-go-lucky vibe. I found myself liking her.

  “So why did you hire Harry to find Plastic?”

  “She didn’t hire me, Jack. Abby is one of the few victims who isn’t paying me.”

  Abby nodded. “Maybe sometime when I’m older I’ll go back to two tits. But right now I’m at peace with it. And the money is killer.” She checked her laptop screen next to the bed. “Four hundred eleven people online. I gotta get ready. We can talk after my show if you want to know more, but honestly, there isn’t much to tell because I don’t remember anything. Do you guys wanna stay and watch?”

  “Yes,” Harry said.

  “No thank you, Abby. We appreciate your time.”

  Abby nodded and climbed on the bed, arranging the sex toys around her.

  Harry nudged me. “We should stay.”

  “Why?”

  “To make sure she’s safe.”

  “Safe from what? Internal bleeding?”

  “You’re victim-blaming.”

  I pointed at the rubber fire hydrant. “I’m being serious. That’s bigger than my daughter was when I gave birth.”

  “And now you’re acting jealous.”

  Devastator Vibrating Anaconda began to buzz, and I turned to leave.

  Something was bugging me. Something other than the disfigured woman who accepted her disability and still displayed a healthy level of self-esteem and sexuality.

  I’d have to work on that for myself. But I didn’t think the answer was Count Fistula.

  When we climbed into McGlade’s Vette, my beautiful subconscious figured it out.

  “Did you catch that in there, Harry?”

  “Catch what? You made us leave.”

  “Something she said. A link to the other victim, Donatello.”

  “I must have missed it.
”

  I began pawing through McGlade’s notes, sure I’d seen it mentioned by a third victim as well.

  It was.

  “We need to make some calls,” I said. “But I have a strong hunch how Plastic is choosing his victims.”

  If I was right, maybe we had a way to find him.

  TOM

  I’ve heard the expression ‘you’re in the doghouse’ but I’m literally in the doghouse.

  The doghouse was brand new. Well-constructed. About a meter wide by two meters deep, made of sheet aluminum and some sort of plastic composite. Rolled seams, no sharp edges, sturdy construction.

  Actually pretty nice.

  Not so nice I want to live here for the next few years, but not bad for a dog.

  It had been fastened to the floor with concrete screws that wouldn’t budge. Tom began to search for any sort of tag.

  Cissick bought this. Had it delivered. Maybe locally.

  It could be traceable. If I find something, I can tell the camera. My friends can track the sale from a pet store or hardware store and find me.

  Assuming my friends are watching.

  But after an hour, maybe longer, of going over every square inch, Tom found a brand name, but no bar code or serial number.

  How many places sold dog houses in LA? Assuming we’re still in LA?

  How many sold doghouses online? How could that be tracked?

  Tom’s enthusiasm for the idea soured.

  Okay. New plan.

  Escape.

  Inside, Tom sat on his bare ass and pushed against the back wall with his feet, hoping to bend the metal.

  Maybe I can get a sheet of aluminum loose.

  Use it as a weapon. Or a shield.

  Or pry off a sharp piece, to cut off my leather collar.

  The wall was strong.

  Tom’s will was stronger.

  He palmed the concrete floor for extra traction and began to kick.

  PHIN

  I shivered.

  The cheap motel room was cold and damp and I wore only my underwear, same as Tequila and Herb. Me in boxer-briefs, Tequila in boxers (which had an incongruous Christmas tree pattern), and Herb, disturbingly, in a bright red banana hammock. The kind bodybuilders pose in.

  “My wife likes it,” he explained. “I think it’s silly.”

  And yet, twice in the last half hour, I saw him flex-posing in the dresser mirror.

  Chandler knocked three times fast, two times slow. She assumed whoever broke Hugo out of prison also had the savvy to track my cell phone, meaning they knew where we were.

  “Enter,” I told her.

  If I’d said anything else, Chandler would know we’d been compromised, and she would have entered fast and killed everyone in the room.

  Crazy, living like that. But I guess the level of paranoia was warranted.

  When she entered, she didn’t seem pleased. “I need four more quarters for the dryer.”

  “I gave you my last five bucks.” Herb said to her. “Doesn’t the laundry room have a change machine?”

  “It does. The only cash I have is rolled up in my clothing seams. And the machine doesn’t take hundreds.”

  I hugged my shoulders and gave them a brisk rub. “Isn’t this the third wash?”

  “Wash is done. Fleming’s STF ruined three washers. Now I’m working on breaking a dryer.”

  “Convenient you’re not doing this too,” I said, mostly because I was cold and nervous.

  “I already treated mine. Cash?”

  Tequila said, “I don’t got nothing smaller than a fifty. I don’t like small bills.”

  Good thing your name isn’t Bill, shorty.

  I fished out my wallet, which contained my fake ID and a solitary five-spot. I handed the money to Chandler.

  “Be right back.” She turned and winked at us before she left again. “Looking good, guys.”

  “I feel like a cheap piece of eye candy,” Herb said. He was beaming.

  I walked back to the small desk and stared at the layout Chandler had sketched on the back of a pizza flyer.

  The P represented me. Other letters represented Chandler, Herb, and Tequila, marking where everyone would stand. Arrows for movement.

