Jack Ratz Blue Pool

By Lizzie Burke, Rich Heidecke and John Ray

A Chicago Cop Thriller

Jack Ratz is the proprietor of a cop bar in the 12th District on the west side of Chicago,
Where anything goes.

Jack hires a new pizza delivery boy, Timmy Miller. Miller abuses his affiliation the cop
Bar. He drives his used red Corvette recklessly down the streets of Chicago.

Showing their loyalty to Jack, the local police officers look the other way. But when Miller
Starts to mess around with the wife of one of the local cops, things turn nasty.

The cops start a pool and the killing begins. But the pizza boy doesnt die.

As red sport cars crash and burn, and innocent citizens perish, Homicide Detective
Denim Sykes pursues a ghost-like psycho killer, whose actions have threatened the
Entire Police Department of the 12th District.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Mar 28, 2012
• ISBN: 9781468563665

Book preview

Contents

Chapter One

Monday, January 5th, 2009

Chapter Two

Very Early Tuesday Morning January 6th, 2009

Chapter Three

That Evening Tuesday, January 6th, 2009

Chapter Four

Tuesday, January 13th, 2009

Chapter Five

Wednesday, February 4th, 2009

Chapter Six

Wednesday, March 11th, 2009

Chapter Seven

Thursday, March 12th, 2009

Chapter Eight

Monday, March 15th, 2009

Chapter Nine

Sunday, March 22nd, 2009

Chapter Ten

Wednesday, April 1st, 2009

Chapter Eleven

Saturday, April 4th, 2009

Chapter Twelve

Tuesday, April 7th, 2009

Chapter Thirteen

Tuesday, May 5th, 2009

Chapter Fourteen

Friday, May 8th, 2009

Chapter Fifteen

Friday, May 29th, 2009

Chapter Sixteen

Friday, June 5th, 2009

Chapter Seventeen

Saturday, June 6th, 2009

Chapter Eighteen

Sunday, June 7th, 2009

Chapter Nineteen

Monday, June 8th, 2009

Chapter Twenty

Wednesday, June 10th, 2009

Chapter Twenty-One

Tuesday, June 16th, 2009

Chapter Twenty-Two

Friday, June 19th, 2009

Chapter Twenty-Three

Saturday, June 27th, 2009

Chapter Twenty-Four

Sunday, June 28th, 2009

Chapter Twenty-Five

Monday, June 29th, 2009

Chapter Twenty-Six

Thursday, July 9th, 2009

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Wednesday, July 22nd, 2009

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Thursday, August 6th, 2009

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Sunday, August 9th, 2009

Chapter Thirty

Wednesday, August 26th, 2009

Chapter Thirty-One

Wednesday, September 16th, 2009

Chapter Thirty-Two

Thursday, September 24th, 2009

Chapter Thirty-Three

Friday, September 25th, 2009

Chapter Thirty-Four

Thursday, October 15th, 2009

Chapter Thirty-Five

Monday, October 19th, 2009

Chapter Thirty-Six

Tuesday, October 20th, 2009

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Wednesday, October 7th, 2009

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Tuesday, October 27th, 2009

Chapter thirty-nine

Monday, November 2nd, 2009

Chapter Forty

Friday, November 16th, 2009

Chapter Forty-One

Saturday, November 17th, 2009

Chapter Forty-Two

Wednesday, November 18th, 2009

Chapter Forty-Three

Thursday, November 19th, 2009

Chapter Forty-Four

Friday, November 20th, 2009

Chapter Forty-Five

Saturday, November 21st, 2009

Chapter Forty-Six

Tuesday, December 15th, 2009

Chapter Forty-Seven

Thursday, December 17th, 2009

Chapter Forty-Eight

Monday, December 21st, 2009

Chapter Forty-Nine

Friday, December 25th, 2009

Chapter Fifty

Sunday, December 27th, 2009

Chapter Fifty-One

Monday, December 28th, 2009

Chapter Fifty-Two

Thursday, December 31st, 2009

Chapter Fifty-Three

Friday, January 1st, 2010 Early Morning

Chapter Fifty-Four

2010, A Few Months Later

This book is dedicated to:

All of you that we have loved

That could not, Stay too long at the fair.

We miss you terribly.

