Hunting Dixie

by James, Harper

  She ignored the jibe, the smug confidence in her voice irritating the hell out of him.

  ‘He won’t. Trust me.’

  ‘You got a picture?’

  She fished in her bag, pulled out half a photograph. It had started out as a whole photograph of two people but one of them had been cut out. It had been taken somewhere hot and sunny. Dixie was wearing a loud Hawaiian shirt. All that was visible of the woman who’d been cut out was a bare arm. He glanced at Carly’s arm but she was wearing long sleeves.

  ‘Is that you who’s been cut out?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you know who it is?’

  ‘No.’

  She shook her head. Not no, sorry, just no.

  ‘There’s no risk of me drowning in a sea of facts then. Does he always wear shirts like that?’

  ‘I’ve never seen him wear anything else. Maybe that’ll make your job easier.’

  She climbed off her stool, picked her bag up off the bar, ready to go. That suited him fine. He gave her his number. She punched it into her phone as if he’d given her the number for dial-a-cockroach.

  Then she stuck out her hand. It was a strangely formal thing to do. But that suited him just fine too. There’d never been any relationship between them. And he sure as hell didn’t feel like hugging her again after the things she’d said. He took her hand. It was like holding a warm, angry crab.

  He watched her in the mirror behind the bar as she walked back towards the door. A number of the other guys were watching her too. All sitting in a row at the bar like grinning idiots. One of them picked up his beer bottle and blew a hollow toot with it. You couldn’t blame them.

  He ordered another beer and sat staring into the distance, his mind reeling, her words echoing in his head.

  Trust me.

  Yeah, right.

  That would require the kind of faith religions were founded on—because how likely was it that a person would wait five years before telling her best friend’s husband what she knew about her disappearance?

  Chapter 4

  DIXIE DIDN’T SAY ANYTHING. He sat quietly, waited for Chico to finish. The way things were going, he should have brought a pillow.

  He was pulled from his reverie by the realization that Chico had stopped pacing, his ranting finally running out of steam. He smiled at the trim, sixty-something man on the opposite side of the room, his hair still without a hint of gray.

  ‘You shouldn’t get so uptight, Chico. You’ll give yourself a heart attack.’

  He stroked his mustache absent-mindedly as he said it. Then settled back in his chair. Crossed one leg awkwardly over the other, wishing he could get comfortable for just once.

  ‘Three million dollars go missing and he tells me not to get so uptight.’

  Chico shook his head in amazement. He took a sip from the glass of Tequila in his hand, stared belligerently at Dixie over the rim. Dixie hadn’t touched the diet coke in front of him.

  ‘Why don’t you shave that thing off?’ Chico said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That ridiculous 70’s porn star mustache. You never stop playing with it.’

  ‘Helps me think,’ Dixie said, mildly offended. He preferred Mexican bandit. ‘You were saying?’

  ‘I think I might get a couple of the guys to hold you down, do it myself.’

  A shiver rippled across the back of Dixie’s neck. Despite the light-hearted tone, the thought of Chico with a blade anywhere near his face made his blood run cold. He’d heard the stories. Everybody had.

  ‘You were saying.’

  ‘I should never have sent the stupid puta with them.’

  ‘You don’t know it’s her fault.’

  Chico wasn’t listening.

  ‘This is what I get for giving a woman a man’s job. It’s all Diego’s fault.’

  He stared at the floor. Dixie was sure he was about to spit.

  ‘I should have sent you.’

  Dixie shrugged. Chico walked over to the window and gazed out, rested a hand on Dixie’s shoulder as he passed.

  ‘Tell me again what happened,’ Dixie said.

  Chico took a deep breath. Let it out slowly.

  ‘I sent the four of them. That retard Diego, the woman and two of the other guys. Antonio and Angel.’

  Dixie stifled a snort. Just about managed to stop himself from laughing out loud. Diego was Chico’s son. He picked up his drink to take a sip of the warm, sugary liquid, hide his face. Lucky for him Chico was still staring out of the window, didn’t see the smile on his lips.

  ‘That should have been enough.’

  Chico gave an irritated head shake. Turned to face him.

