Shot of Tequila (21 page)

Tequila spun on them and knocked their noggins together with an audible clunk,
Three Stooges
style. The average man has never felt the sudden pain so often experienced in street fighting. Professionals knew how to overcome it, but amateur hard-asses who’d never been soundly thrashed couldn’t handle much damage before throwing in the towel. Or in this case, throwing up, which was what the two Samaritans did. For good measure Tequila gave each of their prone forms a hard jab, breaking their noses.

Then he whirled back on Terco and was surprised to see the bodybuilder getting up. Taking two quick steps, Tequila launched himself at Terco, shoulder first, driving the big man backwards into the lockers. He grabbed Terco’s shirt with one hand and used the other to rub the blood from Terco’s nose into his eyes, temporarily blinding him. Then he grabbed both of Terco’s ears and rammed his forehead into his broken nose. He did it one more, twice more, turning the cartilage into splintery pulp.

Terco lashed out with his hands, moaning. He managed to clip Tequila across the face, and Tequila sailed backward from the blow. Though a better fighter, Tequila was still only half of Terco’s weight. The difference was most apparent when Tequila caught a hit. Even the slightest backhand, with all of Terco’s heft behind it, was as deadly as a straight on punch from someone Tequila’s own size. David couldn’t have taken on Goliath without his sling shot, and Tequila had no such luxury.

Terco shook his head, trying to clear it. He was in incredible pain, but being a professional he was no stranger to it. He compartmentalized it into a section of his brain where he didn’t have to deal with it right away. The prime directive here was subduing Tequila, and he would suffer a lot more before giving up. He stood up, favoring his good foot but nonetheless putting some weight on his broken one. Electric ripples of agony surged up through his body, and Terco eyed the man who had caused him that agony. He advanced.

Tequila found himself on the pissy floor again and wondered how it happened. He crawled to his hands and knees and felt the hot sting on his cheek where Terco had slapped him across the room. His ears rang, and he tried to focus on his hands and stop the double vision. Tequila blinked rapidly, shook his head, and felt his stomach begin to lurch.

Terco bent down to snatch the smaller man’s jacket. Enough with the karate crap
.
Terco decided it was time to use his weight and his strength. He lifted Tequila up as if he were a small child and snugged him tight to his chest.

Tequila, for the second time in ten hours, was being squeezed to death. His arms were pinned to his sides and his face was pressed hard against the bodybuilder’s bloody pecs. He tried to squirm but it was like being locked in a body-sized vise. Once again he couldn’t breathe, and the lack of oxygen did nothing to help his nausea or double vision.

He tried to bite Terco, but his head was pressed too tightly into his chest. He tried to kick his legs, but Terco spread his own stance further apart so there was nothing to kick.

That was Terco’s undoing. Spreading his legs, plus the fact that he was wearing sweat pants instead of tight jeans or spandex.

Tequila reached down and took a handful of balls. He squeezed with powerful hands that could crush soup cans.

Terco opened his arms like automatic doors, dropping Tequila and shoving him away. Tequila fell to his knees and followed up his squeezing attack with a left right combination to Terco’s little guy.

Terco let out a high-pitched, keening whistle, and then both big Terco and little Terco collapsed face first onto the tile floor.

Tequila wanted to kill him. His rage was furious, and this asshole on the floor played a part in his sister’s death. If he didn’t kill him, Tequila knew that he’d have to at some later date anyway. But the problem was he had fifteen guys watching him, and he doubted they’d let him get away if he snapped an unconscious guy’s neck.

“Call the cops,” Tequila told the onlookers. “This guy just attacked me. Anyone see it?”

“I saw him rush you,” one man said.

“I saw it too.”

Tequila worked his way through the crowd and got back to his locker. His money bag was still there, wonder of wonders. He quickly put on his socks and his shoes, followed by his holster rig and his starter jacket. Terco would have to wait for another day, he couldn’t risk it now. Cold-blooded murder didn’t bother Tequila, but cold-blooded murder in front of witnesses wouldn’t bode well at the trial, if and when Tequila was finally caught.

