One to Go (15 page)

“CJA.”

No answer. Tom glanced at his watch: 11:10. He had less than an hour.

Tom was about to repeat himself when he heard the sound of a chain being unlocked. Two more clicks from other locks and his client opened the door. Mackey stepped back, allowing Tom to enter.

As he passed the man, Tom nearly choked from the overpowering stench of alcohol. He spotted a half-empty bottle of cheap gin sitting on a small Formica table that might have been white once but now was a smudgy gray. Clothes, including stained underwear, were strewn throughout the main space, including the kitchen counter and the old table. Cigarette burns peppered the frayed carpet.

Along with the gin and soiled clothing, a bag of potato chips, a tin of onion dip, and an ashtray overflowing with butts covered the table. Half of the butts were cigarettes, the rest were of the
cannabis variety. An ancient TV with cables running through a ragged hole in the wall, presumably leading to a CATV connection in the adjoining apartment, sat on two stacks of magazines.

Tom glanced toward the bedroom. “So, are you alone?”

“La Chiqua comin' over later after she get off work.”

“Oh, what kind of work does she do?”

Mackey gave him a curious look. “She a ho.”

Okay, no problem. Just trying to make conversation here. He sat at the table without being invited. Mackey took the seat opposite him and swigged a long swallow of gin, then passed the bottle to Tom. The gracious host.

For a moment, Tom stared at the bottle lip, wondering what kind of deadly bacteria had just been deposited there. What the hell? Hopefully the gin would kill the critters. He took the bottle, nodded his thanks, and quickly sipped the gin.

The liquid tasted like rubbing alcohol.
Frank Custer's Gin
made in Akron, Ohio.
Wonder if Frank was a descendent of George?
No matter, scalping was too good for him.

At the last moment before leaving his apartment, Tom had decided to join his close friend Mr. Daniel's for a little pre-game pep rally. Just a taste to soften the edges. There'd only been a couple of shots left in the bottle, so he'd drained it and hadn't been surprised that his mind and reflexes remained unaffected. But sitting across from his soon-to-be-dead client, the previously softened edges had sharpened up again, so he took another swig of Frank Custer's Gin. Really, not so bad.

“So, what you need to tell me, Booker?”

Mackey took an even longer swig, but before he could offer his guest the bottle again, Tom retrieved a quart of 101 proof Wild Turkey bourbon from his briefcase. He'd decided at the last minute it might be a good idea to bring a peace offering for his client, a gesture that, hopefully, might lessen Mackey's natural suspicion of anybody associated with the District of Columbia criminal justice system.

“Little present for you.”

Mackey's eyes lit up, and he snatched the bottle from Tom's hand. After peeling off the aluminum seal, he pulled the cork and drank as if the bottle contained spring water. Guess when one's used to Frank Custer's Gin from Akron, Ohio, everything else tasted smooth as honey.

When Mackey was finished, he stared at Tom with a curious expression. Tom realized the man couldn't remember why his lawyer was sitting across from him at his kitchen table.

Tom glanced at his watch: thirty-nine minutes. No use putting it off.

He reached for the Glock as Mackey drank some more. The bottle was almost a quarter gone. If Mackey didn't slow down he was going to drink himself to death.

Tom paused. Was that possible? Could someone drink themselves to death in thirty-nine minutes? While the man was a habitual drinker, he'd also consumed as much as a half bottle of rotgut gin. He remembered reading about a well-known singer dying of alcohol poisoning. Her death had focused attention on the subject, and while Tom recalled very few of the details, he knew time was critical—the more one consumed in a short period of time, the greater the likelihood the body couldn't metabolize the alcohol, and death would result.

Tom released his grip on the Glock and studied the man sitting across the table. Mackey's eyes were glassy and he swayed in his seat.

“Good stuff, right?” asked Tom.

Mackey responded with a lazy smile. “Real good.”

“Help yourself, help yourself.”

