J. Konrath - Dirty Martini

“Freeze! Police!”

My voice was in full effect, but Tall Boy had apparently misinterpreted my order as “Run away faster,” because he picked up speed, heading in the direction Scooter and I just came from. I checked my watch. Six minutes left. If I turned around and ran the rest of the way, I might make it to Navy Pier in six minutes. But I didn’t have a gun, and I would owe the city of Chicago two million bucks. If they took it out of my paychecks, I wouldn’t be able to retire until I was 163.

I gained on Tall Boy, part of me wanting to shout, “Hard to drag that bastard, isn’t it?” I managed to restrain myself, and instead reached out and caught the suitcase by a strap.

One of Newton’s Laws got involved, something to do with objects in motion and pulling and pushing, and I jerked him off his feet and ate my own asphalt sandwich a millisecond later. When the tumbling stopped, Tall Boy was on his knees, opening up a folding knife and snarling at me.

It’s never a good time for a knife fight, but this really wasn’t a good time.

“I’m a cop,” I said, trying to sound stern despite my fear and exhaustion.

“I’m Charlie Manson,” he said.

Great. A loony.

I reached into my back pocket and took out the butterfly knife. I opened it slowly, with some flourish, letting the handles swing back and forth a few times to show this punk I knew what I was doing.

“I’m not going to kill you,” I said, getting to my feet. “I’m only going to poke out your eyes.”

I closed and opened the knife again, as fast as I could. His bravado cracked a bit.

“Just turn around, and run away. After I take your eyes, I’m going to take your ears.”

I changed my grip on the knife, did another blindingly quick open and close, and sliced open my knuckles pretty good.

“Son of a-”

Tall Boy saw my mistake and attacked. He came in low, his weapon held in an underhanded grip, blade up, stabbing at my chin. I pulled back, wincing at the pain in my neck, but avoiding the cut. He followed up with another jab, to my chest, but momentum was already taking me backward and I twisted my shoulders and all he caught was the fabric above my left breast, making me thankful for the first time in my life that I was a B cup.

My knuckles were bleeding, but functional, and my grip on the butterfly knife was solid as I brought it down on his thrusting arm, jamming it a good two inches between his radius and ulna. His knife flew into the grass, but leverage was on his side and as he fell the balisong was jerked from my hand.

He howled, staring at the handle protruding from his forearm, his entire body shaking.

“Leave it in,” I told him. “If you pull it out, you could bleed to death.”

I checked my watch. Four minutes and some change left. I hurried to the suitcase, happy to find it intact, and began to jog back to Monroe. My bottom lip was now so swollen I could see it if I looked down my nose. It throbbed with every step. I tried to find my rhythm, tried to find the cadence, but my feet weren’t moving as swiftly as I wanted them to.

I passed Buchbinder, who was wiping his hands on the grass and moaning, “I need a moist towelette,” and one of the onlookers pointed at me and screamed. I must have looked pretty bad to provoke such raw fright. But then I realized she wasn’t pointing at me, she was pointing behind me.

I chanced a look, and Tall Boy was a few steps away from me. He hadn’t taken my advice about leaving the knife in his arm. The knife was now in his hand, raised over his head like Mrs. Bates during the shower scene in Psycho , and his expression confirmed he wasn’t in a happy place.

I stopped in four steps, pivoted my hips, and swung my right leg around, planting the mother of all spin kicks into his stomach. It knocked me backward, but I stayed on my feet. Tall Boy fared worse. He fell onto all fours, retching. I was on him in five steps, kicked him squarely in the jaw, and he sprawled out onto the lawn, where he’d probably stay until he bled to death.

“Buchbinder! Tourniquet!”

Buchbinder stared at me like my nose had grown five inches. I tried a different tactic.

“This guy has antibacterial wipes.”

Buchbinder scrambled over to him, and I headed back up the footpath, toward Monroe, dragging the suitcase, two minutes to go, hearing Buchbinder cry behind me, “I crawled through vomit!”

And then a wheel on the suitcase broke.

I hefted the bag up to waist level and tugged the strap over my shoulder. Heavy wasn’t a good adjective to describe it. Impossible was better. I couldn’t run, but I broke into a kind of quick hobble. The only thing on me that didn’t hurt was my ass, but there was still time for that.

When I reached the intersection, I looked all around for the cop who was supposed to meet me.

Naturally, there was no cop. I should have expected that. I thought of Herb, sitting behind his desk at Robbery, making a few phone calls to track down his missing toilets, and felt a jealousy so intense I almost started to weep.

A car honked. The cab, with Reynolds in the backseat. He opened the door and said, “Hop in.”

Getting the suitcase off my shoulder was a relief on par with a death row reprieve. I shoved myself into the backseat after it, and Reynolds ordered the driver to Navy Pier.

I checked my watch. The fifteen minutes were up.

“Couldn’t find Rossi, but I got a Mr. SIG-Sauer for you.”

He handed me a P228, semiauto, blue finish. Cocked and locked.

“Thanks. Mr. SIG-Sauer will do just fine.” I adjusted the Velcro straps on my holster and tucked the gun inside. “You need to send an ambulance to the walkway a few hundred yards back on LSD. And make sure they have some towels.”

“Trouble?”

“A little. Lost my radio too.”

Reynolds dug around in his pocket. “Here’s an extra.”

“Any luck with Alger’s house?” I asked, plugging in the earpiece.

“It’s been booby-trapped again. No casualties, but my team can’t get to the computer.”

“Probably too late now anyway. We’ll try Plan B.”

Reynolds narrowed his eyes at me. “You gonna drop this guy?”

“I’m going to have a talk with him.”

“This asshole killed a lot of my buddies.”

I thought of Officer Sardina in Records. “Mine too.”

“Don’t be a hero. He looks at you funny, waste him. No one will shed any tears.”

“And if more people die?”

“They would anyway.”

The unibrow notwithstanding, I liked this guy. The cabbie pulled onto Streeter, and I told him to park it. Navy Pier was less than a block away, and if the Chemist was watching, I wanted him to see me walk up.

“Good luck, Lieutenant.”

Reynolds offered his hand. I raised mine, noted the bloody knuckles, and gave him a salute instead. Then I manhandled the bag out of the cab, pulled the torture strap up onto my shoulder, and walked toward the giant letters that welcomed me to Navy Pier.

AS THE NAME IMPLIED, Navy Pier was a pier. It stretched east into Lake Michigan, three hundred feet wide and ten times as long, boasting a dozen restaurants, several theaters, fifty-plus shops, two museums, a fun house, a miniature golf course, a carousel, and a giant Ferris wheel.

I stood in front of the entrance building, known as the Family Pavilion, and watched people come and go. A minute ticked by. Then two. I was wondering if the Chemist had gotten cold feet, and then the phone rang.

“Is this a recording?” I said.

“Take Grand Avenue east, past the Beer Garden and the Grand Ballroom, to the end of the pier. Look for the tree with the red bow. You have three minutes. If you try anything, people will die.”