  ‘Tell me about it. On the way back, they stopped for gas. Diego went to the bathroom. To play with his pecker or comb his hair, who knows? Every time I look at that boy I know God holds a grudge against me, you know that? Anyway, Angel’s filling up, the puta stays in the car. When Diego gets back from the men’s room there’s some lunatic in a Chevy Silverado demolishing the gas station. The girl took off in the car. The Silverado went after her.’

  ‘Sounds to me,’ Dixie said, ‘like she did well to hightail it out of there. Stop the guys in the Silverado from hijacking the cash.’

  Chico slammed his glass down onto his desk.

  ‘Only if they didn’t catch her. And if she’d come straight back here, I’d agree with you. That’s not all. Diego took the key off her. She had the spare with her.’

  ‘Sounds like good planning.’

  ‘And he says she was already moving before the Silverado hit them.’

  ‘Even better.’

  ‘If she’d come back here,’ Chico screamed. ‘All I know is she drove off with my money and nobody’s seen her since.’

  Dixie rubbed his jaw with his palm, the sound of bristles against rough flesh loud in his ear.

  ‘Who else knew?’

  ‘Ortega and his guys of course.’

  ‘What? You think they did the deal, lots of big cheesy grins and back slaps all round, then followed them and stole the money back again.’

  Chico waved that away.

  ‘Who knows? Somebody’s got it. I need you to find out what happened.’

  ‘I thought you already sent a couple of men.’

  ‘Men!’ Chico snorted. ‘You see any men around here, you point them out to me. I might as well have sent my mother-in-law.’

  ‘You still don’t know it’s anything to do with her.’

  ‘So where is she? Why did she run?’

  ‘You have a reputation. I’d run.’

  Chico smiled for the first time that morning. He shook his head.

  ‘Not you, my friend. Cojones the size of a bull.’

  ‘She’s scared. Even if she hasn’t got the money herself. If they caught her, she’s the one who lost it. Maybe she hasn’t heard about Chico’s legendary leniency. Just because you wear a dog collar doesn’t mean you forgive people.’

  Chico laughed out loud at that.

  Dixie stretched his leg, massaged his thigh. He could feel the scar tissue through his pants. It always gave him trouble in this weather.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  Chapter 5

  EVAN PUSHED OPEN THE door to Kelly’s Tavern and stepped inside. He’d spent a lot of time in different bars over the years. Like anyone else who’s a regular bar-goer, it didn’t take any longer than that for him to get the feel of the place. There’s a difference between a tough, blue-collar bar and a white-trash dive. This was the latter. Maybe it was the clientele: men with too much time on their hands and too little money in their pockets who came in to try to forget about what they’d lost or never had in the first place. Or maybe it was that indefinable smell, a subtle mix of strong beer, sweat and stale cigarettes with an aftertaste of curdled dreams.

  The bartender looked up briefly, went back to watching the TV. Evan reckoned a lot of people came in, took a quick look around and headed straight back out again. Normally,
he’d be one of them.

  It was still early. The place was almost empty. Three inbred-looking guys sat at the end of the bar drinking beer, talking and laughing loudly. Another two were shooting pool in the back. But it was the couple of guys sitting at a small table, who somehow didn’t look as much like losers as the rest of them, that he instantly knew were the ones to be wary of.

  The bartender turned his back to get a better view of the TV as Evan sat down on a stool at the bar. He was in his mid-fifties, heavyset with a crew cut. You could tell he still thought he had it in him. Maybe he did. Use short words, Evan reminded himself.

  He gave it a minute and then ordered a beer from the bartender’s back. With an exaggerated sigh the guy turned away from the TV and pulled Evan’s beer. Then he walked down and started talking to the three guys at the end of the bar.

  The rattle of ice cubes in a glass next to him made Evan turn his head. One of the guys from the table behind him had come up to the bar. He was standing a couple of feet away, swirling the last of his drink before tipping it down his neck. The bartender came back down to serve him and Evan took the opportunity to get a better look at him.

