Wild Spring

by Tripp Ellis

  Graham groaned, "Oh God, that's terrible!”

  "Did you know the two were having an affair?"

  "I didn't."

  "Have you noticed any discrepancies with the books or inventory?"

  "I haven’t, but then again, I'm not very hands-on with the day-to-day operation of the business. It's one of many that I own.” He let out a frustrated sigh. “I’ll look into it first thing Monday when I get back in town. I’m away for the weekend. Thanks for the heads up, Deputy. I'll let you know if I find anything irregular."

  "Please do."

  "And keep me posted on the outcome of your investigation. I'm deeply saddened by the news."

  I got the impression that he was more concerned about the possible embezzlement than the death of Vivian. She was just an employee that he barely had any interaction with.

  The island was beginning to liven up. Hangovers had been slept off or drunken away. The roadways were packed with cars, and revelers strolled sidewalks, carrying red cups and koozies. The party monsters were ready to attack the city once again.

  It took us a while to wade through the sea of tail lights before pulling into the Whispering Palms. It was a nice neighborhood on the east side.

  The black Trans Am perched in the driveway was a thing of beauty. The paint was flawless and glistened in the sunlight.

  We pulled to the curb, climbed out of the car, and walked up the driveway, admiring the vehicle. It had gold trim, and the gold hood bird sparkled. The gold snowflake alloy rims glimmered, and brand-new BFG radial TA tires were glossy with protectant.

  The owner had seen us pull up and had stepped out of the home. He was in his mid 60s with gray hair, parted in the middle. He was in good shape and had a square jaw and blue eyes. He wore jeans, sneakers, and a T-shirt. He introduced himself with a firm handshake.

  “The name’s Brock,” he said. “Thanks for stopping by.”

  “Thanks for having us,” I replied. “She's a beauty, no doubt.”

  "You won't find another one quite like this. It's been fully restored. It's got matching numbers and documentation. The whole car has been stripped down, re-sprayed, and put back together. It's got a performance package with the stronger sway bars and tighter steering ratio. All original body parts. All new custom leather interior with new dash, door panels, and headliner. New AC, new stereo with Bluetooth. The 6.6L engine has been totally rebuilt and bored over. She's putting down 400 hp, has an automatic transmission with torque converter, posi-traction, and all new disc brakes."

  The car was in immaculate condition.

  "Any accidents?" I asked.

  "Nope."

  "You the original owner?"

  "I am,” Brock said. “I spent a lot of money getting this thing in tip-top condition."

  "Why are you selling?"

  "Times got a little tight, and the toys have to go."

  JD and I walked around the car, examining the vehicle with exacting detail. I ran my finger along the seams of the body panels. They all seemed to be aligned properly. I felt for inconsistencies and tape lines in the paint around the edges. I looked for fish-eyes and other irregularities in the paint. I popped open the door and slid behind the wheel. I took a deep breath but didn't smell any mold or mildew—just fresh leather and oil.

  The interior was pristine.

  The leather was tight, and the seat bolsters firm. The aluminum dash bezel that housed the instrument cluster looked like it belonged in an airplane. Everything about the car screamed straight-line speed.

  I popped the hood, and we took a look at the beast underneath. The engine compartment was shiny and spotless. You could eat off it. I didn't see any indication of prior damage. We checked the fluids and hoses, then I crawled onto the hot concrete and looked underneath the car for any leaks.

  "Want to take her for a spin?" Brock asked when I climbed to my feet.

  I couldn't help but grin. "Yes, I do?"

  "You boys have some type of ID? Just so my wife knows who I'm getting in the car with?"

  I flashed my badge.

  Brock seemed impressed. “Well, at least I know you’re not going to rob me.”

  “The negotiations haven’t started yet,” I said.

  Brock chuckled.

  The keys jingled as he pulled them from his pocket.

  “How about you spin us around the block so I can listen to the car?” I suggested.

  "Sounds like a plan."

