by D P Lyle
Alberto knew Tammy all too well. She had thrown a few tantrums in his direction over some perceived failures to repair her car properly. Wasn’t the case, but she never let reality get in the way of a good explosion.
“Might be hard to find windows for this thing,” I said.
He nodded. “I’ll make a couple of calls and see what I can dig up.”
“Thanks.”
“You need a car to drive?”
“Maybe just a ride over to Ray’s place.”
Alberto rounded up one of his guys, a young kid named Robbie, who looked more like a surfer than a mechanic. He had shaggy blond hair that half covered his eyes and wore jeans and a faded green t-shirt, sleeves ripped off at the shoulders, exposing sinewy arms. We climbed in his red pickup and ten minutes later reached the two-story, stilted structure on the sand in Gulf Shores that served as Ray’s home and the offices of Longly Investigations. Ray’s black 1966 Camaro SS and his black Chevy dual cab pickup were wedged among the support poles. I thanked Robbie and climbed the stairs to the first floor deck.
Longly Investigations occupied most of the lower floor, taking up what had originally been the living room, dining room, and den. The kitchen was at the far end; living quarters upstairs. The aroma of cooked bacon and fresh coffee filled the air. In the kitchen, I found a plate with two strips of bacon and a piece of wheat toast. I poured a cup of coffee, and then folded the bacon in the toast, taking a bite as I headed out to the deck, where Ray did most of his work at an umbrella-shaded teak table. Near his elbow rested a plate with the remnants of his typical breakfast—eggs, bacon, toast. He held a cell phone to his ear and a Mountain Dew in his free hand. Always a Dew. Part of Ray’s so-called “breakfast of champions.”
I sat across from him.
Ray was one tough SOB. Fifty-eight, still very fit, with short-cropped graying hair and pale-blue eyes that could ice over with little provocation. Ran on the beach and pumped iron at a local gym every day. Rain or shine. He’d been a Marine before all the law school, FBI, spook world, and PI stuff. He was straightforward, no BS, and many folks didn’t like his in-your-face attitude. Usually those he was investigating. Sometimes the local police. He seemed to step on their turf more often than not. They weren’t usually happy. But as he always said, “Screw ’em. If they did a better job, I wouldn’t be needed.”
Those who didn’t tolerate Ray’s aggressive and direct approach to life included me. Went back as far as I could remember. He’d always run the family like a military unit. When I slacked off at school, as I often did, Ray would go ballistic. “Make something of yourself, boy,” being one of his oft-used lecture punchlines. Had it not been for my baseball prowess, Ray and I would likely have split long ago. But athletic ability made up for a lot of sins in his eyes, so we fell into an uneasy truce. Not that he didn’t constantly try to drag me into his business, where he could again be in control, but I resisted. But this time, when Ray asked me to do a little stakeout work for him, he had actually used the word please. Not part of his usual vocabulary. So I decided what the hell. Right now though, being down two car windows, I wished I’d said no from jump street. Too late now.
Ray wrapped up his call by saying, “Tell that son of a bitch I ain’t coming to Miami. No way.” He listened and then said, “Just tell him.” He ended the call, not waiting for a response.
“Problem?” I asked.
“That divorce case down in Coral Gables. Going to trial next week in Miami. They want me to come down and testify. Don’t want to pay for it though. Fuck ’em.” He drained the Dew. “How’d it go last night?”
“Interesting.”
“Yeah?”
“Not with Barbara Plummer. Nothing there. Looks like she crashed around ten. At least that’s when all the lights went out. No one came by.”
Barbara Plummer was the target of our investigation. Our? I mean Ray’s. Henry Plummer, Barbara’s husband, a wealthy software developer who used his countless millions to move into real estate development, had hired Ray to catch his wife cheating. He was “absolutely sure” she was and needed ammo. Not for a divorce or anything along those lines. More to “yank her back in line” was the way he put it.
“That doesn’t sound interesting.”
