The old man nodded. ‘That’s him. Skid McClusky.’
‘Why do they call him that?’
The barber grinned. He had no front teeth. ‘Well, some folks say it’s the way he drives that Corvette of his. Others say Skid Row’s the place he’ll wind up, if he ain’t there already.’
‘His card says his offices are at this address.’
‘Right there.’ The old barber pointed a scraggy finger at a door in the corner. ‘Up the stairs, turn left. Ain’t much to look at, though.’
‘Thanks.’ Ben headed towards the door.
‘Save yourself the trouble, mister. You won’t find Skid there.’ The barber grinned again, flashing pale gums. ‘No, sir.’
‘So where is he? I need to talk to him.’
They all laughed. ‘Get in line, mister,’ the old man said. ‘There’s a bunch of us who’d like to talk to that sonofabitch. Skipped out of here without paying his rent. Been gone more’n two weeks.’
‘So you don’t know where he is?’
‘’Fraid I can’t help you there.’
He’d come a long way and this wasn’t a great start. ‘Thanks anyway.’ Ben turned and pushed back through the door. The bell tinkled again. He walked out into the hot sun and made his way towards the car, bleeping the locks as he approached. He yanked open the driver’s door and was about to climb in when he heard running footsteps come up behind him.
He turned. It was the young guy from the barber’s shop. The apron was gone, under it a faded Jimi Hendrix T-shirt. ‘Mister,’ he said. ‘Wait a minute.’ The teenager was looking over his shoulder back at the place as though he was scared they might be watching him from inside. Must have slipped out the back way, Ben thought.
The teenager looked anxious and sincere. Whatever he was about to say, Ben believed it.
‘Skid’s in some kind of trouble, mister.’
‘What kind of trouble?’
‘Don’t know for sure. Something real bad. That’s why he’s gone.’ He paused. ‘Skid’s always been good to me. Loaned me money when I needed it.’
‘If Skid’s in trouble, I might be able to help him,’ Ben said. ‘Do you know where I can find him?’
The kid shook his head. ‘I know someone who might.’
‘Can you pass on a message to them?’
The kid threw another jittery glance back at the barber’s shop. He looked back at Ben and nodded.
‘Tell them a friend of Zoë Bradbury, from England, needs to talk to Skid. It’s important and urgent. Got that?’
‘Zoë Bradbury,’ the kid repeated.
‘If Skid gets the message he’ll understand. He needs to call this number.’ Ben scrawled it on a piece of paper and handed it to the kid together with a twenty-dollar bill. The young guy nodded, turned and ran back towards the rear of the barber’s shop.
It was about an hour later, as Ben was driving back towards the middle of town, looking around for a hotel, that his phone buzzed on the dashboard. He picked it up.
‘Who I am talking to?’ said a man’s voice, nervy, aggressive.
Ben didn’t like the challenging approach but he bit his tongue. ‘I’m Ben Hope. Who’s this?’
‘Never mind who I am,’ the voice said harshly. The tone of someone working hard to cover up their fear. Someone clearly under a lot of strain. He gave Ben the name of a bar near a place called Hinesville, a few miles southwest of Savannah, and some rough directions to find the place. ‘Be there tonight at seven thirty.’ Then he hung up.
Anonymous rendezvous were not something Ben very much liked, but in his line of work he got a lot of weird calls from people too scared to give their identity away. Experience had proved that it was usually worth chasing them up, even it was just part of the process of elimination.
He checked his watch. A couple of hours to get there. He swung round and headed southwest, away from the neat white colonial houses and emerald lawns and the cool shade of the tree-lined streets. He stopped at a roadside diner and drank four cups of the best coffee he’d ever tasted outside Italy. Then he checked the time again, got back in the car and drove at a steady sixty towards his RV.
