by Diane Kelly
The room smelled of booze, garbage, and cigarettes, underscored by the smell of stinky feet and male sweat. Urk. Three of the singer’s bodyguards lay around the room, two on couches and one on the floor, all of them sound asleep. The bald one on the floor was snoring so loud he’d probably scared off every fish in a hundred-mile radius.
Nick and I exchanged glances, communicating wordlessly. My cocked head and raised palm said, What should we do about these thugs? His dismissive hand gesture and lift of his chin said we should let them continue sawing logs and focus on getting to Brazos.
At the far end of the room was another door, one which I suspected led to the sleeping quarters. Nick slunk forward, carefully stepping over the legs of the guard on the floor. I followed suit.
When he reached the door, he put out a hand and tried the handle. Again we heard the click of the latch releasing.
We stepped inside, locking the door behind us. A futile gesture, probably. The security team could easily kick the flimsy door in if they wanted to.
This room was even darker than the living area had been. The built-in shutters were closed and latched, letting only thin slivers of light through. Still, once our eyes adjusted, it was enough light to allow us to see with some help from my cell phone’s flashlight app.
Brazos lay in the center of a jumble of sheets on a queen-sized bed. He was naked, other than his boots, spurs, and his cowboy hat, which lay askew across his crotch, providing just a glimpse of one ball, not enough for me to accurately judge the entirety of what lay under the hat.
Curled up next to him, her head on his shoulder, lay a tall, thin woman who looked to be in her early twenties. Her long brown hair was as tangled as the sheets. She wore one of Brazos’s concert tees, but no panties. The light from my phone illuminated her bare bottom. Her left butt cheek bore a tattoo, the words I LOVE BRAZOS under a full-color image in the singer’s likeness, complete with the baby-blue eyes.
Nick chuckled and whispered, “I always knew the guy was an ass-face.”
Nick stepped to one of the windows, strategically picking one directly in Brazos’s line of sight, and threw open the blinds. “Rise and shine, Winnie boy. It’s time to pay the piper.”
chapter thirty-two
Splish-Splash
“Whuh?” Brazos blinked against the bright shaft of light directed at his face and struggled to prop himself up on his elbows. The cowboy hat on his crotch slipped to the side.
I quickly threw open another set of shutters, the sun creating a virtual spotlight on his groin. I took a gander at his goods … what little there was of them. It might be time for him to pay the piper, but when it came to his pipe it was tiny. A piccolo.
“Wow,” I said. “That’s damn disappointing.” I wondered how much I could get for my autographed copy of Stud Farm on e-Bay. The magazine had lost all its appeal.
Nick tsked in pity. “I told you he hadn’t reached puberty yet.”
Cutting us a dirty look, Brazos sat up and reached for his hat, using it to cover his crotch. “What the hell are you two doing on my boat?”
“We’re taking you in,” Nick said. “For tax evasion. Surely this can’t be a surprise to you.”
“Where are my men?”
Nick gestured to the door. “Out there, sleeping off what is likely one big-ass hangover.”
The girl woke up then, emitting a shriek and sitting bolt upright when she realized two people with guns were in the room with her and Brazos.
“Are you pirates?” she shrieked.
Given that we lacked peg legs, eye patches, hooks for hands, or parrots on our shoulders, she should’ve realized she was off base. Also, we were not in Somali waters. But I’d cut the girl some slack. I supposed it was hard to think clearly when you’d been yanked from a deep sleep and probably had yet to entirely sober up from the preceding night’s party.
“We’re federal law enforcement,” I said. “Don’t move.”
I turned to Brazos and pulled my cuffs from my pocket. “Winthrop Merriweather the seventh, you are under arrest.”
“Who’s Winthrop Merriweather?” the girl asked, looking at me.
Seriously, she couldn’t glean the information from context? I squinted at her, trying to discern how much of her stupidity was natural and how much was alcohol induced. Judging from the bloodshot eyes blinking at me, I’d put the ratio at fifty-fifty, maybe sixty-forty. I cocked my head to indicate Brazos.