I told him the rest of the story. The Tammy story. Not the Nicole one. Nothing to hide there, not really, I just didn’t want to get into it. Didn’t want to listen to Ray ranting about my dick leading me around. An old and repetitive argument between us. Ray was of the opinion that running a bar and chasing bikinis was not a career. I disagreed.
“Shouldn’t have parked in front of her house,” Ray said. “Her being insane and all. Maybe on down the way a bit would have worked better.”
Ray could always do things better.
“The view of the Plummer place was clearer from where I was.”
Ray nodded and then rubbed his neck. “Give Pancake a call. Henry will be away a couple more days and he’s sniffing into some things on the good wife. Last I heard she has some gig tonight and last time she had one of those she had a visitor. Either planned or picked up at the party.”
“Will do.”
“Guess you’ll have to use the pickup until your car’s fixed.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t park it in front of psycho Tammy’s house, though.”
“I’m thinking the beach might be a better approach, anyway,” I said. “Good view of the back doors and the bedrooms from there.”
“Better get some sleep today. You look like shit.”
“Thanks. Glad you noticed.”
He shrugged. “Is what it is.”
CHAPTER FOUR
I SLEPT UNTIL around four and then rolled out of bed, showered, shaved. That cleared my head a bit so I answered a few emails and made two calls. One pleasure, one business. The pleasure call first. Priorities. Nicole answered after a single ring.
“Drinks and dinner?” I asked.
“Please. I’m starving.”
“Miss me, huh?”
“That must be it.” She laughed. “Quit screwing around and get your tail over here.”
“Anxious, I see.”
“Hungry. Get moving.”
I then called Pancake. Arranged to meet him at five.
Twenty minutes later, I pulled into Nicole’s drive. The garage door rattled open. She stood next to her car. She wore cutoff jeans, form-fitted to her hips, exposing legs that went all the way from here to there, and a dark-green tank top. Sunglasses as big as saucers. My, my.
“It’s about time,” she said.
“Got here as soon as I could.”
“Got to teach you to drive faster.”
“Still couldn’t keep up with you.”
“That’s why I’m driving.” She settled in the SL and backed from the garage. I climbed in. The top was down and the late afternoon sun warmed my face. She spun backwards from the drive and into the street. I held on, and we were off. The Gs pressed me into the seat.
“Where to?” she asked.
“Captain Rocky’s.”
“The dive down in Gulf Shores?”
“That would be it.”
“I love dives,” she said.
“Me, too.”
“You go there often?”
“I have to. I own it.”
The full name was Captain Rocky’s Surf and Turf. I had purchased the beachfront bar/restaurant five years earlier from Rocky Mason, the original owner. Thanks to the money the Texas Rangers had paid me to toss ninety-mile-an-hour fastballs. Didn’t change the name since it had a strong local and tourist following. Besides, I liked Captain Rocky’s. Sounded perfectly beachy.
It was one of the few things that ended up on my side of the table during the divorce. Tammy’s take on Captain Rocky’s? She wanted nothing to do with “that den of sex and alcohol.” I couldn’t really argue with that, though to me Rocky’s did serve good seafood. Ribs and steaks, too.
Nicole drove like she was at T
alladega. Tires whining, whipping through traffic, more than a few horn blows, from her as well as irritated motorists, until she finally crunched into the shale lot of Captain Rocky’s and slid to a stop in an empty space near the front door.
“You fly here often?” I asked.
“Wimp.”
As soon as we entered, I saw Pancake. Couldn’t miss him. He was the massive redheaded, freckle-faced block balanced on a barstool that, even though new and fairly sturdy, looked as if it might give up and collapse at any minute.
Bartender Carla Martinez, my manager, bookkeeper, and everything else, looked up. “Better shape up, the boss man’s here.”
Pancake spun on the stool. It groaned like an old man shouldering a sack of cement. “Well, well, who do we have here?”
I knew he didn’t mean me.
He stood and wrapped his thick arms around Nicole. “Welcome to my office, darling.”
Pancake did do most of his work here. Why not? Free rent, free food, free booze, and lots of people to talk to. Pancake loved to talk.
