Jack Daniels Six Pack (176 page)

“Yeah, like that.”

“Once. Didn’t pay too well, and the guys were assholes.”

“Did you do it outlaw, no agency?”

“No, I went through a local place, called Laugh-O-Grams. They also send birthday party clowns and stuff. You thinking of trying that?”

“Just keeping my options open. Looking forward to seeing you.”

And Alex is. Men are fine, but women have their own par tic u lar flavor, and in many ways are more fun. Alex can’t wait to get into Samantha’s pants. It will be the perfect end to a perfect day.

CHAPTER 41

“
J
ACK! PUT ON YOUR DAMN SEAT BELT!”

The Bronco jumped a curb, clipped a mailbox, and then fishtailed back onto the street. We had three or four squad cars behind us, sirens blaring, hot pursuit. I had a bump on my forehead from whacking it against the dashboard. Not what I’d been hoping for. I wanted to get thrown through the front windshield and splattered on the pavement. Let it end already.

Phin reached over, his hand seeking my seat belt. Not the easiest thing to do while cruising fifty miles an hour down a heavily populated side street. I shoved his arm away. We were in a residential area, single-family homes with carefully manicured front lawns. A place where you’d get married and settle down.

Something I’d fucked up twice.

He stopped trying to save my life and instead fiddled with his police band. I caught the word
Staties
.

“They’re calling in the state cops. We’re screwed.”

I didn’t care. Getting arrested was the least of my worries.

“Come on, Jack. Give me a suggestion here.”

“Ditch the car.”

He made an aggressive lane change, my shoulder bouncing off the passenger door.

“And try to make it on foot? We have to lose them first.”

“You can’t lose them. Air support is next. They’ll plot your route, take out your tires, follow you until you run out of gas. It’s over.”

“I say when it’s over.”

Typical macho bullshit. I wasn’t surprised. But then Phin did do something that surprised me. He tapped the brakes, jerked the wheel, and cut across someone’s driveway, the four-wheel drive digging trenches in the sod.

I flinched when we hit the backyard fence, popping onto someone else’s property. We bounced across their front lawn, back onto the street, and then Phin did the same thing all over again.

“You’re going to kill someone.” I was clinging to the armrest.

We narrowly missed a swing set, Phin overcompensated, and we spun out, crunching through a dog house that I sincerely hoped was empty. Phin hit the gas, the Bronco lurched forward, and we tore through another backyard, down an embankment, and into a cornfield. This was feed corn, beige and dry and standing over ten feet tall. Rows, acres, miles, an endless ocean.

Driving through it was agonizing, because we couldn’t see any farther than the hood. At any moment it could have ended and we’d be in the middle of the street. Or in a school playground during recess.

Phin didn’t let up. He pushed the accelerator, ears and husks banging against the windshield with a rhythmic
thump-thump-thump-thump-thump
. First came some stress fissures. Then bigger cracks. Then the glass became one giant spiderweb, impossible to see through.

Phin kept the engine gunned.

“Okay. That’s enough.”

Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump.

“Phin—” I warned.

He ignored me, his fate determined, his jaw set.

“Goddamn it, Phin!”

He swerved hard, knocking me into him, the truck doing a 180, 360, 720, before stalling to a stop.

“Finally start caring again?” he asked.

I pushed myself off him.

“Asshole.”

Phin shifted in his seat, frowning at me. “I’m the asshole? You’re the one who wanted to give up.”

I turned on him, teeth bared, filling with rage.

“You’ve already given up. You aren’t living. You’re just existing. You don’t care about anything.”

“Keep telling yourself that, Jack. That I’m here with you because I don’t care about anything.”

Sure, he was here for me. And I just threw my career away to protect him. I didn’t see him kissing my ass for that.

“You’ve got it easy,” I said, low and mean. “Some of us have to deal with the consequences of our actions. Maybe I should just drop out of society. Start robbing banks. What’s the current street price of coke, Phin? We can get stoned out of our minds and go knock over a liquor store. The hell with tomorrow, right?”

Phin went very cold. “I hurt,” he said evenly.

“Welcome to the club.”

“I physically hurt, Jack. It’s like someone is stabbing me in the side. All day. Every day. The cocaine helps.”

