MOLLY

by Dan Ames

  Along with the gun, I slid a spring-loaded knife made by some recluse in Idaho. The knife wasn’t cheap, but the blade can cut through bone.

  Out in the driveway, I climbed into my car, a 1976 Ford Maverick. It was black, with oversized rear tires and had been totally rebuilt from the ground up, according to my specifications. The guy who had done the work was a genius whose life had exploded when his wife died and his daughter disappeared. I helped him put his life back together, starting by finding his daughter and bringing her back.

  He paid me with the Maverick.

  The engine was insanely powerful and the wheels were equipped with huge brakes to keep things under control.

  Now, I cruised over to Hammerhead’s place, a tiny house on a street littered with garbage, rusty vehicles and fallen palm leaves.

  I pulled slightly onto the shoulder of the road, and parked the Maverick partially on the neighbor’s yard directly across from Hammerhead’s house.

  There wasn’t room to do it on my informant’s side, because it was already filled with cars.

  One of them was a huge black truck with oversized wheels and a “Florida Cracker” decal in the corner of the back window.

  It looked like Hammerhead’s colleagues had beaten me to the punch.

  So to speak.

  5

  There was a little sign in the flower bed next to the front door. It said: ‘Make yourself at home.’ There were no flowers, of course, just weeds and cigarette butts.

  Nevertheless, I took the sign’s advice, opened the front door and stepped inside.

  “Whoa!” said a big, sweaty white guy in a wife-beater shirt and barbed wire tattoos that wrapped around his oversized arms. His head snapped around to look at me.

  His partner, a little weasel of a guy in dirty jeans, a stained Corona beer T-shirt and cowboy boots, started to walk toward me.

  And then he stopped.

  I figured the big guy was the owner of the truck, the one with the Florida Cracker sticker. He had a big meaty paw on the forearm of Hammerhead’s Mom.

  It looked like he was trying to snap it in two.

  Hammerhead had seen better days. His nose was bleeding, he had a cut on his forehead, and half of his face was swollen. He was sprawled out on the ground, his back against a curio cabinet filled with Precious Moments figurines.

  “Get the fuck back out through that door,” the Cracker said. “If you know what’s good for you.”

  “Didn’t you see the sign out front?” I said. “Make yourself at home. That’s what you’re doing, right?”

  “Squirrel, get rid of this guy,” Cracker said.

  The smaller guy looked at me, and clearly wasn’t crazy about the order from his boss.

  “Have to get better at identifying species,” I said to the big guy. “I thought your little friend here was a weasel.”

  It’s tough being commanded to take the lead on a project with a fairly high possibility of failure. I could see it in Squirrel’s eyes. He was probably pretty wiry, maybe even quick, too.

  But animal cunning isn’t limited to Wild Kingdom. There was a sense in his feral little eyes that he was facing a legitimate threat, one that he had to weigh against the known dangers of disobeying his superior.

  It was plain to see his thoughts: Is this guy scarier than Cracker?

  The trouble was, I was an unknown quantity. Whereas, Squirrel probably had a very good idea of Cracker’s capabilities.

  So he came at me, slid a big old Bowie knife from his waistband.

  Nice knife, I had to admit. The steel looked good. Military-grade black handle. Seemed to have a very fine edge on it.

  It would be a nice addition to my collection.

  To stab a man, even for a psychopath, usually requires motivation. More than just being told to get rid of someone. When you stab someone, there’s a pretty good chance they’ll die, unless you purposely slash an arm or a leg, avoiding main arteries.

  Still, it wasn’t something to take lightly.

  There was hope in Squirrel’s face. Hope I would see the knife and duck back out the door.

  But like my gal pal Emily Dickinson wrote, ‘Hope is the thing with feathers.’

  I threw a straight right that caught Squirrel flush on his jaw. It was unexpected, and even though he was quick, he was too surprised to duck.

  Plus, he had a knife. Which, in terms of blocking a punch, confuses the issue. He kept his knife where it was and tried to block it with his other hand. But my fist drove right through and pole-axed him.

