Coco's Nuts

by Tyler Colins

  “Yeah, too bad. You girls have nine lives it seems,” Colt stated with a smirk.

  “And why Eddy's place? He's a young, sweet guy –”

  “Who knew a lot. Eddy may have been challenged, but Picolo trusted him implicitly. I have no doubt he'd have shared plans. But he hightailed it out of his place before I could do anything.”

  “But you detonated the bomb when we were there. How'd you know…?”

  “You told Kent.”

  “…I did, didn't I?” I vaguely recalled doing so. I'd not thought anything about it at the time. “Speaking of Kent, why get rid of him?”

  “He was a loose wire and had to go eventually.” Colt looked thoughtful. “I wonder why he never realized that his demise was a distinct probability.”

  “You had a verbal contractual agreement. Why shouldn't he trust his partner in crime?”

  “Trust is overrated,” the attractive man simpered.

  Cash gestured the crumpled T and Colt kicked it over. “The plan's to kill both of us, right?”

  “You know it is,” came the bland response. “And don't say something movie-time like 'let the girl go because she doesn't know anything'. She does, maybe more than you.”

  “Were you on the boat earlier?” I asked, recalling the thud.

  “An associate, who has clodhopper feet, came to verify that Cash was on board. He advised that you were here and alone, so I decided to come later. I thought I'd let you settle in some but, man, you got stamina. I'm glad I had the patience to wait it out: the less alert, the better for all of us, particularly me.” he gloated.

  “What's the next step?” Cash asked coldly.

  If looks could kill, they'd both be lifeless because Colt stared back with equal loathing. “I have a boat at the end of the marina –”

  “You're going to dump our bodies offshore,” Cash interrupted. “That's not overly original.”

  “No, it's not. But I'll be rid of you two and that's all that matters,” he crowed.

  “Others know about you,” I pointed out.

  “I doubt Rey or Linda will do much because after you two, it's the two of them,” he advised, looking overly confident.

  “Isn't that overegging the pudding?” I asked flatly.

  Before Colt could respond, Cash asked brusquely, “Do you really believe we're going to comply?”

  “You will if I promise to shoot JJ – in the arm, to start.” Colt glanced from Cash to me and back again. “But maybe you don't care. She's fun, attractive, and intriguing, but no big deal, right? You'd rather help the agency than your screw for the night.”

  Maybe Colt was saying that to get a rise or maybe it was true, but it wasn't going to bother me – not at the moment, anyway. The priority was to get out of this dire situation.

  “Do you think I could get dressed?” I asked nonchalantly. “I'm feeling a little exposed here.”

  Those wide, flaring lips pulled into a hyena grin and he gestured my clothes in a corner. “We can't have you walking outside with just a pillow.”

  “They're full of honey and crumpled. Seeing as I'm going to die, let it be in something decent,” I said with what hopefully resembled a self-conscious smile and not a snarl. “My bag's over there.”

  He glanced at it and nodded. “No crazy moves, JJ.”

  “Like really?” I asked with a get-real look. And how often would I be using Cash's little “catch phrase” here on in? Not often, if Colt proved victorious.

  He kept a wary eye as I ambled over. This was a now-or-never moment. I slipped on jeans, recognizing there was no margin for error. Reaching back into the bag, I grasped the decocked Beretta by its polymer grip, engaged the trigger, whirled, and aimed.

  Colt toppled like a lightning-felled tree and Cash hurdled over, kicking the gun out of the way. “He would have served us better alive, but I'm impressed – right through the heart!”

  “I was aiming for the shoulder,” I said dryly, eyeing the oozy mess in Colt's chest.

  Cash snatched my gun and frowned. “Like really? A Beretta – with a silencer? The gun I gave you – and not this combat-ready baby – was to serve as protection, not serve an assassin.”

  I stuck out my tongue and drew a slow, calming breath. The mix of wine and sun, food and brandy, and excitement and danger unexpectedly hit like a toxic witch's brew. It seemed as if the boat were motoring at full-throttle speed. I held a hand to my strangely damp forehead. “Remember when we were talking about puking earlier?”