“I bet it does.”

“You want to compare losing some loved ones to dying of cancer?”

“How would you know? You don’t love anyone.”

“You’re wrong. I love—”

“Don’t fucking say it,” I warned. “Don’t you dare fucking say it.”

He stared at me, hard, then slowly nodded. “I get it.”

I wanted to hit him. “You don’t get shit. You think I’m afraid to get close to you because I’m afraid I’ll lose you? Get over yourself. I don’t want to get involved with a drug-sniffing loser.”

“Then maybe you should stop calling me when you need help.”

I was done with this conversation. I grabbed my stuff and got out of the damn truck. I was ten yards into the corn before remembering I left
my rifle behind. Screw it. Let Phin keep the damn rifles. He could rob an old folks’ home, or sell them for cocaine.

Noise, from behind. I increased my pace.

Then a tug on my arm.

I whipped around, jammed my palm into his chest. Phin staggered backward.

“The lady doesn’t want to be touched,” I said, teeth clenched.

“The lady is acting like an asshole. You’re the only one in the world that hurts, is that it, Jack? And feeling sorry for yourself is the only way you can cope?”

“You don’t seem to be coping too well either.”

“I take it day by day. That’s all anyone can do.”

Day by day? What total crap.

“You’re one sorry SOB, you know that, Phin? You told me the sex wasn’t a mistake. You were wrong. It was a mistake. The latest in a long line of mistakes I’ve made. I’m through.”

“What about Alex? She wins?”

“You’re the big macho stud. You can handle her. I think you guys would make a really cute couple.”

I turned, and appropriate for my environment, stalked away. Phin made the mistake of grabbing my arm again.

I spun, whipping around my right leg, aiming to knock his sanctimonious head off. But he anticipated the move, already had his arm up over his head, and caught my foot in his armpit.

And then he made the biggest mistake of his life. He dropped my leg, took a quick step forward, and slapped me in the face.

Slapped me. Open-handed.

I felt my face go red, and not just the cheek he smacked. The hitting I didn’t mind. Hitting me meant he thought of me as an equal, that he could defend himself appropriately. But the fact that he actually pulled his punch—took it easy on me because I was a woman—that was infuriating. He didn’t think we were fighting. He thought he was
handling
some hysterical little girl.

That showed no respect for me at all. And I slept with this guy?

“Not smart,” I said. I dropped my gear.

“I’m sorry.” He put his hands up and backpedaled. “Did I hurt you?”

Apparently, he wanted to make it even worse. A breeze blew through the corn, making a peaceful, rustling sound. The sense of tranquility was shattered when I clenched my fists so tight we both heard my knuckles pop.

“If you want to hit me back, that’s fair.”

Jesus, he was just digging his own grave. Phin was lean, muscular, and had a few inches and maybe forty pounds on me. He could fight. I’d seen it. But I was a black belt, and I was beating up kids bigger than me while he was still in diapers.

I moved in with two quick steps, feinted left, then hit him with a left-right combo to the body. Phin brought up his fists, taking the shots on his shoulders. I jerked forward, head butting him between his arms, connecting with his jaw.

Phin kept his footing, but he was unsteady. I got a leg behind his and pushed, flipping him over my hip. He went down, hard, and I dropped a knee on his chest, fist poised to slam into his naked throat. A killing blow.

Instead, I opened my hand and slapped him across the mouth.

“You’re not worth a punch either,” I said.

He stared at me, stunned. I got up, grabbed my stuff, and stormed off.

“You’re mad because I slapped you and didn’t punch you?” he called after me. “You’re out of your goddamn mind!”

I didn’t dignify that with an answer. The more corn I got between us, the better off I was.

“Dammit, Jack! I didn’t punch you because I love you!”

I thought about yelling something back, but decided against it. I wanted the last words I ever said to Phineas Troutt to be the ones I’d already spoken. That’s all he deserved.

But even though he was out of my life, permanently, I had to begrudgingly thank him. Because of Phin, I was back to being angry.

Alex was going to suffer for what she did. I would make sure of it.

CHAPTER 42

“
O
H MY GOD!”
Samantha squeals. “Those boots are to die for!”