Nick was less proper and more direct. “He’s the guy whose face is tattooed on your ass.”
Her face scrunched in confusion as she turned toward the singer. “Wait. You’re Winthrop Merriweather? I thought your name was Brazos Rivers.”
“Brazos is his stage name.” I proceeded to read Brazos his rights, motioning for him to stand. “You have the right to remain silent.”
Our eyes met. His baby blues were ablaze with fury.
I continued. “You have the right—”
“Get the hell off my boat!” Before we knew what was happening, Brazos hurled his hat aside, leaped from the bed, and shoved me backward with both hands.
There was no time for me to react. My head snapped back, hitting the wall. Starfish swam around my peripheral vision.
Despite my brain-addled state, I could hardly believe what had just happened. Brazos Rivers, the man whom I’d idolized, whose every album I owned, whom I’d cheered on when he’d won his first, second, and third CMA awards, had just struck me.
Asshole.
With a primal roar, Nick rushed at Brazos. Though he had his gun in his hand, it was clear Nick preferred a more personal approach, to choke the life out of Brazos with his bare hands. I’d never before understood why men found a women’s catfight so titillating but, as ashamed as I was to admit it, seeing Nick rush at Brazos, intent on killing the jerk to defend my honor, was kind of sexy.
The girl screamed and backed into a corner, while Nick and Brazos went at each other, falling across the bed and rolling over it, landing with a thump on the floor on the opposite side. Though Nick clearly had the upper hand, I figured I better jump in and put an end to the fight before someone got hurt. I’d taken only a single step in their direction when the door to the room came flying inward, followed by the stinky foot that had kicked it in. Two meaty hands grabbed either side of the opening, and the bald bodyguard propelled himself through, launching himself at Nick like a torpedo. He’d just grabbed hold of Nick’s shoulders from the back when I tackled him from the side, slamming him against the wall.
Nick brought an elbow back and hit the guard behind him in the face. The man’s nose exploded in blood. Reflexively, he put his hands to his face, bellowing in agony and anger.
“We’re federal law enforcement!” I yelled. “Stop fighting or we’ll arrest you, too!”
The other two bodyguards peered into the doorway, their mouths gaping like fish on a line. They were smarter than they looked, though. Rather than risk a bloody nose, a bullet, or a trip to the lockup, they stayed out of the fray. One even went so far as to raise his palms in submission. If he’d had a white flag, or a mast for that matter, he would’ve likely surrendered the ship.
When the bloody-nosed guard grabbed Nick again from behind, Brazos took advantage of the situation to flee the room, his little-boy genitals swinging and his spurs jingle-jangling as he ran. Leaving Nick to handle the thug, I took off after the singer.
“Give yourself up!” I yelled as I chased him through the living room. “Or you’ll be charged with resisting arrest, too!”
That ship had already sailed, but I figured I’d toss it out anyway.
Ignoring me, Brazos bolted out the back, scaring a trio of gulls who had perched on the rear railing. They flew off, cawing in alarm.
Brazos swung himself over the side of his boat and landed in his dinghy. The small boat bounced three times from the impact, and Brazos had to crouch down and hang on to the sides until it stabilized. He turned around now and reached for the motor to start it.
>
Where the hell did he think he was going in nothing but a pair of boots and spurs? Did he plan to motor to shore and run off down Seawall Boulevard, give the fishermen and the few tourists in town today a show? Or did he plan to set off for the open sea, maybe return to Cozumel?
It didn’t much matter where he planned to go, because I was going to make sure he didn’t get there. Before he could toss off the rope, I aimed my gun at the bottom of the boat and put three holes in it. Bang! Bang! Bang!
He glowered up at me. “You bitch!”
“Now, now. Is that any way to talk to the president of the Dallas chapter of your fan club?” Of course I planned to tender my resignation ASAP and tear up my official membership card.
In seconds, Brazos was up to his boots in salt water and the dinghy was sinking fast.
“My, my, Brazos Rivers,” I said. “Looks like you’re up a creek.” I pulled my cuffs from my pocket. “Give me your hands. Let’s get this over with.”