  I opened the door and pulled the seat so JD could climb in the back. I slipped into the passenger’s seat, pulled the door shut, and buckled my safety belt.

  Brock slid behind the wheel and cranked up the engine. A ferocious growl blasted from the tailpipes, and the pistons sang. Brock revved the engine a few times, and he couldn't help but grin. “How you like that?"

  I smiled. "I like it."

  He put it into gear and rolled out of the driveway, then slung the gear shift into drive and cruised down the street.

  I always liked to have a little time in the passenger seat to see how a car sounded and how the owner treated the vehicle.

  We rolled out of the neighborhood, and Brock turned onto Walleye Street. He gunned it, and the acceleration thrust us all against the seat-backs—400 hp of pure American muscle.

  I think I was sold within the first quarter mile. I knew coming to look at the car was a bad idea.

  15

  “Must be nice not to worry about tickets,” Brock said from the passenger seat.

  We had switched places, and I was behind the wheel. The needle blew past a hundred miles an hour as we roared down the highway.

  "I haven't stretched it out like this in ages," Brock said, enjoying the ride.

  I let off the gas as we came upon traffic. I slowed down and hit the next U-turn, heading back to Coconut Key. I took the car onto the highway and ran the piss out of it. I wanted to get the car up to temperature and see how she behaved. She didn't overheat, and there weren't any vibrations. The transmission seemed fine.

  We took the car to a mechanic JD knew, and he gave it a quick look over. Brock had kept every maintenance record and every receipt during his entire ownership. I perused through it, and everything seemed to be in order. The mechanic looked over the engine, put the car on a lift, and checked the suspension, exhaust, CV joints, and bushings.

  He gave us the seal of approval.

  For a car that was over 40 years old, she ran like a dream.

  We drove back to Brock's house and pulled into the driveway. I killed the engine and climbed out of the car, sad that the drive was over. I reluctantly handed the keys back to him.

  I wanted the car. But I had to put on my best poker face.

  "So, what do you think?” Brock asked.

  "I think she needs a new owner,” I said.

  He grinned.

  "What's your absolute bottom dollar?" I asked.

  "I'm asking $69,900 for it."

  “Beautiful car. A little too rich for my blood.”

  "She's worth it. You’ve seen the receipts. You know what’s gone into her.”

  "No doubt. She's a great car.”

  JD whispered a number in my ear.

  I contemplated his advice. “I’d like to make an offer, but I don't want to insult you."

  Brock's face tensed, and he gave me a curious gaze. "You’re not gonna insult me. What's your offer?”

  "I can give you $45,000."

  He practically choked. "No. Absolutely not! I'm upside down at that price."

  "You're right. The car is worth way more than that.” I hesitated. “Can you go $47K?"

  "I like you guys, and I think you’d give her a good home. But I don't like you that much."

  We all chuckled.

  JD whispered something else in my ear.

  I took a moment to think about it. "Okay, I can get you cold hard cash today. Would 50 grand be totally outrageous?"

  Brock hesitated for a long moment. "Cash?"

  "Yessiree."

 
; Brock was silent for a long moment. He looked at us, then he looked at the car. He finally broke down and shook his head. "I just can't do it. Not at that price."

  "What can you do?" I asked.

  "I could come down to $65,000."

  "That’s a really great price. It’s a beautiful car, but I can't go that high."

  "I understand," he said with a grim frown.

  We shook hands.

  "It was a pleasure meeting you,” I said. “If you change your mind, you know how to get in touch with me."

  We walked down the driveway and climbed into the Porsche. JD cranked up the engine, and I buckled my safety belt.

  "I think he’d take $59K or $60K,” I said.

  "We probably shouldn't have taken my car. He thinks you’ve got too much money. I guarantee you, you’ll hear from him in a few days. Trust me. He'll get tired of ass-clowns pawing on his car and taking joy rides."

  I gave him a skeptical glance.

  "Trust me. This is my area of expertise."

  I had to give it to JD. He could drive a hard bargain if he wasn’t emotionally attached.

