Jack Daniels and Associates: Snake Wine (10 page)

"None of this makes sense," Jack said. "If Herb was sick, he would have told me. We have the best health insurance plan money can buy. Why the hell would he use some third-world mumbo jumbo instead?"

"Who knows? Maybe he doesn't trust modern medicine." She raised the slide into the light and said, "Most people import it from India, but this stuff is far too potent. It hasn't been cut with any of the normal preservatives. Whoever made this milked a snake directly."

Jack took a deep breath, trying to slow things down so she could get a better look at them. "This whole thing just gets weirder and weirder. What else can powdered venom do?"

"No one really knows," Armstrong said. "I can tell you this much. It depends on the size of the dose and the size of the person ingesting it. The bigger you are, the less chance you have of it being fatal."

Jack sighed and said, "Well, I don't think that's going to be an issue."

8.

He came to slowly.

His chest bubbled up a deep, rumbling cough from the pit of his enormous belly. The sound of wheezing filled his ears like someone had cupped their hands over them, the same way children do when they want to hear the ocean.

Herb Benedict's head dropped down to his chest again, and he groaned, letting a mouthful of stale spittle slip over his chin. He spat that out in disgust and listened to it hit something with a sharp, plinking sound.

He was blindfolded.

A sopping wet piece of cloth was bound tight around his face, letting only the slightest amount of light inside from the fabric's edges. 

He moved and his shoulders screamed in agony.

Both his arms were raised over his head and bound together at the wrists. He was high enough above the ground that only the edges of his toenails scraped the smooth, unknown surface below. All of his weight was on his shoulders and his upper back. He could feel the tight steel claws of the handcuffs around his wrists ruining the nerves in his hands, making them so numb they felt dead.

Pain.

Pain was a bright flaring burst of light that helped yank him out of his stupor, while simultaneously punishing him terribly. The handcuffs were hooked through the center on something. He moved again, listening to them scrape the metal of whatever they were hooked onto.

He tried to speak, but his mouth had not moved in so long the words came out as one long, slurred garble. He groaned until someone tapped on whatever he was inside of and the sound filled the chamber surrounding him, echoing in his ears. It sounded like glass.

The voice that followed was muffled and sounded far away. "Are you awake already? My, my, you must be strong."

Herb tried to speak but his mouth was too dry. He could not get his lips wet with his tongue. It felt like a dead snail sliding over barren desert. He shook his head up and down slightly and groaned more.

"Lift your head up," the voice said.

Herb heard more of the plinking sounds, and then footfalls. Things were becoming clearer now. Every noise seemed louder than it should have been, probably accentuated by his lack of vision, he thought. As he came to, his thoughts clarified, and with them came the sudden, wretched panic that he'd been taken. Captured by someone he didn't know and couldn't remember. The other senses improve when you lose one of them, he thought.

Isn't that what they say? How long does that take to kick in? How can I use it to help? Oh God, where the hell am I?

"I said, look up!" the voice shouted.

Herb lifted his head and a bucket of cold water slapped him in the face, filling his nose and open mouth until he gagged and vomited it back up.

"Again!"

He tried to raise his head again and the water splashed him once more. This time he braced himself and leaned forward, catching as much of it as he could as it ran down his face and leaked onto his lips. He greedily swabbed his tongue around his lips and chin, trying to get as many of the droplets into his mouth as he could. The process helped him clarify his thoughts, like a man tossed into the sea by a shipwreck, trying to gather as many scraps and planks as he could to form a raft.

Cold liquid ran down his arms and sides and waist and thighs, and Herb realized he was naked.

Whoever had done this to him had stripped him while he was unconscious. He lunged forward in outrage, swinging by the hook until his feet cracked into whatever he was inside of. It was hard as hell and smooth as glass, but just far away enough that he could not get a good foothold on it. The forward movement made his right shoulder socket pop and he stopped moving, afraid that it was about to dislocate.

His toes made splashing sounds now and he lowered his head and tried to take at least one good breath. He'd always heard that people who'd been crucified died from asphyxiation. It was the enormous pressure of their body being supported from the shoulders that killed them. Breathing became impossible, the lungs unable to inflate. Herb stuck his toes downwards on the floor, trying to push himself up enough to take the pressure off his chest.