Much thanks to:

Frae McGuire

Cecelia Burke

Kellen Monroe

Dan Hoger

Mike Heidecke

And the fine Police Officer of the

12th District of the City of Chicago

Prologue

You’re fucking your own stupid self, A Chicago Police Officer insisted, staring enviously as a young, handsome man took a barstool at the far end of the bar next to a very pretty young lady.

What? asked the proprietor of the small, tavern as he glanced outside the dirty window, hoping to see a potential customer or two mulling around outside.

You’re new pizza boy, the one that drives that flashy red car. He’s got a real attitude, the Officer continued, wishing back to the time when he was young, good looking, and had a slew of girls chasing his ass around.

Jesus, don’t ticket the kid. It’ll scare him off. He’s good, and fast, very fast. And he’s courteous. He’s also very helpful in the kitchen. The best delivery boy I’ve ever had.

You know damn well, we don’t ticket your employees, Jack. But you could use some fucking common sense when making a hiring decision. That kid’s gonna be a problem, mark my words.

Jack shook his head and frowned. He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a package of cigarettes and lit one. I think you’re exaggerating, making a problem when there is none. But I’ll talk to him.

I just prefer the kid you had before. In fact, everyone thought he was a better choice.

The kid I had before was a booze hound and a junkie. His brain was fried with all the shit he swallowed and stuck in his veins. The pizzas were always cold on delivery because he couldn’t navigate the streets of Chicago. I was losing business, and in this economy, that is deadly.

Well, for your information, someone saw your new guy’s car parked in front of Officer Teddy Bilski’s house, when Teddy wasn’t home.

Melissa Bilski ordered pizza. He delivered it. That’s his job.

If Teddy finds out that she’s getting more than pizza, there will be hell to pay.

Don’t start any bar gossip, please.

Jack again looked out the dirty window. No one was coming up the walk. He turned to the Officer and said with a bewildered look on his face, Did it ever occur to you, that a guy that marries a girl half his age is looking for trouble?

The Officer looked down at the floor, Maybe you would change your tune if the pizza boy was poking your girl.

The pizza boy isn’t fucking anyone’s girl. I was just saying, maybe Teddy should stay home more, especially since his wife is so much younger than he is.

The guys don’t like your new hire. He’s got no respect for the law or those of us that have the job of enforcing it.

I said, I’ll talk to him.

"I miss everything about Chicago, except January and February."

Gary Cole

Chapter One

Monday, January 5th, 2009

A battered, red brick two-story building sat on the corner of Polk and Leavitt Street. Snow hid a sagging roof, but the chimney was exposed and it was in bad need of a tuck pointer. No one had made any attempt to shovel the walk-way in front of the building, and there was only a narrow path cleared that led up to the front door.

As Sergeant Stanley Skynard of the 12th District walked toward the buckled front door of the crumbling building he felt the crush of the glass of a broken beer bottle under his boot. He kicked the glass into the dingy snow. He got back on the narrow path and when he reached the front door he pushed, expecting the door to open. It was warped and stuck closed. He pushed hard until a gust of wind actually pushed him through the door. He turned and slammed it shut behind him. An old Christmas ornament chimed, letting the proprietor know that a customer had arrived.

Once inside, Stanley shook the snow off his jacket and hung it on a hook on the front wall adjacent to the door. He headed toward his designated bar stool, the one closest to the front door, and got comfortable; he’d be here for hours. He slapped a twenty-dollar bill on the long, gnarly, red mahogany bar that ran the length of the building. Jack ‘Ratz’ Ratzenbach, the proprietor of ‘Jack Ratz Tavern’ immediately placed a gin on ice in front of the sergeant. Sergeant Skynard inhaled the drink and pushed the glass back toward Jack who poured more gin over the still fresh ice cubes.

How’s the storm? Jack asked the Sergeant, while chewing hard on Nicorette gum, which he purchased in an attempt to quit smoking.

The temperature is dropping. The streets are turning to ice and the wind is blowing the snow all over. In fact, I had a hard time opening the front door. You gotta fix it.

I got to fix a lot of shit around here, Jack sneered, putting his hands on his hips and counting the customers. He stopped at four.

No one’s coming out in this weather, so don’t count on a packed house tonight, the sergeant said.

Lately, I don’t count on much of anything, Jack replied.

Sergeant Stanley Skynard was a regular at the tavern. You could set your clock on his arrival. His shift ended at 5:00 p.m. and he opened the front door, five nights a week, at 5:45 p.m. On the weekends he arrived at the tavern early, sometimes before the door officially opened at noon.

