With his bloodshot eyes locked on his handiwork, he called Bennett Skaggs and arranged a meeting for later in the afternoon. Twenty minutes later, after slipping out the back of Maggie’s house and winding through the woods, he pulled in front of Willie’s old trailer. Willie wasn’t there, but Shane knew his mother took advantage of her son’s flight into hiding and set up residence. Shane’s contacts couldn’t provide him with Willie’s location, but maybe dear old Mom knew.
He parked the car beside a trashed Chevy Nova with garbage bags duct-taped to the back window. In a few quick strides, Shane covered the distance across the gravel to the front door. He rapped on the door a few times and waited.
Hank Williams and dope wafted through the cracks in the siding.
A face with more lines than crumpled tin foil peered out the door, bloodshot eyes taking a moment to focus on Shane’s face. Her ratted chestnut hair spilled over a maroon Jubilee Days shirt two sizes too big. “Who’re you?”
Shane offered his hand. “Friend of Willie’s, Mrs. Banks. You have a second?”
She recoiled at Shane’s hand like it dripped with the bubonic plague. “Cleland.”
“Beg your pardon?”
“Last name’s Cleland. Banks was two husbands ago. Or was it three? What d’ya want? My soap’s comin’ on.”
“I’m looking for Willie.”
“He ain’t here and don’t know where he is.” With her proclamation made, she pushed the door.
Shane shot his foot between the door and the jamb and dangled a bag of meth, jiggling it like tempting candy to a toddler. Willie’s mom’s sunken eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas morning. “You sure you don’t know where he is, Ms. Cleland? It’s really important I talk to him.”
“That for me?”
Shane hid the bag in a closed fist. “If you can tell me where your boy is.”
Her hungry eyes locked on his hand with the meth, darting her head about, trying to catch a glimpse of it. “I ain’t supposed to tell no one.”
He let the bag dangle again. “We’ll call it our little secret.”
“You and Willie close?”
“Very close and I’d really like to find him again.”
Cleland licked her cracked lips, reaching for the baggie. “Well, guess you could come in for a minute. I always got time for Willie’s friends.”
Chapter Fifteen
Jake and Bear pulled back into Warsaw a little past two in the afternoon. Bear’s cell had blown up a half-dozen times in the last hour, and his mood had dipped south with each successive call. He’d sent Klages home to get some much-deserved shuteye after working eighteen-hour days since Langston escaped. Based on the subject of the phone calls, Jake deduced the man left in charge was about to feel Bear’s boot in his ass.
Bear tossed his cell phone on the dash. “Stupid people are like glow sticks. I just wanna break ’em and shake the shit outta ’em until the light comes on.”
“Who are we talking about?”
Bear swung the Suburban into an open slot in front of the red-bricked, white-railing police station in Warsaw’s downtown. He slammed the truck in park. “Dwayne Tilly. He’s supposed to be running things when I’m gone. That sperm stain could be a poster child for incompetence.”
They climbed from the truck, and Jake touched Bear on the elbow. “Hey, you going to be a while? Thought I might stop by and check on Janey. Didn’t even think of warning her about Shane being out.”
“When’s the last time you talked to her?”
“When she screamed at me for snapping her husband’s finger like a twig.”
A month ago, Jake swung by his little sister’s house unannounced. Since their abusive father Stony died from cancer almost two years ago, their contact had been sparse. Jake promised to keep his fist from pounding Janey’s alcoholic husband Luther and making things worse for her at home than they already were, but such a level of restraint required separation. While Jake’s guilt for abandoning her in Warsaw when he fled eighteen years ago still clamped on his psyche, he refused to allow it to override her stupidity for staying with the dumbass she married.
“Well, don’t do anything stupid like break any more of Luther’s digits,” Bear said, heading into the building. “I’ll call you when I’m done putting out fires.”
Jake headed west from the jail, following the crumbling sidewalk past Jackson Avenue to Osage Street. He swept his eyes around the area as he walked, checking for someone tailing him. Leaves skittered across the sidewalk in the afternoon breeze, and he kicked them away as he walked, each leaf a potential conversation opener that sounded wrong. Once inside the gate of the slumping two-story house, he moved heavy feet up the groaning wood steps, and rapped twice on the ripped screen door.
