Last Call - A Thriller (Jacqueline "Jack" Daniels Mysteries Book 10) (25 page)

Whatever the racist’s last thought was, Phin blew it out the back of his head.

He immediately dropped the DoubleTap, raising his hands above his head as the guards swarmed around him and the beating began.

Just as he was starting to black out, he saw Luther stand up…

…extend his hand…

…and turn his thumb down.

D
on’t kill him,” Lucy said, turning to K and touching his bony arm.

“He cheated.”

“Hanover isn’t who he says he is. Those were his boots that guard was wearing. What kind of man has a gun hidden in his boots? He could be a cop. CIA. Interpol. If you kill him, you could be compromising Emilio’s whole operation.”

K stared at her.

“Let me take him to the playroom,” Lucy said. “I can make him talk. After we know who he is, you can do what you want to with him.”

“People lost money on this match.”

“Call it a disqualification. All bets are off. We have to know who this guy is, K.”

His eyes still on Lucy, K switched his hand gesture from thumbs-down to thumbs-up.

Lucy grinned her lopsided grin. “Can I bang the gong?”

He nodded. She took his staff and rapped the fake skull against the brass, the sound ringing out across the arena.

The guards ceased their assault on Hanover and stood at attention. K made a hand gesture, and they dragged the unconscious man out of the arena.

“You’d better find out something,” K said.

Lucy narrowed her eye. That was the second time in as many days that K had threatened her.

She valued her freedom. But more than that, Lucy valued her life.

And she wasn’t going to let some broken crackpot overlord in some petty desert fiefdom take away either.

“I think you’ll be surprised at what I’m able to do,” Lucy told him.

Unpleasantly surprised.

M
istakes were made.

Donaldson checked his reflection in the rearview mirror. His ruined eye still had the corkscrew in it, and it hung to cheek-level because Donaldson had forgotten to take the optic nerve into account. It stretched like pink chewing gum, keeping his eye attached to his brain.

And it was strong. Yanking wasn’t getting him anywhere.

Donaldson’s stomach lurched and he dry-heaved, having thrown up the last of the Gansitos moments after beginning the self-surgery.

The worst part was; not only could he still feel the corkscrew twisted into his eyeball, he was also able to see through it a little bit, and stared at a blurred, foggy image of his lower lip.

What he needed to do was pull as hard as he could, and hope he didn’t tear out his frontal lobe.

Donaldson sucked in as deep a breath as he could…

Gripped the corkscrew tight…

And noticed the needle nose pliers on the passenger seat.

The pliers had a wire cutter in the jaws.

He blew out the breath he’d been holding. Cutting seemed like a much better way to sever the optic nerve than yanking.

As it turned out, that assumption was incorrect. The cheap wire cutters were dull, and didn’t work well on tissue.

It took Donaldson ten minutes of squeezing and twisting to detach his eye. The process might have gone quicker, but he kept passing out from the agony.

Live and learn. If it happened again, he’d yank.

Or maybe go to a doctor.

With one dollar and seventeen cents left of his life savings, Donaldson limped back into the OXXO to get a needle and thread.

The needle and thread was $1.50.

“Give me a break, man,” Donaldson told the clerk. “I need to sew my eye socket shut.”

“Tiene que ir a un medico.”

“Same to you, asshole.”

He settled for a ninety-nine cent bottle of superglue.

Back in the car, he liberally applied glue to his bleeding, empty eye socket, then pinched it closed until it dried, sealing the wound.

Donaldson was pleased with himself for all of three seconds. That was when he discovered his fingers were stuck to his face.

T
he text from McGlade said he was parked in front. I texted Tequila, tipped the maid, and met Harry outside of the hotel with my bag. I knocked on the Crimebago side door, and Herb Bacondict answered.

“Swaaaaa,” he said, sniffing at me with his round, moist snout.

“He answers the door?”

McGlade appeared behind him. “I taught him to let himself out so he stops shitting in the RV. Pigs are smarter than dogs. Next I’m going to teach him how to bark and fetch.”

“Why don’t you just get a dog?”

Harry’s face scrunched up. “Huh. Never thought of that.”

Herb moved aside, allowing me to enter.

“What the hell happened?” I asked, looking around. The seats were all torn to bits, the carpeting in shreds, curtains pulled down and torn up. It looked like a tornado hit.

“Funny story,” Harry said. “So Herb Bacondict and I were under our bro blanket—”

“Your what?”

“Our bro blanket. It’s a blanket, that bros share.”

“And what do bros do under the bro blanket?”

“We bro-out.”

“Of course you do.” No point in questioning him further. It wasn’t like things would get less stupid.