Later,
he promised Terco. He went to the sink and washed the blood from his face and hands. Then he continued walking and went through the showers and into the enclosed swimming pool.

“You can’t come in here in street clothes,” the life guard warned.

Tequila ignored him, and when the life guard strutted over, sticking out his big chest and holding up his hand like a cop at a crosswalk, Tequila broke his nose. His seventh nose of the day. Then he walked over to the emergency exit door and pushed it open. It sounded the fire alarm, which suited Tequila fine. The more confusion, the better. The door let out down a staircase and out into the alley, where the prodigal wind returned to smack his face with frost.

His next course of action was to get weapons. He was also thinking about getting some new clothing, but that could wait a day or two. Tequila’s plan was to attack Slake first. That evil son of a bitch would be the next to die. Then he could concentrate on Marty and crew.

The easiest place to get a firearm was a pawn shop. He knew where one was, a few blocks away.

Using the gun permit that Marty had gotten for him, Tequila bought two .45s to fit into his holsters. He also bought a box of .45 ammo, and a box of ammo for his new back-up piece, Terco’s .38. Bribing the pawn shop owner with a fifty, Tequila was also shown a collection of illegal knives and picked out a seven inch switchblade. Appropriately armed, he hit the streets to find a car.

Tequila knew his own car was being watched, so he figured to steal one. He stopped at the nearest pay parking lot, picked out a sporty black Trans Am, and held one of his .45s to the attendant’s temple until he handed over the keys. The man was eager to please, and Tequila hopped into the Pontiac and drove off. Add grand theft auto to his list of felonies.

Slake lived in a house in the northwest suburb of Palatine. Tequila had never been there, but he’d phoned Slake enough on Marty’s behalf, and he simply called information to get a street address from the number. He took Congress Parkway to 90/94, and headed west.

An image of Sally, her mouth gaping blood and her eyes open in mute shock, wormed its way into Tequila’s thoughts.

“Here I come,” he said quietly to Slake. “Here I come.”

T
he man named Royce was smiling, and it was an ugly thing to see. As a child Royce’s eye teeth—his upper canines—had grown in pointed, and they protruded grotesquely outward from the gums. It made him look like he had a double set of fangs, and he’d never bothered to get them fixed because he liked the reaction his smile caused in people. Like the reaction he was getting at that moment from Leman.

The ex-cop winced, and had to make a conscious effort not to look away. He was still shaking Royce’s hand in greeting, and Royce was drinking in Leman’s discomfort and refused to break the handshake.

“Good to meet you,” Royce said. He had a hoarse, quiet voice, and a strong odor of garlic on his breath.

At least that proved he’s not a vampire. Leman tried to gently tug his hand away, give a clue that the greeting was over, but Royce held on.

“Tequila did that?” asked Royce, indicating Leman’s bandaged shoulder.

“Yeah. From about sixty feet. Bastard could have killed me.”

“You were lucky it wasn’t me. I would have.”

Royce smiled again, and this time Leman pulled his hand away. This guy gave him the creeps. He turned and gave Marty a
what the hell?
look, wondering why the Maniac had to bring in this bozo. Weren’t he, Terco, Slake, and Matisse enough?

“Mr. Royce is a specialist,” Marty said by way of explanation. “He’ll take care of Tequila for us.”

“Do you really need outside help, Marty? I mean, between the four of us…”

“The three of you. Tequila killed Matisse last night.”

Leman felt as if he’d been hit. Not that he liked Matisse that much, but the guy was okay. Only yesterday they’d been in the vault and watching the Super Bowl take being counted. And now…

“How?”

“Tequila beat him to death. So you can see we need more manpower.”

“Besides,” Royce added, “you aren’t going to be much help with only one arm. I doubt you were much help with two.”

