In God's Name: Tommy Avon Mysteries, #5

By charles fisher

Vicky Avon encounters Georgette Graham, a serial killer who will take her to her limts and beyond.

• Language: English
• Publisher: charles fisher
• Release date: May 23, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386945901

Book preview

Table of Contents

In God’s Name | A  Tommy Avon Mystery

The End | Vicky et al will return in Redemption, In God’s Name Part 2

In God’s Name

A  Tommy Avon Mystery

Chicago Police Department

Violent Crimes

Office of Captain Clarence Carson

November

––––––––

What you doing here? Clarence said as Vicky and Katie came in and sat down. You two be trouble.

We just stopped by to wish you a happy Thanksgiving, Vicky said, trying not to laugh. Fatso.

That be it, Clarence said. I be a Captain now. I don’t got to take no shit from you.

Yes you do. I don’t work for you. Well actually I do. I solve half your crimes, but I never get paid.

You didn’t want no money. I told you, submit  a bill.

Sure, and then wait two years for a rubber check from the city. No thanks. I got my Squirrel Nuts, that’s enough payment for me. So, what’s going on?

What you care what’s going on? Clarence said. You two be trouble. You lookin’ at a dead man.

We’re looking at a fat man, Katie giggled. Do you like turkey as much as you like chicken?

Never mind what I like, Clarence fumed.

Congratulations on your promotion, Katie said as she took out a Marlboro. I hope they don’t have to pay you by the pound.

Don’t you be lighting that up in here, Clarence said, leaning across the desk. I’ll lock your young ass up.

You’ll try, Apollo, Katie said.

You be eleven years old. Where you get cigarettes, anyway? That be illegal.

I have my connections, Katie said. You forget who I am? You know how many cigarette boosters there are on the streets of Chicago? You even know how they get them? No, you don’t, because you’re lazy. You forgot how to do your job. The higher you go in rank, the farther away from the real crimes on the streets you get.

I know who you be, Clarence said. Mob girl. You know about illegal cigarettes?

Yeah, but you don’t. You can go on line and order all you want from some island in the Caribbean. They arrive unmarked through Fedex or UPS and the crook assholes in Customs look the other way for a bribe. Either that, or they bring them in by container. My guy brought in two hundred thousand cartons for nine bucks each, and sold them on the streets for fifty a carton, which is still half of retail price. What’s forty times two hundred thousand? Eight million bucks cash profit?

This Jackie’s people? He gonna get out of the hospital soon, then he’ll have something to say to your white Guinea ass.

Fuck him, Katie said. "He’s lucky I didn’t go visit him and pinch off his oxygen supply. Look at how they massacred my grandfather," she cried, dabbing at her eyes.

She’s good, Vicky said as she munched away at her Squirrel Nuts, her feet tucked under her. Almost  as good as me.

Yeah, and you got to teach this kid how to pull more illegal shit. Thanks. I ain’t got enough to do.

It’s only illegal if you get caught, Katie said.

Barnes got a jail cell with your name on it, troop. You better straighten your ass out and fly right.

You have no idea what I want to do, Katie said quietly. You want Jackie? I told you, I could hand him to you any day I want, and some day I will.

Why not now? Clarence said.

Because he’s going to reform himself, Vicky said. Or else.

Or else what?

Me.

Somebody else will just take over for him if he has an accident, Clarence said.

We have that covered, Vicky said. You worried about Bruno?

"You should be worried about Bruno."

I’m not. Bruno should be worried about me, and he is.

Okay, enough of this. You want to go to war with these Mob assholes, that be on you.

Thanks. I’m overwhelmed by the support I get here. So, is anything going on? Things are slow lately.

Yeah, because you killed half the damn city,  Clarence grinned.

There is still another half left, Vicky said. Give me one of those Butternut candy bars.

How you know about that? Clarence said, his eyes drifting to his closet.

You have a short memory, and a long belt. We looked in your closet.

Son of a .....take what you want, Clarence sighed. I can’t win with you, can I.

Yes you can, Vicky said. You always have. Tell me what it is, Vicky said.

Tell you what it is? What is it what?

Him, Vicky said. He’s here, isn’t he. It was on the news.

Go see Vito, Clarence said, looking away. He got something for you. It ain’t good, either.

Chicago Police Department

Violent Crimes

Office of Detective Sergeant Vito Antonelli

November

––––––––

Here, Vito, Vicky said. I brought you a present. She threw a sausage and pepper grinder on the desk. Be careful when you eat that. It might be one of your Dago relatives. Doggie Delight reopened, and they’re branching out into the sausage business.

You’re funny, Antonelli said as he unwrapped the grinder. I can’t wait for you assholes to come in here every day and  break my balls. Where you been? I ain’t seen you in almost a year.