Nicole laughed. “Working in a bar sounds like my kind of job.”
“This is Pancake,” I said. “He works for my dad. If you use the term work loosely.”
Pancake released Nicole from his bear hug, pushed her back a step, and looked her up and down. “Mighty fine. Much too fine for old Jake.”
“I hate to break up this little lovefest,” Carla said. “But what can I get you guys?”
“We’ll grab a table,” I said. “Got some things to discuss.”
Carla shook her head. “Work, work, work. That’s all you guys do.”
She can be such a smart-ass sometimes. But the truth was the place would collapse without her. She really ran the business. Took care of payroll, inventory, and snapped the employees into place with a look, and if necessary, sharp words and walking papers. Getting good, stable help on the beach wasn’t all that easy, but Carla managed. At only five-four she was fit and borderline muscular, a remnant from her early years as a fitness model. She still worked out religiously and worshipped the sun, the reason she was so deeply tanned. She had dark, curly hair, always pulled back into a thick mane, and black eyes that could be friendly or menacing, your choice.
Nicole, Pancake, and I settled at a corner table, overlooking the outdoor dining deck and beach, still packed with sunbathers, swimmers, and families gathered beneath large yellow umbrellas, which now cast long shadows across the white sand. Tourists, trying to squeeze in as much beach time as possible.
Carla took our orders: beer and fried shrimp with fries, coleslaw, and hush puppies. Manna from heaven.
“So why do they call you Pancake?” Nicole asked.
“Jake, I’ll let you tell her. I’m going to hit the head,” he said. “You only rent beer, and I got to go make a payment.”
After he left, Nicole said, “So, tell.”
I did.
Pancake’s real name was Tommy Jeffers. Most people thought “Pancake” came from his ability to demolish a stack of pancakes. And then march through a mess of bacon, eggs, and grits. Truth was he could pretty much demolish anything put in front of him. Pancake’s football prowess was legendary. In high school, he played left tackle and specialized in pancake blocks. The ones that flattened some undersized, terrified defensive lineman. People along the Gulf Coast still told Pancake stories, some true, some made up, all involving some poor soul getting roadgraded.
Then on to the University of Alabama where he started for three years before tearing up a knee, ending his career and any chance to move up the food chain to the NFL. He transferred from Tuscaloosa to the University of South Alabama over in Mobile where he completed his criminal justice degree while working for Ray, and Longly Investigations.
Pancake returned as I was finishing the story.
“I wouldn’t have liked the NFL, anyway,” Pancake said. “Too much business and BS. Not enough fun. Game’s supposed to be fun.” He finished his beer and waved the empty toward Carla. “Truth is, I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be, doing exactly what I’m supposed to be doing.”
“That’s so sweet,” Nicole said.
“That’s Pancake,” Carla said as she placed a fresh bottle of beer on the table and snatched up the empty. “He’s sweet.” She ruffled his red hair.
“You got that right, darling.”
Carla rolled her eyes and walked away.
“Speaking of what you’re supposed to be doing,” I said, “Ray said you had some new info on our target.”
He glanced at Nicole.
“It’s okay. She knows about it. Some of it, anyway.”
“Ray on board with that?”
I shrugged. “Not yet. But I’ll deal with him.”
“Better you than me.”
“If it’s a problem I’ll go sit over there.” Nicole pointed toward a nearby empty table.
I laid a hand on her arm. “Stay here. It’s okay.”
Pancake took a slug of beer. “Seems the wife has some fundraising deal tonight. A dinner at Sophia’s.”
Sophia’s, a high-end restaurant about a half mile down the beach, was nothing like Captain Rocky’s. All crystal, linens, French delicacies, and a twenty-page wine list. My place had a better view and cold beer, though. And, of course, hush puppies.
“My sources say it’ll be done by nine,” Pancake continued. “I suspect she’ll be back home by ten and ready to receive visitors.” He grinned.
“Might be too late,” I said.
He shook his head. “Apparently one of the things that got hubby to thinking something was going on revolved around a similar event.”
