Di Filippo - The Big Get-Even

Copyright 2018 by Paul Di Filippo
E-book published in 2018 by Blackstone Publishing
Cover design by Kathryn Galloway English
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Trade e-book ISBN 978-1-5047-8448-1
Library e-book ISBN 978-1-5047-8438-2
Fiction / Thrillers / Suspense
CIP data for this book is available from the Library of Congress
Blackstone Publishing
31 Mistletoe Rd.
Ashland, OR 97520
www.BlackstonePublishing.com

To Deborah, who makes everything possible.
To Brownie, who showed the path.
And to Richard Curtis, who believed.

Prologue

These days, I obey all the laws. Even the stupid ones. With three years of parole still hanging around my neck, I cant afford to put a foot wrong. Too many vindictive peoplemostly those I had stolen large sums of money from and who were never recompensed and were never going to get recompensedwould be delighted to see my ass back in jail.

This newly civic-minded attitude of mine explained why I was sitting at a traffic light, idling behind another car at 3:20 a.m. on a frigid December night, while the exhaust-belching beater ahead of me had not moved for three full cycles of green-yellow-red.

Even though no other car had passed through the intersection in any direction for several minutes, I didnt want to zoom around this blockhead, just in case a police cruiser should happen to swing by at that very moment. I had just enjoyed three generous mojitos, over as many hours, at Dannys Cavern (and left without getting so much as a phone number). So while, by my reckoning, I was sober as an owl, I did not want to chance blowing even a hair over the legal limit.

But my patience was wearing thin. Not that I had anyone waiting for me at home, or any job to get up for in the morning. Nonetheless. So I focused my growing annoyance on the back of the drivers shaggy head, spotlighted in the muted blue radiance of the corner streetlight, and tried to send a telepathic message to move. No luck. Was he looking at his cell phone? I applauded his considerate wisdom in not texting while his car was in motion, but my inconvenience had to count for something.

Finally, I did what I had been avoiding for fear of waking up the whole very proper suburban neighborhood where we sat frozen in place. (That damn cringing, overcautious whipped-dog attitude again. Two years of prison, even in the relatively country-club atmosphere where I did my stint, had really taken the starch out of me.) I lay on my horn for an earsplitting second or two.

I might as well have whispered at him for all the response I got.

With a long, self-pitying sigh that felt all too familiarly satisfying, I put my car in park and, leaving the motor running, stepped out. The cold air hit me like falling into a mountain stream. With the clean scent of approaching winter stinging my nostrils, I crunched over the gritty ice on the roadway to the guys door.

My first quick impression was of your standard mook. Ugly-handsome, wearing a leather jacket unzipped over a garish sweater cut low enough to reveal a thatch of chest hair adorned with a gold chain. I had seen his type often enough coming through the law offices, usually seeking our help against one minor felony charge or another.

My second quick impression told me the guy was dead.

His face was pale and clammy like a frogs belly. His lips were bluish, and not just from the streetlight. His eyes stared without seeing, his pupils the size of poppy seeds. His stiff right leg, foot jammed on the brake, was the only thing keeping his car from moving.

I jerked open the door and brought my head close to his. Booze and body spray.

Faint but stertorous breathing told me he hadnt quite croaked. And I knew what had hit himId seen it often enough before.

I sprinted back to my car and grabbed the Narcan kit from under the front seat. I fumbled out the nasal injector and sprinted back to the mooks car. I had to wrangle him to tilt his head back and maximize the dose. The car started to roll forward, and I abandoned him for the shifter. After slamming it into park, I pushed the injector deep into one nostril and blasted the naloxone up into his skull, then laid him back down on the seat.

Almost immediately, his condition improved. His breathing got easier, his skin changed color, and he began to twitch.

If only this miracle stuff had been around when I was using. But it wasnt, and I had seen several of my dope friends and fix acquaintances buy the farm for lack of it.

I called the cops on my cell. They roared up in no time, as if they were actors waiting just offstage for their cue. Their strobe lights painted the scene as if for an early Christmas.

One cop went to attend the mook, while the other came to me. The blond, smooth-faced kid questioning me looked so young and earnest, I felt like my own father. But he still regarded me with that innate suspicion all cops quickly develop, as if I must be guilty of something.

Your name?

Glen McClinton. I already had my license out.

You called this in?

Yes. I explained the circumstances.

Please wait right here.

He went back to the car and ran my information. When he returned, he was trying his best not to look especially crafty, and I resigned myself to some hassle.

Mr. McClinton, the terms of your parole do not include a prohibition on alcohol, so I wont ask you to take a Breathalyzer test. You seem quite sober. I hope youll appreciate this special consideration.

Thanks. I suspected what was next.

Okay, then. So maybe youll be up front with me. I need to know if you were meeting this person to make a heroin buy.

I was not. I have been clean for over two years.

Yet you carry a Narcan kit with you.

I just dont like seeing people die if I can help it.

Isnt it quite a coincidence that an ex-addict like yourself should happen to be tailing a current addict?

I wasnt tailing him; I was driving home. Its not much of a coincidence anyhow, two dopers in a line of cars, given the growing number of junkies around town these days.

What made you intervene, then, if you didnt know him?

I experienced a sudden weariness at that moment. I felt stupid and ridiculous, my whole life a pointless exercise. So I indulged in a little snark.

I told you, I have an objection to useless deaths. Hard as it is to believe, even an ex-addict like myself can be a Good Samaritan. God works in mysterious ways, right? He even saw fit to make you a policeman.

The young cop looked as if he was about to object to my mild sass. But then the ambulance pulled up in a confusion of noise and lights, and the guys partner left the EMTs to their job and came over to us. He was older and, I hoped, smarter.

Jack, we can stop questioning Mr. McClinton now. You can be sure theres no connection here. The vic just got out of jail this morning, upstate. He rode a bus most of the day, arrived here in town, bought this car around 6:00 p.m. He barely had time to get his own fix, never mind setting up a deal.

Jack seemed reluctant to let it go. But a stern look from his partner convinced him.

Youre free to leave, Mr. McClinton. Id be sure to report this incident to my parole officer if I were you.

If you were me, then I could be someone else, and I might be a lot happier, although youd be miserable. But thats not gonna happen.