Jimmy swore under his breath. How many people did this woman owe money to? The last thing he wanted was to get mixed up in a turf war.
The man wasn’t cautious and showed no sign of attempting to conceal his approach. And then Jimmy saw why: the man had a key. The door opened and he disappeared inside. Moments later, a light flicked on and the door closed.
Jimmy slumped back in his seat. He knew what he should do: go inside the house and keep whoever was in there from removing anything from the premises. It could simply be an acquaintance, but it might also be a creditor there to collect any valuables he could to repay the debt. That had been Jimmy’s idea, anyway. And he had no Plan B. In the absence of the woman herself, the next best thing were her belongings, which Jimmy might be able to sell or even present to Darkmore as payment, if they were valuable enough.
Jimmy shifted in his seat. And groaned. He still experienced a decent level of pain and the medication had slowed his reflexes. Besides, the man in the house hadn’t looked like someone Jimmy wanted to take on. He was well built and had an easy grace about him when he walked, like someone used to complicated footwork. Jimmy had seen two people walk that way. One had been a dancer. The other, a fighter. And this guy sure as hell was not a dancer. On his best day, Jimmy doubted he’d be able to take him, and this was not Jimmy’s best day. He ached from head to toe, the pain only muted by the drugs, and his head felt like it was packed full of cotton. Perhaps it would be better to simply wait and watch.
Shelby entered Helen’s house and stopped just inside the door. Her scent filled the place, that still-familiar mixture of perfume, shampoo, body wash, and a myriad of other mysterious female bathroom paraphernalia. To Shelby, nothing else had the nostalgic power of smell. On hot summer days, he smelled the musty sweetness of wild grass and immediately traveled back in time. Spring rain, freshly cut lawns, leather, pipe tobacco, wood smoke—they all transported him to a significant period in his life and filled him with a sodden mass of raw emotion and a bittersweet taste in his mouth. This was no different, and he hadn’t anticipated either the experience or its impact.
After a few moments, he pulled himself together and felt for a light switch, found one, and flipped it on. He closed the front door, pocketed the key, and took his first look around. The entryway was small, containing only a wall rack for coats and a rubber tray for boots. A rug led the way into the main room with a mounted television, a couch, and two chairs. Off to the right was a kitchen area, and to the left a hall Shelby assumed led to the bedrooms.
He found Helen’s room on the second try—the first having revealed what appeared to be a home office complete with prefab desk and a computer. Shelby wasn’t an electronics expert, but even he could tell the computer wasn’t exactly cutting edge.
In the bedroom, the slippers were the first thing Shelby saw. They sat on the floor next to the bed, perfectly aligned and looking as if Helen might rise, yawning, and slide her feet into them at any moment. Shelby reached down and grabbed them.
He didn’t like being in the bedroom. Even though this wasn’t the house Helen had shared with her second husband, Shelby assumed she’d had men over. Helen was an attractive woman and, as Shelby recalled, a very sexual person. That was the one thing about their marriage that had always worked. And probably partly why they’d stayed together as long as they had. After the fights came intimacy. Sex was something they did well together, and for a while, it was enough. But sex, they eventually discovered, isn’t enough common ground on which to build a long-term relationship. Shelby wondered how many men had shared this bed with Helen. It was none of his business, he knew, but the thought arrived unbidden and made itself at home. He shook his head.
“None of that, asshole. You’ll drive yourself crazy.”
The thought alone was unnerving, but what bothered Shelby more was that he cared enough for it to be unnerving. It had been years, during which time they had both moved on, as adults are wont to do—as they should do.
Shelby turned to leave but caught sight of something on the wall, one of those large frames with lots of slots for individual photographs. He walked over and began scanning the pictures. There were several pictures of Leslie, of course, and a few of Helen with friends—including her and Gloria. There was even one of Helen and her second husband, which Shelby found surprising. What was even more surprising was the picture in the top right corner: his and Helen’s wedding picture. He looked at it, slightly amused, mildly sad. They looked happy, although Helen’s skin was red from over-tanning in anticipation of the day and Shelby’s hair flirted dangerously with mullet status. Shelby grinned as he remembered their wedding night, and how sensitive Helen’s skin had been from the sunburn. Consummating a marriage with someone who couldn’t stand to be touched on a large percentage of her body had been a challenge, although they had managed it, largely by abandoning the missionary position. Not that they were virgins anyway—not even with each other—but it had been a special night nonetheless. Shelby stared at the picture. He hadn’t seen it—or any of their wedding photos—for years, having chosen not to keep them after the divorce. He reached up and removed the frame from the wall, thinking he would take the photo back so they could all have a good laugh. Or quietly make a copy for himself.
It wasn’t that he missed those days, but the older he got, the more he noticed himself hanging on to memories. When he was younger, he hated all the shit people accumulated, stuff from the past with no commercial value. Of course, that was when he’d had most of his life ahead of him. For the young person, the future always burns brighter than the past. But as the years go by, perspective changes and humans begin to look backward. Shelby guessed it was natural for people to always view what represented most their own existence, whether that be the past or the future. Perhaps that was why the death of a young person always seemed so tragic: they’d been looking the wrong way and never saw it coming.