  He sagged and I twisted the knife from his hand and kicked him in the balls. He sank to his knees while I reloaded my fist and I whipped a right hook that nearly tore his jaw from his face. I heard a nice cracking sound and suddenly Squirrel had a whole new look. Unhinged would be the proper adjective.

  Cracker dropped the old lady’s arm like it was on fire.

  He held both of his big meaty hands up in the air.

  “Whoa,” he said.

  “Impressive vocabulary.”

  “We’re just getting some money that’s owed to us.”

  I stabbed him through his palm. Again, I had a nice element of surprise. The Bowie knife was enormous. The blade was ridiculously long and it had been little more than a flick of my wrist.

  Remember that part about how a man needs motivation to stab someone? Well, I wasn’t being totally truthful.

  I don’t need a lot of motivation.

  A big jackass beating up an old lady is good enough for me.

  He howled and grabbed his hand.

  “Take your Squirrel and go,” I said. “Come back and I’ll slit your throat.”

  Up close, Cracker was a weird-looking dude. A smashed-in kind of face that he tried to cover with a big beard.

  “Don’t make another mistake,” I said as I watched him try to get his hand behind his back to where I knew there was either a gun or a knife. Maybe both.

  He stepped past me and I snatched the big revolver that was stuffed down the back of his jeans.

  A ridiculously heavy Colt .44 Magnum.

  “Unoriginal, too,” I said.

  Cracker dragged his pet Squirrel out of the house and I followed them to the door. They barreled away in the big black truck and I locked the door, turned to Hammerhead and his Mom.

  The old woman looked down at her son, then up at her curio cabinet.

  “Son, don’t you dare break my Precious Moments.”

  6

  “Get it together, man,” I said to Hammerhead. “Jeez. Have you no shame? That white side of beef was going to break your Mom’s arm.”

  He was now on his feet, and his Mom had gone into her bedroom to lie down. Being roughed up by drug dealers tended to fatigue the elderly, according to AARP.

  Hammerhead wiped the blood from his face with a kitchen towel.

  “Don’t put it back in the sink,” I said to him as he was in the process of doing just that. “And while you’re at it, clean this place up.”

  It looked like he was going to cry.

  Hammerhead was really not the right nickname for him. He was a little guy, who at some point in his life may have been muscular but now he was kind of thin and his muscles were atrophied. He was probably in his thirties but looked like he was old enough to qualify for Medicare.

  “Don’t cry. There’s no crying in drug dealing,” I said.

  “Jesus, man,” he whined. His voice was like a broken flute in desperate need of a spit valve repair. “Cut me a break! I mean, thanks for getting rid of those guys, but I’m not in a good place right now.”

  What a damn whiner.

  “Not in a good place?” I asked. “You’re in your Mom’s house for Christ’s sake. It’s not the place, it’s you. No matter where you are, you’re screwed. Know what I mean?”

  He went to the fridge and grabbed a beer.

  “Why don’t you go see if your Mom needs something?” I asked. “Always thinking of yourself first, Hammerhead. That’s the sig
n of an addict. Selfish.”

  He went down the hallway and I heard her yell at him. He came into the kitchen like a beaten dog.

  “She doesn’t want anything right now,” he said.

  “Of course not, why did you go bother her?”

  I admit, I was having fun tormenting him.

  “Very big of you to thank me for saving your life” I said. “You owe me one. And I’m going to collect right now.”

  His shoulders sagged. Like it was too much trouble for him.

  “Would you rather I call those guys back? Let ‘em finish the job?” I said.

  “No, no. That’s fine. What do you want?”

  “Molly Hornor. A girl. She’s missing. May be hooked on something.”

  “You think I know every junkie chick in Delray?” he asked, spreading his little hands wide. “There’s frickin’ hundreds of ‘em. New ones show up every day.”

  He had pulled a beer from the fridge, twisted off the cap and drank half of it in three big gulps.

