The car sped away, leaving the shooters to their fate. Blu could not make out the plate number.
He pulled out his cell phone and called Crome first. Then he called the police.
Blu rode downtown in the front seat of Detective Powers’ unmarked Charger while a flatbed hauled his Land Cruiser to the impound garage, probably to be placed right next to Jeremy’s Volkswagen. He didn’t care about any new holes, but the windshield and radiator would definitely need to be replaced. Given its age, the insurance company might get the bad idea to just scrap the thing.
Powers said, “You have any idea who those two guys you shot back there were?”
“Haven’t seen them before.” The only person he could think of who might have a grudge was Tristan’s father. What was his name? Caldwell? Except this was a pretty dramatic retaliation considering Blu didn’t harm Tristan in any way. Her guards were another story. But the men who’d shot up his truck were not professionals like the guards.
After making the 911 call, Blu had surveyed his handy work. He’d indeed hit them both with clean headshots. One of the men took the bullet in the forehead and was still recognizable. The other man had taken a shot to the nose which did serious damage to his visage. He would need a closed casket for sure.
Most other people might feel bad for ending life, but these two had shot first, and Blu had learned a long time ago that return fire carried no guilt as long as it hit the right target.
The police checked their identification and shared that their names were Chad Gretch and Robert Camden.
The detective said, “I think I liked you better when you were between jobs.”
Blu pulled out his ecig and vaped. Exhaling, he said, “I didn’t.”
A mile down the road, Powers said, “Two shots.”
“Huh?”
“They put more than twenty bullets in your truck and you put them down with two shots.”
Another drag, then, “I was trained not to waste ammo.”
Chapter Thirteen
Tuesday morning
Blu spent the night in police custody. Apparently, a shooting on Seventeen South outside the city limits wasn’t something most law-abiding citizens attempted. One look at the evidence should have been enough of a reason for justifiable homicide. The next morning, he called Cynthia Rhodes.
Cynthia said, “Oh my God! Are you okay?”
He assured her he was.
She sent a high-powered lawyer, a woman about forty named Carol Ryan. Blu had heard of her before but never had the pleasure of meeting her until today. And she did not suffer fools. With a very snappy business suit over a toned figure, tanned skin, and shoulder-length brown hair combed straight, she looked the part.
Thanks to his lawyer’s skills, he was released into her custody. She didn’t speak as she drove to the airport and dropped him off at Ground Transportation so he could rent a car while his Land Cruiser was still in impound. As he exited her car, she handed him a business card and told him to call if anything else came up.
He got a new SUV and hated it almost immediately. The thing about his Toyota was it had twenty years of character. These new vehicles were just so sterile. No character. Digital to his truck’s analog.
And too quiet.
The ride down the highway at seventy miles an hour was eerily silent. He turned on the radio, once he figured it out, and found the eighties alternative station on satellite radio. Then he called Crome.
His partner answered, “I guess you got released.”
“You find out anything on the two shooters?”
Crome said, “As a matter of fact, I did.”
Blu said, “Are we playing twenty questions or are you going to spill it?”
“I keep forgettin’ you’re the sensitive type. You got something to write an address down on?”
Blu pulled to a stop on the side of the highway. He looked around the vehicle and found a pen advertising the car rental company in the glove box. Using the back of the rental agreement as a notepad, he said, “Go ahead.”
Crome rattled off an apartment address in North Charleston and then told him how to get there.
Blu arrived at the apartment complex and found Crome’s bike parked in front of the building corresponding to the number he’d been given. He had a feeling this might be one of those “gray area moments” people talked about. With Crome involved, everything was gray.
He found the unit and knocked on a pale yellow door with a peep hole.
Crome answered the knock, a can of beer in hand, and waved Blu in with a grin.
Blu said, “Whose place is this?”
His partner motioned with the beer to a man on an old couch. “It’s Maurice’s.”
Maurice was pale complexioned with a dingy white t-shirt and frayed shorts. He rubbed his hands together and appeared to be sweating but, at least outwardly, uninjured.
The liability coverage Blu had signed for went only so far before their insurance company would unceremoniously drop their little Private Investigation business. He hoped Crome understood this.
