fucking over the booze usually—not your first one this early in the day. Save that shit for the lunch bunch. You go in like Eichord did and you get a nod and a howdy and if you don't respond to the “how y'all doin'?” with anything more than a nod and a “Daniel's rocks,” pause, money coming out on the counter, well hell's bells the ice is already meltin’ before you can get that motha up to your lips and over the gums.
The glow never disappoints. Never. Shit. THAT's what I like about the South. That Tennessee sippin’ delight ALWAYS hits. Pow. The fire never fails to light. Yes. YES GODDAMMIT YES. “Do it again.” All he could do not to smack his lips. The cozy amber womb. The dark morning bar with the salty boozer's smell thicker than the shafts of sunlight. Three solitary drinkers and a sleepy bartender who hadn't been open for an hour or two maybe tops— polishing, emptying, getting it ready for the lunch-hour crowd. Blue-collar drinkers. No conversation. You get a serious damn drinker in there this time of the day. Comin’ in for “triple vodka rocks,” black Jack, straight Scotch drinkers, guys wantin’ a double I. W. Harper with a beer back. People in there to get blitzed and feel it NOW. You got one thing this time of the day, you got bar rags.
Midway through his second one Jack got his shit pulled together to the extent his professional nature managed to swim to the surface for a minute and he recalled a piece of paper floating to the floor, and a phone rang and nudged an overlooked clue in his mind, and because Jack Eichord was one hellacious cop drunk sober or in between, he sees the words “WHO SAYS?” and it comes back in a flood of memory that washes through the booze-befuddled brain wrinkles. He remembers asking Ukie how come he hadn't talked to his brother that day as he saw in his mind's eye the monitor screen and the twins saying nothing. Staring at each other through the thick layers of glass and HOW COME you didn't speak to each other? and WHO SAYS WE DIDN'T? coming back and then the fist hits him in the heart. IN THE HEART and the recognition and pain and fear make him wince as he thinks his first solid thought about the perpetrator. Before there were suspicions but the bourbon and the rest of it contrived to keep it all liquid. No longer.
He knows now. Not all the whys and the wherefores. It is a horror so mysterious and so deep and so convoluted he may never be able to sort it all out. Not what the reporters call “deep background.” He'll just pray that he's right and that he can bring it all to a stop before there is more killing. And inside his head in a deathly whisper he speaks. He says, I haven't a shred of a hard clue. Not a fragment of worthwhile evidence that would hold up in any court. But I know now who and what you are. And you are MINE. And you're gonna fall. I promise. And—yes. What if.
And he picks up the phone and sets a plan in motion. Slo mo. Slooooooooow motion. Working carefully. Circumspectly. Walking softly. Carrying a BIG mother-fucker of a stick.
You are one of a kind. I don't know what made you this way but you are coming to a stop. This devious scheme! You have so much going for you, and why the hell you'd throw all that away for the fleeting, dangerous, hell-bound moments—the kill moments. Why? I can't imagine. Why put so much in jeopardy to hurt innocent, random human beings who'd done nothing to hurt you? Who offered you not one iota of personal gain by their deaths?
The thing was exploding. Even through the juice he could feel it coming down on him. Soon. Tomorrow. Tonight. This crazy mother was going to blow like a powder keg and, Noel, darlin', you don't want to be anywhere around when it does. You're treading in shark water, beautiful, and this piece of work doesn't feed he fucking CONSUMES. And now Eichord KNOWS—and it fills his blood with ice.
Even at this stage, far from the resolution of the case or so it appeared, the Grave-digger on the loose or in custody or perhaps BOTH ... he would leave nothing to chance.
Experts were reached out for through the tentacles of the task force. A guy who had a strange specialty: he hid things. Camouflage. He'd written books on how to find dope stashes. He'd helped secrete entire families away from the KGB, inside hollow walls and rooms within rooms. Hidden people from the Vopos at Checkpoint Charlie. They called him the Magician, because he could walk into a room and literally disappear. He was just one of the special team Jack had on the way to Dallas.
