J. Konrath - Rusty Nail

“You get a copy of his driver’s license?”

He handed me the book. “That’s the law, ain’t it?”

I checked out the info on Mr. Mayer. White, thirty-seven years old, had an Indiana license that said he lived in Indianapolis. The car was rented for the next two weeks. There wasn’t a credit card receipt. I wondered why.

“Paid cash. I’ve got the card number, though. In case of damage.”

“Where’s that?”

Al frowned, and disappeared again. I spent the time counting the cigarette butts in the dead plant. Nine, plus a cigar stub, a lottery ticket, and something that looked like a Tootsie Roll. I hoped it was a Tootsie Roll.

“We keep the card numbers on file in here.” He set a metal lock box down on the counter and fumbled with the combination.

Three eternities later, squinting through his glasses, Al had found the slip.

“Were you here when Mr. Mayer rented the car?”

“I’m the only one works the counter.”

“A testament to your efficiency. Can you describe Mr. Mayer?”

“Looked like his driver’s license picture, I reckon.”

“I’d like to hear it from your own mouth.”

“Thin. My height. Blond beard. Sunglasses, those kind that look like mirrors. Curly hair.”

He sounded like a dead ringer for the guy who dropped off the videotape at the station. I had a Xerox in the car, and asked Al to wait for a moment. He grunted.

When I returned with the picture, Al was gone. I rang the bell. He took his time.

“Busy day,” he said. “Lots of work.”

I made a show of looking around. “Yeah. They’re lining up out the door for rentals.”

“Rentals are just a side business. We’re part of Manny’s Car Repair Shop. Mostly use the rentals for loaners. Insurance reimburses us.”

“Is Mr. Mayer getting his car repaired here?”

“Nope. Just the rental.”

“Do you get a lot of people who rent cars without leaving one to be fixed?”

“Some. Not a lot.”

I handed Al a copy of the Identikit picture, the one that looked like the Unabomber.

“Looks like the Unabomber,” Al said.

“Is that Mr. Mayer?”

“I thought Ted Kaczynski was the Unabomber.”

He had to be putting me on. No one was this slow outside of HEE HAW .

“Does this resemble Mr. Mayer?”

He squinted. “Yeah. Could be.”

“Anything else you remember about Mr. Mayer?”

“He had a cold. Talked quiet. Did some coughing.”

I thought about it. I could have called in a Crime Scene Unit, dusted the place, but a hundred people have probably left their prints in the last week.

“I’ll need copies of all these papers.”

Al grunted. “I figured.”

While Sling Blade loped off to figure out the copy machine, I called Mason back and gave her Mayer’s info. She put me on hold and called Indianapolis PD.

Mason got back to me before Al did.

“No record. Guy’s clean.”

“How about the phone number he left?”

“Disconnected. Didn’t pay his bill.”

I waited another five minutes, and Al finally returned with my copies. I gave him my card.

“Thanks. When Mr. Mayer comes back, please try to detain him and give me a call.”

“Detain him how? Like tie him up?”

“Tell him there was a problem with his credit card. Then call me.”

“Might not stop in. Might just park the car in the lot and drop the keys in the slot.”

“If he does that, call me as well.”

“Might drop it off when I’m not here.”

“You said you’re always here.”

“Might get sick.”

“Do you get sick a lot, Al?”

“Might have caught Mr. Mayer’s cold.”

I drilled Al with a cop stare.

“Are you enjoying yourself, Al?”

He smiled, revealing three missing teeth. “Gotta have fun where you can get it, Lieutenant.”

After leaving Al, I really needed a beer.

And I knew just the place to get one.

ALEX OPENS THE bottled water, takes a greedy sip, then pours some on the pliers. The handles are supposed to have no-slip grips, but Alex’s gloved hands have already slipped off them half a dozen times.

It’s hard. Much harder than expected.

“Want some water? I’ve got an extra bottle.”

No answer.

Alex takes another deep gulp, picks up the pliers, and gets back to work.

Again, it’s a strain. Teeth clenching. Muscles bunching. But Alex manages to pull an unbroken fifteen-inch strip of skin from Dr. Francis Mulrooney’s bare chest. The longest one yet.

Mulrooney screams his approval.

Almost done with the front, Alex thinks. Have to start on the back next.

Lots of skin there.

BEFORE I ALLOWED myself any alcohol, I dropped off the bag and the shell casing at the Illinois Forensic Science Center. It used to be called the Chicago Crime Lab, up until it merged with the Staties in ’96. One of the officers who worked there, Scott Hajek, had helped me on a few cases, and promised he’d do a rush job on the ballistics and burn analysis.

A rush job meant at least a week. More than enough time to have a beer.

Joe’s Pool Hall was kitty-corner to my apartment in Wrigleyville. The after-work crowd hadn’t converged yet, and I managed to snag a table near the rear and a cue that still had a tip.

I drank a Sam Adams and settled in, running a rack and trying to relax. It wasn’t easy. I had a lot on my mind, plus shooting stick with a burned hand threw me off my game.

A waitress brought me another beer, and when I pulled out a buck to tip her, I noticed she had tears in her eyes.

“Asshole customer,” she said without me asking.

I tipped her an extra buck.

Halfway through the next set, a guy I knew came over and stood by the table, watching.

“Came to watch a pro?” I asked.

“No. Came to watch you.”

His name was Phineas Troutt. Younger than me by a decade. Blue eyes set in a hard face. Tall, with the type of muscles one got from working rather than working out. Last I’d seen him, he was bald from the chemotherapy. I took the blond fuzz growing on his head to be a good sign.

I ran the table, Phin racked the next set, and we lagged for the break. He won.

“Hair looks nice.” Phin executed a sledgehammer break that sunk two solids and a stripe. He chose solids.

“Thanks. It’s the shampoo. You should pick some up.”

He touched his head.

“Maybe when it grows out a little more.”

“It’s called Vertex. Only seventy bucks a bottle.”

“How big is the bottle? Two gallons?”

“Thirty-two ounces.”

Phin grinned. “For seventy bucks, it should clean my hair and then straighten up my apartment and make me dinner.”

He pocketed the four ball. I took a pull from my Sammy and scanned the bar for the server. She was two tables over, her face shiny with tears. She tried to move forward, but the man standing next to her moved his body in her path, not letting her pass. The man was grinning.

“Excuse me a second,” I told Phin. As I approached I heard the waitress saying, “Stop it, stop it,” as the guy pawed at her.

“There a problem?” I used my best commanding tone, the one that scared suspects into confessing to crimes they didn’t commit.

The man was young, early twenties, dressed in a golf shirt, shorts, and flip-flops. He looked like he just came from the beach, though I couldn’t imagine which one, it being April.

“This is a private conversation, skank.”

He said it with a dismissive sneer, and then turned back to the waitress.

“Are you okay?” I asked her.

“She’s fine. Mind your own damn business, bitch.”