  We left Whispering Palms and headed over to the warehouse district. The desolate part of town was devoid of tourist attractions and was the only uncrowded part of town.

  We pulled into the parking lot of the practice studio, and music from rehearsing bands seeped through the brick building, echoing through the streets. The ground rumbled, and the usual band of miscreants hung around the entrance, smoking cigarettes and drinking beer. It was a full-time occupation for them.

  A few of the metalheads high-fived JD as we pushed inside the building. Wild Fury was single-handedly making rock 'n' roll cool again, at least on the island. And judging by their newfound Internet celebrity, the rest of the world as well.

  The place smelled like a pot dispensary. We made our way down the dim hallway and pushed into the practice room. Dizzy and Crash tuned their guitars, and Styxx prepped his drums, adjusting cymbals and toms.

  The band ran through their set like seasoned pros. They worked out some of the bugs in their new compositions, and the usual crowd filled the practice studio to get a free show.

  Afterward, we hit Tide Pool for the obligatory post-rehearsal party. Everything with the band was an excuse to party.

  We hung out for a while, and groupies pawed on the musicians. JD collected numbers for future prospects—and there were plenty. We cut out early to grab dinner before heading over to Nico’s place to poke around.

  It took twice as long to do everything on the island during Spring Break, and you had to plan accordingly. It was 45 minutes to an hour to get a table at a restaurant. Travel time tripled. Bar and waitstaff were stretched thin.

  We enjoyed a good meal, then drove to La Baldoria. It was a little after 10 PM by the time we stepped inside the mafia bar.

  Time to cause trouble.

  16

  La Baldoria was a sleek modern bar. Chill down-tempo music, cushy couches, dim lighting, and plenty of pretty people. Lots of nooks and crannies to escape to if you wanted to get better acquainted with the person you just met. You’d never know the place was owned by a criminal enterprise.

  I surveyed the area. There were plenty of short skirts, long legs, and spike-heeled shoes. This wasn't your typical beach bar. It was upscale, and the clientele dressed to impress. The club was rather small, and behind a nondescript red door was Nico’s makeshift casino. A big bouncer guarded the entrance, allowing only VIPs to enter.

  We made our way to the bar and leaned against the counter. There were rows of premium liquors on the shelves behind the bar, illuminated with a red light. Hot girls in skimpy attire leaned against the counter, vying for attention. Dudes flashed green bills, trying to compete with the cleavage.

  When I finally got the bartender's attention, I asked, “Is Nico around?"

  "Who's asking?"

  I flashed my badge.

  "He's not here."

  "Where is he?"

  "How should I know?"

  He was lying. He knew damn good and well where Nico was. I could see it in his eyes.

  A place like this didn't exist without greasing a few palms—cops, judges, city councilmen. They all liked to have their fun, and the monthly kickbacks were heavy enticements—especially on the salary of a civil servant.

  "You tell Nico that if he wants to stay in business, he’ll talk to me," I said.

  It's not usually advisable to walk into a mafia bar and start threatening the owner, but the squeaky wheel most definitely gets the grease.

  "We'll be right over there," I said, pointing.

  JD and I ambled away from the bar and stood by the dance floor, watching beautiful women bump and grind. It didn't take long for two beefy guys in suits to approach. They definitely shopped at the Big & Tall store. Their expensive Italian suits struggled to contain thick muscles and would rip if they flexed too hard. The goons had thick necks and large traps. Arms like tree trunks. They wore way too much cheap cologne.

  "Nico will see you now," one of them said.

  They escorted us through the club, past the velvet rope, into a VIP area that was separated with sheer hanging curtains. Nico sat on a plush couch with two beauties on either side. A near-empty bottle of vodka on the table rested next to a pitcher of cranberry juice. There was a bucket of ice and plenty of glasses.

  Nico was 30-ish. He had dark eyes, chiseled features, and a day's worth of stubble that looked stylish. He wasn't your typical mafia gangster. He was the new breed of criminal that could pass for a CEO or the head of a tech startup. Maybe there wasn't much difference.