He would plan and scheme and lay his traps. But the truth was that Eichord had faith in only one crime- stopper. The big dark-haired flatfoot with the large shoulders and the broken nose. The one with all the scars. The one who looked “like a cop,” people told him. He looked at people a certain way. Wore his suits a little too long. That's the guy Eichord relied on when it came right down to it.
And the guy he trusted most didn't carry a Mach 4 Finjet blowgun-and-stun-wand, He didn't use porto-pak pain-field generators. He put his pain machine in a little holster. It was a steel thing patented by a couple of dudes named Smith and Wesson. It had a cylinder that revolved when you pulled the trigger and it made a very loud noise. Six times it did that. And if the projectiles found their mark you had yourself one hell of a little hand-held, portable, bite-your-lip-get-up-and-dance mother of a pain generator.
Because inside this soggy mesomorph was a soul. And a mind. Booze-battered, but still thinking. And the thoughts it thought were of another era and of another sensibility.
Jack belonged to soft hats in big, round Bond boxes and All Star Bond Rallies to aid the Sixth War Loan. He belonged to “Blue Tango” and Bix, Bud and Bird and Babe and “Begin the Beguine.” The Black Commando, the Black Widow, and Bob Steele and Bob Feller and Bowery Blitzkrieg and guys named Buck and Buzz and Brick Bradford, and boxtops to Battle Creek, and bad guys who made some fucking SENSE. The kind of warped, demoniacal monstrosity who could go and waste a hundred random lives was a thing out of the fucking comic books.
Eichord fished out more change. The plastic was beginning to hurt his ear. He gritted his teeth and dialed.
“Jones-Seleska, one moment please.” Buzzing of killer bees.
“Thank you,” after a pause. “May I help you please?'
“Noel Collier, please.'
“One moment, please.'
“Mizz Collier's office, Anna Stevenson, may I help you?'
“Noel Collier, please, this is urgent police business.'
“Right. Okay. Just one moment please.” She didn't ask who it was. A few seconds and he heard Noel's voice on the line.
“This is Noel Collier.'
“Don't hang up yet. I know you're angry and you have every right to be. Just give me thirty seconds.” He paused, waiting for her to say, “Fuck you, eat shit and die, your job is hanging by a thread, I'm putting a contract on your life,” or more likely the cold electronic click that signaled a dead phone line. Nothing. Not even a deep sigh.
“I won't keep you or even to try to apologize. I know that you see me as somebody who got out of line and that's true enough. In that spirit,” he lied, “I guarantee that I will NEVER bother you again ... NEVER surveil Joe Hackabee in any manner ... never tail, monitor, or in any way, shape, or form, bother either of you—'
She interrupted him. “Mr. Eichord, I'm afraid you have a serious problem and I'm sorry that—'
“No, I do,” he interjected quickly before he could get pissed and blow it. “No question. I'm not only aware of it I've resolved to take care of it and something IS being done about it and I mean NOW. I only want one thing and I'll leave you be. Very simple. I'm a cop first and last—okay?'
“So?'
“All I ask is to keep you, to keep my bosses, to keep us all smilin’ and laughin’ and scratchin'—I stay away from both of you—all I ask is
“Fair enough,” she said, totally unconvinced, “and now I do have your assurance that—'
“AbsoLUTELY you have that assurance. You'll never hear from me or see me—guaranteed.'
She said, “All right,” and the connection was severed. And he had accomplished what he wanted to do. Eichord wasn't too good to kiss some ass when necessary. And when it looked as good as hers did ... But it went against his grain all the same.
He would like to have been able to tell the truth to this cold lady and watch her face while he told her. See what her reaction would be. But he'd forgo that luxury. Still, he'd just about had it with the telephones. One more call and he'd have to get away from the telephone before he barfed into the hunk of plastic. He had managed to embarrass himself so badly at every turn on this damn case.
He wanted to go back and lose himself at the bar, but he forced his fingers to move toward the coin slot of
