J. Konrath - Bloody Mary

“You had a gun?”

“Hell yeah, I had a gun. So before he gets a chance to take it away from me, I put him down. Bam Bam! Two in the face. Maybe you read about it, happened a few weeks ago. You wanna hear the cool part?”

“Sure.”

“I liked it.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah, I’m a stone-cold demon, man. I’m the real deal. Hey… you rich? I heard funeral homes make a lot of money.”

“I have money.”

“Maybe I can help you out.”

“How?”

“Maybe I could take care of this cop for you. Sneak up on his pig ass and give him a little Bam Bam.”

Nice, Harry. I was actually a little impressed.

“I don’t think I want to kill him.”

“He’s a pig, man. All pigs should die.”

“I don’t know.”

“Would he kill you, if he had the chance?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve got to take this guy out.”

“But he’s my friend.”

Harry’s laughter made the speakers shake.

“Do all your friends want to kill you?”

“No. Most of my friends are dead.”

Benedict snorted. “There’s a shock.”

“Well, maybe you and me can make this one dead too, Derrick.”

“I don’t know.”

“Your call, man. I’ll tell you something, though – if this guy’s a cop, and you think you’re safe in here, you’re crazy.”

“He’s not from this station.”

“Don’t matter. He can still get to you. Sneak in when you’re sleeping, stick you a few times, and then blame it on one of the convicts. Or put something in your food. Or pay one of the other cons to do it. There’s a million ways.”

“Jesus.”

“You could maybe ask to go into protective custody, but that’s even worse. Then he’d have a shot at you when you’re alone. You should let me take the porker out.”

Another long pause.

“I can’t.”

“I could do it for twenty grand. You got twenty grand?”

“Yes.”

“Groovy. Let me whack the guy. Tell the cops he forced you to help him, and they’ll let you go. You could be back at work and getting it on with dear, departed Aunt Sally in a day or two.”

“I can’t.”

“Whatever, man. You’re the one who’s gonna get iced.”

There was no talking for over a minute. Only Rushlo’s off-key humming.

“What if… what if I said yes?”

“Half the money up front, the other half when it’s over.”

“How?”

“Cash. You talk to your lawyer, have him deliver it to me.”

“And what if you can’t do it?”

“I can do it. Trust me.”

“He’s a big guy.”

“Size don’t matter if you aim for the head. What’s the pig’s name?”

I noticed I was holding my breath.

“Hey man, if you want me to kill the guy, I got to know his name.”

“It’s Barry.”

Herb and I looked at each other. There was only one Barry we knew on the job. I tried to make it fit, to picture the cop on my team as the one responsible for these atrocities.

“Barry what? Barry Houdini? Barry Flintstone? Barry Manilow? You gotta give me more than that.”

Fuller had access to my office, and to Colin Andrews’s phone. Fuller was angry I passed him over for promotion. Fuller kept butting into this investigation, offering to help.

“I don’t want to say any more. I can’t say any more. I’m sorry.”

“You already said too much, you little squealer. ” McGlade’s tone had become harsh, menacing. “Barry knew you’d try something. He sent me to take care of you.”

Rushlo made a sound somewhere between a gasp and a yelp.

“Leave me alone!”

“Barry can’t afford to keep you around.”

“I’m sorry! Tell him I’m sorry!”

“Tell who you’re sorry?”

“Fuller! Tell him I’d never betray him.”

“Get him out of there,” I told Herb, the phone already in my hand. We needed to find Barry Fuller, fast.

Before anyone else died.

Barry Fuller cruises Irving Park Road. He’s off duty, dressed in civvies and driving his SUV.

His headache is explosive.

The morning began on a bad note. Holly, his bitch of a wife, had some stupid complaint about the living room curtains. He told her, several times, to buy new curtains if she hated these, but she couldn’t shut her goddamn mouth and kept yapping and yapping and finally he had to leave because if he didn’t he would have gutted her right there.

He needs a substitute, fast. Normally, he’d drop in the station and use the computer to locate a neighborhood hooker. But the pain is so bad he’s practically blind with it, and he needs relief ASAP.

Luckily, the streets are littered with disposables.

He tails a jogger for a block. Blonde, nice ass. She blends into the crowd, and he loses her.

Another woman. Business suit. High heels. He idles alongside, visualizing how to grab her. She walks into a coffee shop.

Fuller fidgets in his seat, sweating even though the air is cranked to the max. He turns down an alley, searching, scanning…

Finding.

She’s walking out the rear door to her apartment building. Twenty-something, wearing flip-flops and a large T-shirt over bikini bottoms, a towel on her shoulder. Planning on walking to Oak Street Beach, just a few blocks away.

He guns the engine and hits her from behind.

She bounces off the front bumper, skids along the pavement face-first. Fuller jams the truck into park, jumps out.

“My God! Are you okay?” In case anyone is watching. There doesn’t seem to be.

The woman is crying. Bloody. Scrapes on her palms and her face.

“We have to get you to a hospital.”

He half helps/half yanks her into his truck, and then they’re pulling out into traffic.

“What happened?” she moans.

Fuller hits her. Again. And again.

She slumps over in the seat.

He makes a left onto Clark Street, turns into Graceland Cemetery. It’s one of Chicago’s oldest, and largest, taking up an entire city block. Because of the heat, there are few visitors inside the gates.

“We’re in luck,” Fuller says. “It’s dead.”

The cemetery is green, sprawling, carefully kept. Winding roads, obscured by clusters of bushes and hundred-year-old oak trees, make sections of it seem like a forest preserve.

Plenty of room for privacy.

He pulls into an enclave and parks next to the large stone monument marking the grave of millionaire Marshall Field. Drags the woman out of the car, behind the tomb, rage building and head pounding and teeth grinding teeth so hard the enamel flakes off.

Fuller unleashes himself upon her, without a weapon, without checking for witnesses, without putting on the gloves he has in the front pocket of his jeans for this purpose. Punching, kicking, squeezing, grunting, sweating.

Fireworks go off behind his eyes, erasing the pain, wiping his brain clean.

When the fugue ends, Fuller is surprised to see he somehow pulled off the woman’s arm.

Impressive. That takes a lot of strength.

He blinks, looks around. All clear. The only witness is the green, delicately robed statue, sitting high atop Field’s monument. A copper smell taints the hot, woodsy air.

The grass, and his clothes, are soaked with blood and connective tissue. Fuller wonders if the woman might be still alive, goes to check her pulse, and stops himself when he realizes her head is turned completely backward.