  Tall, Mexican, definitely not one of the regulars. For one, his clothes told you he wasn’t a loser. And two, this place was strictly white trash. This guy was confident walking into a dive like Kelly’s where he stuck out like a sore thumb, knowing there was nothing in here he couldn’t deal with. The guy glanced at him, gave him a small nod, then carried the drinks back to his table.

  The bartender was about to rejoin the guys at the end when Evan called him back. Automatically he picked up Evan’s glass, then frowned when he saw it was still three-quarters full.

  ‘I’m looking for somebody.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ He cocked his head like he didn’t understand what that information had to do with him. ‘Isn’t everybody?’

  ‘I think he comes in here.’

  ‘It’s a free country.’

  The inbreds at the end had stopped talking. They were paying close attention to the conversation. The bartender winked at them. They grinned back, looking like they’d have trouble spelling gum and chewing it at the same time.

  ‘His name’s Joseph Delacroix.’

  The bartender creased his forehead. Tugged his chin as if he was giving it some serious thought. His eyes flicked sideways to the guys at the end. He shook his head.

  ‘Never heard of him.’

  There was a titter of laughter from the end of the bar. The bartender gave Evan a big up-yours smile.

  ‘Everybody calls him Dixie.’

  ‘That’s nice. Still never heard of him.’

  He started to move away.

  ‘I’ve got a photo of him.’

  The bartender made a big fuss of stopping dead in his tracks, turning slowly around. He came back to stand in front of Evan. Spread his large hands on the bar. He wore a couple heavy rings on each hand, the knuckles criss-crossed with faded and not-so-faded scars.

  He let out an exaggerated sigh, the smell of stale cigarettes bringing up the rear. Evan blanched. Between the fists and the guy’s breath, he’d go for the fists every time.

  ‘I’ve got you. His name’s Joseph something, everybody calls him Dixie but I’—he jabbed his thick thumb at his chest—‘might know him as Bill or George?’

  He turned towards the end of the bar, got a bunch of you-tell-him head nods.

  ‘Just take a look, will you?’ Evan said wearily, pulling the photo out of his pocket. He put it on the bar top. The bartender peered at it as if he’d placed a steaming dog turd on his nice clean bar. Then his curiosity got the better of him.

  ‘It’s been cut in half.’

  Evan slapped the heel of his hand against his forehead.

  ‘So that’s what happened to it.’

  The bartender gave him a withering scowl.

  ‘No need to be a smartass.’

  ‘Do you recognize him?’

  The bartender pushed the photo back towards Evan with a large, grubby finger.

  ‘Sorry.’ He didn’t look sorry at all. ‘Why do you want to find him anyway? You don’t look like a cop.’

  ‘I’m not. I’m a private investigator.’

  The bartender nodded as if that explained a lot.

  ‘You working for his wife?’

  ‘No, just someone who wants to find him.’ Evan got out his wallet, pulled out one of his cards. ‘Can I leave this with you?’

  ‘What? In case a guy I’ve never heard of or seen in my life happens to pop in one day?’

  Evan glanced around the bar, smiled.

  ‘Who knows? Even if he doesn’t, one of your customers might want to hire me. Maybe I can track down a missing welfare check.’

  The bartender walked away, laughing over his shoulder.

  ‘You’re about to find out the people who come in here have their own way of dealing with problems.’

  ***

  EVAN SAT AT THE bar thinking about what to do next. Was that last comment a threat? He didn’t have to wait long to find out. He picked up his glass of warm, tasteless beer when a shoulder slammed into him, sending the glass flying. One of the inbreds from the end of the bar continued on his way to the men’s room without looking back. Behind him, the others laughed. He turned towards them. One of them raised his glass in an up-yours cheers towards him.

  The bartender walked slowly down the bar tut-tutting. He made a big fuss of bending over and picking up the broken glass. As he straightened up his gaze snapped back towards Evan. His lips curled into a smile, eyes full of gleeful anticipation, like a fat, spoiled kid on Christmas morning.

  ‘I’d get out before Brody comes back, if I were you.’

  Behind him, the sound of the front door bolt being shot firmly home made Evan look towards the end of the bar. One of the inbreds was carefully lowering himself onto his seat.

