Free Grimm Tales by John Kenyon

Johnny much after that. I had enough to worry about back home. My best supplier started his car and ended up pieces of himself scattered across half the county. My secretary went to check on my house and found my cat with most of its insides on the outside. And Lieutenant Ramirez called to request my presence at the station when I happen to have a moment. Real genteel. The last person I wanted to bother with was Johnny. But that phone had to ring again.
    â€œMister Palmera,” he said, “I’m calling to thank you for all you’ve done.”
    â€œHmmm,” I said. Taylor, you don’t admit anything on an unsecured line, you know that, right?
    â€œI’m feeling better today. A lot better. Really, really better.”
    Silence. I could hear machines beeping in the background, code something-or-other blared over a PA, then this woman saying, “Tell him why you called, John.”
    Johnny went all stuttery then. “Mister Palmera, it’s just that, uh, guiding’s pretty physically demanding, it’s not like I can, well, just switch to a motor, a-and it may be, may be two or three months before I, uh, before I can get back to work, so I, you know, I…”
    He trailed off.
    I waited. Finally said, “What’re you getting at?”
    Nothing. Not a single word. Johnny might as well have been struck mute.
    I hung up. Fishing the flats was fine. Fishing around me, not so much. But, yeah, I’d made a promise and Lieutenant Ramirez had seen Johnny’s wife, so I figured another gift was both charity and insurance. That night Johnny got a pizza misdelivery, a ten-G misdelivery. Still, all that money irked me. Understand, I was young back then and didn’t have much margin to play with. Ramirez was a problem. The goons muscling in back home were a problem. Now Johnny was becoming a problem. When I have problems, I like to solve them cheaply.
    Morning after, I went to this café across the street, ordered an omelet and mulled over what to do next. I love omelets, great brain food, and this one was almost as good as the ones my mama used to make. Shrimp, bacon and mushrooms. I was halfway through it when this woman sat down at my table.
    â€œSeat’s taken,” I said, not looking up.
    â€œWe both know you’re alone, Palmera,” she said.
    I looked up then, let me tell you. This woman wasn’t anyone I’d choose for a breakfast partner, Taylor. Rawbone thin, sallow complexion, hair all stringy. And she had these eyes, all cold and evaluative and somehow stupid, like she thought she had you summed up but didn’t know it showed.
    â€œSeems I’m at a disadvantage,” I said. “You know my name. I don’t know yours.”
    â€œIlsabil.”
    â€œFunny name.”
    â€œIt’s German. I’m here because of John. You owe us.”
    Sometimes all the facts line up in a row and stand at attention. Johnny’s stuttering, his nervousness, his inability to complete a sentence—he didn’t want money at all. His wife did.
    I shrugged. “Look, I’m sorry about what happened, but why do you think I—”
    â€œI saw your face once. On the news. I have a good eye for them. Something about a hijacked tractor trailer. You can help us. We both know it.” She went on from there, how my life must be worth a lot more to me than what I’d paid her husband, how she intended to take me for every penny—or make a personal visit to Sargent Ramirez. She opened negotiations at two million.
    Here was my true problem, Taylor. Not Ramirez. Not the Jersey goons muscling in on my territory. This woman was a leech. The only thing she knew was “take” and “take.” You know how you remove a leech? Some people say to let it feed until it gets full, then it’ll fall off. I say you burn it off.
    I told Ilsabil I’d pay the full amount, everything she wanted, with two conditions: I’d need