They’re bright shiny red, just like Superman wears, except these have stiletto heels and red fringe around the top. Might as well write
I’m a stripper
across the tops.

“And they’re only eighty bucks! I’m soooo buying these!”

“I think I’ll get a pair too,” Alex says, battling her reluctance and picking one up. She checks the insole.
Fabrique by Enrique Perez.
A nobody, with zero fashion sense.

“You’ll look totally hot in those, Gracie.”

Was Sammy just being friendly? Or flirting? “Thanks. So will you.”

“I know I’m in shape, but I don’t have definition like you do. You can see your leg muscles through your pants.”

Sammy runs a finger along Alex’s thigh. This is definitely flirting.

“I work out a lot.”

“I knew you did. Pilates?”

Alex pictures her martial arts kata, kicking and striking to break imaginary boards and bones.

“Something like that,” she answers.

“I’ve tried them all. Jazz-Kwon-Do. Swimmerobics. Tramp-O-Chi—that’s tai chi on a trampoline, not with tramps, which would be gross. The local gym has a Spankercize class, but I don’t think I want my personal trainer whacking my ass.”

“Might be fun.”

“Depends on the spanker,” Sam says, winking.

The clerk comes by, and they request two pairs of Enrique’s finest, in the same size. This naturally provokes a squeal of delight from Sam. How nice it must be to get excited over such trivial things. Half an hour ago, she practically died of plea sure because the mall sound system played a Muzak version of Nirvana.

“So where to next? We hit all boutiques in the mall. There’s a Boston Store. I think they have a sale going on.”

“I’m starving,” Alex says. “How about food?”

“I know this groovy little Thai place. They’ve got this green curry to die for. I love spicy foods. They make me hot.”

Alex smiles her half smile. “Then we have to try it. Can you drive?”

“Sure!”

Sam takes Alex’s arm, and they walk out of the mall, Sam yapping and giggling, Alex genuinely amused by this woman’s spirit and enthusiasm. The enthusiasm is dampened somewhat when they get to Sam’s car.

A Prius.

“It gets sixty miles per gallon. It’s so green. I’m all about the planet. People are destroying the earth. We all need to conserve, or there won’t be enough left for everyone.”

“Or we could just kill a lot of people.”

Sam raises an eyebrow at Alex, then begins to laugh.

“God, you’re so funny! I thought you were serious!”

Alex lets out a few chuckles, hoping they don’t sound as forced as they feel. When they’re in the car, Alex touches Sam’s arm.

“Samantha, I’m having a good time, and I don’t want to be reading you wrong. But you do like girls, right?”

“You mean sexually?”

Alex nods.

“Sure! I’m totally bi. I mean, guys are great, but most of them are really impatient, you know what I mean? Women know how to take their time. Don’t you think?”

Alex nods, but the truth is, she’s feeling pretty impatient right now too.

After dinner,
she tells herself.

They hold hands as Sam pulls out of the parking lot.

CHAPTER 43

A
FTER THREE HOURS
of sitting next to a cornfield, hiding every time a police car cruised by, I was almost grateful when the Crimebago pulled up.

Almost.

Harry parked alongside the street, and I entered cautiously, wincing at the noxious odor when I stepped inside. It smelled like Mighty Joe Young had run a marathon and then taken a bath in his own feces.

McGlade was standing next to the sofa, arms folded, frowning. I noticed Slappy’s cage was empty.

“Did you get rid of the macaque?” I asked, hopeful.

“No. He kept screaming and hitting himself in the face, so I let him out until he calmed down. Not my brightest idea.”

“Where is he?” I asked, casting ner vous rapid-fire glances around the RV.

“In the corner there. He learned a new trick.”

Slappy was propped against the wall, upside-down with his legs over his head. He was urinating, again, but this time he managed to catch most of it in his open mouth.

“That is one of the most disgusting things I’ve ever seen.”

“It gets worse,” McGlade said. “When he’s all done, he tries to spit it on you.”

Slappy began to make a gargling sound. For the first time ever, my cat Mr. Friskers didn’t seem so bad.

“Did you call Al’s Exotic Pets?”

“Al said all sales are final. Can’t really blame him.”