Music was thumping through the barroom walls as Ben stepped out of the Chrysler and walked up to the door. He swung it open and the noise of the country rock beat hit him, along with the heat and the smell of smoke, beer and a hundred tightly-packed bodies. He cast his eye around the place. There was a rebel flag hanging over the bar, below a couple of crossed sabres. Waitresses in high heels, tiny denim shorts and cut-off T-shirts were weaving between the tables. On a low stage there were electric guitars, a bass, a sprawling drum kit and a mountain of speakers and amplifiers set up and waiting for the band to come on.
Ben pushed through the crowd and headed the way the voice on the phone had told him to. A door between a pinball machine and a payphone led him up a dark flight of creaky wooden stairs. He walked along a dingy corridor. The music was pumping up from below, vibrations pulsing under his feet. It would probably get about twice as loud when the band started to play. He came to a door, and knocked.
A woman’s voice called from inside. ‘Come in.’
He opened the door and stepped inside the room. It was some kind of office, but it looked as though it had been abandoned quite a while ago. There was a desk and a plain wooden chair, an empty bookcase and a tall withered plant in a dried-out pot in the corner.
The woman was alone in the room, standing by the desk. She was small and wiry, not much more than five-two, about thirty years old. Her hair was curly and long, dyed blond. She wore high-heeled boots, tight jeans and a suede jacket; a heavy-looking leather shoulder bag on a strap.
‘I spoke to a man on the phone,’ Ben said to her.
‘You spoke to Skid,’ she answered tersely.
‘Where is he?’ He took a step closer to her.
‘Stay right where you are, mister. I’m the one asking the questions here.’ Her hand dipped quickly into her bag and came out clutching a huge revolver. She clasped it tightly, pointing at his chest from across the room. Its weight made the tendons stand out on her wrist.
‘OK, you have my attention,’ Ben said. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘Who do you work for?’
‘What makes you think I work for anyone?’
‘If you’re one of Cleaver’s boys, you ain’t getting out of here alive.’ She sounded like she meant it.
‘I don’t know who Cleaver is.’
‘Sure.’ She frowned. ‘Where are you from?’
‘Not around here,’ he said. ‘Look, I need to talk to Steve. Skid. Whatever the hell you want to call him. It’s urgent.’
She raised the gun. ‘Easy.’
He eyed the pistol. It was a massive single-action revolver, large calibre, stainless steel. The kind of weapon hunters used to shoot grizzly bears in Alaska. He could see the noses of the fat hollowpoint bullets nestling in the mouths of the chambers. The muzzle diameter was half an inch across. Not a pistol for a woman of her build. She was having trouble keeping the long barrel level. If she let off a round, the recoil would snap her wrist like a piece of celery.
‘That’s not yours, is it?’ he said. ‘My guess is that belongs to Skid.’
She grimaced. ‘Makes no difference whose it is. I can still blow the hell out of you. And I will. So keep your distance, and your hands where I can see them.’
‘He should have taught you how to use it before he sent you out here as his guard dog,’ Ben said. ‘It’s not cocked. It won’t fire.’
She glanced down at the gun, keeping a mistrustful eye on him.
‘Try pulling the trigger,’ Ben said. ‘Nothing will happen. See the hammer there? You need to wrap your thumb around that, and ease it back.’
She did as he said.
‘All the way back, till it clicks,’ he told her.
The action made a smooth metallic clunk-clunk in the silence of the room. The big five-shot cylinder rotated and locked.
She reached out, picked it up and studied it. The gun wavered and he could easily have taken it from her. He just smiled. She glanced up at him, then back at the passport.
‘Now do you believe me?’
She let the gun down to her side. Her face softened, a look of relief in her eyes. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘I believe you.’
‘Then maybe you should decock that revolver now.’
‘Oh. Right.’ She wrapped her left thumb around the hammer, squeezed the trigger and let the hammer down slowly.
‘You haven’t told me your name,’ he said.
‘Molly.’
‘It’s good to meet you, Molly.’
‘So what are you doing in Georgia, Mr Hope?’
‘You can call me Ben. I came from Europe to find Zoë Bradbury.’
‘You don’t look the kind who would hang around that little tramp.’
‘She’s in trouble.’