“I take it she does these fundraising events often?” I asked.
“Yep. She’s rich and bored. What else is she going to do?” He opened his big hands and shrugged. “Apparently she’s a real social butterfly.” He took another gulp of beer. “Anyway, Henry came back from a trip the day after one of her events. Said something was off. Couldn’t be specific. Said she acted weird, guilty, and the house didn’t feel right. Whatever that means. Even said their bedroom had an odd smell.”
“He was probably smelling the alpha dog,” Nicole said.
Pancake and I looked at her.
“You know what I mean.” She laughed. “You two are alpha all the way.”
“You can bet on it,” Pancake said.
“Henry thinks she hooked up with someone at the event?” I asked. “That sort of thing?”
“You got it.”
“He’s returning when?”
“Day after tomorrow.”
“So tonight . . .?”
Again, Pancake opened his hands and shrugged.
I nodded. “Okay, we’re on it.”
“On what?” Nicole asked.
“Looks like another stakeout.”
“Cool. Never done that.”
“You’ll have to hide some of that,” Pancake said.
“That what?” Nicole asked.
He waved a hand toward her. “All that wonderful skin. Attracts too much attention.”
She laughed. “I like this guy.”
“Most women do,” Pancake said.
Nicole tilted her beer bottle toward him. “I don’t doubt that at all.” Then she looked at me. “This stakeout. You weren’t planning on parking on the street again, were you? I don’t want to get hammered by a golf club.”
“You sound like Ray,” I said.
“Don’t look nothing like him though,” Pancake said.
Not even close.
CHAPTER FIVE
“WHAT’S THAT?” I motioned to the large tote bag Nicole plopped down on her living room floor. Lime green with a multicolored beach scene—two blue-and-white-striped beach chairs resting on yellow sand, a bright green umbrella, and a red pail and shovel—beneath pale-blue script that read: Destin, Florida, Jewel of the Emerald Coast. Nothing stealthy about it.
“You have your spy bag,” Nicole said. “And I have mine.”
My “spy bag” was an incredibly stealthy black canvas duffel filled with electronic and surveillance goodies I had raided from Ray’s closet. Actually closets. He had three filled with gadgets.
“Spy bag?” I asked.
She propped her hands on her hips. “Yours has all that night vision and other fancy stuff. Mine has the essentials.”
“Such as?”
She nudged the bag with a sneaker toe. “Blanket, tablecloth, a wonderful Stilton cheese, French bread, strawberries, and wine. Two bottles. Good stuff I snagged from my uncle’s wine cellar.”
“Two bottles?”
“You said it could be a long night.”
“Not if we drink two bottles of wine.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Besides, this isn’t a picnic,” I said.
“Doesn’t mean we can’t have fun. I mean, you did say that stake-outs were boring so I’m just adding a little interest.”
Which she had already done with her outfit. We both wore all black but my sweatpants and t-shirt were downright pedestrian compared to her painted-on tights and tank top. Maybe wine wasn’t such a bad idea.
I glanced at my watch: 9:30. “Let’s get moving.”
Nicole saluted. “Roger that, General.”
“General?”
“You’re in charge so why not be a general? General Jake Longly.” She laughed. “Sounds like one of those Civil War dudes.”
“So what’s your rank?”
She glanced toward the ceiling, her forehead furrowed in thought. “Maybe Major.”
“Like Major Major?”
She laughed. “Catch 22, right?”
“You got it. Actually his name was Major Major Major so with his rank he became Major Major Major Major.”
“I’m impressed,” she said.
“That I knew that?”
“That you can read.” She gave my arm a playful punch.
We tugged on black windbreakers and grabbed our “spy bags.” Down the wooden deck steps, across the deep sugary sand until we reached firmer footing near the gently lapping waterline, where we turned around the point and headed up the beach. Most of the homes we passed were dark, vacation homes that sat empty much of the year, while others showed signs of life. On one massive deck two couples sat around a fire pit, their voices and laughter spilling down the beach toward us. They seemed to give us little notice.