Just enough, he told himself. Just enough for one good breath and I'll worry about the rest later.

He strained to straighten his legs as much as he could and was able to gulp the air just once, but that was enough. It was a momentary respite and he savored it, taking the time to lick his lips more and gather up the remaining water droplets.

That was when he realized it wasn't water at all. It was wine.

But the wine was cold and sweet, so he drank as much of it as he could, the dry and shriveled cells of his body craving hydration. "More," he gasped. "More!"

"No more," the voice answered. "Not until later."

He listened to the person walking away. "Come back," he begged. "Tell me what you want from me."

There was no response.

He tried to reassemble his thoughts and make them work, a mechanic in a dark garage frantically trying to fix a broken motor by feel and by sound. There had been a woman, he thought.

There had been a woman at the bar and they were talking.

She wanted him to walk her home. Insisted on holding his arm.

Something had happened but he couldn't remember.

And then he remembered the snake.

It had been large enough to stare him in the face, the narrow slits of its slanted reptilian eyes locked on his, the wide fans of its hood spread out like bird wings.

"Not yet, my darling," the voice said soothingly to the snake. "Very, very soon."

9.

I woke up to the sound of two crazy men yelling outside. They were loud enough to drag me out of the dream I was having where I walked into a candy factory and found Herb caught inside a taffy machine. The machine was stretching his arms and legs out, winding them around large steel cylinders. "It's all right," Herb said, grunting with each turn of the cylinder as it stretched his limbs further and further. "I'm finally where I've always wanted to be."

I heard someone yelling, "Are you doing surveillance on me, you little shit?"

Another voice, shouting back, "You're damn right! Weren't you doing surveillance on her?"

"I wasn't doing surveillance on her, moron. I was watching her house in case anybody showed up."

"Well I was watching her house first, and the only person who showed up was you!"

I blinked until my eyes finally opened, instantly regretting it. The sun glared hard through my windows, making me raise my hand to shield my face. It was too early in the morning for this crap. The whiskey had done its job. At least I'd gotten into a deep enough sleep to dream. It was the only way I knew for sure I'd been asleep, instead of just passed out.

I staggered to my bedroom window and hoisted it up, looking down at the two idiots standing in front of my door. Both of them chest to chest, jabbing fingers in the air at each other's faces like two monkeys trying to take over the pack. Do monkeys have packs? Birds have flocks and lions have pride and god damn but my head hurt too freaking bad to worry about this shit. "Hey! Shut up down there!" I shouted.

Frank O'Ryan and Phin Trout looked up at me from the street in surprise.

"Sorry," Frank said.

"What the hell's wrong with you, Jack? You look like crap," Phin said.

"Screw you," I said. "I was finally getting some sleep when you two idiots woke me up."

"We need to talk," Frank said.

"Oh, just what I was hoping you'd say," I sighed. "I'll buzz you in."

I watched Frank grab the railing and head up the steps, only to see Phin following close behind him. "She said she'd buzz me in," Frank said, looking back at him. "Not you."

"I'm still surveilling you," Phin said.

I could hear them bickering from the stairs, and when I opened the door, both were standing shoulder to shoulder. I opened the door and tried to stifle a yawn with the back of my hand. "What do you both want?"

Phin's eyes immediately dropped down to my chest, checking out the way my boobs jiggled under the t-shirt I slept in with no bra. He grinned stupidly and said, "Your headlights are on, Jack."

I closed the door on both of them and went to grab a robe.

Frank and Phin sat across from one another, waiting for the coffee to finish. I poured the pot into a large pitcher and made a tray of mugs, sugar, and milk. Little Suzie Homemaker, just like my ex-husband always wished I was. I carried the tray into the living room and set it down on the ottoman. I fixed my cup and neither of them moved. "If you think I'm going to pour it for you guys too, you got another thing coming," I said.

I sat back on my chair and pulled my legs up, tucking them under my robe. I hadn't shaved them in a few days and they were a little too stubbly to go waving in people's faces. I waited for the men to finish pouring their coffees and said, "I'm actually glad you're both here. Something came up with Herb's cellphone and I can't quite make sense of it."

I told them about the powdered cobra venom and the different uses it has, aside from just killing things. Both of them had the same reaction that I first had, and I found myself repeating the same things Beth Armstrong had told me the night before. "Listen to me," I said, shaking my head. "Like I know something about any of this. I couldn't even tell you what a group of monkeys is called."