  “Yeah, what of it – Fonnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnne.”

  I smiled ruefully. “Sorry about the T-shirt.”

  He grimaced and pushed me forward. “Go clean up. I've got an urgent call to make.”

  “911?”

  He gestured the head. “Go!”

  Grabbing my bag, I soared into the shower. When I returned, he was in fresh jeans and a T, and speaking softly and swiftly.

  “What's up?” I asked as he disconnected.

  “The cops will be here shortly. Here's a quick rundown of how we're going to play this.” A scowl suggested it wasn't his way. “This is going to benefit Richie J's bad-boy persona. As for you and your agency, so there's no residual damage, for any law enforcement members that ask: you were trying to get the scoop on Richie J. You didn't find out anything, other than Richie J has money and a penchant for the better things in life, and hangs around with interesting if not questionable people. Got it?”

  “That suggests I'm not very good at my job,” I snapped.

  “You were just starting out and didn't have enough time to dig deep,” he said impatiently.

  “Whatever. And why was I trying to get the scoop on Richie J?”

  “You have a client who wanted you to dig up whatever you could because he was intending to engage in a business venture with him.”

  “They'll want to know the name.”

  “Jape Driscoll.”

  “Jake?”

  “Jape,” he repeated with a hint of irritation. “Got it?” He grabbed a piece of paper from the bureau. “Here's his number, if anyone requests it.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Fonne.” He looked annoyed.

  “Okay, fine. I suspect I have no choice in the matter, anyway.”

  “You don't.”

  “Yee-f'g-ha.”

  Cash glowered, then smiled wryly. “Gotta love that attitude.”

  “Gotta love that smugness.” I smiled tartly in return.

  Sirens started wailing in the distance and we hastily reviewed details.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  It was a little after one in the morning and those not evaluating or packing physical evidence at the primary crime scene on the boat were buzzing around the marina clubhouse, currently serving as command post.

  Cash was in a far corner spiritlessly listening to weary-looking Devoy Hunt exchanging information with a weathered, middle-aged officer. He was flipping what appeared to be a casino chip. Probably one of the $1000 Bellagio chips I'd come across. Apparently, this was indeed part of the Richie J persona. Cash Layton Jones had certainly never done that.

  Leaning into a wall, sipping coffee from an endless supply that marina personnel kept replenishing, I scanned the room to see if anyone were watching him. A tall, craggy-looking man was doing just that. Could this be the associate Colt had mentioned? Had he returned to see what had transpired? When his beady tar-black eyes met mine he whirled abruptly and left the clubhouse. I consigned the unhandsome face to memory.

  Cash and I had exchanged maybe six words since the police first appeared. For that matter, we'd barely looked at each other or at the hustle-and-bustle action on the boat.

  “Uh-uh, got it,” Gerald Ives muttered into the phone for the sixth time in three minutes as he glanced from me to Cash and back again, his expression as bland as sugar-free vanilla ice-cream.

  He disconnected and dropped into a padded chair before a small round table, across from a young man keying data into a laptop. He'd ar
rived twenty minutes after the first officers. That had been over two hours ago and we'd already explained – several times – how the dead intruder had threatened Richie J with a gun and uttered rants like a madman.

  Questions – and suspicions – flew. Yes, he'd demanded all money and valuables on board, but he hadn't appeared particularly eager to receive them. No, Richie J didn't know him or why he'd been specifically targeted. No, there'd been no one else (I suspected Cash or a colleague would locate Colt's clodhopper-footed associate at all costs.) Yes, of course we'd – I'd – shot the man; it was self-defense all the way. Yes, in my line of work, I carried protection. Yes, yes, no, no, yes.

  Hostility and tension were rife as Cash and Ald constantly glared daggers at each other. Thrust the two in a darkened alley and it was doubtful either would emerge in one piece. Regardless of mutual animosity, however, Ald had posed questions in a professional fashion while Cash had proven adept at fielding them. He'd provided details in a business-like manner, as might have been expected. I, on the other hand, didn't have all the answers. What if they asked about this Jape Driscoll person? A simple “client confidentiality” response would go down like a score of burst balloons, but whatever. I'd have to handle it as best I could.