Janey’s dark eyes regarded him; her jaw clenched tight. She tucked her red hair behind an ear and pushed open the screen door, inviting Jake in without a saying a word. Once inside, she plopped to a corduroy couch the color of faded blue jeans and lit a cigarette.
Jake sat in a chair near the window with his elbows on his knees. “Luther here?”
“At work. What brings you by, big brother, or were you hoping to beat the crap out of my husband again?”
“Shane Langston’s out of prison. Escaped earlier in the week.”
“I know. I work in the Sheriff’s office, remember? These dark circles under my eyes aren’t bruises. Hope Bear has overtime dollars in his budget.”
Jake wrung his hands, feeling a familiar guilt creep through his limbs. Why had it taken him three days to even think she might be in potential danger from Shane? “Well, it’s not inconceivable that Shane might come around, maybe try and exact a little revenge on me and Bear. Maybe use our families as a means to get to us.”
She took another drag and narrowed her eyes, the same venomous look she gave when Jake threatened to put Luther in a wheelchair. “And what do you expect me to do?”
Jake pushed a long breath through his nose, trying to calm the ire bubbling in his head. “I don’t know, Janey. Be careful? Get out of town for a while until we catch him?”
“I look like I got money to go on a goddamn vacation?”
“You don’t have to go to the beach. Go lay low somewhere. Hell, I’ll pay for a hotel room in Kansas City.”
She blew a plume of smoke to the yellow-stained ceiling. “I gotta work. Luther’s gotta work. Boys have to go to school. Can’t up and skip town. Besides, Luther’ll protect me.”
“Shane and his crew would rip through your stupid husband like a wet napkin.”
Janey’s eyes grew cold. “Maybe Shane will kill Luther for you.”
“I don’t want Luther dead.” Jake gritted his teeth. “I just want him to stop smacking around my little sister. That too much to ask?”
She dumped her butt into a coffee cup where it extinguished with a fizz. “We ain’t goin’ anywhere and, besides, I got enough shit going on at the moment. I don’t want you adding to the pile.”
“What kind of shit?”
She locked eyes with him, opened her mouth to speak, but the timer from the kitchen cut her off. She lumbered to her feet and wandered toward the beeps. Jake followed and watched as she cracked the oven door, the delicious smell of cinnamon and apples swirling through the air. Janey made killer pies.
“What kind of shit, Janey?” Jake repeated.
She closed the oven door and turned to him. “Something Dwayne Tilly was supposed to take care of.”
Dwayne Tilly, Bear’s incompetent deputy. The living embodiment of Barney Fife from the old Andy Griffith show, but without the charm. “What did he screw up now, or do I even want to know?”
“There’s a couple of those Blood Devil bikers living across the street. Loud parties running too late and keeping everyone up, loud-ass Harleys rattling up and down the street at all hours of the night. That I could live with, but they sold meth to Eli last week. Found it in his sock drawer.”
“What the hell? What is Eli, fifteen?”
Guilt twinged again. He didn’t even know how old his nephews were.
“Sixteen. Took me a bit to wrangle the information out of him, but he said a big biker with the scar across his face sold it to him. I told Dwayne, but I don’t think he’s done a thing, because the same biker rolled down the street an hour ago.”
Jake ran his hand through his hair. “Jesus Christ, Janey. Why didn’t you tell me? Or Bear?”
Her nostrils flared. “I talked to someone I thought might care, and that category sure hasn’t included you since you been back.”
Jake winced at the truth of the accusation. “I’m sorry.”
She pointed a crooked finger at him. “You’re sorry? If that’s the case, go take care of it. I’m hanging onto these kids by a thread. They dive into meth and it’s game over.”
The pictures on the refrigerator caught Jake’s eye. Eli and his younger brother Willis, the delinquent nephews he heard lots of stories about, but spent little to no time with. Mostly because they were both shitheads cut from the same cloth as their father. Still, they were kin and maybe by doing something, he could alleviate some of his little sister’s problems.
