Читать книгу Sawbones: A Novella - Stuart MacBride - Страница 8

Chapter 2

Ten in the morning and it’s still raining like a bastard. We’re parked outside a small 7-Eleven clone on the outskirts of Bloomington, waiting for Jack to get back with breakfast, while Henry puts in a call to our boss, Mr Jones. “Yeah,” he’s saying, the cellphone jammed against his ear, “morgue’s still shut . . . Uh-huh . . . Uh-huh . . . We’re going round to see him soon as it opens . . . Yeah . . .”

One of them big minivans pulls up on the other side of the parking lot. Mom, Pop, and two kids. Pop hops out into the rain while Mom stays put to keep an eye on the brats. The guy hurries between the puddles towards the store, stopping when Jack pushes out through the front door. Arms full.

Pop nods a hello, but Jack just gives him one of those shitty looks he’s been working on since yesterday lunchtime, when Henry rearranged his face for him. Pop backs up a couple of steps, then waits for Jack to limp past, before going inside. He looks back over his shoulder at this thug in the leather jacket.

Way to keep a low profile, Jack.

“What?” says Henry, sticking his finger in his other ear. “Oh, right, the kid.” He peers over his shoulder at the pale, shivering thing that used to be on the local high school football team. “He’s doing OK . . . Uh-huh . . . Will do. You tell Tammy we’re thinking about her . . . right.” And then he hangs up.

“You didn’t tell him about the cop,” I say, and Henry shrugs those massive shoulders of his.

“He don’t need more stuff to worry about.”

Which is true.

The back door clunks open and Jack climbs in. “Breakfast burritos,” he says, handing out the little micro-waved parcels. Then it’s black coffee for me. Fifth of Old Kentucky, for Henry. And a jumbo Blueberry Squishy for Brian. Jack holds out the bright blue drink and Laura’s boyfriend takes it. The kid’s hands are shaking, little brown flakes of dried blood falling from his pale skin as he clutches the huge cup of sugar, chemicals and ice. Jack tosses over a small yellow packet. “Advil. They didn’t have anything stronger.”

Advil, good for a headache, but I get the feeling it’s not going to do much for Brian’s aches and pains. Poor bastard.

Henry twists the top off his early morning bourbon and takes a swig. That should even him out for a little while. Make him less likely to take another pop at Jack.

I take a bite of my burrito – not bad, but not great. “Mr Jones say anything about the FBI?”

Henry sniffs his breakfast, peeling back the outer layer of the burrito to examine the mess of eggs, ground sausage, potato and cheese inside. “Turns out one of their agents is missing.”

“No shit,” says Jack with his mouth full.

Henry ignores him. “They’re doing an appeal on national TV for Laura tonight. Fox News and America’s Most Wanted.”

I nod and take another bite. We always knew Mr Jones would end up on America’s Most Wanted, never thought it’d be as ‘father of victim’, though . . . “No clues?”

“Nah, you know what these Feds are like, sooner chop off their own dick than tell you anything.” He looks back over his shoulder at Brian and his blood-soaked trousers. “No offence.” Then downs some more bourbon. “With Feds and cops you got to persuade them a little – like with a hammer.”

Which is how come Special Agent Mills is now wrapped in plastic sheeting in the trunk of the car . . . with a lot of broken bones, his fingernails ripped out, and his face mashed to a bloody pulp.

“You know,” I say, finishing off the burrito and starting in on the coffee – which tastes like crap by the way, “we should really get rid of Agent Mills before he starts to smell.”

Henry takes a trial bite of his breakfast, chews a couple of times, pulls a disgusted face and spits it out the window into the rain. Then hurls the rest out after it. “How can you eat this shit? Jesus . . .” Another mouthful of bourbon. “Like someone scraped dog crap off the sidewalk and wrapped it in a fuckin’ used condom.” He looks over his shoulder at Jack. “What, they don’t have no fuckin’ donuts? They never heard of Krispy Kreme in fuckin’ Illinois?”

“You’re welcome,” says Jack. “It was that or hot dogs that looked like they been on the grill since Nixon was president. What the fuck you want from me?”

If I was a gambling man – which I am – I’d put money on Jack going back to New Jersey in a body cast. Or a body bag. You see, normal people know not to screw with guys like Henry, but Jack . . . I think he’s missing that little voice, you know? The one that says, ‘Don’t poke the fucking bear!’

“Tell you what,” says Jack, “you want something else for breakfast? You go get it. I’m sick of this shit.”

Henry carefully screws the top back on his bourbon. Half of it’s already gone. I’m hoping that’s enough to mellow him out, but I’m not taking any chances.

“Look at the time,” I say, starting the car, “we gotta get going. That guy’ll be back soon.”

Henry’s quiet for a moment, then he nods and the top comes off his bottle again. And Jack’s escaped another ass-kicking.

Nearly eleven and we’ve been sitting in the parking lot opposite the McLean County Morgue for fifteen minutes. It’s a crappy-looking building on the corner of West Front and North Main Street, just off highway fifty-one, with a line-up of shitty Fords parked at the kerb. No sign of our guy.

Henry lights up one of his fat old cigars and opens the car window, letting in the sound of the monsoon. I can hear Jack in the back, making pointed ‘cough, cough’ noises, like that’s going to make any difference.

Henry drowns him out by turning on the radio – R&B crackles out of the car speakers and he curses. “God-damn fuckin’ jungle music, all drums and shit, these bastards never heard of a melody?” He spins the dial till he finds a station playing Sinatra. “Now that’s music!” He settles back in his seat, smoking and humming along.

I like Henry; we’ve been friends for years. But he can be a real asshole sometimes.

Five minutes later a little guy in a white lab coat and Megadeth T-shirt sticks his head out the back door of the McLean County Coroner’s office. Big pointy nose, ginger hair, beady little eyes and a goatee beard thing – he looks like a real fucking weasel. He glances up and down the street. Then waves at us.

“Right,” says Henry, winding his window back up, “Jack, you stay here with Brian.”

“Aw, for fuck’s sake, how come I – ”

“’Cause I say so. Besides, Brian likes the company, don’t you, Brian?”

Laura’s ex-boyfriend just shivers. He doesn’t say much, not since his meeting with Mr Jones, anyway.

“What if he pisses himself?”

“Then the back seat’ll be all nice and warm for you, won’t it?” Henry steps out into the downpour. I follow him across the road and up to the morgue where the Weasel is looking nervous, holding the door open for us.

“Hi,” he says, ushering us out of the rain and into the stink of floor polish, disinfectant, and whatever it is they use to preserve the dead bodies. The Weasel scurries down the corridor ahead of us, leading the way. “I can only give you fifteen minutes, OK? There’s a staff meeting and they’ll be back afterwards.”

He shows us into the cutting room – all shiny stainless steel and sparkling tiles. There’s something on one of the autopsy tables, covered with a white plastic sheet.

“This clears what I owe, right?” says the Weasel. “My little problem with the horses? No one’s going to come round and break my thumbs? Right?”

“Yeah, sure, whatever.” Henry doesn’t really care. “Now show us the body parts.”

The Weasel nods, grabs one side of the white sheet and pulls it away like he’s performing a magic trick.

And we get to see what we drove all the way out from New Jersey for.

It ain’t pretty.