Sergeant Stanley Skynard was forty-eight years old and had been on the Chicago Police Force since he was twenty-two. He had two ex-wives and three children. His first wife got-twenty percent of his paycheck for child-support and the second wife, having two children, got twenty-eight percent of the remaining monies. Lately, he had been sulking a lot; sitting on the bar stool lamenting his lackluster, broken life.

Where’s Cece? The Stanley barked, while looking around the near empty tavern.

She’s in back helping with the pizzas until Tim arrives, Jack said, as he pondered the foolishness of the man sitting in front of him.

She ought to be out here serving drinks. She’s a bartender, ain’t she?

She is really not needed out here, Jack said biting his lower lip.

Cece’s a lot cuter than you, asshole.

You ain’t got a chance in hell, Jack thought to himself as he reached his long arm behind his back and grabbed a beer for himself out of the cooler.

Sergeant Stanley Skynard was a man that had dull written all over him, from his cheap tennis shoes to his imitation polo shirt. He had goopy yellow hair that was starting to thin and his waist was expanding from all the booze. All this and the fact that the Stanley was broke usually led to embarrassing fiascos in his efforts to obtain a girlfriend.

Get Cece out here and tell her to get me another drink, Stanley barked.

Jack just poured more gin on top of the melting ice, took the twenty and rang up two drinks.

Are you going to get Cece out here?

Jack ignored the Stanley and started to wash dirty glasses.

Jack Ratz Tavern was mainly a cop bar for the Twelfth Police District of Chicago also known as the Monroe District. Like most cop bars it was a contradiction of morals. Criminals and cops mingled, told stories, bought each other drinks. Judgments were left outside the door. It was a place to unwind, get your second wind, before the next day levied its brutal toll on your already worn psyche.

All cops got the half price discount, even on top shelf liquor. Stanley always insisted on Beefeater Gin. Every night after closing, when Jack was alone, he poured well gin into the Beefeater bottle. The sergeant’s liver could no longer differentiate top shelf booze from the cheap stuff.

How’d you do last night? Jack asked, turning to face Stanley.

Without looking up, the sergeant said, Fuck off.

You lost big didn’t you? Too bad I had to work last night. Would have loved to be the one to empty your pockets, Jack said, smiling large.

I was off my game.

Poker’s not your game, never was. You really should stick to harassing the hookers on Cicero Avenue.

Stanley’s voice became earsplitting as he went into a tirade Talk about harassment, your pizza boy, Timmy Miller is doing a fine job of harassing the fine police officers of the 12th District. It is dangerous enough out there in this weather without Miller and his red Corvette speeding down side streets and driving through red lights. He’s gonna hurt some innocent citizen.

Jack quickly stepped back in an effort to preserve his hearing.

What are you going to do about him? Stanley screamed.

Jack held his ears in mock gesture.

Stanley pushed his empty glass toward the edge of the bar. Jack rescued it before it went over the edge.

You want a double this time?

Yeah, Stanley hissed.

Obviously Stanley needed to lash out and Jack felt the obligation to listen since he was fucking around with his booze.

Did you issue him a ticket? Jack asked, trying to sound sincere.

No. I don’t ticket your employees, you know that.

If you’re not even going to ticket the kid, what do you want me to do?

Fire the asshole.

You expect me to fire the nephew of my sisters’ ex-husband. The kid is family.

Family, my ass. When was the last time you saw your ex-brother-in-law?

Jesus, Stanley, I got no choice. My sister called and asked for a favor. I didn’t ask questions, just did like she asked. She is family.

You’re full of shit, Jack, Stanley said, holding his glass up toward his mouth, shaking the cubes. He took a gulp. He could feel the warmth of the gin as it hits his belly. He licked his lips, and then smiled at Jack.

Whether I’m full of shit or not, don’t matter here. You want to fire pizza boys, buy your own joint.

Stanley looked at his watch, Where’s Cece?

I told you, Timmy’s late so she’s in back helping out with the kitchen work.

He walks all over you, Jack. So does she.

Jack shrugged his shoulders.

