Page 122 of Fish in a Barrel
“This is unholy and unwise, and I want no part of it,” Henry said, holding his hands up and taking a step back.
“Oh, put your testicles on and start cleaning house,” Jackson told him. “I swear to God, this won’t get you in trouble!”
“You say that,” Henry protested, but Jackson noted he was actively engaged in getting the grocery bags and pulling out the stuff in the back seat. Maps, bottles of water, first-aid kit, Nikon camera with long-range lens, both their gym bags, extra bandages—all of it went into the grocery bags while Jackson grabbed his phone.
“I’ll be in the coffee shop,” he said, nodding to the place by the grocery store, “using my phone like a boss.”
“Boss is right,” Henry muttered, but he didn’t have Jackson’s brainstorm, so he could pout all he wanted.
Ten minutes later, Henry had purchased two iced coffees—decaf for Jackson and his tetchy heart—and Jackson was trying not to show his distaste as he continued to do things on his phone. Finally he finished, sat back, and took a swig, sticking his tongue out like a cat when he realized what he was drinking.
“Tea, Junior,” he said in despair. “Iced tea, no sugar, is fine! Oh my God, that’s vile. That’s—”
“Stop bitching,” Henry snapped, taking his own swig of Jackson’s coffee. “It’s—” He shuddered and swallowed, his entire body recoiling. “Fine,” he rasped after it was down. “Tastes great. Go ahead and wimp out for tea if you need to. What’s our plan?”
“Well, first of all text Andres and tell him that his perp just walked in while you were getting coffee. I think we had his workplace right but the time he started wrong. Be ready to watch the guy squirt out of here when his buddies warn him that we came in looking, ’kay?”
“Yeah,” Henry said, all business. “Got him. Heading down the produce aisle. Look, he’s got an apron. It seems weird that a guy with an apron should be wanted for grand larceny.”
“As opposed to murder, when the apron keeps his clothes clean?” God, Henry could be dense sometimes.
Henry stared at him. “You are so weird.”
“Whatever. Oops, there he is, talking to the manager. Looking around. You take the employees’ exit. I’ll be right outside.”
“But our stuff!” Henry opined.
Jackson held up a twenty and waved it toward the barista. “Watch this?”
The woman—middle-aged, looked like she had kids and a mortgage—nodded happily. Jackson handed her the twenty and vamoosed out the front door, leaving Henry to make sure their guy, a stolid, plain white guy with a tiny mouth compressed in a scowl and a five-head, didn’t go out the back.
He had just situated himself when Henry buzzed him. Jackson hit his earbud, and Henry barked, “Shit! He’s out the back! Out the back!”
“He can’t hop that fence,” Jackson told him, because there was a tall, steep rise behind the grocery store, topped with a ten-foot chain-link fence.
“We’re coming around from the east!”
Well, shit. Jackson jogged to the east end of the grocery store, hearing the pounding of feet and the whispers of muffled swearing as he did so. Jackson pressed his back against the rough granite of the outside wall and waited… waited… waited….
“Hang on, kid!” Henry panted from farther back, and Jackson took that as his cue. He grabbed one of the grocery carts just hanging around and shoved it, blocking the only exit their perp had just as the kid came barreling out from the narrow alleyway.
He went over hard, so quickly he didn’t have time to scream or curse, and Henry skidded to a stop as he landed.
“Ouch,” Henry muttered. “That’s gonna leave a mark.”
“Road rash of the face is never pretty,” Jackson said.
At that moment, an unmarked car screeched to a halt in front of the grocery store entrance and Sean Kryzynski’s partner emerged. Muttering to himself, Andre Christie strode over to where their perp was rolling on the ground, holding both his torn-up shins and moaning.
“So,” he said in bemusement, “this is the guy who’s been setting up truck hijacking operations throughout the valley?”
“He’s been sleeping with the scheduling lady,” Jackson said. “He told the hijackers where the trucks with the expensive shit would be, and they paid him a cut.” Jackson crouched down by their poor moaning asshole. “Isn’t that right, Julius?”
“Fuck you,” Julius Warner sobbed. “I don’t have to talk to you.”
“No you do not. But you should probably talk to a lawyer.” Jackson stood. “So, are you dropping charges against our guy?”
Christie, a dapper, handsome Latinx man, smiled grimly. “Since you were nice enough to run down the actual criminal, I’ll talk to the DA about it.” He scowled at their bad guy’s injuries. “After I take him to the hospital.” He eyed Jackson critically. “You need anything? Scrub and wash? Stitch and soap? Any bones set? New ticker?”