Molly snorted. ‘She is trouble.’
‘And Skid’s in trouble too,’ Ben said. ‘Or I wouldn’t have been looking down the barrel of that hand cannon
just now.’
‘I’m sorry. I had to be careful.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Hiding from Cleaver.’
‘Will you take me to him?’ Ben said.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Molly drove him through the night, southwards along the coastal highway towards Jacksonville. Gentle specks of rain on the windscreen became a drumming thunder and the road ahead was slick and glossy. They sat in silence for the first few miles, the wipers beating time.
‘Boy, I could use a drink,’ she said suddenly. ‘My hands are still shaking.’ She glanced at him sideways and smiled for the first time. ‘I’ve never pointed a gun at anyone before.’
‘You did fine.’ He reached into his jacket and offered her his flask. ‘It’ll calm your nerves.’
She sipped. ‘That’s good. What is it?’
‘Laphroaig single malt Scotch, ten years old.’
‘Nice.’ She took another sip, smacked her lips and then handed the flask back to him. ‘See that glove compartment? Can you get me a smoke?’
He opened it. ‘Havanas?’ he said, surprised.
‘My daddy used to smoke them. I got the taste. Have one yourself.’
The little Coronation Punch cigars were sealed in silver aluminium tubes. Ben opened two of them, lit them up with his Zippo and passed one to her.
She took a long draw on hers and let out a cloud of smoke. ‘So, Mr Hope. I mean Ben. Just who are you?’
‘Just someone who wants to help.’
‘You seem to know an awful lot about guns. For an English guy. I thought they were banned over there.’
‘I’m not really English,’ he said. ‘I’m half Irish.’
‘Which half?’
‘The good half.’
She laughed. ‘That figures. Every English guy I ever met was an uptight sonofabitch.’
‘Tell me about Skid,’ he said.
‘We met at law school.’
‘So you’re a lawyer too?’
She shook her head. ‘Couldn’t get past the bar exam. I get nervous. So I’m a paralegal. I worked with Skid for a while, but now I work uptown for a firm.’
‘Why did he send you to meet me?’
‘Because he can’t go anywhere. You’ll see for yourself, soon enough.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘Cleaver’s people. They got to him. Almost killed him. Would have, too, if I hadn’t turned up and called the cops.’
‘Who is this Cleaver?’
‘Skid’ll tell you all about him.’
‘Where does Zoë Bradbury come into this?’
‘Skid and I were serious for almost two years,’ she said. ‘Zoë Bradbury broke us up.’
‘I know she was here a couple of times,’ he said. ‘Staying with a Miss Vale.’
Molly nodded and took another drag on her cigar. ‘It happened the last time she was here, six months ago. Skid was in a bar – he’s always in a bar, somewhere – and he meets this pretty English girl, and I guess he couldn’t resist. And I guess she couldn’t resist him either. Skid never had a cent to his name, but he’s a charmer, that’s for sure.’ She smiled grimly. ‘The one time I met her was in his office. He told me that she and he had a business deal going. What he didn’t tell me was they were screwing the whole time she was here. I only found out weeks later what all those late nights at work were about.’ She wound down the window a crack and flicked ash out. ‘Skid never denied it. That’s when I left him. Told him I’d never see him again. It was over. But then he kept calling and pestering me, saying he couldn’t live without me. He was leaving me phone messages, crying and threatening to shoot himself.’
‘With that big pistol there?’
‘Wouldn’t be much left, I guess.’
‘No, there wouldn’t.’
‘Anyway, I turned up at his office late one night to have it out with him face to face. As I went up the stairs I could hear all this screaming and yelling. There were three guys there with him. Beating the crap out of him. I called the cops, and there happened to be a patrol close by. They went in, but the three guys must have heard them coming. They got out the back way. Left Skid in pretty bad shape.’
‘When was this?’
‘Just over two weeks ago,’ she said. ‘Now Skid’s petrified that Cleaver will get to him again. Won’t even go to the hospital, though Lord knows he needs to.’
‘You’re looking after him.’
