Shot of Tequila (20 page)

“I don’t know. Are you gonna order that pizza?”

“I’ll give you another hint. They open up twice as many in the winter time.”

A light came on behind Benedict’s eyes.

“A homeless shelter. We’ve got a record-breaking freeze in the city. The shelters are all jammed with the homeless. All he’d need was a ratty coat and he could hide there all winter.”

“Call the mayor’s office, get a list of all the shelters in the area. I’ll organize some search teams.”

“How about the pizza?”

Jack picked up the phone again.

“We’ll order it to go,” she said.

T
equila awoke smelling urine. He’d slept poorly. Twice, winos had attempted to steal his shoes, and once someone even tried to take his bag filled with money, which he’d been using as a pillow.

He’d dissuaded such action forcefully, each time breaking the would-be thief’s nose. He would have broken their fingers to teach them to stop stealing, but they were homeless, and this was winter, and taking away their hands would be unnecessarily cruel. He was, after all, on their turf to begin with.

The shelter was located on Wabash, ten blocks from where he’d landed on Oak Street beach. To say it was crammed was an understatement. Normally the large main room, which had once been an art gallery back in the twenties, held ninety cots. It now was privy to twice that number, and as many as three people slept to a cot. The heat was being cranked, and a sweaty, cheap wine-vomit-piss stench seemed to float in the air like a tropical fog. The huddled, ragged bodies sprawled all over everything reminded Tequila of a rat’s nest.

He’d checked in early this morning, figuring neither the police nor the mob would search for him here. Homeless shelters, like the homeless themselves, were invisible unless you made an effort to notice them. The supervising Salvation Army worker, exhausted and uncaring, had barely looked at Tequila when he’d entered. Shelters were usually run tighter, but with the recent life-threatening cold spell they’d been letting in anyone at all. Tequila simply gave a false name, said he’d been kicked out of his apartment, and the man provided him with a worn grey cotton blanket that smelled of disinfectant and told him not to start any trouble.

Tequila sat up in his cot and stretched his muscles. He hurt. His twisted ankle seemed to bulge and ache with every heartbeat. The shoulder he’d dislocated was stiff and swollen. The skin on his palms was raw, and he had scrapes on both knees, both elbows, and his left hip. His muscles felt like boards, and he didn’t feel rested in the least, even though he’d been there for almost seven hours.

He stretched, wincing at the kaleidoscope of pain that bloomed throughout his body. Then he began with his neck and methodically stretched every muscle group and flexed every joint. He worked his way down his back to his stomach and pelvis, and then did his shoulders, arms, elbows, wrists, hands, and fingers. Then he worked the stiffness from his hips, knees, legs, feet, and toes. By the time he had finished the warm-up his aches were bearable, and he’d gathered an audience of eight or nine street people, their faces curious rather than hostile.

“Were you some kinda athlete?” a filthy, bearded man in a stained overcoat asked.

Tequila ignored him. He didn’t want to be remembered here, in case someone came around asking questions. Especially since he’d probably be back again. Until his job was finished, this was a good place to lay low. Maybe, if getting Marty took longer than he’d anticipated, he could answer an ad in the paper and rent an apartment for a month or two. But in the meantime he was going to bounce around Chicago’s homeless shelters, and the fewer people who noticed him the better.

Tequila walked through the circle of street people, his bag in hand, his agenda posted up in his mind as if someone had tacked a list to the inside of his skull. First, find a bathroom and a shower. While this had been an alright place to spend the night, lice notwithstanding, he’d seen the washrooms on his arrival and they left a lot to be desired in the way of sanitary conditions.

He buttoned up his starter jacket and left the shelter.

His original idea was to hit the YMCA where he once worked, but it could be under surveillance by one or both of the factions he was trying to avoid. There was only one other place he knew where he could get a shower, and he’d risk being seen there. But he didn’t have much in the way of choices.

It was eight blocks away, and the tears in his clothes made his walk even colder than it should have been. It was a dry cold, one that cracked skin and chapped ears and split lips. Pulling out his ID, he welcomed the heated lobby and hoped the attendant didn’t look too closely at the dirt and blood caked all over his person.

She was flirting with some muscular program director and ran his membership card through the scanner without even glancing his way.

Tequila took the escalator up to the second floor of the fitness club and went to the men’s locker room. His first order of business was to use the bathroom. Afterwards, he traded his card for a clean towel and a padlock, and then found an open locker and began to strip.

This was risky, because many of Marty’s people liked to work out here. It had been Marty who’d gotten him the membership. Tequila just hoped that all of them would be with Marty right now during his time of crisis, rather than lurking around here someplace. If he could have gone without a shower, he would have, but in the daytime it was too obvious that the stains all over him were blood rather than dirt, and that might attract unwanted attention.

Snapping the padlock shut, Tequila walked naked with his towel and his lock key to the showers. Finding a solitary one in the corner, he turned it up to scorch and let the hot water revitalize him.

Dirt and blood swirled around his feet as he showered. He thought of the many times he’d taken showers here before, after workouts, and how life had seemed so different then. Or maybe not life so much, but his attitude towards life. Even though Tequila had always been a pretty tough bastard, he’d still known when Marty hired him years ago that Marty was one of the bad guys. He hadn’t cared. The money was good, and Tequila was treated adequately. He figured that if something better ever came along, he’d take it, but for the time being it was fine.

Now Sally was dead, and it was probably Tequila’s fault as much as Marty’s. If you keep company with dogs, one day you’ll eventually get bitten. Except he wasn’t the one who suffered. It had been his poor, innocent sister.

