Behind him, one of the pool players was coming on fast, the pool cue reversed in both hands. Before Evan had a chance to react, the tall Mexican guy who nodded to him at the bar stuck his leg out. The pool player tripped, crashed headlong to the floor. The cue flew out of his hands. It clattered across the floor, came to rest by Evan’s feet. The pool player scrabbled on the floor, trying to get his legs under him. Then the Mexican guy was on his feet. He threw his drink in the guy’s eyes. Kicked him hard in the balls. Game over. Turned towards the second player, shook a finger at him. The guy showed him his palms and slunk slowly away.
Evan picked up the cue. Backed towards the door. Nobody else was up for it. He slid the door bolt open, pushed through the door with his butt. He slipped out, slotted the cue through the two door handles. It wouldn’t hold up against a good kick but it was better than nothing.
Way to go, Evan, way to go.
He hadn’t gone far when he heard a sharp crack behind him. His head whipped around. The barroom doors burst outwards as the pool cue snapped. The two Mexican guys spilled out onto the sidewalk.
‘Hey!’ the tall one yelled at Evan’s back.
Evan couldn’t say what it was but there was something in that hey, something that told him he didn’t want to stop and answer their questions. He got the impression they’d been waiting for someone just like him to turn up.
He quickened his pace, extended his fifty-yard head start. Immediately they broke into a run. The little one’s arms pumping hard as he pulled away from his slower compadre. The bigger one who’d shouted reaching inside his jacket.
Evan got to his car. Yanked open the door.
The big guy slowed as he realized they’d never get to Evan before he pulled away.
‘José.’
José stopped dead as the insistent tone of his partner’s voice cut through the air. He looked around. The big guy was gesticulating frantically, calling him back. José stared at him. Then back at Evan, wasting time.
Evan got his butt into the seat, started the car. The sound jerked José into motion again. Set him off sprinting after his partner who was almost at their car parked directly outside the bar—facing the wrong way. It gave Evan a few vital seconds. He pulled into the traffic and stomped on the gas. In his rear-view mirror he saw them make a fast U-turn. Heard the squeal of rubber on the pavement, the angry blare of horns as they cut across two lanes of traffic.
He looked front again. His heart dropped. Up ahead a big semi-trailer truck lumbered along. It wasn’t doing more than twenty, might as well have been parked in the middle of the road. He scanned the street for side turnings. There was nothing. He was trapped.
Then he heard a sound that made his eyes snap to the mirror again. Not what he half expected, the crack of a gunshot or his rear window shattering in an explosion of flying glass. It was the sound of tire rubber pushed too hard, squealing and protesting as it tried to maintain traction with the asphalt.
He stared in open-mouthed disbelief.
The two guys had just pulled another fast U-turn, were now going back the other way again. Then, almost directly opposite the bar, they nose-dived to a halt, boxing in a car parked at the curb.
What the hell? But it was someone else’s problem now. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. He drifted to the left, saw it was clear. Gunned it past the truck, the throaty roar of the Corvette’s big V8 drowning out any shriek he might have heard coming from the car parked at the curb.
***
CARLY RESTED HER HEAD on the steering wheel, trying to decide what to do next. She’d followed Evan to Kelly’s bar—she hadn’t been sure he’d even go—and then waited in her car to see what happened. She’d felt an adrenal spike of fear quickly followed by a sweaty giddiness as relief flooded her body when she saw two of Chico’s guys chase him out. Thank God she’d sent him in there. To think she might have walked in herself, straight into their hands.
She needed to find out what happened in the bar. Something sure as hell did. And how come Chico’s guys were in there waiting? Evan had the answers. He was going to be really pissed after she told him it wasn’t dangerous. She couldn’t help that. She pulled out her phone, sent him a text.
I need to see you. Meet me at my hotel at six.
She dropped the phone back in her bag and straightened up. She better get going, back to the hotel in case he went there immediately, the suspicious prick. A movement registered in the periphery of her vision. She turned automatically. Her hand flew to her mouth. An involuntary shriek escaped through her fingers as she stared into the huge face grinning at her through the window. Then José opened the passenger door and climbed in beside her.
