65 Proof (17 page)

“You’re safe,” I told the woman. “No one can hurt you now. I’m going to call the police. Are you okay to talk to them?”

She nodded, frantic. I took off her gag.

“He was gonna kill me.”

“I know.” I picked up the phone next to the bedside and dialed 911, then placed it on the bed next to her mouth.

I walked out of the room as she began talking.

I was in a drugged haze when Jack called on my cell.

“Missed you on Monday.”

“Sorry. Been busy.”

“Remember that guy you called me about? Lyle Tibbits? He got picked up a few days ago.”

“Is that a fact?”

“It seems as if Mr. Tibbits was planning on making a snuff film, but someone came and rescued the snuffee.”

I wiped some blood off my nose. “Sounds like she got lucky.”

“She said it was a bald man.”

“Poor guy. It’s tough being bald. Society discriminates.”

“It would help the case if this mysterious bald man came forward and testified.”

“If I see him, I’ll let him know. But you probably don’t need him. If you check out Lyle’s apartment, you might find plenty of reasons to lock him up for good.”

“We did that already. Mr. Tibbits will be eligible for parole when he’s four hundred years old.”

“So why the call?”

“The woman who was saved wants to thank her hero. In person.”

An image flashed through my head of Linda, my fiancée. I’d left her because I didn’t want her to see me suffer and die.

No one should be subjected to that. To me.

“That’s not possible,” I told Jack.

“I’ll let her know. Pool Monday?”

“I’ll try to make it. Jack?”

“Yeah?”

“They holding Tibbits over at Cook County?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“General population?”

“I think so. He’s in for kidnapping and attempted murder. The State’s Attorney is putting together the illegal porn case.”

“Thanks, Jack.”

I staggered to the bathroom and rinsed the blood and powder off my face. Then I threw on some clothes, left my apartment, and staggered to the corner news vendor. The daily paper set me back a buck. I sat on the curb and read the police blotter until I found what I needed. Then I picked up three cartons of Marlboros and took a cab to Cook County Jail on 26th and California.

I spent two hours waiting before I was able to see Jerome Johnston. He was black, twenty-two years old, a member of the Gangsta Disciples. Jerome was being held for first degree murder.

“Who the hell are you, cracker?” he said upon meeting me in the visitation room.

“I’ve got a deal for you, Jerome. A good deal.” I handed him the three cartons of smokes that the guards had already searched. “This is for your valuable time.”

“What do you want?”

“There’s a white boy in your division. Name of Lyle Tibbits. He’s a baby raper. Likes to have sex with five-year-old boys and girls.” I stared hard into Jerome’s lifeless eyes. “I want you to spread the word. Anyone who takes care of him will get twenty cartons of cigarettes. He’ll be an easy mark—he’s got a broken arm. Here’s a picture.”

I handed him the photo I’d taken from Lyle’s apartment.

“How do you know me?” Jerome asked.

“I don’t. Just read about your drive-by in the paper. Thought you’d be the right man for the job. Are you, Jerome?”

Jerome looked at the picture, then back at me. “Hell yeah, dog.”

“One more thing. It can’t happen until tomorrow. Okay?”

“I’m straight.”

I left the jail and cabbed it back home. In my room I did more coke, ate some codeine, and stared at the eighty-thousand dollar life insurance policy I’d taken out on Lyle Tibbits, which I’d bought posing as his brother, using fake identification. It would become effective tonight at midnight.

Eighty grand would buy a lot of pain relief. It might even be enough to help me forget.

I drank until I couldn’t feel Earl anymore, and then I drank some more.

When Monday rolled around I cashed my policy and met Jack at Joe’s Pool Hall and whipped her butt with my new thousand dollar Balabushka custom-made pool cue.

My friend Libby Fischer Hellmann edited an anthology called
Chicago Blues
, published by Bleak House in 2007. I wrote a Jack story for her, based on a premise I thought of while stuck in traffic downtown. Why do cars get gridlocked? Here’s one possible answer…

T
he man sat in the center of the southbound lane on Michigan Avenue, opposite Water Tower Place, sat cross-legged and seemingly oblivious to the mile of backed-up traffic, holding a gun that he pointed at his own head.

I’d been shopping at Macy’s, and purchased a Gucci wallet as a birthday gift for my boyfriend, Latham. When I walked out onto Michigan I was hit by the cacophony of several hundred honking horns and the unmistakable shrill of a police whistle. I hung my star around my neck and pushed through the crowd that had gathered on the sidewalk. Chicago’s Magnificent Mile was always packed during the summer, but the people were usually moving in one direction or the other. These folks were standing still, watching something.

Then I saw what they were watching.

I assumed the traffic cop blowing the whistle had called it in—he had a radio on his belt. He’d stopped cars in both directions, and had enforced a twenty meter perimeter around the guy with the gun.

I took my .38 Colt out of my purse and walked over, holding up my badge with my other hand. The cop was black, older, the strain of the situation heavy on his face.

“Lt. Jack Daniels, Homicide.” I had to yell above the car horns. “What’s the ETA on the negotiator?”

“Half hour, at least. Can’t get here because of the jam.”

He made a gesture with his white gloved hand, indicating the gridlock surrounding us.

“You talk to this guy?”

“Asked him his name, if he wanted anything. Told me to leave him alone. Don’t have to tell me twice.”

I nodded. The man with the gun was watching us. He was white, pudgy, mid-forties, clean shaven and wearing a blue suit and a red tie. He looked calm but focused. No tears. No shaking. As if it was perfectly normal to sit in the middle of the street with a pistol at your own temple.