Well, my buddy David Nash and I got an idea. You want to hear about it? Stanley asked, as he pushed his empty glass toward Jack. He started to breathe heavy and his face turned gray and clammy. Perspiration was running down his cheeks, which was odd because it was chilly inside the tavern, being that the furnace was so fucking old and shitty and it was only nine degrees outside. Jack had seen men like the sergeant before. Yep, the sergeant’s body was screaming ‘detox’, but his big mouth was asking for another drink.

Jack refreshed Stanley’s drink and asked, So, what’s the big idea you and the Second Watch Commander, David Nash have?

Me and David got a little wager going regarding your asshole pizza boy.

Explain, please, Jack said, slowly, as he listened to a voice mail from Timmy on his cell.

Stanley leaned close to Jack and whispered, David and I are going to eliminate Timmy Miller from the streets of Chicago.

How you gonna do that? Jack asked, perplexed at the statement, putting his cell on the bar and shoving a fresh piece of Nicorette gum in his mouth.

You see, we are going to get all the guys to quit ticketing Miller.

No one tickets any of my employees, Jack said, his eyebrows narrowing, waiting for the next asinine statement to come out of Stanley’s mouth.

I know, I know. Listen, we’re gonna get everyone at the 12th District to agree not to even stop the kid for warnings and shit. We’re gonna ask the regulars to stop giving him the cold shoulder. Maybe even buy him a beer or two. We figure he’ll get cocky, he’ll think he has the run of the streets and he’ll eventually crash that fucking red Corvette into a telephone pole or something.

I don’t think you can get everyone on board. There are some decent cops around here, Jack said, chewing his gum vigorously.

I’ll get enough of the guys to agree. Your pizza boy is not well liked, there won’t be a problem.

It won’t work. He’s really fucking brilliant behind the wheel of that car. I don’t think he’ll be crashing into any telephone poles, anytime soon.

Then I’ll fucking run that shiny Corvette off the road.

I don’t think you would do that Stanley.

What the fuck do you know what I would or would not do, Stanley hissed, then shoved his empty glass toward Jack.

Jack refilled the drink, spit out his gum and reached into his breast pocked for a smoke and said, Now tell me more about this wager.

I got the p.m. I believe the crash will happen at night, probably when Miller is on his way home or whatever. He’s usually wasted by then and his so-called brilliant driving skills are compromised. David says daytime, when the pizza boy’s doing lunchtime deliveries. That’s when he really has a lead foot, getting all those deliveries made in one hour. Winner gets a ‘C’ note.

Jack’s cigarette froze halfway to his lips, and then he said, slowly, Again, tell me how the rest of the Police Officers of the 12th District enter into this?

They can make their own wagers for all I care.

I mean, how are they going to help you win the ‘C’ note? Jack had not lit his cigarette yet, so enthralled with Stanley’s wild scheme.

They got to make him feel confident, confident enough to speed, especially when it’s icy and slippery. When it’s raining so heavy, he can’t see out his front window. I’ll get some of them to drag race him and shit, when they’re off duty, of course. You know Vette’s are not made for Chicago’s winter weather.

You really think your plan will slow him down?

No, Jack, it will kill him.

Jack just stood there and shook his head in wonder at the abundance of psychosis that one man could possess.

So, what do you think? Stanley asked, grinning.

I don’t think David Nash would wager on the death of a kid unless he was drunk, Jack said, finally lighting his cigarette and taking a deep drag.

Miller’s not a kid. He’s at least twenty-five.

Jack drummed his fingers on the gnarly bar, He’s a kid.

Word is he’s fucking Melissa Bilski. That is not acceptable, fucking a cop’s wife, Stanley barked.

Jack ignored the comment about Melissa and poured more gin over the remaining ice in the Stanley’s glass. He wondered to himself if he could start up some kind of wager regarding the expiration of Stanley’s liver.

"The old Christmas ornament chimed over the front door. Stanley turned and glared at a young woman as she walked through the front door and took a table near the window. He licked his lips and turned back toward Jack. Jack could see the lustful look on his face and shuddered. He walked over to the young woman, took her drink order, and quickly returned with her glass of wine. Then Jack returned to his position behind the bar.

Nice, real nice, Stanley said, his lips now were puckered in a whistling position.

She’s married, waiting on her husband, Jack barked at Stanley.

I can still buy her a drink.

Now you listen, Stanley, you’re creepy, especially when you’re drunk. You reek of gin and perversion. You’ll scare her away, and right now I need every customer I can get.

