Last Call - A Thriller (Jacqueline "Jack" Daniels Mysteries Book 10) (15 page)

This Luther was sloppy. Slow. A shadow of his former self.

Lucy watched them bring the new guy back to his cell. She decided to have some one-on-one time with Mr. Hanover. To find out what his secrets were.

She looked at K, almost told him—

And didn’t.

Hanover was an easy problem to solve.

K, not so much.

Lucy, like almost all of her type, was genetically free from empathy, and knew love only in the capacity it benefitted her. K used to be fun. Lately, not so much.

“Want to go into town later?” she asked. “Pick up some lemon juice, drag someone around?”

“Just watch the games.”

“I want something hands-on, K. Want to go down to the playroom? We can try your hotplate thing.”

“I want to watch the games.”

“The games are boring.”

“Maybe they wouldn’t be boring to you,” K said, turning to her, “if you were participating.”

Lucy caught no hint that it was a joke. K’s eyes were as dark and expressionless as always.

He’s serious.

Her anger flared. For a millisecond Lucy pictured pulling the straight razor she always carried, giving K one of those stupid Columbian neckties. But she reigned in the rage and managed to stay calm.

“Actually, I think I’m fine right here,” she said, smiling. “Best seat in the house.”

K turned his attention back to the arena, where two women fought with pitchforks. Lucy tried to process what had just happened.

K just threatened me.

He’s never done that before.

What’s happening here?

Is he losing it?

What if that’s what he really wants? To put me in the games?

K was feared. Respected. Obeyed. Emilio—who was the fifth or sixth most powerful cartel leader in Mexico—let K run the compound with impunity, and supplied him with anything he needed. He was lord and master of this domain, and his orders were always carried out.

Lucy had no power here. The men were afraid of her, but beneath their fear was disgust and disdain. She had no allies other than K. And if he turned against her…

Lucy had thought of this place as a sanctuary.

But what if it was actually a prison?

W
hen the doorbell rang, I figured it was McGlade, ready to drive us to Mexico. But a look at the video monitor showed it to be someone else. Someone I hadn’t seen in years.

I went to the door, Katie behind me. Phin had previously dropped Duffy off at the kennel, but I did a quick look around for Mr. Friskers, who sometimes liked to pounce on new arrivals. The cat wasn’t around, so I let the man in.

“Thanks for coming.” I wasn’t sure a handshake or hug was in order, and he didn’t make a move to do either. But he did nod, and gave me the barest hint of a smile. His crew cut was gray, as was the stubble on his square chin.

“Good to see you again, Jack.” He unslung the duffle bag from his shoulder and set it on the floor. From its weight, I guessed it contained guns. Lots of them.

“Katie, this is Tequila. Tequila, Katie.”

They shook hands, and I watched as they sized each other up. Neither appeared impressed. People tended to underestimate Tequila. He was a former gymnast, and stood only 5'5". But he might as well have been built out of iron, and his biceps were every bit as massive as when I’d
met him all those years ago
. With the possible exceptions of Chandler, and maybe Phin, Tequila was the toughest person I’d ever met. And if I had to put money on it, Tequila could probably take them both on at the same time. Besides his strength and athleticism, he had an unorthodox fighting style that was pretty much unbeatable.

“You’re coming with us?” Katie asked.

Tequila nodded. “You?”

“Yeah.”

Tequila glanced at me. “Can she handle herself?”

I answered honestly. “We’ll see.”

Katie’s eyes narrowed. “I can handle myself fine. Can you? It’s obvious you keep in shape, but you look like you’re past your prime, Gramps. Also, you’re short.”

“I am? I never noticed that before.”

Katie stared pointedly at me. “Does he have a Napoleon complex we’re going to have to compensate for?”

I knew she was doing the same thing Tequila had; asking me a question as if he wasn’t there. But he’d done it out of sincere interest, and she was doing it to bust his balls.

She was going to have to try harder.

“It’s not a complex if you’re actually Napoleon,” I said.

