Matryoshka Blues (The Average Joe Mysteries Book 1) (8 page)

15

C
ocksucker!”

A squeak-toy voice flies through the open front door and into the hall, diving past the living room’s archway and falling out of sight to the floor.

Tully’s surprise distracts Sergeant enough for me to throw the gym bag at him. It doesn’t hit him, because the damn thing’s too heavy to travel that far and my arms have all the muscle control of Jell-O. But its arc through the air blinds him to my location for a second before landing on the couch, and that’s all I need to jump over my furniture and land on my would-be murderer like a wrestler leaping off the ropes.

I collide with him on the down angle, the momentum carrying us into the front hall. Sergeant hits the frame of the archway square in his back, briefly knocking the air from his chest. I use the hesitation to kick and knee and punch anything I can on the man. My left hand grabs his right wrist, and he twists us into the hall, almost as if he’s leading me in a dance.

One of us runs us into the railing leading upstairs, and I’m going to say it was that clumsy motherfucker, because it’s my house and my rules. My right shoulder slips between two balusters, and for a brief moment I’m stuck. Sergeant takes the advantage to wrestle free of my grip.

He’s still holding the gun, and it comes right up into my face.

Again.

“I was going to wing you,” he says between gulps of air. “But you’ve lost that privilege.”

I smile. “Says the man who’s going to need an ice pack for the next several hours.”

He makes a face. “You trying to be tough? Really?”

In response, Tully’s leg appears between his spread legs, the toes of her boot flying straight into his nutsack. The woman works out regularly, so there’s plenty of force in her short, swift kick.

Sergeant lifts a good inch into the air, and I can see his face go from
angry
to
ouch
in the time it takes for him to rise up and fall back down.

And fall he does. When his feet touch the floor again, his knees don’t even hesitate. They collapse immediately, and the gun falls to the floor as Sergeant uses both hands to cover his bruised manhood.

I wrestle my shoulder free from the baluster and step forward, kicking the gun away and sending it skittering into the living room. If he doesn’t have it, he can’t shoot me. And if he can’t shoot me, I have a fighting chance.

I may not win every battle I get into, but I sure as hell know how to remind someone who they got into one with. I mean, when I’m not getting my clumsy ass stuck in a fucking railing.

“That’s enough!” Tully shouts from behind him. She’s talking as much to me as to Sergeant.

I nod my thanks to her, then jerk my chin to indicate the gun in the living room. She nods back and retrieves the weapon from under the couch.

Unlike myself, she has no problems handling and using firearms. If anyone ever needed to know how to do it, it would be her. She’s all manner of calm right now, which is a clear indication that she’s reached a heretofore undiscovered level of pissed off not fit for all audiences. Despite her size, it’s damn impressive.

This is the second time tonight she’s saved my bacon, and my ass. Actually, just my ass. I don’t really like bacon. Un-American, I know, but there’s something about eating a pig’s belly that screams
are you fucking kidding me?

But a burger or steak? Hell yeah. I will fuck up a cow six ways from Sunday.

Wow, that came out wrong.

“Get up,” Tully orders Sergeant.

The man doesn’t look like he’s able to and glances up at me for permission. I’m guessing it’s not because he’s uncomfortable taking orders from a tiny woman holding a gun, but because he wants to know if she’s going to shoot him in the butt-hole or something. Could go either way, but I nod that it’s safe regardless.

Honestly, I’m as curious what’s going to happen as you are.

Sergeant stands slowly, one hand still pressed tightly against his balls, staggering to the railing and leaning against it. He’s wincing like a maniac, taking deep breaths and pretending we can’t see his eyes watering. Finally, he stands upright with a giant exhale, folding his arms across his chest and tucking his fingers under his armpits.

Brave man, taking a ball-busting like that, only to stand up and watch us like we tickled him with a feather. His entire demeanor has changed, like he knows the title fight is over, and nobody’s ruling in his favor.

“What now?” he asks us. Actually, he’s looking at Tully when he speaks. Maybe he thinks she’s the bigger threat at the moment. That’s not altogether unwise.

I still answer. “Now we clear the air a bit, you and I.”

He finally looks to me. “She killed him, didn’t she? Turnbill?”

I nod once. “She tell you I did it?”

Sergeant shakes his head in disbelief, but not about this. He’s doing it because of something he’s remembering.

“That bitch,” he mumbles, almost to himself.

“What happened?” I ask. “She send you here to kill me?”

I see in my peripheral that Tully’s got the gun aimed at his chest; she’s not letting her guard down for a second.

Sergeant nods. “And get the box.”

“What makes either one of you think I have it?”

Sergeant sighs. “I don’t. Not really. She was adamant, though, so I was supposed to get it from you with all due diligence and prejudice.” He shrugs. “Her words, man. Not mine.”

“What’s your stake in this?” I ask.

He looks around my front hall, debating his options. This isn’t recess anymore, and he knows it’s time to cut his losses.

“Like I said, she hired me to steal the box from Sandecker. He was originally supposed to go to the exchange, I guess. But he found me out almost immediately and confronted me. I thought he’d be angry, call the cops or something. Instead he said I could keep what she paid me, so long as I worked against her.” He shakes his head sadly. “Too many trust issues in that relationship. It was doomed to fail.”

Thanks, Dr. Phil. Can we keep the fucking commentary to a mimimum? We’re on a deadline here.

“How’d you get involved in the first place?” Tully asks him.

“Sorry, can’t talk about that. Confidentiality, you know?”

I take the lead again. “Are they worth protecting?”

“Hell no,” he laughs, tugging on his pants at the crotch. He’s standing straighter now, the pain subsiding. The embarrassment, on the other hand, will last a good week or so. “But my reputation is,” he continues. “The things I do? Sometimes that’s all I have to show for it.”