"A troop," Phin said quickly. When we both looked at him, he shrugged and said, "What? I watch the Discovery Channel."

Frank scratched his chin, running the palm of his hand over the thick stubble like sandpaper and said, "So it sounds like we need to track down someone who keeps king cobras, and also where you can get high-quality powdered venom."

"And someone crazy enough to milk one of those damn things," I muttered.

"Good luck," Phin said. "I've been trying to find someone to milk my snake for days."

Frank looked up at him and said, "Nice. But nobody wants to milk a little garter snake, buddy."

"Wanna see it?" Phin said.

"Boys," I sighed.

Phin rolled his eyes and said, "I know where to look for somebody who would deal in that sort of thing. Most badass snakes like that are illegal in this state unless you got a permit. I know a guy in Chinatown who can get you anything you want, though. He's got – like - a zoo of things that can kill you under his store."

"Good," I said, nodding. "Let's go talk to him and see what he knows."

"No deal," Phin said. "The dude's majorly sketchy about new people, particularly cops. He's from China or something and they really don't like police. You go waving your shield around and he'll button up faster than a guy who hears his girlfriend's husband coming up the steps. I'll talk to him."

Frank put his coffee down and said, "In the meantime, we need to figure out what's going on with Keenan Marvin. His attorney has a file on him as thick as a phone book. It's got every single associate, every account number, every dirty detail we might need. If he's planning on making another move on you, that's the place where we'll find out about it. Now, I can get into the office, no problem. I just need someone who can get Alan Davidson out of his office. He's in his Berwyn office today, trolling for walk-ins."

"Whatever it is we're going to do, we need to do it quick," I said. "The last witness is being called Monday morning. Once all testimony is given, all that's left is closing arguments, and then the jury renders a verdict."

"So if they're going to make a move on you, they won't let you reach that courthouse alive on Monday to give any last testimony," Phin said.

"Right," I said.

"So we need to get going," he said. "All right, I'll get over to Chinatown. You two figure out how to deal with this attorney."

I looked at both men and said, "Actually, I've got a better idea."

Alan Davidson's office was set between a liquor store and a check cashing place. One stop shopping, he liked to think. You cashed your check, walked in to see the lawyer to give him all your cash, and spent what little you had left on a cheap bottle of booze to forget your woes. Capitalism at its finest.

The Berwyn office was Davidson's satellite location. The one he considered his "office of the people." More like, office of the desperate people. Berwyn itself wasn't a bad neighborhood. It was just surrounded by a warzone.

He paid an extra two hundred a month for the parking space right out front. Right where he could keep an eye on his baby blue Mercedes S-Class sedan. Nobody was going within ten feet of her without catching hell.

There was a panic button built into the bottom of Davidson's desk that was hard-wired to his alarm system. Fat lot of good it did him, he thought. Chicago's Finest weren't breaking their necks to come bail him out of any hot spots, that was for certain. The pistol with the thirteen round magazine was for the hot spots. That, and for anybody who touched the Mercedes. 

Davidson had nearly grabbed the gun when Keenan Marvin first came bursting through the doors of that office, flanked by a half-dozen goons. "Is that your ride out front, homie?" Marvin said, eyes glittering with greed. He watched Davidson's hand move toward the desk and he said, "Chill, I'm lookin' for the attorney that got Ray-Star off that robbery beef back in the day."

Davidson had nodded, playing along. He was pretty sure "Ray-Star" meant Raymond Stark, a former client. But then again, who could be sure? "I certainly am," Davidson said.

"Bet," Marvin said as he sat down. "Goddamn police set me up on some bullshit charges an' I ain't even done none of that. I need somebody with the hook up now, yo. I got alibis an' everything. I'm innocent as shit."

"Sounds good to me," Davidson said. "This initial consultation is going to be two hundred dollars, payable in cash only. After that we can−"

Marvin reached into his baggy jeans front pocket and tossed a thick wad of rolled up hundred dollar bills onto the desk. "When that runs out, holla at me for the next re-up. But if you don't get me off these charges, son? Damn, son. I'm a take it back out your ass, feel me?"