While Mackey took another swig, Tom got up from his chair and walked to the tiny kitchen. He slipped on a pair of latex gloves, then opened one cabinet drawer after another until he found what he was looking for—a 20 oz. plastic Redskins cup. “Hey, Redskins fan. Me too.”

He returned to the table and filled the cup with bourbon.

“Here you go. Hail to the Redskins.”

“Thank you, brutha.” Mackey took the cup and drained a quarter of it in one swallow.

“Taste good? Have some more.”

“Better lay off for a bit, know what I'm sayin'? Shit's got a bite.”

“I hear you, man. Your TV work?”

Mackey fumbled around, looking under a clump of damp t-shirts on the table. He found the remote and handed it to Tom. Fortunately, he was too far gone to notice the plastic gloves. Or maybe that's what he thought the skin of white people looked like.

“Got to eat some grease to soak up the hooch.” He jammed a handful of chips into his mouth.

Tom wasn't happy about the chips soaking up anything in Mackey's stomach, but there was nothing he could do about it. Hopefully, the salt would make him thirsty. He turned on the TV and saw the Comcast logo appear on the screen. He flipped to ESPN. They were running a tape of Maryland's win that afternoon over Penn State. In the lower right corner of the screen, Comcast showed the local time and temperature. Tom compared the Comcast time to his watch; Comcast was two minutes faster. It was 11:48. He pulled his cell phone from his pocket. Comcast was right.

“You follow the Terps?” asked Tom.

“Oh, yeah. Got a second cousin, played tight end for them while back.”

Tom saw him take another long drink. Maybe the salty chips were working. Except the bag was now empty. Tom got up and found a jumbo bag of pretzels in the fridge next to a six-pack of Miller and three tins of onion dip. He quickly opened the bag and poured a pile of pretzels onto the table in front of his client.

Mackey's movements were slow and uncoordinated, and he had to squint to focus on the pretzels. Something clicked and he put one in his mouth and swallowed, then immediately took a long swig from the Redskins cup.

“Did you see that catch?” asked Tom. Mackey was having trouble seeing anything. Comcast time: 11:54. Six minutes.

This wasn't working. He'd have to use the gun. Would it be easier to pump a bullet into the brain of a man if he were drunk and would likely feel no pain?

Tom popped a pretzel into his mouth. “Damn, these pretzels are good.” He put a pretzel into Mackey's hand. The man stared at it for a moment then ate it. Another long drink from the Redskins cup. Little less than two inches left in the bottom of the cup.

Tom grabbed the bottle of gin. “Touchdown! You see that?” A commercial for Bud ran on the screen, but Mackey couldn't tell. Tom clinked the bottle against the Redskins cup.

A toast. It took Mackey a long moment to understand. Then he smiled.

“Tushdown.” He drained the cup.

Tom immediately poured more bourbon into the cup, but Mackey pushed it away. Tom did a quick calculation. Twenty ounces. Added on to the long swigs he'd taken from the bottle. Added on to Frank Custer's Akron gin. Was that enough?

Tom again tipped the gin bottle against the cup. “Touchdown!”

Mackey reached out for the cup, then his eyes rolled back and his head flopped onto the table. He was out cold.

Out cold, but not dead.

Tom felt his pulse. Weak, uneven beats, but still there. He glanced at the TV. Two minutes.

Tom figured it had to take some time for the alcohol to get into Mackey's bloodstream. But how much time? More than two minutes?

Mackey was making gurgling noises, like he was having trouble breathing. But he
was
still breathing. Tom watched intently, and it appeared the breathing was becoming more erratic.

He glanced at the TV. Comcast time: 11:59. He couldn't wait, couldn't take the chance.

He pulled the Glock from his pocket. Tom's own breathing
was erratic, and it wasn't from the alcohol. Comcast didn't offer the time in seconds, so he checked his watch. Forty-five seconds. His palms were wet and slippery. He needed two hands to steady the gun as he raised it to Mackey's temple.