  “You always ask your guest if they’d like something to drink before you start swilling beer?” I asked. “God, you’ve got horrible manners and your selfishness is reaching new heights.”

  “You want a beer?”

  “Of course not,” I said, still messing with him. “Listen you little ingrate, here’s what you’re going to do.”

  I went and got the ridiculous Colt revolver, dumped out the bullets and pocketed them, and handed the knife to Hammerhead.

  “You’re going to take these spoils of war to a pawn shop. You’re going to get some cash, and use it to buy information. If there’s a little left over, you can buy your mother some flowers. Of course, I know you won’t. You’ll probably buy yourself some drugs because you’re a sad excuse for a son. But let me tell you something. You’d better buy that crap only after you’ve gotten the information. Or I will be very upset.”

  Hammerhead’s mood had suddenly improved.

  His eyes lit up at the prospect of getting his hands on some cash.

  I picked up the knife and put the tip against his Adam’s apple.

  “You’re going to call me before you get stoned, with my information. If you don’t have it, I’m going to do your Mom a favor and cut you into little pieces and put them on display in the curio cabinet, next to her other Precious Moments.”

  From the back bedroom I heard a noise.

  She was clapping.

  7

  In my line of work, a little extra security was fairly important. So once I’d pulled the Maverick into the garage, I went inside, locked up, and set the alarm. No ordinary security system. Multiple cameras, safeguards, even a few extras.

  My urge to go for a swim had passed so I settled for a scalding hot shower to wash away any traces of Florida Cracker and Squirrel, along with the dried sweat from my workout. I had a walk-in shower in my master bedroom, with a steam deal that was mixed with menthol. It cleared the head.

  After throwing on a pair of cotton shorts and a T-shirt, I detoured to the kitchen for a glass filled with Tito’s Vodka and a splash of sparkling water with a lime. My nightly vitamin.

  My house has an open concept – the kitchen has a long island with counter-high leather chairs. Beyond the island is a rustic farm table with six chairs. To divide the room, a white couch sits with its back to the farm table, flanked on either side by vintage side chairs, facing a fireplace with a mantle on which sat a flat screen television.

  The sliding glass doors that opened out onto the pool were closed, with the shades drawn. They were also coated with reflective film to prevent any aggressive voyeurs, or former antagonists who were having a problem letting go of the past.

  Ice clinked in my glass as I sipped the vodka. The flat texture of the vodka was enlivened by the carbonation of the water, and the hint of citrus reminded me just how much I enjoyed being in Florida.

  Lately, I’d been fooling around on Tinder, just for fun. It’s a phone application where single people can find other singles. It’s super simple: photos appear and if you swipe left on the photo, it means you’re not interested. If you swipe right, it means you like what you see. If that person then swipes right on you, you both get a message saying ‘It’s a Match!’

  From there, you can set up a date.

  I’d met a few women via Tinder, and had some fun. Then again, most of my history with women was a cavalcade of sinful pleasure, short on meaning and resonance, merely brief rest stops on the journey forward.

  There was an abundance of divorced women in Florida, and I seemed to do well with them. Maybe they were looking for someone like me after a decade of misery.

  Now, I used the app and started swiping. Their faces peered up at me from my phone. A lot of plastic surgery. One caught my eye. A brunette. I loved brunettes.

  Swipe right.

  It was interesting to see the poses, the expressions, how a person chooses to present themselves to the world. It was a few minutes of diversion and as my vodka was nearly gone, I told myself to swipe one more.

  The face looked back at me and I smiled.

  Margaret Hornor.

  She had the same no-bullshit look she’d worn in my office. I read her bio. She made a point of mentioning she was tall and a former athlete. Short, fat guys need not apply, although she didn’t come out and say it.

  My thumb hovered on the phone screen.

  Swipe right meant I was interested.

  If I swiped left, she would be gone from my options.

  It would be fairly unprofessional to swipe right. Then again, she might never see my profile.