Chapter 6
DIXIE HAULED HIMSELF RELUCTANTLY out of his car as the rain started in earnest. His leg ached like a bitch. He stared across the street at the warehouse Dante Ortega used as his headquarters. He really didn’t want to do this. Then his phone rang. Grateful of the distraction, he checked the screen. Silas, the bartender from Kelly’s Tavern. He answered the call, heard the sound of the TV loud in the background. He rested his elbows on the car roof, oblivious to the rain.
‘There was a guy in here asking about you,’ Silas said.
‘Did he leave a name?’
‘I wrote it down. Hang on a minute.’
Silas put the phone down and went to fetch the details. Anyone with half a brain would’ve picked them up before making the call. But anyone with half a brain wouldn’t be working at Kelly’s in the first place.
Silas came back on the line.
‘Evan Buckley. He’s a private investigator.’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘That’s what I told him when he asked about you.’
‘That’s the way I like it, Silas,’ Dixie said in an encouraging tone. ‘Did he say what he wants?’
‘No. Only that he wants to find you.’
‘He didn’t say why?’
‘Uh-uh.’
‘Did you ask him?’
There was a long, uncomfortable pause. Dixie wasn’t going to get much more out of Silas. Silas wasn’t the sharpest tool in the box. Face to face, Silas liked to watch your mouth in case there were any difficult words. It put him at a disadvantage on the telephone.
‘He said he wasn’t working for your wife,’ Silas said suddenly, pleased he’d remembered something else.
Dixie closed his eyes.
God give me strength.
‘I don’t have a wife, Silas.’
‘Right.’
Dixie stared up at the sky in frustration, enjoying the coolness of the rain on his face.
‘There’s nothing else you can tell me about him?’
‘He had a photo of you. Well, half a photo.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It was a photo of you cut in half. You were with a woman but she was cut off.’
That was more interesting.
‘Okay,’ he said, stretching the word out a couple of extra syllables as he took the information on board. He stroked his mustache, thinking. ‘That all?’
‘Yeah. Apart from the fact he broke Brody’s finger and busted up his nose pretty bad. I was impressed. Even if he did have some help.’
Dixie laughed with Silas on the other end of the line.
‘Brody’s an idiot who doesn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground. He probably deserved it. I bet he started it, too.’
Silas grunted in agreement.
‘I like Mr Buckley already,’ Dixie said. ‘Sounds like he’s my kind of guy. Give me his details. And his friend’s if you’ve got it.’
A confused silence came down the line.
‘You said he had someone help him.’
‘Yeah, but they weren’t with him. Just two beaners who’ve been hanging around the last couple of days. One of them joined in for the fun of it. You know what they’re like. Troublemakers. That’s why I don’t normally serve them. Except you don’t say no to guys like these two.’
&
nbsp; ‘Describe them to me.’
Silas gave what to Dixie sounded like a very good description of Chico’s men, Victor and José.
‘Lucky I wrote the guy’s details down for you. They took his card.’
After disconnecting, Dixie stood and drummed his fingers on the car roof as he tried to think it through.
He didn’t want to think about the implications of Chico sending Victor and José to Kelly’s. It might just be that Chico knew Carly spent time there, so why not? Cover all the bases. Except he didn’t think so. The other reason, the one that made him feel as if someone just walked over his grave, was that Chico was already suspicious, interested to find out who came looking for him—and why.
As for the investigator, it was obvious as soon as Silas mentioned the woman cut out of the photo. Carly had sent him. But why? The unease that gnawed at his stomach when he thought about that blew any worries about Chico’s suspicions into the weeds.
But before he could do anything about it, put his mind at rest, he had to get the meeting with Ortega over with—one way or the other.
