Deadly Moves

by Rodney Riesel

  “You selling a TV?” Mel asked.

  “What the Christ? Maxine, can you take him back to the car, please?”

  Mel turned and stomped off toward the car. “I'm gonna roll up the windows and sit in there like someone's old, neglected dog … and die from heat stroke!” he shouted as he climbed into the passenger seat and slammed the door.

  Dan turned back to Fallon. “Sorry about that, Mitch. He's nuts.”

  “Dan!” Maxine scolded.

  “Sorry. He's whatever politically correct name they have now for whack jobs.”

  Maxine shook her head.

  Fallon said, “I understand. Got a brother-in-law that ain't got the sense God gave an oak tree.”

  Dan looked back at the car and rubbed his chin. “Would ya take forty?”

  “How about forty-two?”

  “You got yourself a deal, Mitch. What'll it take for you to hold 'er for me?”

  “Five hundred should do it.”

  The two men shook hands. Dan pulled out his money clip and counted out a five Benjamins as a deposit. Together, Fallon and Dan tossed the tarp back over the car.

  Dan thanked the man one last time and told him he would be back a little after five the next day with the rest of the money.

  As Maxine pulled away from the house, Dan patted Mel on the shoulder. “Sorry I got after ya there, pal. I was trying to make a deal.”

  Mel shrugged. “It's fine.”

  “Don't be mad.”

  “You hurt my feelings.”

  Dan rolled his eyes. “What can I do to make it up to you?”

  “Can we go to Red's and get a cheeseburger?”

  “Sure, pal, and I could use a drink right about always.”

  Chapter Four

  “Officer Mel Gormin!” Red called out from behind the bar, as Mel, Dan, and Maxine walked through the front door of Red's Bar and Grill.

  Mel took a seat at the bar. “I told you, Red, I'm retired,” he carped amiably. “I'm not a cop anymore. I'm a private investigator now.”

  Dan sat on his usual stool next to Mel, and Maxine headed straight for the restroom.

  Red slid a glass of ice water across the bar to Mel. “Oh, that's right. Sorry about that, Mel. I'm just so used to calling you Officer Mel.”

  “Tequila, Seven, and lime,” said Dan.

  “Well, you're gonna have to get used to calling me just plain Mel, or Gormin, PI, if ya want.”

  Red filled an empty glass with ice. “Gormin, PI—that's catchy.” He added a shot of tequila, a slice of lime, and filled the glass the rest of the way with 7Up. He set the drink in front of Dan.

  “Say, Gormin, PI, why ya still wearing the badge, then?” Red asked.

  Mel reached up and took hold of the aluminum foil-covered, cardboard badge that was hanging around his neck and looked it over. “It's a nice badge. My sister made it for me.”

  “How's your sister doing, Mel?” Red asked.

  “Really good. Her and her boyfriend Steve are getting married this fall.”

  “Oh yeah? Hope we're all invited to the wedding.”

  “Of course you will be,” Mel replied. “I'm going to be in the wedding.”

  “Best man?”

  “No, just a regular old groomsman.”

  “Ever been in a wedding before?”

  Mel eyes went downward and he stared through the bar top. “Just mine,” he said quietly. “I liked the chicken dance.”

  Dan knew Mel was thinking about his wife who had been murdered years earlier. Dan knew the pain. Dan's own wife, Alex, had been killed in a car accident soon after the two had purchased the bungalow in Key West. They were only weeks away from moving to paradise; Dan moved down from New York alone—actually, not completely alone, his dog Buddy; who Dan blamed for the accident, came too—soon after Alex's funeral.

  Dan reached over and placed his hand on Mel's back. “I'm sure they'll have a chicken dance at your sister's wedding,” he said.

  Red turned and grabbed a cup from the back bar and poured himself a cup of coffee. “So, what are you guys up to today?” he asked Dan.

  “I have to run back out to Stock Island around five tomorrow and pick up my new car,” Dan answered.

  “You went with the Porsche?” Red asked.

  “Yup.”

  “Nice,” said Red with a grin and a nod.

  “Not as nice as a Ferrari,” argued Mel.

  “What did ya give him for it?” Red asked.

