The president paused, as if giving his sound bite time to gel, then narrowed his eyes for a final comment. "Make no mistake about it. Although most of the victims were detained enemy combatants, this attack at Guantanamo was an attack on democracy and the United States of America. With Mr. Saint Preux's death, however, justice has been done. Good night, thank you, and may God bless America."
Jack remained glued to the television as the president stepped away from the podium. Reporters sprang from their seats and started firing questions, but the president simply waved and turned away. The network commentators jumped in with their recap and analysis, but Jack's mind was awhirl with his own thoughts. Was Operation Northwoods for real? Did Jack's client do this as a favor to the U.S. government? Or did he do it to embarrass the Howe administration, as a way to make the world think that the president had put him up to this? None of those questions had been answered. Or maybe they had.
Theo switched off the television. "Guess that settles it," he said, laying on a little more than his usual sarcasm. "Just another pissed-off Haitian crashing his airplane into a naval base to protest U.S. immigration policy."
Jack lifted his shot glass of tequila. "I'm ready."
"For what?"
He glanced at the lemon and saltshaker, then stiffened his resolve. "I'm losing the training wheels."
J. A. Konrath
J. A. Konrath is relatively new to the thriller scene. The Lieutenant Jacqueline "Jack" Daniels series features a forty-something Chicago cop who chases serial killers. Konrath's debut, Whiskey Sour, was a unique combination of creepy chills and laugh-out-loud moments. Bloody Mary and Rusty Nail used the same giggle-then-cringe formula-likable heroes in scary situations. Konrath believes that a lot of the fun in writing a thriller series comes from the supporting characters. People are defined by the company they keep. Jack has a handful of sidekicks who both help and hinder her murder investigations.
Phineas Troutt is one of the helpful ones.
Introduced in Whiskey Sour, Phin operates outside the law as a problem solver-someone who takes illegal jobs for big paydays. Jack is never quite sure what Phin does to earn a living. Konrath himself didn't know, but thought it would be fun to find out.
Forsaking the cannibals, necrophiles, snuff filmers and serial killers of his Jack Daniels books, Epitaph revolves around a more familiar and accessible evil-street gangs. The result is something grittier, darker and more intimately violent than the series that spawned Phin. No tongue in cheek here. No goofy one-liners. Konrath has always enjoyed exploring where shadows hide when the sun goes down, but this time there's no humorous safety net. What motivates a man to drop out of society and kill for money? Is there a tie between morality and dignity? And most important of all, what is Phin loading into the shells of that modified Mossberg shotgun?
Let the body count begin.
EPITAPH
There's an art to getting your ass kicked.
Guys on either side held my arms, stretching me out crucifixion style. The joker who worked me over swung wildly, without planting his feet or putting his body into it. He spent most of his energy swearing and screaming when he should have been focusing on inflicting maximum damage.
Amateur.
Not that I was complaining. What he lacked in professionalism, he made up for in mean.
He moved in and rabbit-punched me in the side. I flexed my abs and tried to shift to take the blow in the center of my stomach, rather than the more vulnerable kidneys.
I exhaled hard when his fist landed. Saw stars.
He stepped away to pop me in the face. Rather than tense up, I relaxed, trying to absorb the contact by letting my neck snap back.
It still hurt like hell.
I tasted blood, wasn't sure if it came from my nose or my mouth. Probably both. My left eye had already swollen shut.
"Hijo calvo de una perra!"
You bald son of a bitch. Real original. His breath was ragged now, shoulders slumping, face glowing with sweat.
Gangbangers these days aren't in very good shape. I blame TV and junk food.
One final punch-a halfhearted smack to my broken nose- and then I was released.
I collapsed face-first in a puddle that smelled like urine. The three Latin Kings each took the time to spit on me. Then they strolled out of the alley, laughing and giving each other high fives.
When they got a good distance away, I crawled over to a Dumpster and pulled myself to my feet. The alley was dark, quiet. I felt something scurry over my foot.
Rats, licking up my dripping blood.
Nice neighborhood.
I hurt a lot, but pain and I were old acquaintances. I took a deep breath, let it out slow, did some poking and prodding. Nothing seemed seriously damaged.
I'd been lucky.
I spat. The bloody saliva clung to my swollen lower lip and dribbled onto my T-shirt. I tried a few steps forward, managed to keep my balance, and continued to walk out of the alley, onto the sidewalk, and to the corner bus stop.
I sat.
The Kings took my wallet, which had no ID or credit cards, but did have a few hundred in cash. I kept an emergency fiver in my shoe. The bus arrived, and the portly driver raised an eyebrow at my appearance.
"Do you need a doctor, buddy?"
"I've got plenty of doctors."
He shrugged and took my money.
On the ride back, my fellow passengers made heroic efforts to avoid looking at me. I leaned forward, so the blood pooled between my feet rather than stained my clothing any further. These were my good jeans.
When my stop came up, I gave everyone a cheery wave goodbye and stumbled out of the bus.
The corner of State and Cermak was all lit up, twinkling in both English and Chinese. Unlike NYC and L.A., each of which had sprawling Chinatowns, Chicago has more of a Chinablock. Blink while you're driving west on Twenty-second and you'll miss it.
Though Caucasian, I found a kind of peace in Chinatown that I didn't find among the Anglos. Since my diagnosis, I've pretty much disowned society. Living here was like living in a foreign country-or a least a square block of a foreign country.
I kept a room at the Lucky Lucky Hotel, tucked between a crumbling apartment building and a Chinese butcher shop, on State and Twenty-fifth. The hotel did most of its business at an hourly rate, though I couldn't think of a more repulsive place to take a woman, even if you were renting her as well as the room. The halls stank like mildew and worse, the plaster snowed on you when you climbed the stairs, obscene graffiti lined the halls and the whole building leaned slightly to the right.
I got a decent rent: free-as long as I kept out the drug dealers. Which I did, except for the ones who dealt to me.
I nodded at the proprietor, Kenny-Jen-Bang-Ko, and asked for my key. Kenny was three times my age, clean-shaven save for several black moles on his cheeks that sprouted long, white hairs. He tugged at these hairs while contemplating me.
"How is other guy?" Kenny asked.
"Drinking a forty of malt liquor that he bought with my money."
He nodded, as if that was the answer he'd been expecting. "You want pizza?"
Kenny gestured to a box on the counter. The slices were so old and shrunken they looked like Doritos. "I thought the Chinese hated fast food." "Pizza not fast. Took thirty minutes. Anchovy and red pepper." I declined.
My room was one squeaky stair flight up. I unlocked the door and lumbered over to the bathroom, looking into the cracked mirror above the sink.
Ouch.
My left eye had completely closed, and the surrounding tissue bulged out like a peach. Purple bruising competed with angry red swelling along my cheeks and forehead. My nose was a glob of strawberry jelly, and blood had crusted black along my lips and down my neck.