“All right,” he said, shaking his head. “You win.”
He pulled himself up onto the back deck. But instead of holding his wrists out for cuffing, he charged at me once more. I should’ve known better than to believe his lies again.
Holy crap! What should I do? Shoot the guy? I’d gotten in big trouble for shooting a target before and ended up the subject of a criminal trial myself. Putting a hole in a boat was one thing, but if I put another bullet in a suspect, especially one as well-known as Brazos Rivers, I’d never live it down.
Luckily for me, I didn’t have to make the decision. Having apparently rendered the thug useless, Nick hurtled past me, tackling Brazos full force on the deck. The two rolled around again for a second or two, like a couple of tomcats in a junkyard, then splash! They reeled off the deck and into Galveston Bay, boots, spurs, and all.
“Nick!” I ran to the edge of the deck, frantic. A brawl on the boat was one thing, but a fight in the water was another. One of them could drown, disappear under the murky green gulf water and never be seen or heard from again.
Winthrop’s head bobbed up, his wet hair slicked to his head, exposing an inch-wide swath of dark roots now. The guy was way overdue for a touch-up. Sierra had probably scheduled his appointments when she’d still worked for him. Clearly, Brazos had no clue how to handle things on his own. He was a boy trapped in a man’s body. A man’s body with a boy-sized penis. He gulped air into his lungs.
Nick surfaced and wrapped his arm around Winthrop’s head, like a giant squid grabbing its prey with its tentacles, pulling him down under again. All I could see now were flashes of color between the waves and the water the two were kicking up. “It’s like going through a car wash or trying to see through a windshield when it’s raining so hard the wipers can’t keep up.”
Whoa.
Had Madam Magnolia actually seen this vision? Or had she simply been making up excuses to give me vague, blurry, half-baked responses subject to all kinds of interpretation?
Regardless, I feared that if I didn’t involve myself in this fight Brazos Rivers would end up a drowned river rat. The way Nick had taken Brazos down indicated that this wasn’t just a professional matter, it was personal. Nick wasn’t always in touch with his emotions, but at the moment they’d taken him over. He wanted to put an end to this man who had stolen his girlfriend’s affections, who’d then assaulted that very girlfriend.
I shoved my gun back into my holster, looked around for anything I might be able to use as a nonlethal weapon. The bodyguard Nick had been scrabbling with stood in the doorway, a dirty sweat sock pressed up against his nose to stanch the blood. At least he’d given up the fight now.
My eyes spotted a round lifesaving device, a handheld fishing net, and the top of a black bikini hanging from pegs. Nope, nope, and nope. Aha! A wooden oar hung from a rack next to the door. That would work. So would the pole with the hook on the end.
I grabbed the oar in my hand and held it like a fishing spear, attempting to take aim. Not easy to do when your target kept disappearing under the murky green water and resurfacing a few feet away. Nick kept getting in the way, too. The singer’s bare ass surfaced. Then his foot, still wearing the boot and spur. Then a knee. Then a testicle. Finally, I had a clear shot at Winthrop’s skull.
Bonk!
The singer went limp, unconscious. Realizing the man he’d been fighting was no longer fighting back, Nick let go of him and began treading water. Tossing the oar aside, I exchanged it for the hook, snagging Brazos under the armpit before he could sink to the bottom of Galveston Bay and be eaten by scavenger crabs.
I pulled him to the boat, reached down, and grabbed his arm, doing my best to tug him onto the deck. Not easy to do given that he was deadweight and his boots were filled with ocean water, adding several more pounds to the mix.
Nick quickly pulled himself up onto the deck to help me. In seconds, Brazos was sprawled out on the deck, his junk flopped to the side, as lifeless as a dead fish.
I cocked my head and eyed the thing. “It looks like a cocktail shrimp.”
Nick raised a hand. “Stop, or I’ll never eat seafood again.”
I gestured to one of the bodyguards. “Bring me Brazos’s hat.” I feared that if we didn’t cover his crotch, a seagull might also mistake his nether regions for a shrimp, swoop in, and try to fly off with it.