‘Guard dog, like you said. And nursemaid, all rolled into one.’
‘So was there a business deal between Zoë and Skid, or was that just a cover?’
‘There was a deal,’ she said gravely. ‘And that’s the reason Skid’s in trouble.’
‘What was it?’
‘Skid’ll tell you that too. We’ll be there soon.’ She pulled off the highway and within a few more minutes they hit roads that were dark and narrow and twisty. Molly drove fast, her face tight with concentration. A dirt track came up on the left and she took it. The car lurched past a dilapidated motel sign. The dirt track was all churned up into mud by the rain. At the end of it, they swung into a rough earth yard. The headlights picked out clumps of overgrown grass, discarded garbage sacks, broken furniture, flattened beer cans. The motel buildings were low slung and badly in need of repair. A fly-specked neon light threw a yellowish glow over the raised porches and parking spaces out front. Molly pulled up next to a pickup truck and killed the engine.
They stepped out. The rain had stopped and the air was heavy and humid. Two Dobermans in a mesh cage barked furiously and hurled themselves against the wire, standing upright on sinewy hind legs.
‘Welcome to Skid’s new home,’ Molly said.
Only a couple of windows were lit up. The muffled sound of a TV was coming from somewhere inside. The dogs were still barking. A man’s drunken voice in the distance yelled at them to shut up.
Molly led Ben to room number ten. The old door was warped and peeling. She beat on it, three loud knocks. ‘It’s Molly,’ she called. She dug in her bag and took out the door key, unlocked it and they went in.
The room was dark and smelled of must and antiseptic. Molly yanked the drapes shut and flipped on a sidelight.
Skid McClusky had been sleeping, and his head jerked up. He blinked in the light.
He was about thirty, like Molly. He might have been good-looking, but it was hard to tell under all the yellow bruises and half-healed cuts on his face. His dark
hair was greasy and plastered over his brow. He was wearing a denim shirt with dark sweat patches, sitting in an upright armchair with most of the stuffing hanging out of it, his feet straight out in front of him and resting on a stool. Both legs were plastered from the knee down. There was a Mossberg pump shotgun resting across his lap, and he fingered it nervously.
He looked up. His eyes were ringed with pain and fear. They darted around the room and settled on Ben.
‘He’s OK, Skid,’ Molly said. ‘He isn’t one of Cleaver’s.’
‘Pull yourself up a seat,’ Skid said to Ben. ‘And tell me what you want.’
‘I’m going out to get some beers,’ Molly said. ‘I’ll leave you boys alone to talk.’ She left.
Ben and the lawyer sat in silence for a minute. ‘I’ll get right to the point,’ Ben said. ‘Zoë Bradbury is missing. She disappeared from her place in Greece twelve days ago. It’s my job to find her, and I think you can help me.’
‘I figured they’d get to her,’ Skid moaned. ‘They made me talk.’
‘The men who did this?’ Ben motioned to the plastered legs.
Skid nodded. ‘I’m a real mess, man,’ he said desperately. ‘Look at me. I’m just fucked.’
‘Maybe I can help you too,’ Ben said.
‘Just how exactly do you figure on that?’
‘I don’t know yet. But I’m pretty sure the people who did this to you are the same people I’m after.’
Skid rubbed his hands down his face. He was quiet for a minute. ‘OK, what do you want from me?’
‘I want to know everything,’ Ben said. ‘About the deal you and Zoë had between you. And about Cleaver. I keep hearing the name. Who is he?’
Skid let out a long breath. ‘Pass me that, would you?’ He pointed to a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s on the table out of his reach. Ben grabbed it and handed it to him. Skid took a deep swallow, wiped his sleeve across his mouth.
‘I’ll start from the start,’ he said. ‘Do you know who Augusta Vale is?’
Ben nodded.
‘Then you know that Zoë was over here staying with her at her home in Savannah. That’s how we met. In a bar.’
‘I heard that bit already,’ Ben said.
The Ben Hope Collection: 6 BOOK SET Page 77