Still, tromping into Blood Devil territory alone could be a bit dangerous. If the bikers were connected to Shane, they could be on the lookout for Jake. After a second, he shook the thought away. If the Blood Devils were doing Shane’s dirty work of taking Jake out, they would have hit him already.
“Alright, Janey. Which house is it?”
Chapter Sixteen
Janey directed him to a decrepit white colonial across the street and three houses down. Brown, knee-high weeds poked through the chain-link fence surrounding the property beside a pitted, concrete driveway. Two Harleys parked in the distance in front of a detached garage, which was a strong wind from collapsing. Jake calculated the gleaming Harleys were worth more than the entire house. The fact there wasn’t a condemned sticker slapped to the front door was a miracle.
With his Sig Sauer tucked in his waist holster, he clomped up the rickety porch and pounded on the door. He learned during his collection days for the mob that people ignored polite taps. Three, precise frame-rattling thumps tended to get people moving. Today was no different.
“What the fuck do you want?” the man asked. Two inches shorter and fifty pounds lighter than Jake, the man’s bloodshot eyes and slow cadence synched with the waft of dope flowing through the open door. Jake flicked his eyes to the man’s left hand which held a .357 Magnum pointed to the floor. Over the stoned man’s shoulder and standing ten feet back in the shithole house, a hulk fastened his stringy, shoulder-length hair into a ponytail. A revolver grip protruded from his waistband. A leather biker’s vest with the word “Devils” embroidered in scarlet draped across the couch.
“I think he’s at the wrong house, Bruno,” Ponytail Man said, stepping forward into the light and resting his hand on the butt of the revolver. The light from the window reflected the raised seams of a scar running across his forehead and unlike his compatriot, his eyes blazed clear and sharp. Jake wondered how well these thugs knew Delbert Dunn. Time to play dumb, especially considering a sudden movement would end up with bullets flying. Jake was a fan of not getting shot.
“Whoa, fellas,” Jake said, raising his hands. “You guys cruised by my house an hour ago and I recognized your colors. I thought maybe you know my cousin Delbert.”
Ponytail Man’s eyes reduced to slits. “Delbert who?”
“Dunn. Skinny guy, spiked hair, mullet I’ve begged him to cut a dozen times. He’s with the Blood Devils, or at least he was. Haven’t seen him for a few weeks.”
“What do you want?”
“I’m just trying to find him. Last I heard he worked in Branson but thought maybe you guys have something current on him.”
Ponytail chewed on his upper lip, suspicion dripping from his bloated features. “And you saw the two of us cruising an hour ago and just happened to find our house.”
Maybe they weren’t quite as dumb as they appeared. Then again, his concocted story smelled like lame bullshit. Jake scratched his temple, trying to feign a look of confusion, and put his other hand on his waist, close to the gun at his hip. “I tracked the direction you were going, was out for a walk and spotted those two bikes in the driveway and put two and two together. But, if this is a bad time, I can leave. I was just lookin’ for Delbert.”
“Since you’re his cousin and all.” Ponytail didn’t buy a word of what Jake said.
“Yeah.”
The dude at the door tipped his head toward Jake and squinted, the reek of pot and onions coming off in waves. The .357 swung back and forth like a pendulum. “You’re Del’s cousin? You guys don’t look anything alike.”
Ponytail closed his grip on the revolver in his pants. “That’s because Del isn’t related to Jake Caldwell.”
Shit. In one move, Jake pinned Bruno’s wrist against the doorframe, spun him, and wrapped his thick arm around Bruno’s neck, hugging the man back and using him as a shield. “Drop the hand cannon.”
“Suck my dick,” Bruno gasped. Jake applied more pressure. Enough to hurt, but not enough to make the man pass out. Though strong, Jake didn’t want to hold up two hundred pounds of dead weight. Bruno groaned and released the gun, which thunked against the wood porch. Ponytail trained his snub nose .38 Special in their general direction, but Jake kept his head behind Bruno’s, hugging the man close. Ponytail would have to be one hell of a shot to take Jake out at this range with that gun.
“Take it easy, fellas,” Jake said. “I don’t want to start any shit.”