He soaped the wounds on his body, stripping away the filthy scabs with his scrubbing. The reason he’d taken the job with Marty was because he thought it would benefit Sally. But if he’d really cared about his sister, shouldn’t he have gotten a different job? One that allowed him to stay home with her, rather than having to hire China? What did Sally care about an $1800 a month apartment? Wouldn’t she have wanted to spend more time with him instead?

Tequila knew that he’d not only killed his sister, but failed her as well. He wasn’t any better than his old man after all. The sins of the father became the sins of the son.

He finished rinsing and began to dry off, the towel soon becoming pink with blood. Tequila didn’t notice. He was too busy preoccupied with this new feeling he was experiencing. Guilt. He’d never questioned his actions before. He’d never deeply analyzed his motivations. And now, in the shower room at Remmy’s Health Club, he was having a dual attack of the should-have-dones and could-have-beens.

Tequila walked slowly back to his locker, so into beating himself up that he didn’t notice the massive form of Terco enter the locker room.

Terco’s idea had been the same as Tequila’s. He’d spent the night at
Spill
, and since Marty needed him on call and his home was half an hour away, Terco had come here to take a shower and change into the set of spare clothes that he always kept in his locker to wear after a workout.

The bodybuilder passed Tequila up without noticing him, absorbed in his own thoughts. He stopped six lockers down the same row and began to open his combination lock as Tequila got dressed.

The men noticed each other at the same time. Terco’s attention was drawn by Tequila’s familiar blond crew cut, and Tequila’s reverie was broken when he noticed he was being stared at.

Both recoiled in shock and surprise. Tequila considered the .38 in his money bag, the one that he’d taken from Terco. It was empty, but he might be able to use it to threaten.

He didn’t have a chance to try, because the big man was charging at him within an intstant.

Terco had no fear, even though Tequila had thoroughly trounced him their last meeting. All he could see was the smile on Marty’s face when he brought Tequila in. Driven by the urge to please his master, he reached out to snatch Tequila’s shirt.

Tequila dodged the move and brought his foot up into Terco’s face. It had about as much effect as a slap, and Terco shrugged it off. Not only was Tequila barefoot, not having gotten around to putting on his shoes yet, but his ankle still hurt too much to be an effective weapon. He switched legs and kicked out with his good foot, but this put all his weight on the bad ankle. Even though he solidly connected with Terco’s ribs, Tequila fell onto his ass.

Terco reeled slightly from the second kick, but then he was lashing out with his own foot at Tequila on the floor. He whacked Tequila hard in his dislocated shoulder and rolled him across the wet tile several yards away. The grunt Tequila emitted energized Terco, and the big man hurried after him.

Seeing stars, Tequila used the momentum of his roll to gain his footing, just in time to face the charging Terco. Since he couldn’t use his feet too well, Tequila adopted a boxing stance and planted them far apart. As Terco neared, Tequila twisted his upper body and snapped a right cross at the big man’s ear.

Terco got his arm up to block the punch, but Tequila followed it immediately with a left to the kidney, putting all of his weight and strength into the blow. The hit doubled Terco over, and Tequila jumped high into the air with his knee up, smacking it solidly into Terco’s jaw.

Patches of light winked before Terco’s eyes, and his knees buckled and wobbled. Tequila took careful aim and popped Terco in the bridge of the nose, trying to shatter the cartilage and force some into the brain to kill him.

He broke Terco’s nose, but death didn’t occur. The sight of his own blood seemed to energize the bodybuilder, and before Tequila could follow up the punch Terco lashed out with his long muscular legs and sent Tequila spinning over to the sinks.

Tequila bounced into an automatic hand dryer and hit the floor hard. He noted it smelled like foot sweat and urine while trying to stop the spinning in his head long enough to get up. He was on his knees when Terco reappeared, gore streaming from his nose in two flowing ribbons, plastering his T-shirt to his well-defined chest.

“This time I’m going to break your legs so you can’t run away again.”

Terco grinned. The blood ran over his smiling mouth and soaked his teeth. Tequila saw the familiar pivot of his opponent’s hips, knowing he was going for that reverse kick he seemed so fond of.

The predictability of the move pleased Tequila. Terco might have been a black belt, but to Tequila he seemed more like a one trick pony. He probably relied more on size and strength than skill to win his bouts. The reverse kick seemed to be the only decent move in his oeuvre.

Tequila ducked the kick easily and got to his feet while Terco righted his stance.

“You couldn’t hit me with that kick if I was tied up and asleep,” Tequila taunted. He moved next to the hand blower as he spoke, hoping his body hid the metal object from Terco’s sight.

“Oh yeah?” Terco hated the reply as soon as it left his lips. Stallone would have been ashamed too. But he still moved in, ready to kick the little man into the next century.

Tequila saw his hips pivot, then he dropped down under the automatic hand dryer.

He had to give Terco some credit, because his kick knocked the dryer clean off the wall. It had been bolted on solidly too, and caulked as well. But steel was still harder than flesh and bone, and Terco broke five bones in his foot hitting the blower.

The bodybuilder felt nothing at first but nausea, which told him what he’d done and warned him of the pain to come. He held the foot before him without resting it on the floor, as if he’d just stepped in dog crap and was looking for a place to scrape it off.

Tequila, on his knees, took the offering and lunged at the wounded foot, grabbing it in both hands and twisting it with his entire body.

Terco screamed, the pain hitting like a jackhammer. He crumpled to the ground and lashed out with his good foot, trying to kick Tequila off. The small man held firm, twisting and turning the broken foot until a few more bones snapped.

By now, the two had drawn the attention of the entire locker room. Two jocks, tan and buff and thinking their pecs made them invincible, conspired to pull Tequila away from the bigger guy.

One of them went to grab Tequila’s right arm, and the other zeroed in on his left.