I was attending a seminar, Vicky grinned. "It was called Smart Italians in History. I left after ten months when they couldn’t come up with one."

We got more smart people than you dummies do, Antonelli grinned as he started in on the grinder. Only thing you assholes ever invented was booze. Look at your fucking country. Full of welfare  recipients wearing kilts and getting drunk all day, and eating that haggis shit. Ever hear of Michael Mac Angelo? he grinned. No, and you ain’t gonna, either. Where’s them museums full of Scottish paintings, huh? How about Mona Mac Lisa?

There’s a painting of your fat sister taking it up the ass from a Polack in the Louvre, Vicky said. "It’s called Bend Over and Smile. It was painted by a Scottish artist, Sean Sphincter. I’m sure you’d like it."

You’re funny, Avon, Vito grinned. Too bad you ain’t smart. What do you want, anyway? You still got this Guinea brat with you? She must be desperate for a new mother.

At least I know who my mother is, meatball breath, Katie said. All you got is a stain on the mattress and a nigger DNA kit.

That ain’t nice, and you ain’t nice, Antonelli said. This is a good grinder. Where’d you get it?

Kirisawa’s Japanese-American Diner, Vicky grinned. It’s their Pearl Harbor Submarine Special. You never know where the meatballs came from.

No way no Jap made this, Antonelli said. Fucking gook must order food from a Guinea restaurant.

Never mind, just tell us who he is.

Who is who? Antonelli said as he licked his fingers.

You know who, and stop licking your fingers. You’re making me hot.

Too bad for you, Antonelli grinned. That’s what you get when you see a real man. You got nothing I’d want, he shrugged. Bird leg chicken titted shrimp.

Clarence sent us. He said to see you about some case you have.

You don’t want this one, Antonelli said. Nobody wants this one.

I do, Vicky said. Give it to me.

Bend over, Antonelli smiled. I’ll think about it. They got a new cure for crotch cooties now, and I got some industrial strength rubbers I took off a perp.

Yeah, I heard about Grandma Antonelli taking a bust in the train station. Too bad, I hear she was real good, especially when she took her teeth out.

Give it up, salami breath, Katie said. I still got your address, you know. Connie the Killer might be locked up, but I’m not.

You ain’t nothing, Antonelli said. I took on better than you and your Wop family and I’m still here. You don’t scare nobody. You ain’t even got your first period yet.

I can make you bleed, though, Katie said. Care to take the challenge?

See me when you’re eighteen, Antonelli said. Then I’ll show you what a salami is all about.

We need information, Calzone Carmine, Vicky said. Who’s the guy?

Jesus, you never let up. Here, Antonelli said, handing over the file. Good luck with this one. It’s right up your alley. Just like all them bums you screw.

Nothing has been up my alley in a long time, Vicky said eagerly. Would you like to........ she whispered something into Antonelli’s ear.

You get the hell out of here, Antonelli said, crossing himself. You should burn in Hell you do that.

Men, Vicky groused. Let’s go, kid. We’re not going to get any satisfaction here.

So long, Pizza Pete, Katie laughed. See you in a few days.

You ain’t gonna see nothing except my fist, Antonelli said. Hey, where’s that Jap Diner again?

Kirisawa’s Japanese-American Diner

Chicago, Illinois

November

––––––––

Hello, Round Eye, Kirisawa said as he bowed to Antonelli. You Japanese? 

No, you gook asshole, I’m Italian. You know what Italian means? It means better than a Jap.

Oh, I see, Kirisawa said. How Italy make out in World War Two? Have very unique rifles. Never fired, only dropped once.

Better than you slant cocksuckers, Antonelli said. You like our H-bomb, Tojo?

Very nice, Kirisawa said. Use for barbecue hot dogs. You want food? You look like cop to me.

I am a cop, and you probably got a sheet, you Jap asshole.

Have sheet, put on bed to fuck Guinea whore, Kirisawa said. "You want today’s special? Battleship Arizona Omelet. Come with unidentified burned meat and eggs scream help me."

That ain’t funny, Antonelli said. I want a sausage and pepper grinder.

Navy or Army sausage? Kirisawa grinned. Have both kinds. Admiral Yamamoto pick up dead GIs in water and freeze for many years.

Jesus, Antonelli sighed. You know Tracy? I’ll have her come down here and kick your ass.

Know her, Kirisawa nodded. Have legs up to neck, show beaver. Make Kirisawa hot.

Go get my fucking grinder, you douche bag, Antonelli said. He looked out the window as Kirisawa ran off to the back. He saw a nondescript old blue Chevy roll slowly by, and wondered if it could be him. He looked away and hoped it wasn’t.