  I sidled over to Ald. “Do you still need me?”

  He looked me up and down. “You can drop by the station tomorrow – uh, later today. Ten a.m.”

  “Sure. I'd better call a cab.” I looked down and frowned, realizing my purse and gear were on the boat.

  “I'll drive you.”

  My eyebrows crept upward in surprise.

  “Are you ready?”

  “I need my stuff.”

  “It's evidence at the moment.” His look and tone advised there was no room for discussion.

  “Aye-aye, captain.” I glanced at Cash, who glanced back at the same second and saw that Ald had grasped my elbow.

  His gaze darkened and he strolled over.

  “Ald's driving me home,” I told him casually.

  “How lucky can you get?” he asked icily.

  “Listen, smart boy –”

  “Let's play nice, Ald.” I stepped between them. “You, too … Richie.”

  Cash smirked and, slipping arms around me, crushed me to his chest. “When you get your things back, check your knapsack,” he whispered before kissing me like the American sailor canoodling the woman in white on V-J Day. With a triumphant smile, he turned to Ald.

  Whatever testosterone clash these two were engrossed in, I wanted no part of. Cash should kiss me as an act of caring or concern, not a desire to gall Ald, and Ald shouldn't use me to insult or affront Cash.

  “Your taste in lovers leaves a lot to be desired,” the detective declared brusquely. “I'd never have thought you so indiscriminating – or desperate – that you'd sleep with dung.”

  Cash's hook sent him sprawling into a nearby chair.

  Those in the vicinity sprang into defensive action. And then it turned really entertaining (if you were into black comedies). As swearing and scuffling ensued, I sauntered from the clubhouse into a misty, humid morning.

  Would Richie J get to Miami as intended or would he be taking up residence in local digs for assaulting an officer?

  * * *

  It was well after two once Ald and I pulled onto the main road. He hadn't said a word when he located me outside, simply taken my arm and escorted me to the car. Evidentially, the man was truly honoring his deceased brother's final request: a Dodge Charger had been exchanged for an Audi A5 coupe.

  I finally broke the silence when a thought burst into my head like an over-roasted marshmallow. “Was it Richie J you were referring to back at the Nimitz Thai place when you referred to the bad company I was keeping?”

  He nodded curtly.

  “How did you know about him?” Cash and I had broken up before that lunch in Chinatown. Ald had been quite amiable then, so he couldn't have been aware at that time.

  His jaw shifted one way, then the other. “One afternoon, I was walking by your place – I was meeting someone in the area – and I saw him leave your building. Call it a cop's gut feeling, but it propelled me to go in. I told the security guard he looked like someone I knew and flashed my credentials. Donnie – that was the name on the badge – laughed and said not to worry, Richie J was an old pal of his and a cool dude, and he was seeing someone in the building.”

  “Did he now?” I asked flatly. So, Cash had come to the building after the “break-up”? Why? To snoop?

  “I asked if that someone might be the lovely JJ Fonne, who I knew professionally.”

  “Did you now?”

  He glanced sideward, then refocused on the empty road. “Donnie said you two were an item – and don't you dare say 'did he now'.”

  I remained mum.

  “How did you two pair up?” he asked briskly.

  “…A client wanted me to check out Richie J.”

  “Who's the client?”

  “…Jape Driscoll.”

  “What did he want you to find?

  “Like really, Ald? What's this? An inquisition?” I asked grumpily, staring out the side window.

  “Someone died tonight as a result of a gunshot, courtesy of your gun. That gives me a right to ask questions and receive answers.”

  “Driscoll didn't know much about Richie J, so he wanted me to find out whatever I could before he put out any money or signed any contracts.” The evasive response wasn't going to go over well, but it was the best I could offer.

  “So, you play cop and go up and beyond the call of duty, and sleep with the infamous Richie J?”

  I bit my tongue.

