Free Street Music by Jack Kilborn Page B

long. Gotta go to work.”
    Ajax stepped to the side, and I entered her apartment. Expecting squalor, I was surprised to find the place clean and modestly furnished. The ceiling had some water damage, and one wall was losing its plaster, but there were nice curtains and matching furniture and even some framed art. This was the apartment of someone who hadn’t given up yet.
    “I’ll be straight with you, Georgia. If we don’t find Jasmine soon, it’s very likely she’ll be killed. You know about Artie Collins?”
    She nodded, once.
    “If you know where she is, it’s in her best interest to tell me.”
    “Sorry, cop. I don’t know nothing.”
    I took out my Glock, watched her eyes get big.
    “Do you have a license for this firearm I found on your premises, Georgia?”
    “Aw, this is—”
    I got in her face, sneering.
    “I’ll tell you what this is. Six months in County, minimum. With your record, the judge won’t even think twice. And say goodbye to your baby; when I get done wrecking this place, DCFS will declare you so unfit you won’t be allowed within two hundred yards of anyone under aged ten.”
    Her lips trembled, but there were no tears.
    “You bastards are all the same.”
    “I want Jasmine, Ajax. She’s dead if I don’t find her.”
    I gave her credit for toughness. She held out. I had to topple a dresser and put my foot through her TV before she broke down.
    “Stop it! She’s with her boyfriend!”
    “Nice try. I already checked Melvin Kincaid.”
    “Not Mel. She found a new guy. Named Buster something.”
    “Buster what?”
    “I dunno.”
    I chucked a vase at the wall. The baby in her arms was wiggling, hysterical.
    “I don’t have his last name! But I got a number.”
    Georgia went for her purse on the bed, but I shoved the Glock in her face.
    “I’ll look.”
    The purse was the size of a cigarette pack, with rhinestone studs and spaghetti straps. A hooker purse. I didn’t figure there could be much of a weapon in there, and was once again surprised. A .22 ATM spilled onto the bed.
    “I’m sure this has a license.”
    Georgia didn’t answer. I rifled through the packs of mint gum and condoms until I found a matchbook with a phone number written on the back.
    “This it?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Can’t you shut that kid up?”
    Georgia cooed the baby, rocking it back and forth, while I picked up her .22 and removed the bullets. I tossed the gun back on the bed, and put the lead and the matchbook in my pocket.
    She got my evil face when I walked past her.
    “If you warn her I’m coming, I’ll know it was you.”
    “I won’t say a damn thing, officer.”
    “I know you won’t.”
    I fished out three of the hundreds I took from Mitch D, and shoved them into her hand. It was a lot more than the TV was worth.
    “By the way, why do they call you Ajax?”
    She shrugged.
    “I’ve robbed a few tricks.”
    “Meaning?”
    “Ajax cleans out the johns.”
    When I got back outside, the three Disciples had multiplied into six, and they were standing in front of my truck.
    “This is a nice truck, white boy. Can we have it?”
    My Glock 21 held thirteen forty-five caliber rounds. More than enough. But Jack was the one who gave me this address, and if I killed any of these bozos she’d eventually get the word.
    Dying of cancer was bad enough. Dying of cancer in prison was not on my to-do list.
    Stuck in my belt, nestled along my spine, was a combat baton. Sixteen inches long, made of a tightly coiled steel spring. Because it could bend, it didn’t break bones.
    But it did hurt like crazy.
    The Disciples had apparently expected me to tremble in fear, because I clocked three of them across the heads before they went into attack mode.
    The first one to draw was a thin kid who watched too many rap videos. He pulled a 9mm out of his baggy pants and thrust it at me sideways, with the back of his hand facing skyward.
    Not only did this mess up your aim, but your grip was severely compromised. I