Freedom Beer, Part 4

"Ninety-nine!" Hank grunted. He had snapped the metal plate that served as a bench from the wall and laid it across his back. His two cellmates sat on either end to provide weight as he did pushups.

"I said, you're free to go," the sheriff's deputy said, holding open the door to the jail cell.

"One hundred!"

"What's wrong with your client?" The deputy turned to Hiram, who was grinning.

"You must be new to the county." Hiram patted the deputy on the shoulder

The inmates-slash-freeweights slipped off the ends of the bench and struggled to lift it off of Hank's back.

"Thanks for the assistance, gentlemen." He followed Hiram out of the cell block while the deputy helped the two men replace the bench. "I always said that you were the best lawyer in the country."

"You've given me lots of practice. And you may want to hold onto your praise until after you hear the number of zeroes that I had to write for your bail. And that was only after hours of arguing with Judge Spiknid and a half dozen calls to the attorney general."

Hiram led them out into the parking lot. Night had fallen. Hank's motorcycle gleamed in the sterile glare of the mercury vapor security lights.

"That won't be an issue. Can we settle your payment tomorrow? I need to have a beer and a shower."

"Absolutely. I'm heading out to my girlfriend's place tonight, I'll see you in the morning."

"Goodnight."

Hank's motorcycle growled when he stepped on its kick starter. Moments later he was on the expressway, letting the rhythmic pulse of the streetlamps hypnotize him as he sailed down the deserted concrete. A few ramps and backroads later he pulled into his shed.

He walked up the dusty lane to his house, went inside, and tripped over an overturned vase. Walking carefully, he hit a light switch and found that the house was a mess. It looked like somebody had told a bear that a jar of honey had been hidden in one of the couches, tables or shelves before setting it loose.

The innards of an easy chair spilled out across a rug and mingled with a stack of books that had been riffled through and discarded. The bookshelves themselves had been ripped away from the walls with a crowbar that lay very neatly placed on one of the kitchen counters. Hank wrapped a napkin around his hand before he picked it up to examine it. No fingerprints marred the steel.

He left his doors unlocked. There wouldn't be any signs of a break-in. With a shrug he relegated the investigation until tomorrow. He went to the fridge. To his relief, the vandals hadn't disturbed his six-pack of Rockjaw Breweries Aqua Regia Triple IPA. He cracked one open, selected the seat with the most stuffing left in it, sat down and finally closed his eyes. The stress of the day flowed out of him like polyester filling out ripped damask.

Something cold pressed against his throat. It was on the outside, and it wasn't chilled Aqua Regia. Hank was used to knives being held to his throat, whether it was by Nazi assassins or by mobsters or by special operatives sent from tin pot dicatorships. The knife would have to wait until he finished his mouthful of beer, anyway. Refreshed, Hank opened his eyes.

"Nice job breaking in to an unlocked house!" Hank planted his feet on the floor and kicked the chair backwards. He felt the satisfying lurch of it slamming into the groin of whomever held the knife. Tucking his chin in, he let the inertia of the chair catapult him into a roll. He came up and already had a haymaker on its way to his opponent's jaw.

Zelphia Dipthong stood before him, knife at her side, eyes open in horror at the ham hock about to make her dentist very rich.

Even Hank had a hard time fighting the inertia of his fist but he strained to throw it wide at the last minute. Unfortunately, on its way back, it had a friend. Zelphia slammed the palm of one hand into his cheek.

"Tell me where they are!"

"Where what are?" Hank asked, dodging her follow-up knife slash.

"The recipes! For your Brewery!" Zelphia plunged the knife into the chair next to Hank, but only because Hank did a very sultry move with his hips to get them out of the way.

"If you kill me then I can't tell you!"

Hank exploited the brain lock to transition into a physical joint lock. He wrapped Zelphia's arms up into a pretzel and smashed her knife hand into the counter until the weapon clattered to the floor.

"Ow! I wasn't going to kill you!"

"Don't stab something that you don't intend to kill!"

"Let me go!"

"Will you promise that you won't stab me if I let you go?

"I can't stab you now, anyway!"

"Shake on it?"

"What?"

"Will you shake on it?"

"You've got my arms all bound up."

Hank shifted the pretzel until her hand was out. He slipped his palm against hers.

"Shake on it if you mean it."