  Nico greeted us with a smile. "Gentlemen, how can I help you?"

  “We’d like to talk to you about Chuck Kennedy," I said.

  "Who?"

  "I think you know him. Word on the street is he owed you a considerable amount of money."

  "A lot of people owe me money."

  "From what I understand, it was quite a large sum."

  "Well, maybe your sources are incorrect," Nico said.

  "I don't think he’ll be making good on his debt. It seems that Chuck met an unfortunate demise."

  "Should I be upset? I don't know the man."

  I showed him a picture of Chuck that I had on my phone. I had grabbed it from Chuck’s social media profile.

  Nico looked at the image and shook his head. "I don't know what to tell you. Never seen the guy before in my life."

  "He wasn't a member of your VIP club? He didn't lose his life savings gambling at your illegal establishment.”

  “Whoa! Those are pretty serious allegations there, cowboy."

  "They are."

  “I think you’re making a mistake, Deputy. I run a legitimate business.”

  "You mean to tell me there's no gambling going on behind that little red door?”

  Nico smiled. “Friendly games for entertainment purposes only between members of a private club. Nothing illegal.”

  "Look, I don't know who you're paying off to keep this little show rolling, and I don't care. But if you had Chuck Kennedy killed, I will take you down.”

  Nico laughed. “You have quite the imagination, Deputy.”

  A beautiful brunette brushed past us and sauntered to the table—short skirt, long legs, round assets. She clanked down a fresh bottle of vodka. She spun around, and I finally saw her face. My eyes rounded with shock. Her blue eyes connected with mine, and a slight smirk curled on her plump lips.

  It was my one-night stand.

  Nico’s face twisted as he surveyed the bottle of vodka. “This isn’t what I wanted.”

  The brunette shrugged. “Well, get up and get what you want.”

  Nico’s face reddened. He sprang from the couch and marched toward her. "Get me what I asked for."

  She balked. “Get it yourself."

  The sultry brunette spun around, and Nico grabbed her arm, pulling her back to him. With his teeth clenched, he growled, “Do not disrespect me."

/>   She rolled her eyes. "I don't have to. You seem to accomplish that all on your own."

  The veins in Nico's temples bulged.

  She jerked her arm free, and he grabbed it again, pulling her back. He backhanded her across the face, twisting her head aside. Her brunette hair flew, and the strike left a red spot on her cheek and a trail of blood trickling from her nostril.

  It seemed Nico had a bit of a temper.

  My body tensed, and my blood boiled. I drew my pistol and took aim. "All right, tough guy. You're under arrest for assault and battery."

  Nico scowled at me, incredulous.

  His goons reached into their coats, and I knew exactly what they were reaching for. Soon, JD and I would be on the wrong end of several angry pistols.

  17

  I drew my pistol. So did JD.

  His concerned eyes flicked between the goons. I could see Jack was deciding which one to shoot first if need be.

  Nico did the smart thing and motioned for his goons to stand down.

  The hands inside coats slowly pulled away, leaving pistols in shoulder holsters. The goons stood at the ready. I was pretty sure they were willing to do whatever necessary, even with the wide eyes of patrons gawking at us.

  "On the ground, now!" I commanded.

  Nico hesitated for a long moment, then finally knelt down and flattened on the ground. He put his hands behind his head. I wanted him to suffer the indignity of having his face to the dirty floor in front of all his friends and subordinates.

  JD cuffed the scumbag’s hands behind his back, then yanked him to his feet.

  Nico scowled at the brunette.

  She seemed amused by it all.

  JD escorted Nico out of the building, and I called for a patrol car to take him to the station.

  The goons lingered. They didn’t look friendly.

  I looked at the brunette, still clamping her nostril shut, trying to stem the bleeding. I grabbed a napkin from a table and handed it to her. She blotted her nose, and the napkin quickly bloomed red.

  "You didn't tell me you were a cop," she said in a nasal tone.