Leman stung from the jab and felt his face go red. No creepy vampire son of a bitch was going to insult him like that and get away with it. He made a quick fist and threw a sucker punch at Royce’s face.

Leman woke up staring at the ceiling, wondering what the hell happened. One eye was swelled shut, and there was something sharp pressing against his neck. He squinted and saw Royce holding a switchblade to his throat.

“Try that again,” Royce suggested. “Try it whenever you like. But the next time, I’ll cut off your nose.”

He gave Leman a poke in the nose with the knife tip, just enough to draw blood. Leman yelped.

Marty grinned like a five-year-old on Christmas morning. One second, Leman had been throwing a punch at Royce. In a blur of instantaneous motion, Royce had ducked the punch, elbowed Leman in the eye, flipped him over, and knelt on his chest with the knife at his neck. It all happened so quickly that Marty thought that he’d missed it, even though he saw the whole thing.

“As I said, Mr. Royce is a professional. He’ll take care of Tequila. You, Slake, and Terco will be with me at all times, in case the little shit decides to try for me because that moron Matisse wasted his sister. Now get your ass off the floor.”

Leman, still dizzy, refused the hand that Royce offered and painfully got to his feet. If he’d had use of both hands, he might have been tempted to go for the gun in his holster. Who did this asshole think he was anyway?

“Go ahead and reach for it,” Royce grinned, sensing Leman’s thoughts. “I won’t kill you. I’ll just shoot your knees off.”

“Go to hell.”

Royce’s eyes went hard. There was a dark, flickering light behind them, and Leman could almost see the evil thoughts projected on the vampire’s brain.

“I am hell.”

And Leman, at that moment, believed him.

Slake entered the office, his expression neutral and his gait unhurried. He glanced briefly at Royce, dismissed him as a nobody, and signaled out Marty.

“Got two cops downstairs want to talk to you. Terco’s in the hospital. Tequila kicked the shit out of him at Remmy’s Health Club, then got away.”

“They got a warrant?” Marty asked.

“No. Just want to talk to you, they said.”

“Tell them to kiss off.”

Slake nodded. His gaze fell on Royce.

“Who is he?” he asked.

“That’s Mr. Royce. He’s here to help.”

“We don’t need help.”

“From what I’ve observed,” Royce bared his fangs, “you guys would need help finding a turd in a toilet bowl.”

“Nice teeth,” Slake dead-panned. “I bet you were a bitch to breast feed.”

Royce went dark, and Slake grinned at having ruffled his feathers. Then he turned and left, going downstairs to deal with the pigs.

“Who was that?” Royce asked Marty.

“That was Slake. So far he’s the only man I’ve got who hasn’t screwed up yet.”

“He’s got a big mouth. I might have to shut it for him.”

“Whatever,” Marty shrugged. “But wait until after we’ve nailed Tequila. I want that son of a bitch so bad my ass itches.”

Royce pulled up a chair to Marty’s desk, and brought his vulpine face close to Marty’s fat one.

“And you will get him,” Royce whispered. “Soon.”

Leman stared at them, their eyes locked and grinning, and wondered for a freak moment if they were going to kiss.

“Want me to check on Terco?” he asked.

“Yeah. Go find out what the hell happened.”

Leman nodded and turned to leave.

“One more thing,” added Royce. “You telegraph your punches. You narrow your eyes. I saw it coming with plenty of time to move. Keep your eyes wide next time, you won’t be so easy.”

Leman blushed again, but filed away the suggestion. Next time he took a swing at Royce, he’d be sure not to telegraph the move. He went after Slake to find out which hospital Terco was at.

“That’s another one I may have to put the hurt on,” Royce said. “Nice bunch of guys you hired here.”

“All that matters now,” Marty said, ignoring the jab, “is that I’ve got the best.”

Seeing that little display with Leman had convinced him. Tequila was no match for Royce.

No match at all.