Konrath, Joe - Jack Daniels 01 - Whiskey Sour by Konarth| Joe

Author:Konarth| Joe [Konarth, Joe]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2011-01-25T18:30:00+00:00

Chapter 22

THE PAIN WOKE ME UP. My leg had stiffened overnight, and I felt like a piece of twisted licorice from my big toe to my bottom. I admit to some less than heroic yelping as I got out of the chair and hobbled to the bathroom in search of drugs. I’d gotten a prescription for codeine at the hospital, but hadn’t bothered to fill it, big tough girl that I am. Luckily I still had some of Don’s medication from when he’d had his wisdom teeth pulled. Vicodin. I took two.

Showering was an awkward, painful affair that involved a garbage bag, duct tape, and more patience than I thought I had. When I was finally clean and dressed, an hour of my life was irretrievably gone.

Using the cellular, I informed my shadow that I was awake and well. The Vicodin in my system almost prompted me into song. I felt good. Very good. The drug even seemed to cure my sniffles.

Later, I blamed the drugs for my decision to skip work that morning and reschedule my appointment with Lunch Mates.

The bruises on my face from the bar fight were yellowing, but I opted for the natural look rather than concealer. Clad in loose-fitting chinos, my L.L.Bean sweater, and a pair of drugstore sunglasses, I left my building sans cane and hailed a cab, informing my tail I was following a lead to a dating service. Let them snicker. I felt too high to care.

The taxi driver, a young Jamaican with a hemp beret, initiated a conversation about the Bulls, a topic that I’m normally lukewarm about but today happened to be bursting with opinion. I tipped him five bucks when he spit me out on Michigan and Balbo a dozen minutes later.

The building that housed Lunch Mates had recently been made over. I remembered it years back to be a hotel for men, complete with dirty brown bricks and tiny yellow windows. Now it was all chrome and polish, replete with green plants and a fountain in the lobby. Chicago, like all big cities, was a cannibal. Something must die for something else to grow.

I limped up to the information desk and was directed to the third floor. The elevator was mirrored, and I checked myself from every angle. Not bad for a forty-something cop who’d just been shot.

But that might have been the meds talking.

Two thick glass doors allowed me entrance to Lunch Mates, where a handsome man with perfect hair flashed me a smile from his reception desk. I smiled back, though not as electrically.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning. I’m Jack Daniels. I have an appointment.”

“Nice to meet you, Jack. I’m Frank. Coffee?”

I declined, thinking about coffee breath. He bade me take a seat, and motioned to the leather couch on my left. I sunk into it, extending out my bad leg in a way that I hoped looked demure. A windsurfing magazine caught my eye on the coffee table. Since I windsurf on practically a daily basis, I picked up the mag and perused an article about getting more hang time when it’s choppy.

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