Death by the Book - Lenny Bartulin [67]
‘You must be one of the five smartest people in the world.’
‘I don’t give a fuck why he stabbed you,’ spat Peterson. ‘He took the job. All systems go. Kasprowicz gets the fuck out of town. You’re so dedicated to your work you get yourself invited to the apartment to see everything’s been done right. And what do you find? Kass is dead and, hey shit, so is Rory! What a bonus! You’re in the money now and no witnesses. How am I going so far?’
Jack hauled on his cigarette and then stubbed it out. The day had barely started and already it was up to his neck.
‘That’s a good story, Detective,’ he said. ‘Some twists and turns, some interesting characters. Motive’s a little thin, though.’
‘Not for Glendenning.’
Jack tried a grin. ‘But the nice thing about writing stories is at least you can make yourself good-looking.’
Peterson burnt his eyes into Jack’s. Half-a-dozen seconds ticked by slowly, as though a grandfather clock was in the room, marking time with long, ominous strokes.
The detective walked over and stood behind the Eames chair. He leaned in towards Jack’s ear and spoke in a nasty whisper. ‘What about the daughter? She good in the sack, Jackie boy? She part of the deal?’
Surprised, Jack turned his head a little towards Peterson. ‘Why? You short on masturbation fantasies?’
There was a slight rush of air. An instant later the slap that caused it landed on Jack’s right cheek. It snapped his head round to his left shoulder. His face lit up and glowed hot, as though a row of firecrackers had been set off inside his head.
Lois miaowed over by the bedroom doorway but thought twice about a rescue operation. Jack tried to get up out of the chair. The detective helped him up. A second later, he was sitting down again, doubled over and holding his guts.
‘How do you like being fucked, Jack?’ Peterson’s face was red and sweaty: his eyes sparked like dynamite wicks. Detective Geoff Peterson loved his job. ‘I hope you like it, Jack. ’Cause you’re going to get good and fucked now.’
20
JACK HELD HIS HANDS OUT in front of him. Detective Geoff Peterson put the cuffs on with a couple of swift movements. He threw a coat over them, opened the front door, nodded down the hallway. Jack walked through and Peterson followed.
The detective’s car was parked about twenty metres up the road. Gusty wind whipped through the trees; drizzly rain swirled and plunged in the air. There were not many people about. Those that were walked by stiffly, heads down, hunched under umbrellas, with mobiles and iPods glued onto their ears. They paid no attention to Jack, stumbling beside Peterson, the red welt across his cheek stinging in the morning cold.
‘That’s the way,’ said the detective. ‘Nice and quiet.’
They reached the car, a white, unmarked Ford Falcon. Peterson opened the rear door and pulled Jack closer.
‘In you get.’
Jack stepped back. ‘I want to call a lawyer.’
‘I’m going to count to one.’
‘This is bullshit —’
‘One.’
Jack braced but Peterson was too quick, unloading like a cannon. A hard fist followed by a lot of forearm, straight to the gut. As he doubled over the detective pushed him into the back seat and slammed the door. Jack lay on his side and groaned.
Peterson grinned at the Neighbourhood Watch sign riveted to the telegraph pole beside the car. He walked calmly around to the driver’s side door, got in and drove off.
‘You comfortable back there?’
‘Motherfucker,’ wheezed Jack. He squeezed his eyes shut and the darkness filled with wriggling shards of light.
‘Good boy.’
Thrown like a sack of shit into the back of a car. Maybe it was just a bad dream. Or karma? For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. The only mystery: when and where.