Crome said, “Relax, I ain’t laid a hand on him.” To the man on the couch, he added, “Have I, Maurice?”
Maurice gave them both a wide-eyed look. “No, man. No hands.”
Of course, that left shoulders, elbows, knees, and feet still in play.
The pimple of a man seemed to finally recognize Blu and started reaching under the cushions for something. “Oh, man. That’s the guy. That’s the guy. Gimme a gun! Gimme a gun!”
Crome towered over Maurice. “The only one maybe not walkin’ outta here is you, Maurice.”
Maurice settled down. Or at the very least, stopped looking for whatever wasn’t under the cushions.
Blu guessed the man was jonesing for a fix and Crome was holding it over the junkie.
Crome nudged the man on the couch with a foot to the shin. “Tell him.”
A closer look showed Maurice to be in his twenties, half his head shaved with the other half done in a derivative of an eighties skater punk bob. He was also shaking. Whatever Crome had done, the kid was whacked out on fear in addition to a lack of the necessary chemicals.
Maurice flinched. “Okay, okay, okay.” He sighed. “Chad and Bobby were my friends.” He looked at Blu. “And you killed them.”
The two names were familiar. Chad Gretch and Robert Camden were the names of the two shooters the police had given Blu, the ones he’d capped with single headshots.
Crome said, “I haven’t laid a hand on you, but that could change. Now spill the rest.”
Maurice said, “Bobby was approached by this guy he knew. Said he’d give us five grand each to drop this guy. Said it was easy money.”
Blu asked, “So, of course, you took the job.”
Maurice smiled, showing rotted front teeth.
Great, a meth-head, Blu thought.
Maurice said, “’Course we took the job. Five grand apiece.”
“Did you get paid anything up front?”
“Yeah—I mean, naw.”
Crome bent down to look Maurice in the eye.
Maurice cowered.
Crome said, “You really want to tell us the truth here, Maurice. It’s better for all of us, you understand.”
Maurice’s head pulsated up and down. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah. Okay, okay, okay. We got five hundred each up front.”
“Still got any of the money left?” Blu asked.
Maurice gave them the smile with the rotted teeth again. There was no money left.
Crome asked, “Did this guy, Bobby’s friend, did he leave a phone number, email, any way to get ahold of him to get the rest of your money?”
Maurice’s head stopped bobbing up and down. “Bobby knew how to get him. We was gonna do the job and then call him. Except—”
Crome smiled. “Except things didn’t go according to your plan? Ain’t life grand?”
Maurice sprang to his feet and tried to make a run for it. Crome drove a fist hard into the guy’s gut. The poor kid doubled over, gasping for breath.
Blu said, “The police have Chad and Bobby’s cell phones. I’ll bet your number’s in one of them.”
Crome said, “Probably a burner.” He turned to Maurice. “Where’d Bobby meet this guy?”
Through gasps, Maurice said, “Bobby’s old man runs a bait store on Folly Beach Road.”
Blu looked at Crome, who nodded.
They had their next stop now.
Tuesday afternoon
Folly Beach Road had seen a whole lot of changes in the last couple of decades as Charleston’s growth spread beyond the city limits. But not all of it had changed with the times. Blu opened the faded wooden door with a ripped screen fascia and walked into the derelict, clapboard-sided building selling bait. From the looks of things, business hadn’t been good since Bill was in the White House.
The linoleum floor tiles were dirty and worn through in a lot of places. Rusty coolers lined the narrow room, forcing all customers toward the back where an old man in overalls the same condition as the floor sat on a stool by a push button cash register. A faded, hand-written sign taped to the register said, “In God we trust, all others bring cash.”
Blu opened one of the coolers, selected a small plastic bag of sandworms, and walked back to the man.
The man had on an old cap with fishing lures stuck to it. He said, “Get the hell outta my store.”
There were several things Blu could do at this moment—play dumb, grab him by his collar and shake him, throw the worms at him, or maybe burn this pitiful building to the ground with the old man in it. Instead, he chose to do nothing right away.