“So we were broing-out under the bro blanket, riding the pot cookie wave, and then Herb got a hog-sized case of the munchies and pretty much ate every piece of fabric in the Crimebago.”

“Why didn’t you stop him?”

“I was laughing too hard.”

“Of course you were.”

“I peed myself,” Harry said. “Twice.”

“It’s great we can be open like this.”

“I know, right? Then Herb ate my Chewboxers.”

“Your what?”

“My Chewbacca boxer shorts. Chewboxers. I soaked Chewie’s bowcaster so I took them off, and Herb ate them. It was hysterical.”

“You need to look up
shame
in the dictionary, and then find yourself some.”

“I’m not a role model, Jack. I’m a cautionary tale. Which is a lot more fun.”

“Mmm-hmm,” I said, ignoring him by this point. “We can’t drive to Mexico in this.”

“I’ve already got it covered. After a quick clean up I can refurnish, then we’re on the road again.”

“It will take days to get all of this repaired, McGlade. Maybe weeks.”

“I was just going to stop at Target. A few beanbags, a couple of mattresses, a new bro blanket…”

I shook my head, emphatically. “No way.”

“We need a new bro blanket. We can’t bro-snuggle out in the open. Society isn’t mature enough to accept a man-hog brolationship.”

“I’m not traveling in this—quite literal—pig sty. Tequila and I are going to the airport. We’ll meet you in Mexicali.”

“What about Katie?”

“She’s out.”

“Maybe you guys need some broette time.”

“Good idea,” I said. “We’ll pick up a broette hammock and have a nice, long swing.”

“They sell those? Awesomepants!” Harry narrowed his eyes. “Wait, are you being sarcastic? I can’t tell. I’m still pretty high.”

“See you in Mexico,” I said, opening one of the overhead compartments and adding my Colt Python to the duffle bag of firearms I’d brought along. “Don’t let Herb eat any of my guns.”

“I’ll put them in the trap.”

“And don’t let Katie come with you. She was arrested last night, buying heroin.”

McGlade didn’t appear to be listening, his attention focused on tapping his cell phone. “How many
Ms
are in
hammock
?”

“Don’t let Katie come with, McGlade. She’s a heroin addict.”

“Yeah yeah, Katie, heroin, arrested, got it. I can’t find any bro hammocks on Google. I found
ham hocks
. Yikes.” He put his fake hand over Herb’s eyes. “Don’t look, bro hog. It could be someone you know. And they look…
delicious
.”

I left the Crimebago, finding Tequila standing in the parking lot.

“We’re flying,” I told him. “Drop your weapons off inside and watch out for McGlade. He’s stoned and feeling bromantic.”

Tequila stepped inside, and I heard Harry exclaim, “Buddy! The ladies have bowed out, so it’s a three-way Brofest all the way to Baja!”

Tequila came back out within eight seconds. “Cab?”

“Calling one now.”

We walked back to the hotel lobby, and Katie was sitting there, reading a local newspaper. She saw us come in, tucked the paper under her arm, picked up her bag, and approached.

“Any chance you’ve changed your mind, Jack?” she asked.

“No.”

“What if I had some information about Luther Kite that you don’t know? Information that can help find him?”

“If it leads to his arrest, I’ll put in a good word so you get the first prison interview.”

“I’d rather come along.”

“No.”

“I know why Kite is in Mexico.”

I kept my face neutral. Tequila had wandered over to the front desk, and began helping himself to a complimentary bowl of apples.

“Years ago, he traveled with another killer named Orson,” Katie said. “They wandered over North America. Killing. Stealing. Even picking up occasional jobs. My research led me to believe they wound up in Baja for a bit, doing freelance interrogation work for some of the crime bosses.”

“Cab’s here,” Tequila said, his mouth full.

Katie pleaded with her eyes. I felt my resolve weakening, and glanced at Tequila. He shook his head.

“I’ve been clean for thirty years,” she said.

“No such thing as an ex-junkie.” Tequila glanced at me and mimed breaking something in half.

I shook my head. “Katie, this isn’t personal. I really do wish you the best. And I hope you get the help you need. I mean that. Goodbye.”

I turned to leave. Katie said, “This isn’t over, Jack.”

I kept walking, Tequila at my side.

“You’re going to think about this moment later,” Katie said after us. “And wish you’d made a different call.”

“Take me ten seconds, tops, to break both her legs,” Tequila said out of the corner of his mouth.

“I thought you weren’t a sadist.”

“I’m not. I’m a survivor. And there’s something off about her.”

I didn’t tell Tequila, but I felt it, too.

The more distance we could put between us and Katie Glente, the better.