I kept my Colt trained on the perp and took another step toward him. If he flinched, I’d shoot him. The shrinks had a term for it: suicide by cop. People who didn’t have the guts to kill themselves, so they forced the police to. I didn’t want to be the one to do it. Hell, it was the absolute last thing I wanted to do. I could picture the hearing, being told the shooting was justified, and I knew that being in the right wouldn’t help me sleep any better if I had to murder this poor bastard.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Paul.”

The gun he had was small, looked like a .380. Something higher caliber would likely blow through both sides of his skull and into the crowd. This bullet probably wasn’t powerful enough. But it would do a fine job of killing him. Or me, if he decided he wanted some company in the afterlife.

“My name is Jack. Can you put the gun down, Paul?”

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

That was about the extent of my hostage negotiating skills. I dared a step closer, coming within three feet of him, close enough to smell his sweat.

“What’s so bad that you have to do this?”

Paul stared at me without answering. I revised my earlier thought about him looking calm. He actually looked numb. I glanced at his left hand, saw the wedding ring.

“Problems with the wife?” I asked.

His Adam’s apple bobbled up and down as he swallowed. “My wife died last year.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. You married?”

“Divorced. What was your wife’s name, Paul?”

“Doris.”

“What do you think Doris would say if she saw you like this?”

Paul’s face pinched into a sad smile. My Colt Detective Special weighed twenty-two ounces, and my arm was getting tired holding it up. I brought my left hand under my right to brace it, my palm on the butt of the weapon.

“Do you think you’ll get married again?” he asked.

I thought about Latham. “It will happen, sooner or later.”

“You have someone, I’m guessing.”

“Yes.”

“Does he like it that you’re a cop?”

I considered the question before answering. “He likes the whole package.”

Paul abruptly inhaled. A snort? I couldn’t tell. I did a very quick left to right sweep with my eyes. The crowd was growing, and inching closer—one traffic cop couldn’t keep everyone back by himself. The media had also arrived. Took them long enough, considering four networks had offices within a few blocks.

“Waiting for things to happen, that’s a mistake.” Paul closed his eyes for a second, then opened them again. “If you want things to happen, you have to make them happen. Because you never know how long things are going to last.”

He didn’t seem depressed. More like irritated. I took a slow breath, smelling the cumulative exhaust of a thousand cars and buses, wishing the damn negotiator would arrive.

“Do you live in the area, Paul?”

He sniffled, sounding congested. “Suburbs.”

“Do you work downtown?”

“Used to. Until about half an hour ago.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Can you give me more than that?”

He squinted at me. “Why do you care?”

“It’s my job, Paul.”

“It’s your job to protect people.”

“Yes. And you’re a person.”

“You want to protect me from myself.”

“Yes.”

“You also want to protect these people around us.”

“Yes.”

“How far away are they, do you think? Fifteen feet? Twenty?”

A strange question, and I didn’t like it. “I don’t know. Why?”

Paul made a show of looking around.

“Lot of people here. Big responsibility, protecting them all.”

He shifted, and my finger automatically tensed on the trigger. Paul said something, but it was lost in the honking.

“Can you repeat that, Paul?”

“Maybe life isn’t worth protecting.”

“Sure it is.”

“There are bad people in the world. They do bad things. Should they be protected too?”

“Everyone should be protected.”

Paul squinted at me. “Have you ever shot anyone, Jack?”

Another question I didn’t like.

“When I was forced to, yes. Please don’t force me, Paul.”

“Have you ever killed anyone?”

“No.”

“Have you ever wanted to?”

“No.”

Paul made a face like I was lying. “Why not? Do you believe in God? In heaven? Are you one of those crazy right-to-lifers who believe all life is sacred? Do you protest the death penalty?”

“I believe blood is hard to get off of your hands, even if it’s justified.”

He shifted again, and his jacket came open. There was a spot of something on his shirt. Something red. Both my arms were feeling the strain of holding up my weapon, and a spike of fear-induced adrenalin caused a tremor in my hands.

“What’s that on your shirt, Paul? Is that blood?”

He didn’t bother to look. “Probably.”

I kept my voice steady. “Did you go to work today, Paul?”

“Yes.”

“Did you bring your gun to work?”

No answer. I glanced at the spot of blood again, and noticed that his stomach didn’t look right. I’d first thought Paul was overweight. Now it looked like he had something bulky on under his shirt.

“Did you hurt anyone at work today, Paul?”

“That’s the past, Jack. You can’t protect them. What’s done is done.”

I was liking this situation less and less. That spot of blood drew my eyes like a beacon. I wondered if he was wearing a bullet proof vest under his business suit, or something worse.

“I don’t want to go to jail,” he said.

“What did you do, Paul?”

“They shouldn’t have fired me.”

“Who? Where do you work?”

“Since Doris died, I haven’t been bringing my ‘A Game.’ That’s understandable, isn’t it?”

I raised my voice. “How did you get blood on your shirt, Paul?”

Paul glared at me, but his eyes were out of focus.

“When you shot those people, did they scream?” he asked.

I wasn’t sure what he was after, so I stayed silent.

He grinned. “Doesn’t it make you feel good when they scream?”

Now I got it. This guy wasn’t just suicidal—he was homicidal as well. I took a step backward.

“Don’t leave, Jack. I want you to see this. You should see this. I’m moving very slow, okay?”

He put his hand into his pocket. I cocked the hammer back on my Colt. Paul fished out something small and silver, and I was a hair’s breadth away from shooting him.

“This is a detonator. I’ve got some explosives strapped to my chest. If you take another step away, if you yell, I’ll blow both of us up. And the bomb is strong enough to kill a lot of people in the crowd. It’s also wired to my heartbeat. I die, it goes off.”

I didn’t know if I believed him or not. Explosives weren’t easy to get, or to make. And rigging up a detonator—especially one that was hooked into your pulse—that was really hard, even if you could find the plans on the Internet. But Paul’s eyes had just enough hint of psychosis in them that I stayed put.