Suckers - J.A. Konrath

aforethought and misdemeanor prejudicial something, rampart.”
My knowledge of cop lingo didn’t galvanize him into action.
“Climb up the slide? How?”
“Hands and knees, old man.”
“I’ll get all dirty.”
“You’re a janitor.”
“I’m a caretaker.”
“You clean up in a cemetery. Dirt shouldn’t bother you.”
The flashlight moved off of my face and swept the area.
“What is this place? Some sort of secret lower level under the mausoleum?”
I spat again. “No duh.”
“Look, there’s a crate.”
Old caretaker guy waddled over to the wooden TAKE ONE box, opened the top, and pulled
out a brown robe.
“I guess we’re supposed to take the robes.”
“Obviously.”
I walked over, grabbing a robe for myself. It was made out of felt, and had a large hood. A
monk’s robe. Or rather, a store-bought Halloween monk’s costume.
Old caretaker guy put his on, and as he was tugging it over his head I gave him a Crazy
Hamster Elbow to the chin. He went down, hopefully in need of some facial reconstructive
surgery. I scooped up his flashlight, located my keys, and limped down the tunnel.
I followed the path a few dozen yards into the darkness, ducking overhead beams when they
appeared overhead, keeping an eye peeled for rats, and giant spiders, and that guy I was
supposed to be following, I think his name was Fred or George or something common and only
one syllable. Maybe Tom. Yeah, Tom.
No, it was Fred.
The air down here was cool and heavy and smelled like asparagus piss, but for the most part
it was clean. That meant ventilation, either in the form of an exit, or an air osmosis recirculator,
and I’m pretty sure that osmosis thing didn’t exist because I just made it up.
The tunnel ended at a large metal door, the kind with a slot at eye-level that opened up so
some moron could ask you for a password. Which is exactly what happened. The slot opened,
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