“There was supposed to be a bonus for making it messy.”
“Oh, it's in there, my friend. I'm sure you'll be quite pleased. You can count it, if you like.”
I shook my head.
“I trust you.”
I turned to walk out, but Artie's men stayed in front of the door.
If Artie was more psychotic than I guessed, he could easily kill me right there, and I couldn't do a damn thing to stop him. I lied about having a partner, and the line about his street rep was just ego stroking.
I braced myself, deciding to go for the guy on the left first.
“One more thing, Mystery Man,” Artie said to my back. “You wouldn't have made any copies of that ledger, maybe to try and grease me for more money sometime in the future?”
I turned around, gave Artie my cold stare.
“You think I would mess with you?”
His eyes drilled into me. They no longer held any amusement. They were the dark, hard eyes of a man who has killed many people, who has done awful things.
But I'd done some awful things, too. And I made sure he saw it in me.
“No,” Artie finally decided. “No, you wouldn't mess with me.”
I tilted my head, slightly.
“A pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Collins.”
The thugs parted, and I walked out the door.
#
When I got a safe distance away, I counted the money.
Fifteen thousand bucks.
I dropped by Manny's, spent two gees on coke, and did a few lines.
The pain in my side became a dim memory.
Unlike pills, cocaine took away the pain and let me keep my edge.
These days, my edge was all I had.
I didn't have to wait for someone to leave Buster's apartment this time; he buzzed me in.
“Jazz is in the shower,” he told me.
“Did you dump the bag?”
“In the river, like you told me. And I mailed out those photocopies to the cop with the alcohol name.”
He gave me a beer, and Jasmine walked into the living room, wrapped in a towel. Her face and collarbone were still stained red from the stage blood.
“What now?” she asked.
“You're dead. Get the hell out of town.”
I handed her a bag filled with five thousand dollars. She looked inside, then showed it to Buster.
“Jesus!” Buster yelped. “Thanks, man!”
Jasmine raised an eyebrow at me. “Why are you doing this?”
“If you're seen around here, Artie will know I lied. He won't be pleased. Take this and go back home. Your parents are looking for you.”
Jasmine's voice was small. The voice of a teenager, not a strung-out street whore.
“Thank you.”
“Since you're so grateful, you can do me one a small favor.”
“Anything.”
“Your friend. Ajax. I think she wants out of the life. Take her with you.”
“You got it, Buddy!” Buster pumped my hand, grinning ear to ear. “Why don't you hang out for a while? We'll tilt a few.”
“Thanks, but I have some things to do.”
Jasmine stood on her tiptoes, gave me a wet peck on the cheek. Then she whispered in my ear.
“You could have killed me, kept it all. Why didn't you?”
She didn't get it, but that was okay. Most people went through their whole lives without ever realizing how precious life was. Jasmine didn't understand that.
But someday she might.
“I don't kill people for money,” I told her instead.
Then I left.
#
All things considered, I did pretty good. The blood, latex scars, and fake knife cost less than a hundred bucks. Pizza and beer for Jack came out to fifty. The money I gave to Ajax wasn't mine in the first place, and I already owned the master keys, the badge, and the Polaroid camera.
The cash would keep me in drugs for a while.
It might even take me up until the very end.
As for Artie Collins…word on the street, his bosses weren't happy about his arrest. Artie wasn't going to last very long in prison.
I did another line and laid back on my bed, letting the exhilaration wash over me. It took away the pain.
All the pain.
Outside my window, the city sounds invaded. Honking horns. Screeching tires. A man coughing. A woman shouting. The el train rushing past, clackety-clacking down the tracks louder than a thunder clap.
To most people, it was background noise.
But to me, it was music.
The One That Got Away
Brilliance Audio does the books on tape for the Jack series, and every year they let me read an extra short story to include with the audio version. Sort of like a DVD bonus. This was included on the audio of Whiskey Sour. I thought it would be interesting to revisit the Gingerbread Man, the villain from that book, through the point-of-view of a victim.
A steel crossbeam, flaking brown paint.
Stained PVC pipes.
White and green wires hanging on nails.
What she sees.
Moni blinks, yawns, tries to turn onto her side.
Can't.
The memory comes, jolting.
Rainy, after midnight, huddling under an overpass. Trying to keep warm in hot pants and a halter top. Rent money overdue. Not a single john in sight.
When the first car stopped, Moni would have tricked for free just to get inside and warm up.
Didn't have to, though. The guy flashed a big roll of twenties. Talked smooth, educated. Smiled a lot.
But there was something wrong with his eyes. Something dead.
Freak eyes.
Moni didn't do freaks. She'd made the mistake once, got hurt bad. Freaks weren't out for sex. They were out for pain. And Moni, bad as she needed money, wasn't going to take a beating for it.
She reached around, felt for the door handle to get out.
No handle.
Mace in her tiny purse, buried in condoms. She reached for it, but the needle found her arm and then everything went blurry.
And now...
Moni blinks, tries to clear her head. The floor under her is cold. Concrete.
She's in a basement. Staring up at the unfinished ceiling.
Moni tries to sit up, but her arms don't move. They're bound with twine, bound to steel rods set into the floor. She raises her head, sees her feet are also tied, legs apart.
Her clothes are gone.
Moni feels a scream building inside her, forces it back down. Forces herself to think.
