'Jack!'
I turned to see Phin soaring at me, his face total panic. He flew past and smacked hard into Tattoo Boy. They rolled to the floor.
'Now it's your turn,' Bluto spat. He grinned, exposing several gaps where teeth used to live, and picked up a bar stool like it was made of balsa.
I backpedaled until I found a stool of my own. Bluto charged, raising his stool above his head and bringing it down on me like a war hammer. I managed to block it, but the force knocked me onto my ass. Pain shot up from my coccyx to the base of my skull, traveling along my spine like a lightning bolt. My vision blurred. I blinked away tears. Never, in my whole life, had my butt hurt so much.
A huge hand reached down and grabbed my sweatshirt, hauling me up to my feet. I focused on the other hand, cocked back in a fist the size of my entire face.
Not able to twist away, I turned my head down. Knuckles met the top of my skull. Everything went black for a moment. Then I was on the floor.
I heard sirens in the distance, getting closer. Bluto was howling, holding his bleeding right hand by the wrist.
I blinked. Phin walked up to the giant, taking a pool cue from a nearby table. He bounced the heavy end of the cue off of Bluto's temple. Bluto's eyes fluttered briefly and then he crumpled to the ground.
Phin tossed the cue to the floor and picked up his beer from the table rail. In all the excitement, it hadn't fallen off. I looked to the right and saw Tattoo Boy sprawled out like a throw rug, his leg at a funny angle.
And the good guys win it in overtime.
'You okay?' Phin asked.
'Assholes ruined the best pool game of my life.'
He took a sip of beer and then handed me the bottle. I drained the rest.
People began to gather, coming out of their hiding places now that the trouble was over. I took a few tentative steps forward, testing my body. I hurt in a dozen places, especially my butt and my head, but nothing seemed broken.
Cop mode switched on, and I went to Tattoo Boy and patted him down for weapons. He had a switchblade, which I took. I did the same with Goatee, and got a knife and a set of brass knuckles for my efforts.
Finally, I bent over the sleeping giant and my heart skipped a beat.
In his jacket pocket, broken in three large pieces, was a gingerbread man cookie.
Chapter 14
THE QUESTIONING BEGAN AT THE HOSPITAL. After a doctor looked me over and declared I'd live, I joined my fellow officers in the interrogation process. Captain Bains had shown up, as had Benedict, the Feebies, several people from the mayor's office, and the assistant district attorney.
We went by the book and wore our kid gloves to avoid messing up a possible conviction. A judge was called and warrants were issued to search the suspects' homes. Lawyers were present during questioning, and in a rare turn of events, they felt full confessions were in the best interests of their clients.
The guy with the earrings had sustained a concussion from the eight-ball sandwich I'd fed him, and he'd be out for a while. But Bluto and Tattoo Boy were conscious and able to talk. And talk they did.
But when all was said and done, with all of our caution and persistence, we were left with little more than when we'd begun.
Bluto and his buddies had been hired to break my legs. They'd been given a photo of me, my address, and cash to share among them. I'd been tailed to Joe's from my apartment, which they'd been watching, and after finishing their intended beating they were supposed to leave the gingerbread man cookie with me.
They didn't know the man who hired them. They didn't know about the Jane Doe murder. Their residences were searched and came up clean. Their alibis for the time of Jane Doe's murder were tight. Their only crime, other than assault and battery on a police officer, was extreme stupidity at having stumbled into so much trouble for so little cash. It wouldn't even begin to cover their doctor bills, let alone legal representation.
They'd been brokered by a man named Floyd Schmidt, who operated a goon-for-hire service out of a bar on Maxwell Street. Floyd was initially uncooperative when we brought him in, but he quickly agreed to talk about anything and everything to avoid being implicated in the Jane Doe murder.
A man had come to see him at the bar, offering five hundred dollars to cripple me. Floyd could give no description other than the fact that he was white, average height, between twenty and forty years old.
'I swear, I never looked at the guy. This business, you look at people, they get uncomfortable, don't want to use your services.'
No one was too surprised.
The gingerbread man cookie was the same type as the one found with Jane Doe's body. The picture of me had been processed by someone in a private darkroom rather than a commercial house. We managed to recover two of the original hundred-dollar bills used to pay for Floyd's service. We used an ALS to try and photograph fingerprints, but only lifted a set from Bluto.
In other words, we had zip.
I was exhausted, aching, and generally cranky. Herb suggested I go home. Seeing no reason to argue, I did.
And of course, I couldn't sleep.
Some Tylenol helped with my various aches, many of which had stiffened up since the fight. But even with my energy meter at 0.0, I couldn't completely relax.