Wait. He remembered. No blood spatter. He stood up and stepped back from the table. Both hands were shaking heavily now. What if he missed? He'd have to fire more than once and—it hit him. The sound.
He hadn't planned on dealing with the sound. Shit!
His eyes searched the room for a pillow. That's what they always used in the movies. No pillow. He could get one from the bedroom—no time.

He stepped over to the TV and turned up the volume as high as it could go. The football fans' cheering filled the room, like they were cheering for him.
Gooooo Tom! Puuuuull the trigger!
He was on the field at the one-yard line.
Time's running down, Joe. Just a few seconds on the clock. No time-outs left. Can Booker score? The fans are in a frenzy. Here he goes
—

Tom willed himself to pull the trigger.

Murder's a sin, Tom
.

He told himself Mackey had killed another man.

Murder's a sin, Tom
.

Mackey was a despicable human being and deserved to die. But slumped over with his face on the table, the man looked so helpless.

Murdering a defenseless, unconscious man's a sin, Tom
.

Tom thought of Janie. His finger tightened. Tears poured from his eyes. He had to do it.

Pull the damn trigger!

Then Mackey vomited. Tom saw him gagging, though he remained out cold. The man couldn't breathe, he was unconscious and choking on the vomit. A thick yellow liquid dripped from his nostrils and dribbled from the sides of his mouth, but none projected out. His chest shivered in three rapid beats searching for oxygen, but his air passages were blocked.

Then his eyes flew open, looking straight at the gun in Tom's hand. Was there a glint of recognition?

More gagging, one last gasp, then his eyes glazed over.

Tom rushed back to the table and felt for a pulse. Nothing.

Reece Mackey had choked to death on his own vomit.

Tom glanced at the TV.

Comcast time: 12:00.

Tom was almost home and still hadn't received a message from the Doublemint twins. He'd turned off the TV in Mackey's apartment, then exited quickly. Didn't want La Chiqua popping in after a long night at the office and finding him with her freshly deceased boyfriend.

He'd considered taking the bottle of Wild Turkey with him, but figured forensics would likely be able to tell the contents of Mackey's stomach contained bourbon as well as gin. Again, hide in plain sight. He'd visited his client to prepare for trial and taken him a bottle of whiskey as a gesture to encourage his client to trust him. Mackey had consumed a couple of drinks while they talked, but when Tom left, Mackey, while a little woozy, appeared okay. Of course, the likelihood of him even being interviewed was low. La Chiqua would find her man dead from alcohol poisoning. Good riddance. End of story.

Where were they? Maybe all that fire and brimstone caused interference. He needed to know Janie was saved. He needed to reconfirm the kids from hell were real, to reconfirm he hadn't just murdered a man for no reason. But did he really kill Reece Mackey? The man had drunk himself to death; all Tom did was offer the man a friendly drink.
Right
.

By the time he entered his apartment, he still hadn't received any message from the underworld. His hands shook and he needed a drink. He headed straight for the fridge and popped open a
beer. Downed it in one swig, then reached for another, his last can. He hung up his jacket; no need to worry about blood.

His hands still shaking, he stripped off his clothes and, after setting his phone on the bathroom vanity, stepped into the shower. As the near-scalding water pelted his skin, his legs buckled and he slid down the tiled walls. He sat there slumped under the shower, bawling his eyes out, until the water turned cold.

Three hours later he lay awake, staring at the ceiling. Almost four a.m. and no word from Chad and Brit. He felt a compulsion to call Father Sheran. Good news, Matt. Didn't shoot the guy. Just shared a couple drinks. Very friendly. Watched the game. How 'bout them Terps? Poor fellow died from his own excesses, end of story.

Murder's a sin, Tom
.

After another forty-five minutes, he finally fell asleep.

He awoke to a loud click. He checked his watch. Almost eleven a.m. Damn, he'd slept for seven hours.

The click came from the TV. He'd never turned it on. Immediately wide awake, he sat straight up as the images of Chad and Britney appeared on the screen. They were walking down a suburban street on a sunny day. The street looked familiar. Was it Poplar Drive? The big white house on the corner—sure looked like Poplar, two streets over from his old Arlington house.