Shot of Tequila by J.A. Konrath

Author:J.A. Konrath [Konrath, J.A.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2010-07-27T07:00:00+00:00

-22-

Marty Martelli bit into his knuckles hard enough to draw blood. He didn’t seem to notice, until it dripped down his shirt and tickled his flabby neck.

“Get me a freaking napkin,” he said to Terco. Terco hurried off to find one. He was the only one of Marty’s elite entourage still there at Spill. Matisse was at Tequila’s, and Slake had gone to join him and get the sister. Leman had taken a cab back home and called from there, stoned on painkillers after pulling a Rambo and taking the bullet out of his shoulder himself. And Tequila…

No one had seen Tequila since he’d left Spill.

The phone rang, and Marty almost toppled over in his eagerness to answer it.

“Yeah?”

“It’s Fonti. What the hell you trying to do, Marty? Get me nailed?”

“What do you mean?”

“I send ten guys over to Lake Shore Drive to take care of your little problem, and the place is swarming with pigs.”

Marty’s hopes sank. If Tequila was in custody, it would be a lot harder to get to him.

“They got him?”

“Not from what I hear. Seems your friend jumped off the thirtieth floor with a parachute. No one’s found him yet.”

“Dead?”

“I don’t think so. The cops found the chute, but no Tequila.”

Marty’s thoughts seemed to mix around in his head and run out his ears.

“Any word on his sister?” he asked.

“I didn’t know he had a sister. Found his car, though. Got two guys watching it.”

“Pass the word to the network. Tell them to cruise bus and train stations, and the airports. And see if you can get a line on hotels and motels in the area. He’s got to stay somewhere.”

“Who’s picking up the bill for this operation? Way I see it, you’re broke.”

Marty squeezed the receiver as if he were strangling the life out of a kitten. He needed Fonti’s help, but he also knew he had to tread lightly. Power meant nothing without money. You couldn’t buy soldiers or guns or the respect that came with it. The years of loyalty didn’t matter. Yesterday didn’t matter. What mattered was today, and today Marty was broke.

“Don’t make me remind you I’m good for it,” Marty said through clenched teeth. “You and I go back, Fonti. Back to the old days. We always helped each other. I didn’t know you were keeping markers.”

“I’ll do what I can, Marty. The guy should turn up. What is he, Superman?”

“He’s just a punk, Fonti. Just a sawed-off hard-ass little punk. Keep me posted.”

Marty hung up, wondering if he really believed it to be true. The fact was, when Fonti told him Tequila had parachuted from his apartment, Marty wasn’t surprised. He didn’t ask for details. He could picture the little shit, doing just that. He’d always known Tequila was better than his other collectors. He just hadn’t realized he was this good.

Idly, he wondered if Slake and Matisse were dead. No big loss. Dumb muscle was abundant in Chicago. But the real pros, the guys who got things done and demanded the respect normally reserved for made men, they were a rarity.

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