Kirisawa’s waitress brought the grinder and set it in front of Antonelli, trying not to laugh.

What’s so funny, Godzilla? he said, eyeing the plate. You put something in my food?

No do this, the girl squealed, and ran off. Kirisawa came over.

Have problem? he said.

I think Honda Helen better watch herself is what, Antonelli said. I can have her deported, you know.

No can do, Starsky, Kirisawa said. She born here.

Yeah, right. With  that accent? You kidding me? Where’s she from?

Alabama, Kirisawa said, tears of mirth streaming down his face. He called the girl over. Show Sergeant Friday you from Alabama. He no believe me.

Dang, the girl drawled in a deep voice. You all be a gen-yoo-wine pain in my butt.

See?  Kirisawa screeched as the girl ran off to the back. Have birth certificate from Benihana.

Get the fuck away from me, Antonelli said. And there better not be nothing in my food, or your Jap ass belongs to me.

Tracy pulled in just then and got out of her cruiser very slowly, because she knew Antonelli would be looking.

Cripes, he sighed as he almost choked on his grinder. Them panties shouldn’t even be legal. You can see everything she got.

Tracy came in and sat down. You enjoy the show? she said.

I should pinch you for that just to teach you a lesson, Antonelli said.

Nipples or clit? Tracy said curiously.

Jeez, Antonelli said. Don’t be talking about your girly parts when I’m trying to eat.

That grinder with all that red shit dripping out of it reminds me; I have to buy tampons, Tracy said.

Bitch, Antonelli snapped. How the hell am I supposed to eat when I got to listen to your dirty mouth?

Depends on what you like to eat, Tracy shrugged. "Although you are a Mr. Macho I don’t do that Guinea loser. Your old lady must be thrilled with your garlic stinking dumb greasy ass."

You got some reason to come in here and break my balls?

It’s lunch time. I like to eat Japanese. You ever eat Irish? Tracy grinned, leaning forward.

"Oh, sure. Corned beef and cabbage, and fucking potatoes. Famous Irish Cuisine. The world’s smallest book. Not that it matters, you douche bags are so drunk they could serve you dog food and you wouldn’t know the difference."

Irish Sushi is good, Tracy said. She put her foot up on the table and smoothed out her nylon.

You cut that out, Antonelli said. That’s public indecency. I could pop you for that.

That’s about the only thing you could pop, Tracy said. As for public indecency, it’s stamped on my birth certificate. Irish girls are  like Lay’s potato chips. You can’t eat just one.

I ain’t eatin’ any of you, Antonelli said. You and Tokyo Rose back there. Fucking  fake Jap. Alabama my ass.

Better check that grinder for blood clots, Tracy grinned. She’s on the rag this week.

That’s it, Antonelli said, slamming the remainder of the grinder onto the plate. Kirisawa ran over.

No like food? Have problem? he giggled.

Ask your girlfriend Tracy, Antonelli said. Her and her wise cracks about  your waitress being on the rag. I ain’t eating this, and I ain’t paying for it, either. You break my stones and I’ll take this shit back to the lab, and I guarantee I’ll find something to put your ass out of business.

No do this, Kirisawa said. I give you new meal. What you like? Have Manzanar Menstruation Manicotti, or Time of Month Turkey Tettrazzini.

Get me a pizza from a Wop restaurant. You can handle that, can’t you? At least my own people won’t try to poison me.

I do. Have Garibaldi’s White Flag Italian Restaurant on corner. What you have, Tracy?

I’ll have the tongue, Tracy grinned, turning so Kirisawa could see her new crotchless panties.

No serve this, he said nervously.

I didn’t say you had to serve it, Tracy said. Never mind, I bought one last night at  Shopmart. Cow tongue. Talk about a thrill ride. I’ll have some of Dago Dan’s pie. Maybe he’ll return the favor and have some of my pie.

You wish, you deviate creep, Antonelli said. Don’t you got anything on your mind but getting laid?

Not lately, Tracy said.

The pizza arrived, and Antonelli swooned when he had the first slice.

Now that’s real Guinea pizza, he said. Lookit all that oil dripping off that.

I bet your wife said the same thing last night when you came to bed. Tracy folded a slice into a V and ran her tongue in and out of it lasciviously.

It ain’t gonna work, Antonelli said. You can do all the piggy shit you want, you ain’t never gonna stop a Wop from eating a good abeets.

Stop a Wop, Tracy mused. That should be the name of our new anti-organized crime initiative.

I could stop you, Antonelli said as he started in on another slice.

What about our new visitor? Tracy smirked. You gonna stop him?

Try to, Antonelli shrugged. He ain’t exactly walking around in public with a sign around his neck, you know? Takes a lot of time  to catch somebody like that.

