Read Online Last Call - A Thriller (Jacqueline "Jack" Daniels Mysteries Book 10) by J.A. Konrath - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: J.A. Konrath
Tags: General Fiction
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beans?”
“That’s racist,” Juan said. “I’m Mexican, so it has to be beans?”
“I wasn’t talking about refried beans,” Lucy said. “I meant like American pork and beans.”
“The kind with brown sugar?” Juan nodded. “I like those.”
“I’m vegan,” Lucy said, “except for occasionally drinking blood. But when I was a kid my mom made pork and beans all the time. There was never more than a few tiny pieces of pork in it.”
“I know, right? How can they call it pork and beans when it doesn’t have hardly any pork?”
“Stop talking about pork and beans,” K ordered. “This idea is from a story in an old issue of Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. March 2005. It’s called The Agreement .”
“What is it about, K?” Lucy asked, though she was still thinking about pork and beans, and wondered if they sold cans of it anywhere in Baja. Lucy was still vegan, but she figured it would be simple enough to avoid the pork when there were only three bites per can.
“The story is about a gambler who loses at cards and is going to be killed because he can’t pay. But he’s given a choice. If he can keep his hand on a stove burner for ten full seconds, his debts will be absolved.”
K took the hot plate out with a dramatic flourish. It was one of those models with a round, spiral burner, and didn’t look menacing at all. He unwrapped the cord, had one of the guards plug it into an extension in the hall, and set the burner down on a rickety Formica table. K twisted the only knob on the appliance, and the coil began to glow orange.
“The best and the worst pain is what we do to ourselves.” K said, staring hard at Juan. “Do you want to go home?”
Juan nodded.
“Place your palm on the burner and hold it there. If you can last for ten seconds without pulling away, you’re free.”
Juan eyed the hot plate like it was a small dog known to bite.
“Put my hand on that?”
“Yeah.”
“And hold it there for ten seconds?”
“Yeah.”
“Here’s a better idea. You eat a bag of dicks.”
Lucy looked at K, then told the guards, “Hold him.”
They wrestled the cuffed man to his knees, and Lucy pressed the red-hot grill into Juan’s face, holding it there for longer than ten seconds.
Oddly enough, it smelled sort of like pork and beans.
K then cut off the man’s pants and said, “What was your idea? Eat a bag of dicks? How about you tell us what that’s like.”
Juan never did tell them what it was like, because he choked to death. Which was a shame, because Lucy was curious to see what other body parts they could have forced him to eat.
“So how did that Hitchcock story end?” she asked, as the guards hauled Juan’s body away.
“I don’t know. Last page was ripped out.”
“I bet it didn’t end with the guy eating his own junk.”
“Probably not.”
They went to the sink to wash up, sharing the canister of powdered soap. K squinted at his purple robe and frowned. “Blood stains.”
“Sorry about that, K. Maybe she’ll survive.”
“She really is a miracle worker with stains.”
“And ironing.” Lucy used a wooden brush to get the bits of tissue out from under her fingernails. “So if he actually lasted the full ten seconds, you really would have let him go?”
K made a croaking sound, like someone with emphysema trying to clear his throat. He made the sound again, and again, and Lucy suddenly realized he was laughing.
She joined in.
PHIN
Baja
P hin wasn’t built for surveillance. He was built for action.
Watching a target took a skill set antithetical to the one he had. Phin had been keeping an eye on Hugo Boss, and his spotters, for sixteen hours, and had prepared for the stake-out as best he could. He’d picked three spots where he could have them all in sight while remaining off their radar. Binoculars, with screens on the lenses so they wouldn’t reflect and give away his position. A case of water. Beef jerky and candy bars—things
“That’s racist,” Juan said. “I’m Mexican, so it has to be beans?”
“I wasn’t talking about refried beans,” Lucy said. “I meant like American pork and beans.”
“The kind with brown sugar?” Juan nodded. “I like those.”
“I’m vegan,” Lucy said, “except for occasionally drinking blood. But when I was a kid my mom made pork and beans all the time. There was never more than a few tiny pieces of pork in it.”
“I know, right? How can they call it pork and beans when it doesn’t have hardly any pork?”
“Stop talking about pork and beans,” K ordered. “This idea is from a story in an old issue of Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. March 2005. It’s called The Agreement .”
“What is it about, K?” Lucy asked, though she was still thinking about pork and beans, and wondered if they sold cans of it anywhere in Baja. Lucy was still vegan, but she figured it would be simple enough to avoid the pork when there were only three bites per can.
“The story is about a gambler who loses at cards and is going to be killed because he can’t pay. But he’s given a choice. If he can keep his hand on a stove burner for ten full seconds, his debts will be absolved.”
K took the hot plate out with a dramatic flourish. It was one of those models with a round, spiral burner, and didn’t look menacing at all. He unwrapped the cord, had one of the guards plug it into an extension in the hall, and set the burner down on a rickety Formica table. K twisted the only knob on the appliance, and the coil began to glow orange.
“The best and the worst pain is what we do to ourselves.” K said, staring hard at Juan. “Do you want to go home?”
Juan nodded.
“Place your palm on the burner and hold it there. If you can last for ten seconds without pulling away, you’re free.”
Juan eyed the hot plate like it was a small dog known to bite.
“Put my hand on that?”
“Yeah.”
“And hold it there for ten seconds?”
“Yeah.”
“Here’s a better idea. You eat a bag of dicks.”
Lucy looked at K, then told the guards, “Hold him.”
They wrestled the cuffed man to his knees, and Lucy pressed the red-hot grill into Juan’s face, holding it there for longer than ten seconds.
Oddly enough, it smelled sort of like pork and beans.
K then cut off the man’s pants and said, “What was your idea? Eat a bag of dicks? How about you tell us what that’s like.”
Juan never did tell them what it was like, because he choked to death. Which was a shame, because Lucy was curious to see what other body parts they could have forced him to eat.
“So how did that Hitchcock story end?” she asked, as the guards hauled Juan’s body away.
“I don’t know. Last page was ripped out.”
“I bet it didn’t end with the guy eating his own junk.”
“Probably not.”
They went to the sink to wash up, sharing the canister of powdered soap. K squinted at his purple robe and frowned. “Blood stains.”
“Sorry about that, K. Maybe she’ll survive.”
“She really is a miracle worker with stains.”
“And ironing.” Lucy used a wooden brush to get the bits of tissue out from under her fingernails. “So if he actually lasted the full ten seconds, you really would have let him go?”
K made a croaking sound, like someone with emphysema trying to clear his throat. He made the sound again, and again, and Lucy suddenly realized he was laughing.
She joined in.
PHIN
Baja
P hin wasn’t built for surveillance. He was built for action.
Watching a target took a skill set antithetical to the one he had. Phin had been keeping an eye on Hugo Boss, and his spotters, for sixteen hours, and had prepared for the stake-out as best he could. He’d picked three spots where he could have them all in sight while remaining off their radar. Binoculars, with screens on the lenses so they wouldn’t reflect and give away his position. A case of water. Beef jerky and candy bars—things
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