Wincing, Zelphia did. Hank immediately let go.

Zelphia kneed him in the breadbasket because hegrabbed one off of the kitchen counter to block the strike he knew was coming.

"Ow!" Zelphia said, grabbing her knee.

"I won't clobber you only because you pledged not to stab me."

"It doesn't matter if you do or not. You'd only be clobbering a corpse." Zelphia collapsed into a chair. A polyester cloud of stuffing blew up behind her. Hank thought she looked like an angel. A deadly, sneaky thief angel.

"I'm not going to kill you."

"It's not you that I'm worried about," Zelphia said. Hank noticed the hunted look in her eyes. He'd fought hundreds of opponents but had only seen that look in one type of combatant.

"Who sent you?"

"Nobody," Zelphia said, too quickly.

"You're a worse liar than you are a thief."

"I'm not a thief!" Zelphia let her anger bubble to the surface to obfuscate any possible reflection. "I'm a burglar, and a damn good one. That's the problem."

"That I caught you."

"Egotistical much? Not you. I'm assuming that, if I wasn't now the walking dead, you'd just make me pick up cans next to the side of the road or talk to at-risk youth about my crimes. But don't worry about scheduling any of that goody two-shoes crap. I won't live long enough to make it."

The hair on the back of Hank's neck stood to attention. He kicked Zelphia's chair. It jumped sideways by two inches.

As Zelphia opened her mouth to complain, a small dart appeared in the antimacassar two inches to the left of her jugular vein. Hank reached towards the stove behind him and slammed his hand down on the handle of a dirty pan. It rocketed into the air. The quiet "ting" of a dart breaking against the cast iron was followed by an equally quiet "shit."

Hank was out the door before the pan smashed into the floor. The assailant was fast. He was already back in his car and tearing off down the lane. Hank could catch him on his motorcycle but he couldn't be sure that was the only killer on the ranch. He went back inside.

"I've saved your life three times tonight. Once by kicking your chair, once by throwing a pan, and once by sparing your face from my right cross. Stop staring off into space and being sad and all this enigmatic bullshit. Tell me the truth. Why are you such a terrible lawyer?"

"Because I'm not a lawyer at all. Dr. X found this Josh Spurlock character as cover."

"So you collaborated with that crooked judge to get me thrown in the slammer."

"I never saw that judge before. Dr. X had assured me that I would only have to play a lawyer and that he would take care of the rest."

"Who wants you dead?"

"Dr. X. I've never met him, but it turns out that the last half-dozen jobs that I've done were for him. Do you remember the news story about the famous Humping Stones of Indonesia a few months ago?"

"I helped rescue them – and the archaeologists – from the dictator that invaded the dig site because he wanted the stones for his bathroom"

"And do you remember how somebody stole the Humping Stones from the Guggenheim?"

"Nobody could figure out how the thief got past all of the security!"

"That's because they aren't me. I can only assume that the Humping Stones are sitting on one of Dr. X's shelves. But he didn't really care about the Humping Stones, or the painting 'Venus on Wash Day' or that priceless set of knee socks that supposedly belonged to Shakespeare. He only cared to build enough evidence against me to blackmail me into doing his dirty work."

"My ranch isn't dirty."

Zelphia surveyed the destroyed furniture, ruined books and the flecks of bacon grease all over the ceiling, walls and floor – added to the syrupy yellow poison leaking out of the broken darts.

"Until you arrived," Hank said, crossing his arms.

"Dr. X wants the Rockjaw Brewery recipes. And now that his assassin has seen me talking to you I can't even ask you nicely for them. Dr. X would kill me on the spot if I show up. And he has enough proof of my criminal activities to put me away for life. The life of the Sun, to be precise."

"I always ask myself," Hank said, "'what would Hank Rockjaw do?' And Hank Rockjaw always helps a damsel in distress, even if she is a thief. Have you ever killed a man?"

"No comment."

"While stealing?"

"No. I keep my profession peaceful, unless you count tranquilizer blowdarts."

"What kind of man would I be if I measured you on tranquilizer blowdarts? I'd be condemning all ninjas. Are you a fascist?"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"Everything. Are you a fascist?"

"No."

"That's what I thought. My facist sense wasn't tingling. Besides, it would be pretty hard to goose-step your way into an art gallery with sound-triggered alarms."