“What do you practice?” Tequila asked her. “Judo?”

“Karate. I’m a 2
nd
dan Shotokan black belt.”

“Do you think you could hit me?”

I took a step back. If they needed to test each other, my foyer was as good a place as any. Room to spar, not much that could break. It was always impressive to watch Tequila fight, and I was curious what Katie was able to do.

“Are you serious?” Katie looked at me. “Is he serious?”

I nodded.

“I’ll pull my punches so I don’t hurt you,” Tequila said.

Katie’s eyes narrowed. She widened her stance and raised her hands. Then she threw a palm-heel strike, which was impressively fast, but before it reached Tequila she was flat on her ass. His block and throw had been so quick I wasn’t even sure what he’d done.

Rather than be surprised, Katie looked pissed. She rocked to her feet and attempted a crescent kick, and Tequila caught her thigh and then tossed her onto my couch like she was a discarded Raggedy Ann doll. The fact that my couch was three meters away made the move all the more impressive.

“She’s strong and fast,” Tequila said. “And she knows how to fall.”

Katie didn’t take well to being thrown, and when she walked over it was obvious she was trying to keep her rage under control. Again she assumed a karate stance. “How about you try to hit me, tough guy?”

“Quick to anger,” Tequila said. “That’s not good.”

“Hit me.”

Tequila dropped and spun, his body a blur, and did a foot sweep, knocking Katie down again.

Katie kipped up to her feet, lunging with an elbow strike. Tequila blocked it and gave her a tap in the stomach, pulling his punch short. Katie followed with an uppercut, which Tequila slipped, and he gave her a two handed shove, knocking her onto her butt again.

Apparently undeterred, Katie twisted around on the floor and snapped her leg out in a reverse kick. Tequila caught the leg and threw her on the couch once more. This time when she stood up, she was flushed and grinning.

“Do you give lessons?” she asked.

“I just gave you several.”

“Jack has a black belt in taekwondo. Could you take us at the same time?”

Again the barest hint of a smile. “Yes.”

Katie caught my gaze. “Jack?”

“I’m wearing Donna Karan.”

“C’mon. I just want to see what he does.”

Watching them made me wonder when the last time I sparred was. I managed to get in workout a few times a week, but hadn’t been to a dojo or a firing range since Sam was born. And if this did turn into a rescue mission, a little practice couldn’t hurt.

I pointed my chin to the living room and kicked off my heels, folding my blazer over a chair. Tequila followed, and stood between us, looking relaxed.

“Whenever you’re ready,” he said.

I snapped my hips and did a reverse kick, aiming low, knowing he’d block it. When he did, I immediately countered with a hammer fist aiming for his chest. I landed it, because he was volleying a barrage of strikes from Katie, but it was like hitting a mattress. I followed by driving my shoulder into his belly and grabbing his back pockets. His abs and his glutes were just as hard as his pecs, but I had a purpose beyond copping a cheap feel off a ripped guy.

Tequila stepped away and did a back flip, making it look easy, and then scissor kicked Katie in the chest while punching at me. I took the hit on my bunched up arm—it hurt but he hadn’t given it everything—and then dropped down to sweep him. He jumped over my leg, tossed Katie onto the couch for a third time, and then pinned me to the floor between his knees, his fist raised.

“That was over faster that I would have guessed,” he said.

“Yes, it was,” I told him, then tapped him on the side. He looked, and saw I was holding the folding knife I’d taken from his back pocket. I was touching him with the handle, but we both knew it could have been a blade sticking in his ribs.

“Nice,” he said. “I thought grabbing my ass was a bit… unorthodox.”

“Age hasn’t slowed you down.”

He stood and gave me his hand to help me up. It was like grabbing the end of a two by four.

“Yes, it has,” he said. “Twenty years ago, you wouldn’t have gotten that knife.”

Katie had snuck up behind Tequila, and raised her leg for a lunge kick.

A millisecond later she was on the couch again.

