Last Call - A Thriller (Jacqueline "Jack" Daniels Mysteries Book 10) (23 page)

I went into my room, closed and locked the door, and listened until I heard her walk away.

I
t was total, utter, complete, 100% bullshit.

K wasn’t acting like a friend, or a mentor.

He was acting like her mother. Or some creepy, deranged uncle.

“The Hanover guy is hiding something, K. I
know
it. C’mon. Let’s take him to the playroom. Please?”

Lucy hated saying please. She also hated having to ask.

“He’s popular with the gamblers,” K said. “Emilio wouldn’t like it.”

“So you do whatever Emilio wants? Are you his little bitch, now?”

K didn’t even look at her, continuing to stare off into empty space. “We’ve already got his next fight scheduled. Pick another prisoner to play with.”

“But I want Han-overrrr,” Lucy said, extending it into a whine. “I’ve been thinking about your hotplate idea. I’ve been
fantasizing
about it, K. We can make him hold his foot on it. His tongue. His junk. He’ll tell us his entire life story, and then start making up shit he thinks we want to hear. Don’t you want to do that Hitchcock thing?”

K glanced at her, his zombie gaze without the barest hint of interest. “Pick another prisoner to play with.”

Lucy raised an eyebrow (actually, she raised the scar tissue where her eyebrow used to be). “Are you high, K?”

“I’m… medicated.”

“How much of that lean have you had?”

K didn’t answer.

“Can I take a few men, go into town?” she asked. “Maybe find some new blood for the games? Wouldn’t it be fun to see two elderly nuns in a knife fight?”

“We have enough prisoners.”

“Okay, then let me go and see a movie, then.”

“You’ve got a thing for Mr. Hanover. He’s fighting later.”

“K, I feel all cooped up. This is the longest I’ve stayed in one place since I was a little kid. I need a change of scenery, you know what I’m sayin’?”

“No,” K said.

“You’re not letting me leave?”

“This is where we belong, Lucy. We’re… different. It’s dangerous for people like us, out there.” K pointed a misshapen finger at the throne room window. “They want to hurt us. But here, we’re safe. Here, we’re rulers. Here, we’re feared.”

K finally had a bit of life in his eyes, but it didn’t arouse Lucy. It scared her.

“You know I love it here, K. But I don’t want to feel like I have no choice. I know you’re the one who made the deal with Emilio, but we came here together. I should have a say.”

“You’re my queen, Lucy. A queen’s place is by her king’s side.” K’s gnarled mouth twisted into a grin. “Forever.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Lucy said, bowing as deeply as she could. “I’m going to the bathroom. I’ll see you again when the games start.”

K went back to staring into empty space. Lucy backed up out of the throne room, limped down the hallway, and began to consider how to escape.

The compound was guarded 24/7. No way to get in or out without K’s or Emilio’s permission. And even if she could steal a car and slip past the men outside, K would go after her. Without any money, and with her disfigured appearance, she wouldn’t be able to get far, or hide for very long.

As she’d feared, this place had become her prison. The only way Lucy would be able to leave was if she was in charge. And Lucy could only see one way that would happen.

She had to somehow get rid of Luther Kite.

D
onaldson couldn’t find a hospital. He tried to stop for directions, but none of these assholes spoke American, and the majority ran away when they took a good look at his face.

In an effort to do something to better his situation, Donaldson stopped at another OXXO.

The needle nose pliers set him back two dollars and forty cents. Donaldson took four Xanax and four Tylenol-3, waited until he began to get drowsy, and slipped the tips of the pliers between his eyeball and eye socket and wiggled them around, feeling for his inverted eyelid.

When he felt something fleshy, he squeezed the grips and clamped down, concentrating on lightly tugging the lid back into the proper place. The pills dulled his pain considerably. In fact, they did too good a job, and Donaldson yanked harder than intended.

His eyelid tore off with the ease of tissue paper.

As the blood began to squirt, Donaldson stared at his severed eyelid, still clamped in the jaws of the pliers, and wondered what he was supposed to do next.

Go to a doctor, probably.

R
ather than call a taxi, Katie used the Uber app and got a ride back to the east side. She asked the driver to wait for her, walked into the alley, and retrieved a few of the items she’d thrown into the garbage can.

On the way back to the hotel, she thought about Jack Daniels. Renting a car and tailing the Crimebago wouldn’t be terribly difficult—it was bright red for crissakes—but there was a possibility she could lose them at the border.

Plus, the moment Jack found Luther, Katie wanted to be there.

That meant convincing Jack that she was worth keeping around. Which shouldn’t be that hard.

There were still some things about Luther Kite that Katie hadn’t told Jack.

Things Jack would want to know before she went hunting.

Things that could well mean the difference between life, and death.

B
anging on the bars awoke him.

Phin opened his eyes, saw the guard standing next to his cell. It was the one who’d stolen his Tony Lama boots.

“Despertarse, puto. Time to go fight for your life.”

Phin stared at his hands, crusty with his own fluids. Then he looked at the wound on his stomach and almost vomited. It reminded Phin—in the most horrible way possible—of the mess Samantha used to make when she used to eat spaghetti.

“Y número diez.”

Diez.

Ten.

Kiler.

The racist began to whoop and holler, rattling his chains. “You think your gut hurts now, Jew boy? I’m gonna reach in there, pull out your insides, and fucking strangle you with them!”

Phin closed his eyes, pictured his baby and her mother one last time, and in his mind he apologized to them both.

I’m so sorry, my beautiful ladies. I tried my best.

Then Phineas Troutt stood up and marched into the arena to face a messy, terrible death.

H
e didn’t go to a doctor. At this point, he didn’t think the injury could get any worse, or any better.

Instead, he marched back inside the OXXO and spent four dollars on eye drops, duct tape, and plastic cling wrap. Back in the car, Donaldson tore off a rectangle of plastic, squirted it with Visine, and pressed it to his naked eyeball.

It hurt. A lot.

Donaldson took two more painkillers, then taped the plastic wrap to his face, making a kind of half-assed eyepatch goggle.

As blood mixed with the Visine, his vision turned pink.

He took two more Xanax, then passed out, thinking that when he awoke he should definitely go to a doctor.

I
’d barely managed to slip off to sleep when someone knocked on my door.

I picked up my Colt, and approached the door from the side, then stood next to the jamb. I could have peered through the peephole, but I’d seen too many movies where the person got shot in the head doing that. So instead I opted for asking who it was.

“I could still shoot you through the wall,” Tequila said. “A .45 can penetrate wood and plaster even easier than the aluminum door.”

I opened it. Tequila was wearing a black tee shirt and pants, which was more than I had on. I was in one of Phin’s old Alice Cooper tees, over black boyshorts.

“So how am I supposed to avoid being shot by a visitor?” I asked.

“Don’t answer the door,” he said. “Ever.”

I tried to gauge if he was being serious, and decided he probably was.

“I was going to grab some breakfast. Interested?”

“Are you sure you want to risk it? I’ve heard breakfast is the most dangerous meal of the day.”

“You’ll be with me. I’ll keep you safe.”