  ‘Oops. Too late,’ the bartender snickered, picking up the TV remote. He hit the mute button.

  It was suddenly very quiet.

  Evan kept his eyes straight ahead, a hot little worm of excitement in his gut. The door to the men’s room opened. Swung shut noisily. Along the bar, Brody’s friends had stopped laughing. The pool players in the back paused their game, leaned on their cues.

  Everyone held their breath.

  Evan took his right foot off the rail. Placed it squarely on the floor, bracing himself. Locked his right arm solid on the bar. Tensed. Adrenalin sledding through his blood. Brody walked up with a cocky swagger, an ugly smile on his lips. He swung his shoulder into Evan on his way past.

  At least that’s what he meant to do.

  This time, instead of knocking Evan into the bar, he bounced right off. He stumbled against one of the tables, the shock on his face turning quickly to anger as his friends snickered again, but at him this time.

  Evan sat on his stool staring ahead as if nothing had happened.

  Brody glanced over at his friends. Then stuck his face into Evan’s personal space. Evan kept his eyes front, the smell of beer and potato chips on the guy’s breath washing over him.

  ‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’

  Evan ignored him.

  ‘I said, what do you think you’re doing?’ He poked Evan with his finger. ‘Look at me when I’m talking to you.’

  Evan tried not to dwell on where that finger had recently been. The guy hadn’t had time to wash his hands.

  Another jab.

  ‘I said look at me.’

  Evan took a deep breath, swivelled on the stool to face him. He had long, greasy, dirt-blond hair and smelled of beer and body odor and something else Evan couldn’t and didn’t want to place. Blue jailhouse tattoos decorated each bicep. Under his left armpit there was a dark smiley face of perspiration, but not on the other side, as if he’d run out of deodorant halfway through his morning ablutions.

  ‘You were in my way.’

  The dirty finger jabbed for a third time. Evan was counting
.

  ‘Don’t do that.’

  Brody smiled like he’d finally got what he’d been after.

  ‘Or what? You want to make something of it?’

  Evan shook his head.

  ‘No. I’m just telling you to stop doing it.’

  Brody turned to his friends, a massive grin on his face.

  ‘You hear that, boys? The big tough de-tec-tive wants me to stop.’ He stuck his face right in Evan’s again. ‘But the pussy’s too yellow to do anything about it.’

  Evan felt the hot rush of Brody’s breath as he spat the word pussy. He raised both hands in appeasement.

  ‘Okay, okay, my mistake. I shouldn’t have been in your way—’

  ‘Ha. Will you listen to this yellow—’

  ‘—but I didn’t know you were going to the men’s room.’ He shrugged an apology. ‘Why would I? I thought you were going to piss your pants standing at the bar. Like you always do when your momma isn’t here to hold your little pee-pee for you.’

  Brody’s finger stalled on its way for another jab. His mouth hung open in astonishment. It opened and closed a couple times. Nothing came out.

  At the end of the bar his friends howled with laughter.

  Evan grabbed the finger in mid-air. Bent it sharply backwards. Snapped it cleanly at the knuckle. Jerked his hand downwards. Felt bone grate against bone, kept pushing down, forcing him to lean in.

  Brody was making a high-pitch loud squealing sound like a stuck pig. Evan grabbed his chin with his left hand. Dug his nails in, squeezing the flesh along his jaw, drew his face close. He let go the finger. Hammered the heel of his hand down onto the bridge of Brody’s nose.

  Bang. Bang. Bang.

  Three times in two seconds. Same as the number of filthy finger jabs. He’d been counting.

  Fair’s fair, after all.

  He stood, ignored the pull of something sticky on the seat of his pants. He snapped his arm out straight. Shoved Brody staggering backwards into the tables and chairs behind him.

  Funny how his friends weren’t laughing anymore.

  Enough now?

  Not a chance.

  He bent, picked up the heavy stool by its legs. Spun around, swung it through the air. Caught Brody solidly on the side of the head, sent him sprawling into a heap on the floor. He kept the spin going like a hammer thrower in a track and field competition, let it loose at the remaining two inbreds. It missed by a mile. But you can’t win ‘em all.