“I feel both humiliated and exhilarated at the same time,” Katie said, staring at the ceiling.

I handed Tequila his knife, and he put it back into his pocket.

“Who else is coming?” Tequila asked. “That skinny partner of yours?”

“Herb isn’t skinny anymore, and no. Besides Katie, there’s a cop named Val Ryker I used to work with. And private eye named Harry McGlade.”

“I know McGlade.”

He said it in a way that bespoke a lack of affection. Which was normal for people who knew Harry.

“Also, two sisters who you might also know. They used to work for Uncle Sam. I referred you to one of them.”

Tequila nodded. “Chandler and Fleming. Glad to know they’re still in circulation. They’re… exceptional.” He said it with a hint of admiration in his voice. Then his face became stony. “Someone just drove up.”

I checked the wall monitor and saw a recreational vehicle filling my driveway. A large, red recreational vehicle.

“What is that?” Katie asked. She’d sat up and was squinting through the blinds.

I sighed through my nostrils. “That’s our ride.”

Years ago, Harry had bought a Winnebago and converted it to be his company vehicle. He dubbed it the Crimebago, pronounced
crim-ee-bay-go
. It met with an unfortunate end, but he’d recently gotten a replacement, the Crimebago Deux. With the high cost of gas and parking in Chicago, it cost slightly more to keep running than our posh office downtown. Harry said he’d painted it red, “to hide in plain sight, like a blimp.” But I didn’t buy that, because stenciled in huge letters on either side was “Harry McGlade Private Investigator” with a large cartoon magnifying glass and caricature of his face. Tough to be discreet tailing cheating husbands in a vehicle that announces you’re a PI. Especially a vehicle that can be spotted from five miles away.

In McGlade parlance, it was
failpants
. But, in all fairness, it would be more comfortable taking Harry’s souped-up land barge to Mexico than a car. Especially with all the gear we were bringing.

McGlade honked the horn, which played the first eight notes of the Peter Gunn theme. I experienced the same feeling I did many times a day when dealing with Harry; a profound disappointment in my decision-making abilities. The money I made as his partner was a nice supplement to my pension, and as much as I loved being a mom, it tended to make me a little stir crazy unless I got out of the house every few days. Still, pretty regularly I questioned my decision to work with a guy who once got us kicked out of a McDonalds for loudly demanding McSushi. When they tried to sell him a Fillet-O-Fish, he stood on the counter and threatened to call his congressman. He thought he was funny. All I wanted was a damn cup of coffee.

No, Harry was no Herb Benedict.

And yet, Harry was here, and Herb wasn’t.

I went to my gear—an oversized Samsonite bag on wheels, a plastic footlocker, a padded metal case—and began pulling the luggage out to the driveway. McGlade was standing next to the side door of the Crimebago Deux, beaming like a child on Christmas morning.

“Got a surprise for you, Jackie.”

“I bet.” Harry’s surprises were never good.

“You know your obese buddy Herb said he wasn’t coming along? Well, guess what?”

He pointed to the doorway, like Vanna White presenting the letter A, and against my better judgment I climbed into the vehicle expecting to see my best friend.

I saw something else instead. Something four legged. Fat. Wrinkly. And covered with dark brown hair.

A pot-bellied pig.

“Jack Daniels, meet Herb Bacondict.”

Herb Bacondict was knee-high and had to weigh at least a hundred pounds. His flappy jowls and creased brow ridge gave him a pensive look. The pig’s round snout was black, speckled with pink, and sniffed at me.

“He’s like a dead ringer for the real Herb, isn’t he?’

“You’re an idiot,” I told him. “And this is the ugliest animal I’ve ever seen.”

Herb farted, so loud it actually startled me.

Harry walked up beside the pig and patted him on the head. “She’s wrong, Herb. You’re a handsome hog. Yes you are. Want a treat?”

Herb oinked, his curly little tail wiggling. Harry pulled a dog bone out of his pocket and dropped it in front of Herb, who snorted at it then gobbled it up.