65 Proof (19 page)

Months? Weeks? The cancer had metastasized from my pancreas, questing for more of me to conquer. At this stage, treatment was bullshit. Only thing that helped was cocaine, tequila, and codeine. Being broke meant a lot of pain, plus withdrawal, which was almost as bad.

I had to get some money. Fast.

“Long enough,” I told him.

“You look like a little girl could kick your ass.”

I gave him my best tough-guy glare, then reached for the half-empty glass bottle of ketchup. Maintaining eye contact, I squeezed the bottle hard in my trembling hands. In one quick motion, I jerked my wrist to the side, breaking the top three inches of the bottle cleanly off.

“Jesus,” he said.

I dropped the piece on the table and he stared at it, mouth hanging open like a fish. I shoved my other hand into my pocket, because I cut my palm pretty deep. Happens sometimes. Glass isn’t exactly predictable.

“You leave the door open,” I told him. “I come in around 2am. I break your wife’s neck. Then I break your nose.”

He went from awed to pissed. “Fuck you, buddy.”

“Cops won’t suspect you if you’re hurt. I’ll also leave some of my blood on the scene.”

I watched it bounce around behind his Neanderthal brow ridge. Waited for him to fill in all the blanks. Make the connections. Take it to the next level.

His thoughts were so obvious I could practically see them form pictures over his head.

“Yeah.” He nodded, slowly at first, then faster. “That DNA shit. Prove someone else was there. And you don’t care if you leave any, cause you’re a dead man anyway.”

I shrugged like it was no big deal. Like I’d fully accepted my fate.

“When do we do this?”

“When can you have the money ready?”

“Anytime.”

“How about tonight?”

The dull film over his eyes evaporated, revealing a much younger man. One who had dreams and hopes and unlimited possibilities.

“Tonight is great. Tonight is perfect. I can’t believe I’m finally gonna be rid of the bitch.”

“Till death do you part. Which brings me to the original question. Why don’t you just divorce her?”

He grinned, showing years of bad oral hygiene.

“Bitch ain’t keeping half my paycheck for life.”

Ain’t marriage grand?

He gave me his address, we agreed upon a time, and then I followed him outside, put on a baseball cap and some sunglasses, escorted him down a busy Chinatown sidewalk to the bank, and rammed a knife in his back the second after he punched his PIN into the enclosed ATM.

I managed to puncture his lung before piercing his heart, and he couldn’t draw a breath, couldn’t scream. I put my bleeding hand under his armpit so he didn’t fall over, and again he gave me that look, the one of utter disbelief.

“Don’t be surprised,” I told him, pressing his
CHECKING ACCOUNT
button. “You were planning on killing me tonight, after I did your wife. You didn’t want to pay me the other half.”

I pressed
WITHDRAW CASH
and punched in a number a few times higher than our agreed upon figure.

He tried to say something, but bloody spit came out.

“Plus, a large ATM withdrawal a few hours before your wife gets killed? How stupid do you think the cops are?”

His knees gave out, and I couldn’t hold him much longer. My injured palm was bleeding freely, soaking into his shirt. But leaving DNA was the least of my problems. This was a busy bank, and someone would be walking by any second.

I yanked out the knife, having to put my knee against his back to do so because of the suction; gravity knives don’t have blood grooves. Then I wiped the blade on his shirt, and jammed it and the cash into my jacket pocket.

He collapsed onto the machine, and somehow managed to croak, “Please.”

“No sympathy here,” I told him, pushing open the security door. “Guys like me got no scruples.”

A lot of my readers like Herb, but for some reason I don’t enjoy using him in shorts as much as Jack, Harry, and Phin. This is a rare exception. I originally wrote this as a chapbook, to give away at writing conferences. It deals with Herb’s retirement, a topic later covered in greater detail in my novel
Dirty Martini.

“H
ow did you know pot roast is my favorite?”

Detective First Class Herb Benedict stepped into the kitchen, following the aroma. He gave his wife Bernice a peck on the cheek and made a show of sniffing deeply, then sighing.

