Suckers - Jack Kilborn [51]
“That’s a lot of money.”
“I’m expensive, but I’m worth it. You’re not just paying for the job. You’re paying for peace of mind. Once the check clears, I’ll find her. Even if she turns up dead and dismembered in an alley.”
She burst into tears, obviously relieved I was on the job.
I spent the rest of Day 1 working on the case, subconsciously while I slept.
Day 2 involved me interviewing one of Tanya’s school friends, a guy named Steve who’d recently bisected his own tongue down the middle in an effort to look more like a lizard. Steve wasn’t talking—his mouth was too swollen. But he had some killer skunk bud and we lit one up.
Day 3 wasn’t very productive. I spent most of it at the ballgame, watching the Red Sox kick the hell out of the Cubs. I kept an eye out for Tanya, but she didn’t show up.
Day 4 I spent drinking, and can’t remember much.
On Day 5 I caught a break. A phone call to a guy I know who works for a credit card company informed me that Tanya’s Mastercard was getting a workout down south. Phoebe provided me with plane fare, and I followed the paper trail to a leather bar in the suburbs of Chamber, Florida. Flashing around Phoebe’s picture was met with the usual blank stares, until President Grant helped one punk regain his memory.
“Oh yeah, she was here yesterday. Hanging out with some Pires.”
Further interrogation revealed that the Pires were a gang of Goths who only came out at night and liked to wear fake fangs and drink each other’s blood. I could relate; there wasn’t much good on TV anymore, and kids can get bored in the ‘burbs.
After spreading around a lot of Phoebe’s cash, I managed to track down the Pires’ main hangout, owned by a guy who called himself Vlad. Word on the street, Vlad was thirty-something, balding and overweight, and wore contact lenses that made his eyes look bloodshot. Just the kind of daddy-figure teenage girls found irresistible.
I was in the middle of breaking into Casa de Vlad when sauce-boy wandered over, witnessing my felony-in-progress.
“Look.” He tried to smile, but it looked funny with my gun on his cheek. “This is really none of my business, and I really have to get home while the pasta is still al dente or I’ll be sleeping on the sofa for a week. And our sofa has these big, pointy springs that stick out of the cushions that feel like fish hooks.”
“You think I’m an idiot?”
“Actually—”
I gave him another love tap with the butt of my Magnum.
“Here’s the deal, sofa-man. I have to get into this house and grab someone. This someone may not want to go with me, and she may have some friends who don’t want to see her go. So this is going to be complicated enough without having to worry about the police showing up in three minutes because your pansy sofa-ass went whining to them.”
“I won’t call the police. The police and I don’t have a very good relationship. I kind of annoy them. I—”
I tapped him on the head again. “I wasn’t finished.”
“Can you please stop—”
Tap. ”You’re still talking.”
He looked at me and opened his mouth to say something, but thought better of it.
I hit him anyway.
“But I didn’t—”
“You just did.” Tap.
I may have tapped him too hard, because he went from his knees onto his ass.
“The thing is, Saucey, much as I’m just dying inside to trust you, it’s probably better if I don’t. Do you have ten feet of clothesline on you?”
He didn’t say anything, which I took to be a no.
“Neither do I. So my only alternative is to knock you out. Now stand up so I can hit you on the head again.”
He didn’t move.
“Would you prefer me shooting you?”
Slowly, molasses slowly, he got to his knees. I might have felt sorry for the guy, but the sympathy gene skipped a generation.
I reared back and cracked him a good one on the noggin, which made a sound like a belt being snapped. He teetered over and ate the lawn.
I watched him for a full minute. No movement. But he may have been faking unconsciousness to discourage me from smacking him again. Some people are savvy like that.
“You awake?” I asked.
No answer.
“Look, I have to know for sure, so right now I’m