Fine, fine.

Thanks, Jack sighed, as he refreshed Stanley’s drink.

‘What percent of your business comes out of that kitchen anyway?"

Twenty, Jack said, but there was no conviction in his voice.

Booze. That’s where the profit is. Just stick to booze and you’ll do fine.

Jack blinked slowly, and hesitated before speaking, There is profit in food, Stanley, especially pizza.

Guess so. Your pizza boy drives a new Corvette.

It’s not new, Stanley. It’s seven years old, at least.

What’s the big deal? It’s still a very expensive car for a pizza boy.

He’s very good at his job. He’s fast and courteous. He gets good tips.

He knows we don’t ticket your employees, so he drives that Vette down the streets of Chicago like it’s a fucking race car. He’s taking advantage.

I give you permission to ticket him.

Why waste my time? You’ll go see Amato, your asshole landlord, and he’ll have it fixed. Anyway, it’s too late. Like I said, we got this wager going. It will take care of the problem.

You’re demented, Stanley.

Stanley gave his best Jack Nicholson smile and said, You know Miller’s been seen down at the Rosebud Restaurant on Taylor Street, dining and sipping wine.

So?

Word is he’s usually with a red head, a pretty one.

Cece and I are not exclusive.

Obviously not, if Miller’s poking her, Stanley said, rattling the ice in his glass.

Jack stomped out from behind the bar and briskly walked into the kitchen. Seconds later, Cece emerged from the kitchen and started washing dirty glasses.

I need a fresh one, Stanley said, leering at Cece. She fixed him a drink and went out to the tables and started wiping them down.

A half an hour later, the old Christmas ornament chimed, and Timmy Miller, the pizza boy walked through the front door. He took his regular bar stool, the one next to the kitchen door. Cece handed him a beer. He twisted the top off and took a swig and asked, Where’s Jack?

You’re late. Jack said, coming out of the kitchen area, going behind the bar.

David Nash just tried to run me off of Lake Shore Drive. If I wasn’t so exceptional behind the wheel, me and my Corvette would be floating in Lake Michigan right now, as we speak."

What do you want me to do, Jack sneered.

Get Anthony Amato, your fucking mafia landlord to set your cop friends straight.

You want Amato to straighten out the12th District Police Department? Jack snapped loud enough for Stanley to hear.

Jesus, not so loud, Timmy said.

Why would he do that for you? What have you been smoking? Jack yelped.

He’d do it for you, Timmy snarled.

I’m fucking two months behind in rent. He ain’t gonna do nothin for me, but give me the boot.

Jesus, all I’m asking is you call Amato and ask him to send a polite message to the cops.

As Timmy arose to go behind the bar and grab another beer he added, Cece’s tickets are taken care of, and so are Tiger Joe’s. You ain’t got a problem going to Amato for them.

"Tiger Joe works for Anthony Amato, he’s his landscaper. Tiger doesn’t have to go through me to get a favor from Amato. And Cece’s ticket was issued from a Cicero cop, not from one of the 12th District guys.

Maybe I’ll talk to Tiger about this matter.

You’re on your own, asshole, Jack said, as he darted toward the office.

Sergeant Stanley Skynard’s boisterous laugh traveled to every corner of the building, even up the stairs to Jack’s apartment where Pudgy, Jack’s cat, slept. The noise pierced the cat’s ears, which interrupted his nap. He hissed at the world, and then flew into a closet to resume his daily snooze.

"Hey, who do I have to shoot to get a fucking drink around here?

Ooq-Mi-Fay Taqnufmini—War, Inc.

Chapter Two

Very Early Tuesday Morning

January 6th, 2009

Business stayed slow through the evening, so Cece and Timmy left early. By 1:00 a.m. The last customers had exited the tavern, except for Stanley, who was sound asleep on a cot in the kitchen.

Jack checked the bathrooms and was about to lock the front door when he heard Pudgy squeal. The sound came from outside in the front yard area. Jack stuck his head out the door, when suddenly a large man came from nowhere and pushed Jack back inside the tavern. Jack shoved him back out the door, forcing the man back onto the front yard, but the man was big and strong and Jack lost his balance. Falling backwards toward the door, he grabbed the man for support and before he knew it, Jack was back inside his tavern facing the intruder. The intruder pushed him and Jack stuck out his hand to break the fall. He was sure that he broke his wrist, it hurt so much. The intruder was now above him, holding him down with a boot on his neck. The man reeked of scotch and marijuana. He was wheezing and coughing from the struggle and finally leaned on a chair. Jack pulled out his cell, but the man quickly jumped at Jack and grabbed the phone out of his hand. Then the man kicked Jack into a wall. While holding Jack with one strong arm, he pulled a .38 from a holster under his coat and pointed it at Jack.