  “Forty-two grand,” Dan replied.

  Red whistled. “Must be nice, Mr. Got Rocks. Ever think of paying that Lotto jackpot you won forward—like, say, to little old me?” He batted his skimpy lashes.

  Dan ignored him. “Probably gonna need a ride.”

  Red glanced back at the clock on the wall behind him. “Cindy comes in at four tomorrow, so I can give you a ride out then.”

  “We picked up a new case today too,” Mel said excitedly. He had snapped out of his day dream down memory lane. “We're going to be bodyguards for a big movie star.”

  “Really?” Red asked.

  “We don't know if she's a big movie star,” Dan corrected. “We don't even know if she's a movie star at all. Her manager just said she was in the film industry.”

  “What else would she be?” Red asked. “Who else in the movie business would have a manager?”

  “I don't know, maybe she's a writer, or a director or something.”

  “Do directors have managers?” Red inquired.

  Dan shrugged his shoulders. “Who knows?”

  Maxine walked out of the restroom and took a seat next to Dan.

  “So, I hear Dan's gonna be protecting some young, good-lookin' starlet,” Red jabbed.

  “Yeah, I heard that too,” Maxine said.

  “Young? Good-looking?” Dan asked. “You people really know how to embellish a story.”

  “What can I get you, Maxine?” Red asked.

  “I'll just have a cup of coffee, Red. Thanks.”

  Just then Jocko, the cook at Red's, walked through the stainless kitchen doors with a bucket of joint compound in one hand and a small putty knife in the other.

  “Hey, Jock,” Dan said.

  “Yeah,” Jock grumbled back.

  “Whattaya doing there?”

  Jocko turned and glared at Dan. “Fixing one of your messes again. What does it look like?”

  “My mess?”

  “Yeah, your mess. The goddamn bullet hole in the wall from yesterday. Remember that little fiasco?”

  “Oh yeah. I can patch that if ya want me to.”

  Jocko continued over to the wall. “I wouldn't dream of it.”

  “And what do you mean, again?” Dan asked. “What other mess did you clean up?”

  Red shook his head no and waived his arms trying to shut Dan up.

  Jocko dropped the bucket and spun around. “Who do you think fixed that broken bar stool last week?”

  “You,” Dan responded.

  “And who do you think fixed that ceiling fan the week before?”

  “You.”

  “And who do you think removed the cowboy boot from the bathroom door and then hung a new bathroom door?”

  “You. But in my defense, who wears pink cowboy boots? That guy had it coming.”

  Jocko's face was red. “It's not up to you to decide what color boots someone wears, or who has what coming, ya moron.”

  “I didn't tell him he shouldn't wear them. I merely pointed out that if he was going to wear them, then someone might make fun of him.”

  “Only an asshole like you, Coast. No one else gave a shit what color his boots were.”

  “Just because they remained silent doesn't mean they didn't hate the boots. I consider myself the voice of those who remain silent.”

  “Well I consider you the voice of every asshole in the world.”

  “Ouch!” said Dan. “That's a little hurtful.”

  Jocko just turned around and began removing the bucket's lid.


  “Hey, Jocko, don't forget about the time Dan broke the front window!” Mel called out.

  “Shut up, Mel,” Dan said.

  “Can I order my cheeseburger now?” Mel asked.

  Red grabbed a guest check pad and said, “Order away, Mel.”

  Mel ordered a cheeseburger with fries, and Dan and Maxine both ordered a fish sandwich with fries.

  Jocko dropped his putty knife into the bucket and went into the kitchen to fire up the grill.

  When Red returned from the kitchen he poured himself another cup of coffee. “So are ya gonna need my help on this actress bodyguard thing?” he asked.

  “Why would I need your help to babysit an actress?” Dan responded.

  “There must be a reason her manager thinks she needs a bodyguard. What if someone attacks her—you gonna fight 'em off?”

  “If I have to.”

  Maxine, Mel, Red, and Jocko all chuckled.

  “I can fight!” Dan said angrily.

  “Yeah, you can,” Red agreed through his laughter. “Just like you did out in the parking lot a few months ago.” Red turned to Maxine. “You should have seen him, Maxine, he looked just like Clubber Lang. First he hit the guy in the fist with his face, and then he hit him in the other fist with his ribs.”