  We’d thought through several possible scenarios. Hugo would know I’d brought back-up, so he’d want to meet someplace where he controlled the situation as much as possible. There were two viable options for him.

  The first, we could meet him at a location he’d prepared in advance, giving him time to set up any sort of pins, lines-of-sight, crossfires, distractions, etc. He’d had help escaping, so he could have had help planning a trap for me. Might be in the middle of nowhere, like a cornfield, but an open area would give us a chance to snipe him from a distance. Likelier was an abandoned building; a tactic he’d used before.

  Or, he might want to meet in public. With a lot of people around, and security, it would limit our ability to get a lethal advantage. Especially if there were metal detectors, like at a museum or airport or government building. If he went this route, he probably wouldn’t have Pasha with him; she’d be his insurance.

  Either case, Hugo would be wanting to leave with me.

  Chandler had anticipated that possibility.

  “If we can’t neutralize him, you can go with him and we’ll track you,” she told us before she left to starch our laundry.

  “He’ll search me.”

  “He won’t X-ray you.” Chandler handed me a pill. “Swallow this. GPS will give a clear signal until your next bowel movement.”

  “That’s some top level cover shit right there,” Herb said. “Emphasis on shit.”

  I took the pill. Chandler took our clothes.

  Now I was left staring at the back of a pizza ad at some scribbles, feeling increasingly vulnerable, stupid, and unsure of myself. A lethal showdown with my brother, reduced to a few football plays.

  “There’s also my plan,” Tequila reminded me. He was sitting in the desk chair, his bare legs crossed in front of him.

  Tequila’s plan oozed simplicity. As soon as I got close enough to Hugo, I should stab him in the neck with Chandler’s ceramic knife.

  “He’s not easy to get close to.”

  “We can distract him,” Tequila countered.

  “It could risk Pasha’s life.”

  “Pasha’s life is already at risk. It was at risk the moment she met you.”

  I reminded myself that Tequila was there to help me. Fighting with him wouldn’t do any good. Especially since the much older, much shorter man would beat the hell out of me, no contest. I could hold my own in almost any fight. Tequila could hold his own fighting any three people at once.

  Unless one of those people was Hugo. I didn’t see how Hugo could be physically beaten by anyone.

  “He’s got a point, Phin.”

  That surprised me. Not that it wasn’t my plan to end Hugo’s life as soon as I had the chance. But that Herb would be all for it.

  “You’re condoning murder? You used to be a cop.”

  “I will always value law and order and appreciate the sanctity of life. But some people just need killing.”

  “And you’d be okay with that?”

  “In cold blood? Not me. My conscience would eat me alive. One of you guys has to do it. But I can help where needed, and I can stay quiet.”

  “I’ll do it,” Tequila said. “I’ve killed plenty of guys bigger than me.”

  “That’s because everyone is bigger than you,” I reminded him.

  He narrowed his eyes. “You need to cool off before your mouth makes a bet your ass can’t cover.”

  I agreed, forcing myself to sit on the bed. I considered pulling the covers around me, and decided instead to shiver.

  “I’ve worked with Chandler.” Tequila normally didn’t talk this much. “She’s good, but all this spy stuff is convoluted and over-thought. It relies on plans and intel and counter-intel and technology. Too much can go wrong. Easier to just slice his c
arotid.”

  Tequila drew a finger line across the side of his neck.

  “We can’t kill him until Pasha is safe,” I repeated.

  He shrugged.

  I had no idea if he was listening to me or not.

  I had no idea if Herb really did have the balls to back us up if things went bad.

  I had no idea if any of our convoluted plans, or Chandler’s GPS pill, would actually work.

  All I knew is that I was risking it all for a woman who wasn’t my family.

  My family was back in LA. Where I’d left them behind.

  I should have brought Jack along.

  She’d come up with a better plan than we had.

  I knew her. I could count on her.

  These guys…

  A mysterious woman with no real name, background, or allegiance to anyone or anything.

  An aging gymnast whose heyday was the 80s.

  And a conscientious ex-cop who was probably juicing. And tanning. Jesus, when did Herb get so brown?

  Tequila tapped his neck. “Right side, behind the Adam’s apple, that’s the best spot. Go deep. Try to get the jugular, too. Safest bet, don’t stop until you hit bone.”

  I closed my eyes.

  This wasn’t going to end well.

  HARRY

  If you just tuned into Private Dick Live and Streaming in Your Face, we’re devoting this show to one of the amazing pets I used to have. On your screen right now is a picture of Rover, a miniature pony. I got a postcard from Rover’s owner in Chicago just last week. Rover is still kicking it with his horsey bride. He still needs to climb onto a platform to tap that ass, but he’s hung like a horse, so he manages just fine.”

  I missed Rover. I missed all of my weird pets.

  Except Slappy. I didn’t miss Slappy.

  And Homeboy was kind of annoying.

  “Does anyone have any questions about Rover, or the care and feeding of miniature horses in general?”

  —Looking even older than last time, McGlade.

  Dammit. FakeTitties1970 was back.

  —I can see your wrinkles, and I’m watching this on my cell phone.

  I began to say an epic burn, something like, “Oh, yeah?”, but I only got out the first word when another viewer chimed in.

  —I created a screen name just to comment on how bad you look.