  “Well?” he demanded.

  “I do what I have to do in the line of 'duty',” I said testily, not liking this line of questioning.

  “Apparently so,” came the chilly response. “How long have you been 'casing' him?”

  My reply was equally chilly. “Long enough to learn that – whatever Richie J may or may not be in the professional world – he's one heckuva lover.”

  The rest of the drive was hushed.

  * * *

  At ten the next morning, I entered Ald's office wheeling a lady-bug patterned suitcase.

  “Going somewhere?” the detective asked coolly as he closed the door.

  “Home.” Leaving the suitcase beside a coat rack, I sat on a large worn sofa.

  “As in North Carolina?”

  “As in.”

  “You just shot someone –”

  “In self-defense.” I pulled out a business card from a Michael Kors satchel. “Here are contact numbers and an address. You can call me every day, or I can check in every day. As you wish.”

  Perching on the edge of an L-shaped desk – neat and uncluttered as always – his gaze traveled from my Docs up the distressed jeans to my white linen shirt and white Ralph Lauren denim jacket. His fleeting expression was hard to read: indigestion or approval. “You look good, considering you got only a few hours of sleep.”

  Approval it was. “Two, to be exact.” I'd not been able to sleep once I'd entered the condo, even after two hot cocoas. The night replayed itself as I sat, lay, showered, sat, lay, tossed and turned.

  Checking texts and voicemails at four, a couple, as expected, were from my colleagues reminding me to contact them as soon as I got in. I'd have spoken with them live if I'd had to but, fortunately, neither had answered, so I'd left a message. “Don't answer questions about Richie J. I'll counsel you when I've arrived at Mom's. I'll be back in a week. Hold the fort, ladies. Love you.”

  “That's one more than me,” he said with a weak smile, rubbing a scarred hand over that ruggedly handsome face. “Kevin's bringing lattes. You do still like those?”

  I nodded and leaned back. “Shall we get started?”

  He looked me from head to foot, and down again, then nodded. “Did your boyfriend call?”

  “He's not my boyfriend,” I replied dully, extending arms along the headrest.
<
br />   “You could have fooled me.”

  An eyebrow arched. “My flight's at four. I need to be out of here by one. Let's get on with this.”

  “Shouldn't I be the one to dictate time?”

  “Dictate away, Hives, long as I'm out of here by one.”

  “Nice attitude, Fonne,” he smirked.

  Speaking of attitude, the detective's was reminiscent of Cash/Richie: self-satisfied, arrogant, smug. “Nice shiner, Hives.”

  “Will you stop that?”

  A knock on the door preceded the entrance of a young uniform-clad officer bearing a cardboard tray with two extra-large lattes and a bag likely containing pastries. I nodded to the freckle-faced fellow as he waved and departed.

  “Blueberry or banana-mac?” He held out the bag.

  I declined, but accepted the cup he brought over.

  “So, did he call?”

  “Why would he?” I asked casually.

  “Why would he?” he asked mockingly in return. “I would if my girlfriend had killed someone to save my heiney.”

  “He's not my boyfriend,” I repeated, removing the lid and taking a cautious sip. It was hot and caramel-sweet. Just what I needed.

  “I suppose not,” he conceded with a frown. “If he hasn't made an effort to check in, he can't care much. What a sweet, thoughtful guy.”

  I met those bright Maya-blue eyes and neither of us spoke for several seconds.

  “Are you going to put him away for assault?” I finally asked.

  “For a stupid little punch?” he crabbed. “When I put Richie J away, it'll be for something major – and ten-plus years.” Ald sat at his desk. “By the way, the man you killed last night goes by the name of Colter.”

  “Does he?”

  “Like Richie J, he's known in the drug world.” Ald searched my face as he drank.

  “Is he?”

  He searched my face again and frowned. “Funny, isn't it? Two drug dealers on the same boat? It has to make you wonder if there's some sort of turf war going on.”

  “Alleged drug dealers.”

  “Don't tell me you had no idea about your boyfriend's – sorry, your bedmate's – profession.”