This is a cop bar. They check on me every fifteen minutes until the lights are out.

Fuck you Miller, the intruder said, then collapsed on the first table near the door and started into a coughing spasm. He coughed up a scary glob of green phlegm and spit it onto the floor. Jack hid his revulsion and insisted I’m not Miller. I’m Jack Ratz, like the sign outside.

The intruder could not stop his hacking. Jack used this opportunity to open the front door. He was hoping to spot a squad car, but there was none in sight. Jack was just about to make a run for it when the man again surprised him with his strength and pulled Jack back into the tavern. Jack broke free of the man’s arm and fell onto a chair and purposely knocked it over in order to make a racket.

Jesus Christ, Stanley, you’re sleeping through a robbery. Wake the fuck up.

Get me some water, Miller, the intruder hissed through his spittle.

Jack got up and went behind the bar to get the water. As if reading his mind, the intruder screamed, Don’t fucking touch that phone on the wall, Miller.

I told you, I’m not Miller.

Then, Jack returned with the glass of water and the intruder grabbed the glass from Jack’s hand and took a big swig, wiped his mouth on his sleeve. After he got his bearings, he asked, That your Corvette parked out back?

No, that’s Timmy Miller’s, I got a van. We switched cars, because Timmy’s picking up some supplies for the tavern early in the morning.

Chivas on the rocks, he demanded, walking toward the bar, plopping down on a bar stool in the center.

We’re not open, pal.

You’re open now!

So, you want a drink before you rob me?

I am not robbing you, asshole. I come here to make things right, the intruder said, waving the .38 around the room.

What things?

You know what I am talking about, Miller.

I am not Miller, Jack insisted again, as he put ice in a glass and grabbed a bottle of Chivas Regal Scotch from the top shelf behind him. He poured scotch over the ice, and placed the drink in front of the intruder. He looked closely at the guy, but could not place him. He was definitely not a regular but he thought he had seen him in the tavern before. He took a good look at the man in order to give a decent description to the police, if he managed to stay alive. He was average height, thick, strong. He looked Italian or Greek, maybe Spanish.

Do I know you?

You should.

Not knowing what the man meant by the comment, Jack kept silent and grabbed a beer for himself, took a sip and waited for the intruder to finish his scotch.

You got a smoke?

I am trying to quit and you should think about doing the same, Jack answered, with a sharp tone.

I tried the patch, worthless.

Try Nicorette Gum. I’ve cut down tremendously by chewing it.

He looked annoyed at Jack’s suggestion and pushed his empty glass forward, motioning for another. Jack ignored him and chewed angrily on his gum.

Do it again, he demanded.

You had plenty before you got here.

Just one more.

If you’re not robbing me, why don’t you put some money on the bar?

He pulled a twenty out of the front pocket of his pants and slapped in on the bar, I’ll take a pack of Winston’s, too.

Jack grabbed the twenty and walked toward the register

You like the Vette?

I’ve only driven it a couple of times, but yeah, I like it.

So you like the color red?

I told you, it is not my car.

Sure, sure.

Listen, pal, I think you’ve had enough.

The intruder pushed the glass toward Jack and said, One more.

You’ve had your drink and I got to close up here; got a ton of paper work and then I gotta get some sleep. I suggest you do the same.

She likes that car of yours a lot, the intruder said, his dark eyes stabbing Jack’s hazel eyes so deep that Jack stepped back a foot.

It’s not my car and I think you should leave, now! Jack said, pointing to the door.

Do you know what that bitch said to me tonight?

I do not want to know. Obviously you’re not robbing me. All you want to do is let off some steam. I’ve allowed you that. Now leave.

She said, ‘he’s got a brand new red Corvette and a pocket full of dough. Of course I fucked him. I’d be a fool not to’. So I grabbed her left arm and twisted it until I heard it snap.

Get out or I’ll call the cops.

He ignored Jack and picked up the glass and started sucking on the ice. Then