“Aw, hell,” Shelby said. To begin collecting personal memorabilia also suggested the best days lay in the past. And Shelby didn’t accept that. He replaced the frame, stepping back a few feet to make sure it hung straight. “Ask me again in twenty years,” he said to the picture.
He left the bedroom and went to the kitchen. The bag was on the table, as Helen had said it would be. Shelby unzipped the top and shoved the slippers inside. As he did so, the back of his hand rubbed against something cold, smooth, and hard. He grabbed the object and pulled it out.
A .38 revolver, stainless steel with a walnut grip.
What was Helen doing with a firearm? She’d always hated them and been a longtime supporter of gun control legislation. Helen had either shifted politically or believed herself in danger.
Shelby replaced the gun, zipped the bag, and headed for the front door. He locked the door behind him and took a quick look around. There were several vehicles parked on the street, but one caught his attention: a black Impala. There was nothing inherently suspicious about it, but Shelby’s finely tuned instincts were transmitting an alarm. He couldn’t see into the car enough to spot a driver, but he felt as if he were being watched.
Those damn hairs on the back of his neck prickled.
He walked to his car, moving casually. If someone was watching, he didn’t want them to know he suspected anything. He unlocked the passenger door of his Jeep, tossed Helen’s bag onto the seat, and moved around to the driver side. He got in, started the engine, and put the vehicle in gear, all while keeping an eye on the rearview mirror. He pulled out of his parking spot and was halfway down the street before the headlights of the Impala flicked on and the black car eased onto the street behind him.
“Not bad,” Shelby muttered. “But I’m onto you.”
Shelby increased his speed, taking the next corner much faster than he normally would. Hopefully, there weren’t any traffic patrols roaming nearby. It would be a tough case to make: “Well, officer, I think I’m being followed and was trying to lose the tail.”
As difficult as i
t might be to convince a traffic cop, Shelby was becoming increasingly certain. The Impala had sped up to match his speed and taken the corner as recklessly as he had.
“Can’t risk having me make an unseen turn, can you?”
Shelby checked his speed. Forty in a twenty-five. He needed to get off these side streets. He didn’t like speeding in a residential neighborhood. Kids should be inside and doing their homework or sleeping at this hour, but one could never be sure. It only took a moment.
He saw a stop light ahead and raced toward it. Once stop signs became working lights, it was a fair bet you were getting to a higher traffic area. Shelby turned right on red and moved the needle to fifty. The Impala followed and increased its speed.
“Okay, asshole. You want to play?”
They had moved into a commercial area. Traffic, though still relatively light, had increased. Shelby changed lanes with abandon, trying to put as many cars between himself and the Impala as possible. All he needed was a few seconds out of sight to turn down a side street or whip into a dark parking lot. But the Impala stayed with him, even closing the distance. Apparently, its driver knew he’d been spotted and had given up trying to disguise the tail.
“It’s on, asshole.”
Shelby stomped on the gas, and the Jeep surged to sixty-five. The Impala followed. If it came down to speed, Shelby knew the Impala would crush his battered old Jeep. He began wishing he’d followed his original plan and rented a car for the trip. He had considered it, but knew he was doing it mainly for vanity’s sake. It wasn’t that he was embarrassed of his Jeep, but he had to admit it would have been more impressive to greet Helen while driving something a little more chic and, well, recent—even if it didn’t belong to him. He had settled on his Jeep after realizing how silly it was to work at impressing Helen after all these years. It didn’t matter what she thought anymore.
He changed lanes again, cutting off a late model Subaru. The driver honked with great conviction, but Shelby ignored it and keep his eyes moving back and forth between the road and the mirror. The Impala was doing an admirable job of keeping up.
Shelby surveyed oncoming traffic. There appeared to be a break between two groups of vehicles about a quarter mile down the road. If he could somehow slip in between them, he might be able to put some distance between himself and the Impala. He waited, counting to himself, “1…2…3…”
Shelby turned the wheel, swiftly but smoothly, and charged between the two groups of oncoming traffic. He pushed in the clutch, and jerked up on the parking brake. Amid a storm of honks and flashing headlights, the Jeep swung sharply, fishtailed. Shelby corrected the skid, released the brake, and stomped the accelerator. The Jeep surged forward. Shelby risked a backward glance in time to see the Impala swerving into the turn lane. Brake lights—a cloud of burning rubber—a complete stop. Shelby grinned and turned back to the road.
“You’re out of your league, shithead.”
6
Jimmy sat on his couch, holding an unopened beer can to the side of his head. His pounding headache had returned with a vengeance. Whoever the guy was at the woman’s house, he wasn’t an amateur. Not only had he spotted the tail almost immediately, but he’d shown some real balls in losing it.
Jimmy swore and popped more pain meds. He reached for his phone and punched in a number. He held the phone to his ear with one hand, while keeping the cold aluminum can pressed to his head with the other.