That should be Cole Pierson’s job, not yours.

Things are all fucked up since C got the bump. Cases land where they land. We got no secretary because they never replaced the one Cordell’s wife wasted. We got no money in the budget. Things are tight. Not that you’d know anything about tight, he grinned.

Try me, needle dick. You doing anything to effort tracking this asshole down?

I gave the file to that other miserable cunt, Antonelli shrugged. Your pal Avon.

You ever call her that again and I will kill you deader than Julius Caesar. And that’s no threat, Detective, it’s a promise. And they’ll never find the body.

Yeah, okay, like you never call names. She’s okay, he shrugged. In a weird nobody wants to fuck me sort of way. She does good work. Not like you. You got a thing for her now? I though you two hated each other.

We did. Not any more. End of discussion. What did she say about this guy?

She didn’t. And how do you know it’s a guy? Antonelli said.

I don’t. And that still means I know more than you.

You ain’t never gonna know more than me, Antonelli said. Get used to it.

Get used to having your ass handed to you, Tracy said as she put two slices on a plate and got up to go.

Hey, you gonna chip in some money? Antonelli said as Tracy left. All he saw was her middle finger. Guess not.

Residence of Tommy Avon

Englewood, Chicago

November

––––––––

Do they have any Thanksgiving songs about black people? Vicky giggled, elbowing Leroy Brown.

Leroy don’t need this shit. You be a racist white motherfucker, he said, trying not to laugh. Tommy, spank this bitch.

Go ahead, Tommy, Vicky said. Better men have tried, and all of them died.

That’s not what I read on the men’s room wall at the new Cove Lounge, Tommy said.

That’s bullshit, Vicky huffed. That can’t be true; the price was way too low. Come on, Buckwheat, there must be some song about niggers fucking turkeys or something. I’m sure the Pilgrims had to put up with you assholes after you broke loose from the porch.

Brothers don’t like turkey, Leroy said. Reminds us of white folks  giving thanks to their white God while they had us as slaves.

Oh, poor Leroy, Vicky said. When were you a slave? And how do you know God is white?

The pictures all them Guineas painted, Leroy said. God always be an old white dude. You ever see a painting where God looked like Dave Chapelle?

I love him! Vicky exclaimed. He is the funniest man alive. I’m glad he’s coming back.

Yeah, I bet you are. Dave be the man.

And he can afford nice clothes, Vicky said. Not like you. Look at that suit; what is that, boat canvas?

This be fine material, Leroy said.

It’s tweed, Vicky snorted, covering her mouth. The last guy I saw wearing a tweed suit was David Niven. He died in 1983. I think they buried him in one of those.

Don’t be fucking with Leroy’s threads. You ain’t no fashion plate your own self. What you wear? Jeans and  a damn sweat shirt, and them horny silk  nylons and crotchless panties you ordered on line, Leroy grinned.

I did not order any such thing! Vicky yelled. How dare you?

Leroy got the receipt, he grinned. "The Piggy Prostitute Parlor. You been found out."

They have nice things, Vicky pouted. I ordered flannel pajamas and Bunny slippers. They must have made a mistake. I’m pure, she huffed.

"That’s why you be number one Date of the Month on them sex offender web sites," Leroy grinned.

Bastard, Vicky muttered. A girl has to have some fun once in a while. Those guys will do..... never mind. What about this case file?

There isn’t anything there, Tommy grinned. It’s like looking at a file about your bra.

Or your underwear, Vicky said, looking him up and down. There has to be a pattern.

Sure, Tommy said. 123 dead bodies scattered all over the country. Men, women, children, black, white, you name it. Never a clue. No hair fibers, no clothing fibers, no witnesses, no DNA, no.... sperm samples, he grinned.

"Yuck. You had to bring that up, didn’t you. It was my Junior prom, and they never found his..... never mind, Vicky said. He asked for it. No forensics, huh?"

Nope. All they have are consistent witness reports that they saw an old blue Chevy in the area at the time.

Thank God it wasn’t a black and tan Dodge, Vicky giggled. It could be me. Any sexual assaults?

No. That lets you out, Tommy smirked.

Very funny. At least they’d die happy.

Matter of opinion, Leroy said. You show me some dude who wants to go out lookin’ up your pleasure hole.

My high school yearbook is upstairs, Vicky said. Take your pick. This guy is going to be hard to catch. Or gal, she said.

Gal? Tommy said. Serial killers are about 95 percent men. Who could blame them after having to listening to girly yapping and whining all their lives. That’s enough to push any man over the edge.

The only thing that could push you over the edge is a bulldozer, Vicky said. "It could be a woman. Maybe her Weight Watchers delivery was late. Women will snap