I have to give the man points for integrity. “That was you in the Charger back at Sandecker’s house?”

“Yeah. I lost you after I left the exchange. By the time I got Turnbill’s call to go to Sandecker’s house, you were already there, and he was dead.” His eyes flicker for a brief moment, and his voice drops to a near whisper. “I won’t be party to that, so I left.”

Something in his reaction clicks like a tumbler in my brain. “You’re not a hired killer, are you?”

“Nope.” There’s that smile. Seriously, fuck his perfect teeth.

“Private investigator?”

He shrugs. “As much as you are.”

The hamster wheel that is my brain spins lazily, squeaking with every half turn. “Back at the exchange—would you have shot me if I jumped you?”

He shakes his head again. “Maybe by accident. Never shot a gun before in my life. Held a few, though, so I at least look like I know what I’m doing.” He points to his face, a knowing grin spreading his lips wide. “Plus, when you’re this handsome, people tend to do what you tell them to.”

That obnoxious sucking sound you hear is my reputation being flushed down the shitter. I let a man who’s never fired a gun before hold me at bay for ninety minutes. Worse, my best friend and harshest critic is standing right fucking next to me. I’d ask her to shoot me, to put me out of my misery, but I don’t want to give her another reason to laugh at me.

“What about just now? You weren’t going to shoot me a minute ago?” I can’t believe this man’s never fired a gun before. I have, and I fucking hate guns. I mean, hell—regardless of your personal convictions, you should at least know what the fuck you’re doing, in case the life-or-death need arises.

Sergeant leans sideways, looking past my shoulder into the living room. “Again, maybe by accident.” He rolls his shoulders. “Man, what do you want from me? I’m not a killer, and this was all just an act.”

“Did Turnbill know any of that when she hired you?” I ask.

“My experience? Doesn’t seem to be much that woman
does
know, except that she looks good naked, and that gets the guys to fall all over themselves.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Tully says to my left. I turn to see her looking dead at me, like somehow my dalliance with a redhead of fiery passion and ungodly curves led us to this moment.

“You are not blaming this on me,” I tell her.

“You didn’t even know her name.”

“I don’t know half their names! Doesn’t mean this is my fault!”

“Am I interrupting something?” Sergeant asks.

I sigh. “She’s bitter when she has to come to my rescue more than once a night.”

“Dick,” Tully spits out.

“Dickless,” I retort.

She lowers the gun, realizing Sergeant is no threat to us. “So what are you?” she asks him.

“This week? I’m a thug hired to follow your friend here to the location of…something. Wasn’t really told what, beyond the box thing. Tomorrow, who knows?”

“And last week?” Tully asks.

Sergeant stands ramrod straight, his chest swelling with pride. “Bodyguard for a little girl forced to attend the trial of her rapist.”

Tully’s eyes go wide, and I know mine hold the same shock.

If he’s talking about what I think he’s talking about, then I know that case. It was all over the news, the fucking vultures. That’s some heavy shit, and Sergeant says it with the same mix of rage and compassion that I’d have used, were our roles reversed.

I actually gain some respect for the man, but then he fucking ruins it by adding, “Last month I was a sign twirler for that burrito place over on Washington.”

Tully snorts beside me, and in that sound I know I will never live this down, not even once we’re both dead and buried. Some shit stays with you the rest of your soul’s existence, and that golden nugget of ball-busting reality is now firmly trailing mine.

I mean, are you kidding me? If he had left that last part out, I could at least say I was held up for an hour and a half under fear of execution by the guy who protected a little girl during one of the most brutal experiences in her life. That’s powerful stuff, and no one ever begrudges someone in that situation. But no, now I have to deal with Tully knowing I was stymied by one of those goddamn street corner sign flippers.

What am I, a karmic punchline? What the actual fuck? I glance to Sergeant, one question burning in my mind.

“Washington and what?”

He makes a face. “Huh?”

“That burrito place—where is it?”

“Eighth. In the strip mall on the southwest corner. End cap by the locksmith’s.”

Man, I know that place. Awesome breakfast burritos, and their green chili is the bomb. I’m processing all this new information, and between that and the physical exertion tonight, my head’s kind of spinning.

Hang on—do people still say
the bomb
?

“Clock’s ticking,” Tully reminds me.

I nod and return to the living room, retrieving my gym bag from the couch. I move to the hall closet, tossing a few extra items into the bag before zipping it up and returning to my guests. When Tully sees the familiar green and yellow bag she smiles, finally catching on to my genius plan.

“Is that what I think it is?” she asks.

I give her my best one-sided grin. “When you care enough to send your very best.”

“Oh, I like where this is going.”

Figured she would. I look to Sergeant. “She’s keeping your gun, and you’re paying me for that back door, and for four new tires.”

Sergeant holds up a victory sign. “I only took out two.”

“Yeah, and? Call it interest. Hell, call it extortion. I don’t care. You’re paying for four.” He hesitates, but nods reluctantly. Whether it’s because he’s Canadian, a pretty decent human being, or scared of Tully and I tracking him down and beating the shit out of him, I don’t know. “Now that that’s settled—are you with us on this?”

Tully stares in disbelief, while Sergeant seems to give the offer its due consideration. I mean, why not? He got used by both Turnbill and Sandecker, with a dead body now in the mix. Besides, it’s not like he’s about to tell anyone what we’re up to. Turnbill and her people will kill him outright to clean up loose ends, and going to the cops wins him a one-way ticket to a jailhouse, where some tattooed lover will call him
sugar tits
every damn day.

He shakes his head quickly. “Not my thing, man. If it’s all the same to you, I’ll be on my way.”