“I thought I told you never to call this number.”
“I know,” Jimmy said. “Sorry.”
“Well?”
“The woman isn’t alone.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“I saw someone going into her house. He was only there a few minutes and came out with a bag. Then he got in his car and drove away.”
“Did you follow him?”
“I lost him.”
Darkmore let out a rush of air. “Of course you did. Why are you calling me?”
“I…I thought—”
“That I’d understand your difficult situation and give you more time?”
“Well, I—”
“This is your show, kid. You brought it on yourself. You wanted the money, the prestige of working with me. You wanted to be a bigshot. I said you wouldn’t be able to handle it, remember? But you thought you were tough shit.” Darkmore raised his voice in mockery. “Give me a chance! I won’t let you down, honest!”
That wasn’t exactly how Jimmy remembered it, but he didn’t think this was the best time to argue. “I’ll get the money.”
“Then why not do that, and leave me the hell alone.”
The connection ended, leaving behind a chasm of ominous silence.
Jimmy slowly took the phone from his ear and dropped it onto the couch beside him.
“Shit!” he yelled. “Shit shit shit!” He immediately regretted the outburst, as it renewed the throbbing in his head.
It was supposed to be a simple job, to collect payments on a gambling debt. And an easy mark to boot—a woman in her fifties, recently divorced, living alone. The first collection had been easy enough. All he’d had to do was threaten her a little and break a couple of things. After that, she started putting him off and he discovered it wasn’t as easy to rough someone up as he’d thought it would be, especially not a woman half his size. Next, she’d started getting scarce. Then disappeared altogether. And now there was someone else in the picture, someone with street savvy, someone Jimmy didn’t look forward to tangling with. But it was either that or face Darkmore, and while he didn’t know what to expect from this new character, Jimmy knew all too well what Darkmore was capable of doing.
Jimmy knew searching the house was still his best chance of finding out where the woman was hiding. Maybe next time, he wouldn’t run into trouble with unexpected visitors beating him to the punch. Of course, there was always the possibility that whatever money had been in the house had been inside the bag carried out by the man. But there was only one way to find out, and that was to search the house himself. It wasn’t likely the man would return, but Jimmy decided he’d go armed. While not overly familiar with weapons, he had an old 9mm he’d taken off a druggie a couple of years ago. He thought it was still loaded, and it would be better than nothing.
7
Shelby found Helen sitting in a chair with a glass of wine and a magazine. He set the bag down next to her and sat down himself after Helen indicated the chair next to hers.
She lifted her glass. “Wine?”
“Maybe later.”
“Thanks for getting my things. Did you find the slippers?”
“Right where you said they’d be.”
“Thanks again.”
“You’re welcome.”
Helen drank, looking at Shelby over the rim of the glass. “Are you okay?”
“Why do you have a gun in your bag?”
Helen lowered the glass, her face still. “You went through my bag?”
“No, I found it when putting the slippers into it.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“I wasn’t searching your belongings, Helen. Why the hell would I do that? You’re acting like a kid who’s mad at their parents for finding pot in a dresser drawer. I’m not judging you for having a gun. I have one myself.”
“Then what difference does it make?”
“Because if you’re in trouble, I want to know.”
“You can relax, then, because I’m fine. It’s entirely precautionary.”
“Good to hear.” Shelby knew his tone was short and knew Helen noticed when she raised an eyebrow.
“You don’t sound convinced.”
“I remember you as something of a gun hater.”
“People can’t change their views?”
“Of course they can. Hell, I’ve changed mine more than once.”
“So why the skepticism?”
Shelby shifted in his chair. “Someone followed me after I left your house.”
“Followed?”
“Yes, followed. I’m sure you’ve heard of it. One party gets behind another party and navigates behind that party until the second party is forced to take evasive action.”
“Your sarcasm has not increased in charm over the years.”
“Hasn’t it? I thought it was pretty good.”
“In that case, your judgment has increased as much as your charm.”
“Your wit has improved. If you’d been this clever when we were together, perhaps we could have bullshitted our way through the bad times.”
“I was every bit as clever then,” Helen said. “You weren’t paying attention.”
“Ouch.”
“So, were you?”
“Was I what?”
“Forced to take evasive action.”
“Yes.”
“And was it successful?”
“Brilliantly.”
“You weren’t followed back here?”
“Now you’re being insulting. I would never knowingly lead someone to my own daughter’s apartment. Jesus, give me a little credit.”
“Why appeal to him? He never had a daughter.”
“Jesus is more understanding.”
“Jesus wasn’t married to you.”
“We’re goddamn clever tonight, aren’t we?”
“The very cleverest.”
“I forgot the Olive Garden.”
“That’s okay. I’m filling up on wine, and Leslie got tired. I got her moved to the bedroom and she fell right to sleep.”
“I’d never put her in danger, Helen.”
“I know that, Bear.”
The old nickname slapped Shelby across the face like a challenger’s glove.
“You don’t like it when I call you Bear, do you, Shelby?”
Serenity Avenged Page 3