“I’ve been making pot roast every Friday night for the past twenty-two years, and you say that every time you come home.”

Herb grinned. “What happens next?”

“You pinch me on the bottom, change into your pajamas, and we eat in the family room while watching HBO.”

“Sounds pretty good so far.” He gently tugged Bernice away from the stove and placed his hands on her bottom, squeezing. “Then what?”

Bernice gave Herb’s ample behind a pinch of its own.

“After HBO we go upstairs, and I force you to make love to me.”

Herb sighed. “A tough job, but I have to repay you for the pot roast.”

He leaned down, his head tilted to kiss her, just as the bullet plinked through the bay window. It hit the simmering pot with the sound of a gong, showering gravy skyward.

Herb reacted instinctively. His left hand grabbed Bernice and pulled her down to the linoleum while his right yanked the Sig Sauer from his hip holster and trained it on the window.

Silence, for several frantic heartbeats.

“Herb…”

“Shh.”

From the street came the roar of an engine and screaming tires. They quickly blended into Chicago traffic. Herb wanted to go have a look, but a burning sensation in his hip stopped him. He reached down with his free hand, feeling dampness.

“Herb! You’re been shot!”

He brought the fingers to his mouth.

“No—it’s juice from the pot roast. Leaked down the stove.”

Motioning for his wife to stay down, Herb crawled over to the window and peered out. The neighborhood was quiet.

He turned his attention to the stove top. The stainless steel pot had a small hole in the side, pulsing gravy like a wound.

Herb wondered which was worse; his Friday night plans ruined, or the fact that someone just tried to kill him.

He looked into the pot and decided it was the former.

“Dammit. The bastards killed my pot roast.”

He tore himself away from the grue and dialed 911, asking that they send the CSU over. And for the CSU to bring a pizza.

Officer Dan Rogers leaned over the pot, his face somber.

“I’m sorry, Detective Benedict. There’s nothing we can do to save the victim.”

Herb frowned around a limp slice of sausage and pepperoni. Over two dozen gourmet pizza places dotted Herb’s neighborhood, and the Crime Scene Unit had gone to a chain-store. The greasy cardboard box the pie came in probably had more flavor.

“You might think you’re amusing, but that’s an eighteen dollar roast.”

“I can tell. Look at how tender it is. It’s practically falling off the bone. And the aroma is heavenly. It’s a damn shame.”

Officer Hajek snapped a picture. “Shouldn’t let it go to waste. When you’re done, can I take it home for the dog?”

Herb watched Roberts attack the roast with gloved hands and wanted to cry at the injustice of it all. Another slice of pizza found its way into Herb’s mouth, but it offered no comfort.

“And…gotcha, baby!”

Rogers held up his prize with a pair of forceps. The slug was roughly half an inch long, shaped like a mushroom and dripping gravy.

It looked good enough to eat.

“I think it’s a 22LR. Must have been a high velocity cartridge. Punched a hole through the window without shattering it.”

Herb and Rogers exchanged a knowing look, but didn’t speak aloud because Bernice was nearby. Your typical gang member didn’t bring a rifle on a drive-by shooting. Twenty-two caliber long range high speeds were favored by hunters.

And assassins.

Herb’s mind backtracked over his career, of all the men he’d put away who held a grudge. After thirty-plus years on the force, there were too many to remember. He’d have to wade through old case files, cross-reference with recent parolees…

“Herb?”

“Hmm? Yes, Bernice?”

His wife’s face appeared ready to crack. Herb had never seen her so fragile before.

“I…I called the glazier. They’re open twenty-four-hours, so they’re sending someone right away to fix the window, but they might not be here until late, and I don’t know if—”

Herb took her in his arms, rubbed her back.

“It’s okay, honey.”

“It’s not okay.”

“You don’t have to worry. Look how big a target I am, and they still missed.”

“Maybe we should put an APB out for a blind man,” Hajek offered.

Bernice pulled away, forcefully.