***
BUILT LIKE A MEDIUM-SIZED outhouse, Dante Ortega didn’t smell much better. His face looked as if it had been used to shunt trains. He clamped Dixie in an over-enthusiastic hug, pounding on his back as if they were long-lost brothers. One of his men, Miguel, leaned against the wall behind them eyeing Dixie carefully. His face was creased into a frown. Dixie had never met the guy before. He was paying too much attention to Dixie’s hands for his liking, as if he was worried he was about to strangle his boss.
If only it had been as simple as that, because the repercussions would change everything that happened afterwards.
Ortega released him finally, held up a finger. Miguel hopped to it, produced a bottle of Gran Patrón Piedra Tequila and a couple glasses. Dixie shook his head, waved it away.
‘I forgot, you don’t drink,’ Ortega said. He made it sound like Dixie had an extra hole in his ass.
Given the choice Dixie would have opted for that over what he had to say to Ortega.
‘We’ve got a problem, Dante.’
‘Happy to help, whatever it is.’
Ortega smiled. He opened his large hands wide. It hadn’t crossed his mind yet that Dixie was suggesting he might be that problem.
‘A three-million-dollar problem . . .’
The room suddenly got very quiet, the only sound a rhythmic lip-smacking as Miguel chewed gum with his mouth open.
‘Ah.’
Ortega nodded mechanically as the implications sank in. The smile had faded although it hadn’t yet mutated into anger.
Dixie took a deep breath. Ran a hand through his wet hair, wiped it on his leg.
‘Somebody hijacked our people at a gas station in a tricked-out Silverado truck. The woman you gave the money to has disappeared. With the money.’
The last remnants of Ortega’s smile had disappeared.
‘And you were wondering if I’—he touched his chest gently with a finger that looked as if it could poke a hole through the wall—‘know anything about it?’
Dixie cleared his throat, shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He felt as if his skin had shrunk in the rain, was two sizes too small. Ortega watched him, eyes bright and mean, his breath exiting noisily through his nostrils as his anger built. He dropped his head, looked up at Dixie through thick eyebrows, looking for all the world like the prize bull he sounded like.
‘Is that what you’re asking me?’ Ortega repeated slowly, carefully. There was a hard edge to his voice now, an edge only a stupid man would ignore.
Dixie raised his hands in apology. Behind him Miguel came off the wall. Took a step sideways so that he was behind Dixie.
‘Of course not. I just want to know if you noticed anything unusual.’
Ortega shook his head.
‘No. They delivered the merchandise. We checked it, paid for it’—he put a lot of emphasis on the paid—‘and they left.’
He gave a dismissive flick of the hand. Leaned back in his chair, his dark eyes drilling into Dixie, daring him to contradict him.
Dixie had two options.
He could say okay, great, thanks Dante and get up and go. Or he could say I think you’re a lying wetback bastard and see where that led.
Ortega took the decision out of his hands.
‘But now you want to know if we followed them and stole the money back again, because . . . what? Because we’re cheating wetbacks?’
Dixie had no idea what he was supposed to say or do in response to that.
Ortega didn’t give him a chance. Without warning he leaned forward, slammed his open hand on the desk. The glasses rattled, everyone in the room jumped. Dixie braced himself in his chair, ready in case Ortega launched himself across the desk at him.
Instead, his face split into a massive grin.
‘You should see your face. Hey, Miguel, look at his face.’
Miguel looked. They both laughed. A lot. Dixie let them have their fun. They’d all find out soon enough who had the last laugh.
‘Lucky for you, we’re not as stupid as you think we are.’ Ortega came around to Dixie’s side of the desk. ‘Or as stupid as you are.’ He jabbed Dixie hard on the shoulder with a meaty finger. ‘We put a GPS tracker in the lining of the case with the money. Simple, eh?’
‘Right.’
‘You got a Smartphone?’
Dixie pulled his phone out of his pocket. Ortega turned to Miguel.
‘Miguel. Give me that number.’
Miguel fished a slip of paper out of his wallet, unfolded it and passed it over. Ortega leaned over Dixie’s shoulder, laid it on the desk in front of him. Dixie smoothed it out.