  Maybe it was the vodka, or maybe I had intuited something more than I was admitting.

  I swiped right.

  There was the briefest of moments as my screen dipped into black.

  And then a message appeared.

  ‘It’s a Match!’

  8

  Everyone’s got “their” spot at the beach. Myself included. It’s a little picnic table just up from the hip and trendy downtown area of Delray Beach, but just before you get to the ultra swanky section of private homes that represent a chunk of wealth equal to Ecuador’s gross domestic product.

  This morning, the picnic table was empty. There were a couple reasons for this. One, it was fairly early. Two, it’s become a bit of a habit for me to stop by there and have some good strong morning coffee. And three, my presence seems to frighten away a certain segment of the population.

  So I once again took my spot at the table, a good cup of coffee in hand, and watched the waves roll in. I sat sideways at the table, though, so I could keep one eye on the road and sidewalk behind me.

  The breeze was fantastic coming off the water, a bit of grit and salt mixed together. It was too early for the sun to be a factor and it was a perfect temperature, not too hot, not too cool. A few seagulls fought over a Kit Kat wrapper nearby.

  Every time I came to the ocean I thought about my sister. It was what had drawn her to Florida in the first place.

  That, and our broken home.

  Jenny was older than me by two years and it was a fact that had caused a lot of pain. I always felt that on some level she felt she had to be my protector, but that was impossible in the situation of our youth. Our Dad was a cop, who was killed on the job, and our Mom was a neurotic, driven further into mental illness by the loss of her husband.

  It was chaos.

  My Mom was gone, and I was determined to find the subhumans who had murdered my father in the line of duty. I dropped out of school, already a brawler, and learned everything there was to know about fighting with fists, guns and knives from my Dad’s cop friends, who were also hunting his killers, after-hours.

  Eventually, I found the men responsible, and exacted justice, gleefully dumping their bodies into the Detroit River, like expelled feces from a ruptured sewer line.

  By then, I was a terror, and Jenny was gone.

  Lost in a swirling mixture of alcohol, drugs, and a manic desire to escape
. She was fleeing Detroit, the memories of her parents. And, frankly, me.

  It wasn’t until later I realized how much her feelings of shame and failure at not being able to protect me, drove her to make the choices she did.

  That was the real tragedy to me. There’d been no reason for her to blame herself. It was no one’s fault.

  It was life.

  The sound of shoes scuffling on the sidewalk interrupted my train of thought and I saw Hammerhead strolling up toward me. He was clearly stoned, as Jim Morrison would say, ‘immaculate.’

  “Perfect day to catch some waves, man,” he said to me. My guess was that Hammerhead hadn’t surfed in years. The drugs were giving him the impression that he was someone he wasn’t. Isn’t that why so many people got hooked?

  “Perfect day for some information,” I said. “What do you have?”

  He stretched out on the picnic table and stared up into the early morning sky.

  “The Candyman can ‘cuz he mixes it with love and makes the world taste good,” Hammerhead sang.

  “You’re about to start tasting your teeth, piece by little piece,” I said.

  Hammerhead swung his feet down and looked at me. “That’s his name. The Candyman! Dude wears bright orange shorts like the waitresses at Hooters! Blonde-haired guy, with a girlfriend from up north who goes by Molly Chambers.”

  “That’s a song by Kings of Leon,” I said. “Molly’s Chambers.”

  “What can I tell you? Bro’s the biggest dealer around Delray Beach, I guess. You said you were lookin’ for a girl named Molly and that she’s a junkie. I made the connection,” Hammerhead said, and pantomimed the bringing together of two things and then he made an exploding sound and his fingers danced through the air.

  “Where does the Candyman sell his goods?” I asked and drained the last of my coffee. There was a recycling bin next to the picnic bench and I threw my cup inside.

  “No idea, but I heard he goes to Narcotics Anonymous meetings to lure people back onto drugs. There’s a daily meeting around noon that he never misses, what I heard.”