The Book of Death (Bourbon Kid 4)

smiled and kissed him back.
‘I suppose, most of my furniture either belongs to the landlord or isn’t worth
much anyway.’
    ‘Great,’ said JD. ‘It’s agreed
then. Start packing straight away. No time to make coffee or watch TV right?
Just pack and let’s be gone within an hour.’
    ‘Okay. One hour.’
    ‘If you’re not ready when I get
here, I’m leaving without you.’
    Beth reached into a
pocket on the front of her jeans and pulled out the small cloth he had given
her earlier that morning. ‘I’ve still got this, remember?’ she said, smiling.
    JD’s eyes settled on
the cloth. His face revealed a look of sadness. It passed all too briefly,
replaced by a smile, but Beth had seen it and sensed something was wrong. ‘What
is it?’ she asked.
    ‘Nothing.’
    ‘Is there something
I should know about this cloth patch? You looked kind of sad then for a
second.’
    He smiled. ‘It’s
okay. It’s kinda silly really. My brother Casper made it for me. He wasn’t too
great at making anything and he was real pleased with himself when he made
that.’
    Beth unfolded the
cloth again and looked at the stitching on the letters JD. It was a little
amateurish, but knowing that it was of personal value added to its charm. ‘How
is your brother these days?’ she asked. ‘I never got to meet him, did I?’
    ‘He was murdered.’
    ‘Oh my God! I’m so
sorry. What happened?’
    ‘I’d rather not talk
about it. But that cloth, that’s the only thing I have to prove he ever
existed. Everything else is gone. No photos, nothing.’
    Beth felt a lump in
her throat and was overwhelmed with guilt at having brought the subject up.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, glancing awkwardly at the cloth in her hands.
    ‘It’s okay,’ said
JD. He leaned over and stroked her cheek. ‘Now you know why I’ll always come
back to you if you’ve got that piece of cloth. Make sure you take good care of
it.’
    ‘I will, I promise.’
    ‘Good.’ He glanced
in the rear view mirror momentarily, as if he’d seen something moving behind
them. ‘Now hurry up. You’ve got one hour, remember.’
    Beth opened the door
to get out of the car. ‘I’ll be ready,’ she said slipping the cloth patch back
in her pocket.
    She stepped out into the sleet
and snow and slammed the car door shut behind her. Then she ran up the front
steps that led to her apartment block. Through the darkened skies she took a
long look up at the building she had lived in for the last eight months. It was
a drab, depressing six storey grey building. Not a place she would miss when
she left town. As the sleet lashed down against her face and hands she fumbled
around in her pocket for her keys. She pulled them out and held them up, waving
them towards JD’s car to let him know she had found them and was heading
inside. He obviously saw the gesture because he started up the engine on his
car. A second later she watched his V8 Interceptor pull away from the kerb and
cruise off down the road. She slipped the key in the lock on the front door of
the apartment block and turned it. Beneath the noise of the sleet crashing
against the windows, she barely heard the click as the door unlocked. She pushed
it open and stepped inside into the cold entrance hall.
    It wasn’t the most inviting
entrance hall around. It had hardwood flooring and there was an old fashioned
stairway on the right with a dirty yellow carpet on it. The stairs were
extremely steep so she was never keen to use them because her apartment was all
the way up on the fourth floor. So even though the unreliable old elevator at
the end of the hall was a potential death trap, she headed over to it and
pressed the button.
    After a thirty-second wait that
ate into the first minute of her one-hour packing time, the elevator arrived
and the doors parted. Inside was one of her fourth floor neighbours, an elderly
black man known as Jerry Rockwell. He was a smelly old drunken former cop in
his seventies who somehow managed to drink a bottle of whisky every day and
never feel any the worse for it. He just looked a day away from death all the
time. He had an unhealthy complexion to match the grey trousers and musty green
cardigan he was wearing. Beth actually quite liked Mr Rockwell in spite of his
faults because he was always polite and helpful, and as long as he’d been
drinking he was always in a good mood too.
    ‘Hi Mr Rockwell. How are you?’
she asked, running a hand through her hair to wipe out the