Shot of Tequila by J. A. Konrath & Blake Crouch

Author:J. A. Konrath & Blake Crouch [Konrath, J. A.]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2009-04-12T04:00:00+00:00

Tequila awoke smelling urine. He’d slept poorly. Twice, winos had attempted to steal his shoes, and once someone even tried to take his bag filled with money, which he’d been using as a pillow.

He’d dissuaded such action forcefully, each time breaking the would-be thief’s nose. He would have broken their fingers to teach them to stop stealing, but they were homeless, and this was winter, and taking away their hands would be unnecessarily cruel. He was, after all, on their turf to begin with.

The shelter was located on Wabash, ten blocks from where he’d landed on Oak Street beach. To say it was crammed was an understatement. Normally the large main room, which had once been an art gallery back in the twenties, held ninety cots. It now was privy to twice that number, and as many as three people slept to a cot. The heat was being cranked, and a sweaty, cheap wine-vomit-piss stench seemed to float in the air like a tropical fog. The huddled, ragged bodies sprawled all over everything reminded Tequila of a rat’s nest.

He’d checked in early this morning, figuring neither the police nor the mob would search for him here. Homeless shelters, like the homeless themselves, were invisible unless you made an effort to notice them. The supervising Salvation Army worker, exhausted and uncaring, had barely looked at Tequila when he’d entered. Shelters were usually run tighter, but with the recent life-threatening cold spell they’d been letting in anyone at all. Tequila simply gave a false name, said he’d been kicked out of his apartment, and the man provided him with a worn grey cotton blanket that smelled of disinfectant and told him not to start any trouble.

Tequila sat up in his cot and stretched his muscles. He hurt. His twisted ankle seemed to bulge and ache with every heartbeat. The shoulder he’d dislocated was stiff and swollen. The skin on his palms was raw, and he had scrapes on both knees, both elbows, and his left hip. His muscles felt like boards, and he didn’t feel rested in the least, even though he’d been there for almost seven hours.

He stretched, wincing at the kaleidoscope of pain that bloomed throughout his body. Then he began with his neck and methodically stretched every muscle group and flexed every joint. He worked his way down his back to his stomach and pelvis, and then did his shoulders, arms, elbows, wrists, hands, and fingers. Then he worked the stiffness from his hips, knees, legs, feet, and toes. By the time he had finished the warm-up his aches were bearable, and he’d gathered an audience of eight or nine street people, their faces curious rather than hostile.

“Were you some kinda athlete?” a filthy, bearded man in a stained overcoat asked.

Tequila ignored him. He didn’t want to be remembered here, in case someone came around asking questions. Especially since he’d probably be back again. Until his job was finished, this was a good place to lay low. Maybe, if

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