“This isn’t a joke, Herb. You don’t know what it’s like, being a cop’s wife. Every morning, when I kiss you before you go to work, I don’t know if…”

The tears came. Herb reached for her, but Bernice shoved away his hands and hurried out of the kitchen.

Herb rubbed his eyes. No pot roast, no HBO, and certainly no nookie tonight. The evening’s forecast; lousy pizza and waiting around for the glass man.

Being a cop sure had its perks.

The alarm went off, startling Herb awake.

Bernice’s side of the bed remained untouched. She’d stayed in the guest room all night.

He found her in the kitchen, frying eggs. The stainless steel pot with the hole in it rested on top of their wicker garbage can, too large to fit inside.

“Smells good. Denver omelet?”

Bernice didn’t answer.

“The glass guy said that homeowner’s insurance should cover the cost. If you have time later today, can you give our agent a call? The bill is by the phone.”

Bernice remained silent, but began to furiously stir the eggs. They went from omelet to scrambled.

“There will be a squad car outside all day. Let me give you their number in case…”

“In case of what?” Bernice’s red eyes accused him. “In case someone tries to kill me? No one’s after me, Herb. I don’t have any enemies. I’m a housewife.”

Herb wanted to get up and hold her, but knew she wouldn’t allow it.

“I’ll also have an escort, all day. It’s standard procedure.”

“I don’t care about procedure.”

“There’s nothing more I can do, Bernice.”

“Yes there is. You can retire.”

Herb let the pain show on his face.

“I’ve got six more years until full pension.”

“Forget the full pension. We’ve got our savings. We’ve got our investments. We can make it work.”

“Bernice…”

“This isn’t about money, and you know it. You’ll never leave the Force. Not until they kick you out or…”

Bernice’s eyes locked on the holey pot.

Herb had no reply. He skipped breakfast, showered, shaved, and began to dress. Normally, Bernice laid out an ironed shirt for him.

Not today.

“I’ll be at the Center all day.”

Her voice startled Herb. She stood in the bedroom doorway, arms folded.

“I’d prefer if—”

“If I stay home? You go on with your life, and I have to hide in the house?”

Herb sighed.

“It’s my job, Bernice.”

“I see. Volunteering doesn’t count as a job because I’m not getting paid.”

“I didn’t say that.”

Bernice walked away. Herb took a shirt from the hanger and put it on, wrinkles and all. He instructed the team outside to follow Bernice wherever she went, and then waited for his escorts to arrive to take him to work.

“It could be a thousand different people.”

Herb’s partner, Lt. Jacqueline Daniels, looked up over the stack of printouts. Jack wore her brown hair up today, revealing gray roots. Her hands cradled a stained coffee mug.

“You only have yourself to blame, Herb. If you were a lousy cop, this pile would be a lot smaller.”

Herb blinked at the case files, a career’s worth, propped on the desk. Though the amount was substantial, it didn’t seem big enough. He opened another Twinkie and eased it in, wishing it was a Denver Omelet.

“I always wanted to be a cop. Even as a kid. I blame Dragnet. Joe Friday was my hero. I used to talk like him all the time. Drove my parents crazy.”

“You’ve got some Twinkie filling in your mustache, Mr. Friday.”

Herb wiped at his face. “Maybe I should transfer to Property Crimes. They never get death threats.”

“You just pushed it over two inches.”

Herb used his sleeve.

“What do you think, Jack?”

“Better, but now some of it is up your nose. Want to use my hand mirror?”

“I meant about the transfer.”

Jack set aside the report she’d been reading. “Seriously?”

“I’m a fin away from retirement. These are supposed to be my golden years. I should be golfing and taking cruises.”

“You hate golf. And the ocean.”

“I also hate getting shot at.”

Herb picked up a case file from a few years ago, gave it a token glance, and tossed it in the maybe pile. He could feel Jack staring at him, so he met her gaze.

“You think I’m crazy, don’t you? You think after two weeks at Property Crimes I’ll be going out of my mind with boredom.”