J. Konrath - Bloody Mary

Harry whistled. “Damn. You miss every shot?”

“I landed all six. How did you miss with a barrel that long?”

“All mine were sweet. That guy had more holes than a golf course.”

We jogged after him.

The pavement was hot underfoot, and little bits of rock and debris dug into my soles. For the first time in my life I was grateful for my ugly calluses.

“Jesus!” McGlade huffed next to me. “I’m not used to exercise in the vertical position.”

“Have another buffalo wing.”

The perp rounded the north entrance to Wrigley Field, bystanders giving him a wide berth. He was bleeding, but not as much as I would have guessed. Maybe the layers of filthy clothes were absorbing it all.

McGlade dropped a few paces behind me, lost to a coughing jag. I lengthened my stride. My dress clung to my legs, but the slit was big enough to give me room. I still had the gun in my right hand, where it was beginning to get heavy. With my left hand I tried to adjust my underwire, which dug painfully into my ribs.

I took a short detour to avoid a broken beer bottle, turned a corner, and almost wet myself.

The perp had changed directions and was charging straight at me.

I skidded to a halt, losing some skin on my pinkie toes, and recovered quickly enough to fall into a front stance; right leg straight behind me, left leg forward, knee slightly bent, left fist clenched and parallel with the leg. A blocking position.

Tae kwon do originated in Korea. Students progress through ten belts before reaching black. Testing for each belt was broken down into four parts: forms, which were memorized steps similar to karate’s katas , breaking boards, which partially accounted for my callused feet, Korean terminology, and sparring.

My forte was sparring.

The perp swung with his right arm, bringing it down overhead in a chopping motion.

I blocked easily, spun, and back-kicked him in the spine, adding to his momentum.

He ate pavement, hard, then rolled onto his side. The sidewalk under him was soaked with blood. I stared into his eyes – nothing but pupil, focused on someplace other than the here and now. His chest wounds oozed like a squeezed sponge.

I’d seen corpses in better shape.

But this guy didn’t die. He sat up, trying to get to his feet.

I switched the grip on my gun and tapped him, butt-first, on the forehead.

He fell back, then sat up again, head wound gushing.

For years I’d heard the stories about PCP crazies breaking out of handcuffs, jumping off ten-story buildings and surviving, getting shot a dozen times and still putting up a fight. But I’d never believed them.

Until now.

Wheezing, coming from behind me. Harry trotted up, gasping for air like an asthmatic who’d just snorted pollen.

The perp looked at Harry, screamed something unintelligible, and launched himself at the PI.

Harry screamed as well, an octave higher, and whipped his Magnum across the perp’s face.

Again the guy went down.

Again the guy sat up.

McGlade took a step back. “This isn’t right, Jackie. Maybe we should just let him go.”

“If he gets away, he’ll bleed to death.”

“And that would be bad?”

The man made it to his knees, and then his feet. I didn’t want to hit him with the gun again, so I went with a roundhouse kick to the side of the head.

He went down. Came up.

Harry scratched his chin. “It’s like one of those old toys. The little egg-shaped people that wobble but don’t fall down.”

“Weebles. But I don’t remember them being this bloody.”

Harry hummed the Weebles theme from the old commercial.

“I think I’ve got an idea.” He turned and began walking away.

“You going to rent a tank?”

“No. Just need a running start.”

McGlade took four quick steps toward the guy, then punted him square in the stones.

The perp’s howl punched through the hot Chicago night and seemed to echo on forever.

“There.” McGlade smoothed out his jacket. “That would knock the Terminator out.”

He was right. The guy wheezed, then toppled over, hands clutched between his legs.

“He’s all yours, Jackie. You can go ahead and read him his Fernando rights.”

I fitted him for bracelets, then left McGlade with the perp while I went to find backup.

The cab spit us out at my place just after four in the morning. Latham, gentleman that he was, stuck with me through two debriefings and a trip to the ER to get some glass removed from my foot. He walked me up to my apartment, and I gave him a hug.

“Some romantic evening, huh?”

He smiled, kissed my nose.

“Are you kidding? On our first date I get kidnapped by a serial killer, and tonight I get to see you save a bar full of yuppies from a drug-crazed maniac. Are you free tomorrow? Maybe we can find a bank robbery in progress.”

He slipped his hand around the small of my back, pulled me gently against him.

“Would you like to come in?” I asked.

“That’s the best idea I’ve heard all day.”

I opened the door, knowing that I had no sheets and wondering if I was too old to do it on the sofa.

“Too late for a drink?” I asked. “Too early?”

“I’d drink muscatel from a dog bowl right now.”

“Settle for a whiskey sour?”

Latham nodded.

I went into the kitchen, frowned at the gigantic mess, and built two serviceable highballs. Latham stood in the living room, his jacket off. A good sign.

“Do you like it here?” he asked, as I handed him his drink.

“Here with you?”

“Here in this apartment. I know you don’t really like the neighborhood, and I know some – well – bad things happened here.”

“I guess I never really thought about it. Why do you ask?”

He smiled; a little-boy smile tinged with mischief.

“I just bought a condo on the lake. Big place, plenty of room, killer view.”

“That’s great.” I took a sip of my drink. “What about the house?”

“Sold. Move in with me, Jack.”

Before I had a chance to answer, I noticed Mr. Friskers perched on top of my television, ready to pounce.

“Latham, don’t move.”

“But I have to move, I signed the papers-”

“Shh.” I put my finger to my lips. “It’s the cat. He looks like he’s about to jump on you.”

“Hey, I like cats. If you want to bring a cat along, that’s fine with – Jesus Christ!”

Mr. Friskers launched through the air like a calico missile and attached himself to Latham’s face, all four claws locking in.

Latham screamed something, but I couldn’t hear it through the fur. I grabbed the cat and gently tried to tug him free. Latham’s reaction was muffled, but came through.

“No! Stop pulling! Stop pulling!”

I let go, frantic. On the floor, next to the sofa, was the catnip mouse I’d bought at the pet store. I picked it up and held it under the cat’s nose.

“Good kitty. Let go of his face. Let go of his face, kitty.”

Mr. Friskers sniffed once, twice, then went totally limp. I carried him into the bathroom, keeping the catnip up to his nose, and then set both of them down in the bathtub and locked the door.

I found Latham in the kitchen, liberally applying paper towels.

“Oh, wow, are you okay, Latham?”

He forced a smile.

“I may need a transfusion.”

“I’m sorry. I should have warned you.”

“I thought it was illegal to keep mountain lions as pets.”

I gave him the short version, helping him dab at his wounds. They weren’t as bad as Herb’s, so perhaps Mr. Friskers was mellowing down.

“So you’re not keeping him?”

“Not if I can help it.”