The front alarm buzzed loudly and Davidson instinctively reached for the drawer, but he stopped when he saw Frank O'Ryan come through the door. Frank saw him sitting behind the desk and said, "Do you have a minute Mister Davidson?"

Davidson leaned back in his chair and folded his hands together, forming a steeple under his chin. "Well, considering we aren't colleagues anymore, and I charge for initial consultations, you tell me. Can you afford my rates?"

Frank smiled benignly and said, "Listen, I came to apologize. I acted unprofessionally and I know it. I'm better than that, and you deserved better than that."

Davidson looked at Frank curiously and said, "You already got paid, O'Ryan. What's your play here?"

"No play," Frank said. "I'm leaving for Philly tomorrow and felt like I needed to make this right."

Frank extended his hand over the desk and waited for Davidson to think it over. Davidson finally sighed and reached forward to meet him and shake, saying, "No harm done, O'Ryan. For what it's worth, I did play you for the fool a little. I mean, I wasn't really surprised you went ballistic. Keenan Marvin is a piece of crap and Jack Daniels is a lucky woman."

Frank laughed lightly and said, "Well, what can you expect, right? Dealing with these animals, I had my fair share of run-ins with ones that wanted to hurt me in my personal life. Speaking of animals, is that your Mercedes out there?"

"Yep," Davidson said, trying not to smile too much.

"God, that thing is sweet. It's so classy and the technology is beyond anything else on the market. I was reading about that exact car the other day. You've got good taste, Mr. Davidson." 

"If you ever get the chance to own one, I highly recommend it," Davidson said.

"Not on what I make," Frank said, laughing.

"Well, you can always take time to go to law school," Davidson said with a thin smile. That's when he heard a car's tires squealing from down the street. Some asshole was gunning his engine, pushing it as hard as it would go. Davidson jumped out of his chair like a mother watching her child about to run into oncoming traffic. He saw the car coming in flickering images, a rusty bucket of junk hurtling toward his beloved baby like a four thousand pound asteroid. Davidson shot forward and screamed, "No!" just as the rust-bucket slammed sideways into his Mercedes, hitting her so hard it blew out the passenger side windows and shoved her six inches onto the sidewalk.

Frank O'Ryan ducked down and covered his head, crying out, "What the hell was that?"

"No! No! No!" Davidson cried. He felt tears, actual hot tears coming into his eyes as he looked at the carnage outside. There were giant plumes of steam and smoke coming up from the hood of both cars. The horribly-ugly hood of the rust-bucket was bent up and over the immaculate blue of his Mercedes' roof, gnawing on it like some rodent.

Phinneas Trout staggered out of the rust-bucket's driver's seat holding his head. He looked around stupidly and said, "What the hell just happened?"

Alan Davidson shot out of his seat and ran for the door, screaming, "You dumb son of a bitch! You just hit my car! You better have insurance on that piece of junk! I swear to God, I will murder you right here in the street like a dog if you try to run."

"I'm not running anywhere," Trout said. "I've got my information in my car in the glove box, if I can get to it. By the way, I'm fine, thanks. I only smacked my head on the steering wheel."

"Do I look like a goddamn ambulance driver?" Davidson shouted. "Do I look like I care? Dig your insurance card out of that garbage can now!"

Frank O'Ryan limped toward the office door and pushed it open, saying, "Mister Davidson, are you okay?"

"No, I'm not okay!" Davidson shouted back. He grabbed the sides of his face with both hands as he stared at the wreckage, feeling a deep sob building within. He watched Phin pull a wrinkled envelope out of the car and hand it to him. He looked at the name on the driver's license. It was the same one on the insurance card and vehicle registration. At least that much was in order. "Do you still live at this address, Fred?"

"Yes, sir," Phin said.

Phin looked up at Frank, who was standing in the office doorway carefully tucking a thick file under his arm, keeping it away from Davidson's line of sight. Frank waved and said, "I'm going to go, Mister Davidson. Good luck with this."

"Yeah, sure, thanks," Davidson grunted. "Whatever."

Phin watched Frank limp down the street. He was moving better, Phin noticed. Like he wasn't favoring the knee as much. Maybe all this cop stuff was getting his juices going again, he wondered. If that guy ever gets back up to full-speed the criminals in his area are going to have their hands full, Phin thought while scratching his head.