  “The old one-two, I think they call that, Red,” Mel offered.

  Maxine turned and stared at Dan. “When did this happen?”

  “Thanks, Red,” said Dan. “Why can't you keep your big mouth shut?”

  “Oh, sorry, I figured you told her about it,” Red said.

  “Oh, what a tangled web we weave,” Mel added with a faux-cultured voice.

  Dan slid his empty glass back across the bar. “No, I didn't tell her. Now, fill 'er up.”

  “So when was this?” Maxine asked again.

  “The night the lawyer, Travis Holland, was killed,” Dan informed her referring to the last case he had worked.

  “Oh yeah,” Maxine remembered. “The black eye you didn't want to explain.”

  “I didn't want to worry you,” Dan said.

  “Because what I don't know won't hurt me,” said Maxine.

  “Exactly,” Dan replied.

  Red pushed the refreshed tequila back in front of his friend.

  The door opened and everyone turned to see who had come in; it was Ryan Jenkins. His arm was in a sling and he was wearing an ear-to-ear grin. By his side was a young black-haired woman; she was smiling as well. The girl was in her early twenties and at least fifteen years younger than Jenkins. Her skirt was short and her tight white T-shirt showed her belly. She wore too much makeup, but somehow it worked for her.

  “Good afternoon, everyone,” Jenkins said joyfully. “How is everyone today?”

  “Wonderful!” said Dan. No one else answered.

  Jenkins pulled an envelope from his back pocket and waived it in the air. “Got your money, Coast.”

  “Even more wonderful,” Dan said.

  Jenkins and his young friend walked up to the bar. “Princess, you sit right here,” Jenkins said, pulling out one of the bar stools. Jenkins took her hand and helped her up onto the stool. “I would like everyone to meet Bunny McBride. Bunny, this is Dan Coast.”

  “Nice to meet you, Bunny,” Dan said.

  “And this is his friend Mel,” Jenkins told her.

  Mel jumped from his stool and walked over to Bunny. He took her hand in his and said, “Bewitching Bunny, it's a pleasure to meet you. You must be the whore who cuts Ryan's hair.”

  Chapter Five

  It was four-thirty the next afternoon, Dan Coast sat on his front porch steps with a large manila envelope full of cash on his lap. Mel stood nearby in the front lawn fiddling with his homemade cardboard police badge dangling from a pink piece of yarn around his neck.

  “Do you think I should keep wearing this badge even though I'm not a cop anymore?” he asked Dan. “You think it looks stupid?”

  “Heavens no,” Dan replied. “It looks completely normal for a grown man to wear an aluminum foil-covered cardboard badge hung around his neck by a pink piece of yarn.”

  “Yeah, that's what I thought. I just didn't want to look stupid.”

  “I don't think you have anything to worry about, Mel. This is Key West.”

  “Maybe I can have my sister make me a new one that says PI on it.”

  “PI?”

  “For private investigator.”

  “Oh yeah.”

  Dan looked at his wrist to see what time it was, and then remembered there hadn't been a watch on his wrist since the day he moved to the Keys. He remembered it like it was yesterday. His realtor, Emily Dixon, handed him the keys to the bungalow at 632 Beach View Street. Emily hadn't smiled when she handed over the keys to the property, probably a first for her, Dan figured. Everybody knew his story; Key West was a small town, after all. Emily had kept her normally glib tongue in check and, like everybody else, pussyfooted around Dan and the aura of sadness that hovered around him like a foul stench. Dan grabbed the doormat from the front seat of his car, walked up the steps, and placed it on the porch floor in front of the front door. The Coasts, stenciled in tasteful characters, stared up at him. Dan's late wife Alex had ordered the personalized doormat from a magazine a few weeks before they were supposed to make their move south from upstate New York. The mat arrived in the mail two days after her funeral. After staring at the mat for a few seconds Dan went to the bedroom, sat on the bed, and removed the watch his wife had given him as a gift. He opened the drawer to the nightstand, placed the watch inside, and shut the drawer. The watch had only left the drawer on a few occasions when Dan wanted to stagger down memory lane after a few too many tequilas.

