I gave her credit for toughness. She held out. I had to topple a dresser and put my foot through her TV before she broke down.
“Stop it! She's with her boyfriend!”
“Nice try. I already checked Melvin Kincaid.”
“Not Mel. She found a new guy. Named Buster something.”
“Buster what?”
“I dunno.”
I chucked a vase at the wall. The baby in her arms was wiggling, hysterical.
“I don't have his last name! But I got a number.”
Georgia went for her purse on the bed, but I shoved the Glock in her face.
“I'll look.”
The purse was the size of a cigarette pack, with rhinestone studs and spaghetti straps. A hooker purse. I didn't figure there could be much of a weapon in there, and was once again surprised. A .22 ATM spilled onto the bed.
“I'm sure this has a license.”
Georgia didn't answer. I rifled through the packs of mint gum and condoms until I found a matchbook with a phone number written on the back.
“This it?”
“Yeah.”
“Can't you shut that kid up?”
Georgia cooed the baby, rocking it back and forth, while I picked up her .22 and removed the bullets. I tossed the gun back on the bed, and put the lead and the matchbook in my pocket.
She got my evil face when I walked past her.
“If you warn her I'm coming, I'll know it was you.”
“I won't say a damn thing, officer.”
“I know you won't.”
I fished out three of the hundreds I took from Mitch D, and shoved them into her hand. It was a lot more than the TV was worth.
“By the way, why do they call you Ajax?”
She shrugged.
“I've robbed a few tricks.”
“Meaning?”
“Ajax cleans out the johns.”
When I got back outside, the three Disciples had multiplied into six, and they were standing in front of my truck.
“This is a nice truck, white boy. Can we have it?”
My Glock 21 held thirteen forty-five caliber rounds. More than enough. But Jack was the one who gave me this address, and if I killed any of these bozos she'd eventually get the word.
Dying of cancer was bad enough. Dying of cancer in prison was not on my to-do list.
Stuck in my belt, nestled along my spine, was a combat baton. Sixteen inches long, made of a tightly coiled steel spring. Because it could bend, it didn't break bones.
But it did hurt like crazy.
The Disciples had apparently expected me to tremble in fear, because I clocked three of them across the heads before they went into attack mode.
The first one to draw was a thin kid who watched too many rap videos. He pulled a 9mm out of his baggy pants and thrust it at me sideways, with the back of his hand facing skyward.
Not only did this mess up your aim, but your grip was severely compromised. I gave him a tap across the back of the knuckles, and the gun hit the pavement. A second smack in the forehead opened up a nice gash. As with his buddies, the blood running into his eyes made him blind and worthless. I turned on the last two.
One had a blade. He held it underhanded, tip up, showing me he knew how to use it. After two feints, he thrust it at my face.
I turned, catching the tip on my cheek, and gave him an elbow to the nose. When he stumbled back, he also got a tap across the eyebrows.
The last guy was fifty yards away, sprinting for reinforcements.
I climbed in my Bronco and hauled out of there before they arrived.
#
“Hi, Jack, I need one more favor.”
“You already owe me a night of beer.”
“I'll also spring for pizza. I need an address to go with this number.”
“Lemme have it.”
I read it to her, hoping Georgia was honest with me. I didn't want to pay another visit to Stoney Island.
“Buster McDonalds. Four-four-two-three Irving Park, apartment seven-oh-six.”
“Thanks again, Jack.”
“Listen, Phin, I asked around about Janet Cumberland. The word on the street is that Artie Collins put a contract out on her.”
“I'll be careful.”
There was a long pause on the line. I cut off her thought.
“I don't work for mobsters, Jack. I don't kill people for money.”
“Watch yourself, Phin.”
She hung up.
I stopped at a drive-thru, filled up on grease, and had ten more aspirin. My side ached to the touch. I had stronger stuff, doctor prescribed, but that dulled the senses and took away my edge. I thought about scoring some coke, but the hundred I had left wouldn't buy much, and time was winding down.
I had to find Jasmine.
Buster's neighborhood was several rungs above Ajax's as far as quality of life went. No junkies shooting up in the alleys, hookers on the corners, or roving gangs of teens with firearms.
There were, however, lots of kids drunk out of their minds, moving in great human waves from bar to bar. The area was a hot spot for night life, and Friday night meant the partying was mandatory.
Even the hydrants were taken, so I parked in an alley, blocking the entrance. I took the duffle bag from the passenger seat and climbed out into the night air.
The temp had dropped, and I imagined I could smell Lake Michigan, even though it was miles away. There were voices, shouting, laughing, cars honking. I stood in the shadows.
The security door on Buster's apartment had a lock that was intact and functioning, unlike Ajax's. I spotted someone walking out and caught the door before it closed, and then I took the elevator to the seventh floor.
The cop impersonation wouldn't work this time; Jasmine was on the run and wouldn't open the door for anybody.
But I had a key.
It was another online purchase. There were thirty-four major lock companies in the US, and they made ninety-five percent of all the locks in America. These lock companies each had a few dozen models, and each of the models had a master key that opened up every lock in the series.
Locksmiths could buy these master keys. So could anyone with a credit card who knew the right website.
The lock on Buster's apartment was a Schlage. I took a large key ring from my duffel bag and got the door open on the third try.
Jasmine and Buster were on a futon, watching TV. I was on him before he had a chance to get up.
When he reached for me, I grabbed his wrist and twisted. Then, using his arm like a lever, I forced him face down into the carpeting.
“Buster!”
I didn't have time to deal with Jasmine yet, so she got a kick in the gut. She went down. I took out roll of duct tape and secured Buster's wrists behind him. When that was done, I wound it around his legs a few times.
“Jazz, run!”
His mouth was next.
Jasmine had curled up in the corner of the room, hugging her knees and rocking back and forth. She was a little thing, no older than Ajax, wearing sweatpants and an extra large t-shirt. Her black hair was pulled back and fear distorted her features.
I made it worse by showing her my Glock.
“Tell me about Artie Collins.”
She shrunk back, making herself smaller.
“You're going to kill me.”
“No one is killing anyone. Why does Artie want you dead?”
“The book.”
“What book?”
She pointed to the table next to the futon. I picked up a ledger, scanned a few pages.
Financial figures, from two of Artie's clubs. I guessed that these were the ones the IRS didn't see.
“Stupid move, lady. Why'd you take these from him?”
“He's a pig,” she spat, anger overriding terror. “Artie doesn't like it straight. He's a real freak. He did things to me, things no one has ever done.”
“So you stole this?”
“I didn't know what it was. I wanted to hurt him, it was right there in the dresser. So I took it.”
Gutsy, but dumb. Stealing from one of the most connected guys in the Midwest was a good way to shorten your life expectancy.