“Too late. You already did.”
“I want to ask a favor.”
“You got a weird way of asking for favors,” Ponytail said.
“My wife does say I lack certain social graces.”
Ponytail took a step forward. “Let Bruno go or I blow your head off.”
“After I ask my favor. Besides, if you know who I am, you know who I’m friends with and what’ll happen if you pull the trigger.”
Ponytail’s gun hand relaxed for a split second before it stiffened again. He knew Bear, and the mention of the sheriff caused the biker to hesitate. A good thing since Jake had screwed up, grabbing Bruno with his right arm, his Sig on his right side. Time to make lemonade from lemons.
“I just want to talk,” Jake said, pushing Bruno into the living room. Ponytail took a half-step back, a slight tremor in his gun hand. “Toss the piece on the couch, I let Bruno here go, and we can have a nice, civilized conversation.”
“Fuck that,” Ponytail said, stepping to the side. “You barged into my house and threatened us. I’ll say I shot you for trespassing.”
Jake swung Bruno to keep him in between himself and Ponytail’s .38. “Even if you were lucky enough to shoot me, I doubt Bear will believe that one. Toss the piece, I let Bruno go, and we can talk. I won’t say anything to Bear.” Jake squeezed his bicep enough to make Bruno squeak.
Ponytail’s eyes danced as he considered the possibility. He took another sidestep, and Jake swung Bruno the corresponding degrees, spotting a knife sheath at Ponytail’s back with a ribbed, ivory handle. He already knew how this movie would play out.
“Take it easy.” Ponytail tossed the gun onto the couch and dropped his hands to his hips. He might as well hang a neon sign around his neck saying he would use the knife. It was okay, Jake liked predictable people.
Jake released the pressure on Bruno and pushed him away, tensing his muscles for the pending attack. Bruno stumbled forward, planted and telegraphed a roundhouse punch.
Roundhouses worked on unsuspecting, slow-witted people. Jake was neither. Though roundhouses gathered from the floor were effective if you landed them, you had a better chance of winning the lottery than connecting them against an opponent with any kind of fighting experience. Quick jabs and sharp elbows worked best in close quarters. Bad news for Bruno. Jake contained more fighting experience in his thumbnail than the biker had in his whole body.
Jake side-stepped the punch and cracked the back of Bruno’s skull with a palm hand strike, letting Bruno’s momentum carry him across the room. As Bruno’s head put a hole in the drywall, Ponytail released the knife from the sheath and lunged at Jake with a snarl that raised the scar across his lips.
The blade cut the air as it missed his nose by an eighth of an inch. Close.
Before Ponytail could swing the blade back, Jake crowded into him, used the force from his turn, and unleashed an elbow to the side of the man’s head. Ponytail crashed into an end table by the stairs, the knife clattering to the hardwood floor.
“You motherfucker,” Bruno grunted, chunks of drywall peppering his hair, and pulled a knife of his own from his boot. He charged with his hand flailing. Jake waited until the last possible moment as Bruno stabbed down, slid to the side, the knife slicing the sleeve of Jake’s jacket before burying itself into Ponytail’s shoulder. Ponytail screamed. Bruno’s face widened in horror. Jake busted out Bruno’s two front teeth with his right fist, delivered with enough force to stop a rhino.
Bruno dropped like a stone, and Ponytail wailed on the ground. Jake meandered to the couch and picked up the .38. He hovered over the two bloodied figures, heart hammering from the adrenaline dump, but otherwise unharmed. Jake cocked his head, listening for movement of any other bodies in the house over the heavy breathing and groans from the two idiots on the floor. Hearing nothing, he turned back to them.
“Now, about that favor.”
Bruno scanned the floor for his teeth and tilted his bloody chin. “Fuck you and your favor.”
“Hey, you owe me.”
“How’d you figure?”
Jake traced a finger along the slit in his sleeve. “You sliced up the jacket my wife bought me. She’s going to chew my ass off, so I think your two teeth and a favor are fair trade.”
Ponytail groaned as he tried to reach the knife. “Take the knife out and I’ll think about it.”
Jake Caldwell Thrillers Page 86