  “Dan … Dan,” said Mel.

  “Yeah, what?” Dan answered.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “You were just staring off like your mind was in some other place.”

  “Some other time, Mel,” Dan whispered. “Some other time.”

  “When?”

  “Red should be here any second,” Dan said, changing the subject.

  Mel turned to see the Firebird rounding the corner. “Here he is now.”

  Red skidded to a stop with the passenger side tires making a skid mark on Dan's lawn.

  “Shotgun!” Mel yelled.

  “Bullshit,” Dan said as he opened the door and pulled the seat forward. “Get in the backseat, Mel.”

  “I get car sick,” Mel argued.

  “That might work with Maxine but it don't work with me. Now get in.”

  “Don't blame me if I puke on ya,” Mel grumbled as he climbed into the back seat.

  “Would you rather ride in the trunk?”

  “No.”

  “Then shut up.”

  Dan pushed the seat back into place and climbed in.

  “He's not gonna puke, is he?” Red asked.

  “No,” Dan answered. “That's just some bullshit he's come up with in the last few days.”

  “You're bullshit,” said Mel defiantly.

  “Ooh, good one.” Dan glanced over his shoulder. Mel was shielding his face with his forearms, braced for the blow he was sure would come. “Like I'm gonna hit ya.”

  “You'd better not. I know karate.” to demonstrate, he sliced the air with his flattened hands while making high-pitched battle cries that put Bruce Lee to shame.

  Red pulled away from the curb. “Where to?”

  “Head out to Stock Island and take a right on Cross Street.” Dan reached down and fiddled with the radio until he got it tuned into 104.1; James Taylor was singing “Mexico.”

  When Red rounded the corner onto Twelfth Street, he quickly hit the brakes. Two patrol cars from the Monroe County Sheriff's Department and a van from the county coroner's office sat in front of Mitch Fallon's house.

  “What the hell's going on here?” Dan asked.

  Red slowed and pulled the car to the curb. “Is this the house?” he asked.

 
; “Yeah, it is,” Dan replied.

  Mel gazed over the seat through the windshield. “I bet it's a homicide,” he said.

  “I'm sure it's not a homicide,” said Dan.

  “Should we get out?” Red asked.

  “Yeah, I want to see what's going on.”

  “I bet Fallon killed his wife,” Mel conjectured.

  “Quiet, Mel.” Dan opened his door.

  “I'm just saying, he didn't seem like he wanted to move back to Oklahoma and he sure didn't want to sell that car.” Mel climbed out and followed Dan toward the house. Red followed along as well.

  One of the sheriff's deputies noticed the three men walking toward him and turned to intercept them. With his open hands chest-high he said, “This is a crime scene, guys. I'm gonna have to ask you to stay back a ways.”

  Dan looked around the property and then back at the deputy, whose nameplate read Simmons. “Did something happen to the Fallons?” he asked.

  “Do you know the Fallons?” Simmons asked.

  “I was out here yesterday morning.” Dan pointed at the tarped Porsche. “I gave him a deposit for the car.”

  Simmons glanced back over his shoulder. “That car there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What time was that?”

  “Ten-thirty … eleven, maybe.”

  “Did Fallon kill his wife?” Mel asked.

  Dan said, “Shut up, Mel.”

  Simmons cocked his head at Mel.

  “I'm a private detective,” Mel informed him.

  “He's not a private detective,” Dan said.

  “Am too,” Mel argued.

  Simmons pointed at Dan and Mel. “You two come with me.” He stabbed a finger toward Red. “You wait out here.”

  Dan and Mel followed the deputy through the front door and into the living room.

  “Jesus Christ,” Dan whispered to himself when he saw the dead man seated in and tied to a chair in the middle of the room. A few feet from him, and lying on the floor, was another body covered by a white sheet.

  A plain clothes investigator walked from the hall into the living room.

  “Steve, this is Dan Coast,” Simmons told the investigator. “He says he was here around eleven yesterday morning. He says he bought a car from the deceased.”

  “Special Investigator Steve Millhouse,” he said, reaching out to shake Dan's hand.