The man scuttled back into the boat, returning with the cowboy hat. I placed it over the singer’s nards.
While the three bodyguards and the singer’s latest conquest watched from the deck, I waved my arms and hollered to the police boat patrolling the perimeter of the anchored vessels. Nick pulled the water-soaked boots and spurs off Winthrop, and covered him with a beach towel. The outdoor temperature was far from freezing, but the ocean water was undeniably chilly. Besides, the guy had no body hair to keep himself warm.
I rounded up another beach towel for Nick and he wrapped himself in it. One of the bodyguards offered Nick a concert tee that looked like it would fit, but Nick refused it. “I’d rather die from hypothermia than wear that thing.”
Brazos came to as the police pulled up and, putting a hand to the purple knot on his head, voluntarily climbed into their boat for a ride to the ambulance waiting onshore. I phoned the two marshals, who said they’d follow the ambulance to the local hospital and take Brazos into custody on his release.
Nick let the bodyguard slide. The guy’s nose had swollen to the size of a cucumber. He’d been punished enough. Besides, he’d only been doing his job. He said that when he’d tackled Nick he hadn’t realized who we were, that we were members of law enforcement. Couldn’t really fault him under the circumstances. Things had been happening so fast.
Now that their meal ticket was in custody and they were likely out of work, at least for the time being, the members of the security team helped us find the keys to the Ferrari among the clutter in the boat. According to them, Brazos had had the boat moved from Possum Kingdom Lake to Galveston shortly before I’d gone out to the ranch looking for him. The singer had driven the car down to the island and left it at the San Luis Resort, where he’d rented a suite. He’d then hired a captain and sailed down to Mexico, spending his days and nights boozing it up in Cozumel, scuba diving, and slipping his enchilada to as many local girls and vacationers as were willin’.
“Any chance y’all know where the tour bus is?” I asked. “Or the plane?”
Cucumber nose said Sierra had taken care of storing the bus and plane before Brazos had fired her, but ever since, the remaining members of his staff had been forced to help out. “The bus is in an RV storage lot in Ardmore, Oklahoma,” he said. “I drove it there myself. Damn near wrecked the thing.”
“Don’t you need a commercial license to drive something that big?” I asked.
He lifted one meaty shoulder. “Beats the hell out of me.” He went on to say that Brazos had him move it late at night when the bus would be less likely to be noticed, and that he’d instructed him to cover the bus in tarps so
it couldn’t be readily identified by the others who stored their RVs and campers at the site.
One of the other bodyguards chimed in now. “Last I heard the plane was at the municipal airport in Amarillo.”
Obviously, Brazos had again tried to hide his assets from us. Jerk.
We locked up the boat, waited while the girl put her clothes back on, and gave the bodyguards and the girl a ride to shore in Nick’s bass boat. The girl was a local, so she took off on foot. If I were her, I’d stop by the medical clinic and be tested for STDs. Then I’d jump on my phone and start calling tabloids, sell the rights to my story to the highest bidder. I could see the headlines now. THE HAT COMES OFF! BRAZOS RIVERS EXPOSED.
chapter thirty-three
Fast Car
Once Nick’s boat was back on the trailer, Nick and I climbed into the cab of his pickup with one member of the security team. The other two climbed into the bed.
We drove to a nearby tourist shop so Nick could buy some dry clothes. Meanwhile, the bodyguards got on their phones and called up the former Boys of the Bayou to see if they might be interested in employing their security services. They were in luck. Armadillo Uprising agreed to take them on. The former Boys even bought the men bus tickets from Galveston to Austin, where the band had decided to establish its home base. A smart move. With its South by Southwest and Austin City Limits music festivals, the live music industry in Austin was booming.
Nick emerged from the surf shop wearing a pair of knee-length swim trunks covered in sharks, along with a pair of cheap flip-flops, and a T-shirt that proclaimed him to be an EXPERT BIKINIOLOGIST.
I rolled my eyes. “Really? You had to pick that one?”
“Sure.” He shot me a wink. “It makes me sound smart.”
“Yeah, right.”