Herb finished licking his fingers and dug out the paperback he was reading. Afraid, by Jack Kilborn. He'd read a good portion of it on the plane, every once and a while pausing to whisper, “Jesus H. Christ.” Apparently, the book was supposed to be scary.
“Jesus H. Christ,” Herb whispered again.
I hated it when people did that, because of course I had to ask what was so upsetting.
“This girl is hanging upside down over a pile of dead bodies,” Herb said.
“Sounds like fun.”
“You gotta read this, Jack.”
“I will. Right after I order a burger.”
The four next to us segued into The Wizard of Oz.
“The horse of a different color died. The color they used on him was toxic.”
“Was not. They used gelatin. He kept licking it off.”
“You're thinking of the tin man.”
“The tin man licked off his paint?”
“No, dummy. The horse.”
“The tin man licked the horse?”
“You guys know it's impossible to lick your own elbow?”
They all tried to do just that. I shook my head and inwardly wept for the gene pool.
The front door swung open, and a guy walked in. Athletic build, not bad looking, a bit old for a boxer. But I knew it was Dombrowski by the way he walked. Economical, no movement wasted, but coiled, like he was waiting for something to happen.
Dombrowski played it cool, walking up to the four nitwits, having a drink and joining in the conversation. Then he had a few private words with Kelley that I missed in the bar chatter.
When Polchev and his goons approached him, I told Herb to put away the book and pay attention. He tucked it into his inside jacket pocket.
Dombrowski seemed confused about everything happening, and I wondered if Kelley had bothered to inform him what exactly was going down.
Then everything went to hell. The boxer hit the mobster, and the other mobsters drew their guns. If that wasn't bad enough, one of the goons picked up the recorder Dombrowski had dropped. A simple sting operation, where no one was supposed to get hurt, was moments away from turning into a bloodbath. I wanted to smack the shit out of Kelley for staging this in a public place, but before I could, instinct took over and I had my .38 in my hand, pointing it at the thugs.
“Police! Drop the weapons!”
The bar went silent. No one moved. I could hear my heart beating, and sensed Herb draw his gun next to me, and Kelley draw his as well.
“That's one damn sexy cop,” said one of the four. I think it was one of the Jerrys.
“Drop them, hands in the air,” I ordered. “Or we will shoot you.”
There was a bad moment when I thought they might be stupid enough to point their guns my way. But the moment passed, and the mobsters let their weapons fall to the floor.
“Chick cop is wearing Armani,” said one of the four.
“You sure? Could be Fendi.”
“It's Armani,” I said. “Now shut the fuck up or I'll shoot you guys, too.”
Dombrowski must have noticed he didn't have any guns aimed at his head anymore, because he resumed pounding the crap out of Polchev.
Kelley got to him before we did.
“Cool it, Duff. We got him.”
“Asshole has my dog.” Punch. “He's going to tell me where A is.” Punch. “Or he's going to spend the rest of his life eating his meals through a straw.” Punch.
Herb grabbed the recorder, zip-tied the other two mobsters hands behind their backs, and I asked everyone in the bar to kindly step outside.
“Everyone, get the fuck out, now!”
Okay, maybe it wasn't so kindly.
“Duffy, ease up, man.” Kelley was trying to hold Dombrowski's arm back, and not doing a very good job. Polchev looked like someone dropped a lasagna, extra sauce, on his face.
I pointed the gun at the boxer.
“Shit, the Fendi cop is gonna shoot Duff.”
“Armani. She said Armani.”
“That the designer guy, got shot?”
“That was Versace.”
“Think she's the one who shot Versaci?”
Apparently, the Four Stooges hadn't left when I'd ordered them to.
“Mr. Dombrowski, stop hitting the mobster and get your hands up over your head.”
Kelley stared at me. “Lieutenant, he's one of the good guys.”
“And I'm trying to save him from a murder rap. Get ahold of yourself, Mr. Dombrowski.”
The boxer looked at me. There was anger in his features, but some sadness too.
“He took my dog, Al.”
“We'll get your dog back,” I said. “I promise.”
He nodded. But before he got up, he punched Polchev one more time, in the kidneys.
Kelley slapped the cuffs on Polchev, and Mirandized all three suspects. I heard sirens in the distance. Back-up, and probably an ambulance. I looked for Dombrowski, but he was moving toward the front door, staring at something in his hands.
A wallet. Polchev's wallet.
“Duffy!” I yelled. “Don't leave the bar!”
He glanced over at me, then ran out the entrance.
Excerpt from Truck Stop by Jack Kilborn and J.A. Konrath
-1-
Taylor liked toes.
He wasn't a pervert. At least, not that kind of pervert. Taylor didn't derive sexual gratification from feet. Women had other parts much better suited for that type of activity. But he was a sucker for a tiny foot in open-toed high heels, especially when the toenails were painted.
Painted toes were yummy.
The truck stop whore wore sandals, the cork wedge heels so high her toes were bent. She had small feet—they looked like a size five—and her nails matched her red mini skirt. Taylor spotted her through the windshield as she walked over to his Peterbilt, wiggling her hips and wobbling a bit. Taylor guessed she was drunk or stoned. Perhaps both.
He climbed out of his cab. When his cowboy boots touched the pavement he reached his hands up over his head and stretched, his vertebrae cracking. The night air was hot and sticky with humidity, and he could smell his own sweat.
The whore blew smoke from the corner of her mouth. “Hiya, stranger. My name's Candi. With an I.”
“I'm Taylor. With a T.”
He smiled. She giggled, then hiccupped.
Even in the dim parking lot light, Candi with an I was nothing to look at. Mid-thirties. Cellulite. Twenty pounds too heavy for her skirt and halter top. She wore sloppy make-up, her lipstick smeared, making Taylor wonder how many truckers she'd already blown on this midnight shift.
But she did have very cute toes. She dropped her cigarette and crushed it into the pavement, and Taylor licked his lower lip.
“Been on the road a long time, Taylor?”
“Twelve hours in from Cinci. My ass is flatter than roadkill armadillo.”
She eyed his rig. He was hauling four bulldozers on his flatbed trailer. They were heavy, and his mileage hadn't been good, making this run much less profitable than it should have been.
But Taylor didn't become a trucker to get rich. He did it for other reasons.
“You feeling lonely, Taylor? You looking for a little company?”
Taylor knew he could use a little company right now. He could also use a meal, a hot shower, and eight hours of sleep.
It was just a question of which need he'd cater to first.
He looked around the truck stop lot. Pretty full for late night in Bumblefuck, Wisconsin. Over a dozen rigs and just as many cars. The 24 hour gas station had a line for the pumps, and Murray's Eats, the all-night diner, appeared full.
On either side of the cloverleaf there were a few other restaurants and gas stations, but Murray's was always busy because they boasted more than food and diesel. Besides the no-hassle companionship the management and local authorities tolerated, Murray's had a full-size truck wash, a mechanic on duty, and free showers.