‘Put that number into your phone,’ Ortega said, tapping the paper with his finger ‘and don’t call it money.’ He slapped Dixie on the shoulder and roared with laughter. ‘You call the number, it sends you a text with a link. Click it and you get a map shows the location.’
He sounded like a man who just invented a machine that turned farts into gold.
‘Really?’
‘Yeah, really. And it only costs a hundred bucks. Tell Chico he should get his sorry ass into the twenty-first century. And tell him not to be such a tightwad. In fact, I’m gonna tell him myself. Ring the number.’
Dixie rang it. Sure enough, a text message pinged straight back. He clicked the link. A map opened up on his screen. He smiled when he saw the location. Ortega saw the smile, took it as confirmation of his own good sense and planning. Why wouldn’t he?
‘There’s your money.’ Ortega leaned over and tapped Dixie’s phone screen. ‘Now all you have to do is go get it, satisfy yourselves it’s not sitting in one of my warehouses like Chico thinks. Then everyone’s happy.’
Dixie didn’t want to be negative, but what Ortega was overlooking in his enthusiasm was what they were really looking at was a map showing the location of the tracker—and that wasn’t the same thing as the money.
Not by a long shot.
Ortega straightened up. He put a massive hand on Dixie’s shoulder, gave it a bone-crushing squeeze.
‘And you tell that old bastard Chico there’s no hard feelings because he thought I cheated him.’
After Dixie had left, Miguel turned away from the window from where he’d watched Dixie drive off.
‘There’s something I need to tell you. About that tattoo on his hand.’
Chapter 7
THE GLASS IN CHICO’S hand exploded with a loud crack. He stared at his hand as if he didn’t understand what had happened, then opened his fingers, let the shards of broken glass fall to the floor. Tequila mingled with blood in his palm, the fiery, stinging liquid seeking out the deepest cuts before dripping onto his pants. It could have been water for all the pain he felt.
‘What the hell was that?’ Ortega yelled on the other end of the line.
‘It’s nothing. I broke a glass. Are you sure about this?’
He extended his arm over
his desk and curled his fingers into a fist. Clenched hard like he was trying to squeeze the juice out of a lemon. He felt the pain now, sharp and bright, as he watched his blood drip onto the desk. A sliver of glass was caught in his flesh. He squeezed tighter still.
‘Not one hundred per cent, no. Miguel’s an idiot, a bit like . . . but I thought I should let you know anyway.’
Chico closed his eyes. He breathed deeply, concentrating on the throbbing pain radiating out from his hand, clean and cathartic, keeping at bay the other, far worse, torment that waited its turn somewhere close behind.
‘Chico?’
‘Yes, yes, thank you, Dante. That was the right thing to do.’
He heard Ortega chuckle softly on the other end of the line.
‘Lucky you sent him to ask if I stole your money, eh?’
Jesus wept.
‘I hope he didn’t give you that impression, Dante.’ His tone of voice was calm and measured. Where it came from he had no idea. ‘That was never a possibility in my mind.’ He coughed a cheerless laugh. ‘Given what you just told me, we can assume he was trying to cause trouble between us.’
He didn’t care whether Ortega believed him or not. But it never hurt to say what people wanted to hear.
‘I’m sure you’re right, Chico,’ Ortega said, managing to make it sound like whatever.
Chico cut the call and threw the phone at the wall. Everybody in the room studied their shoes or the damp patch on the ceiling that always came back however many times they painted over it. Anywhere, basically, apart from directly at Chico. He picked up the jagged base of the glass, threw that at the wall too. Then he went to wash the blood from his hand.
In the bathroom he picked a long sliver of glass out of the deepest cut, held his hand under the water until it ran clear.
Was it really true? Dixie?
In a way, it didn’t surprise him. In the mirror, his face was resigned more than angry. As if someone had finally told him something he’d never wanted to hear but had always known was coming. In the end everybody disappointed you, everybody let you down. It was just a matter of how long it took.
Hunting Dixie Page 3