The man said, “You kill my son and come in here and expect me to be civil. You’re outta your mind.” He reached underneath the counter.
Crome came in from behind the man. “I wouldn’t do that if I was you, mister.”
It looked like the man had just messed his overalls. He jerked around with a shotgun in his hand.
Before he could aim, Blu put the barrel of his Glock to the man’s temple. “You fire and it will be the last thing that goes through your head before my bullet clears your mind for you.”
The shotgun stayed pointed at the floor. Crome walked over and gently removed it from the old man’s hands.
Blu holstered his Glock. “It’s true, I killed your son.”
The old man turned and glared at him. “And now what? You come for me?”
“No. I came to talk to you. See if you are a reasonable man.”
“You killed my son.”
Blu said, “Someone sent your son to kill me. I’m a soldier. Your son was not. Someone sent him to his death. You can blame me all you want, or you can help me get even with the man who paid him to come after me.”
The man’s lips started to quiver.
Crome said, “We talked to Bobby’s friend Maurice. He said it started right here. You tell us who the money man is and I promise you there will be payback.”
The old man pointed a finger at Blu. “He killed Bobby.”
“Well,” Crome said, “You can sit here and come up with ways of getting even with my friend here. Or you can help us get the man who started this whole thing.”
Blu watched the old man look at the floor, tears streaming down his filthy face, creating lines of wet soot.
“My Bobby’s gone.”
Crome opened the double barrel shotgun and removed the two shells while the man sobbed.
Blu said, “Let’s go.”
Crome nodded and set the empty shotgun on the counter.
They both started to back away, knowing it wasn’t wise to take their eyes off the old man.
He said, “Wait.”
Chapter Fourteen
The drive back gave Blu more time to reflect. This wasn’t the first time someone had put a hit on him. He could count at least three others. It was just he didn’t yet understand the reason for the latest. The other jobs had taken him down some dark paths, and he’d gotten close to some shady people—too close as it turned out.
But this job was different. He wasn’t anywhere near anyone except Cynthia Rhodes.
The name the old man had said meant nothing to Blu or to Crome. Chances were it was a dead end. Which made it even more serious. He had to find out the reason for the hit and fast. Was this because of a past job or his current one? All he knew was he was lucky those kids had not been professionals. Professionals would have taken him out clean, no witnesses. Hiring the kids proved reckless. Or maybe he wanted it to look sloppy. Like a random car jacking. Or an upset previous client.
The more Blu thought about it, the more he liked the theory about wanting the job to look like exactly what it was: some hayseed shooting Blu and his truck full of holes over some low IQ vendetta.
Well played, except for the two dead kids. And now the old man was a link.
The man with the checkbook underestimated Blu twice. First by sending the kids to do a professional hit, and second by not cleaning up loose ends like Maurice and the old man.
Blu had the feeling both of them wouldn’t see too many more days anyway.
Crome was already sitting on the front porch when Blu pulled into his drive.
Dink and Doofus stood guard and Blu realized he didn’t have any apples.
Crome said, “You don’t have any apples, do ya?”
“Nope.”
“Check my saddle bag.”
Blu went over, opened the saddle bag, and found a paper bag with a bundle of carrots. He picked two and closed the bags.
The horses snorted and neighed as he approached. And almost bit his fingers off as they grabbed the offered vegetables.
While they chomped, Blu walked between them and sat on the chair next to Crome.
Crome said, “I made a few calls. No one seems to know what’s going on.”
Blu pulled out his vaporizer, took a drag, and exhaled. “We’re back to square one.”
Crome followed suit with his own vaporizer. “Not exactly.”
“You think this is about that purple-haired punk I’m looking for now or some job from the past?”
Crome looked around. “I think it’s about the kid. If it had been from the past, they would have already tried. I mean, why now?”
It was a very relevant question, even if it was about the current job. Either they were on the right track, or someone wanted him stopped before they got on the right track.
In the meantime, Blu called Detective Powers and told him about Maurice and the bait shop owner.
Tuesday evening
The job was stalled. Blu still didn’t know where Jeremy was, and now he was facing a contract hit. For any sane person it would have been time to cut bait and roll on to something else or head out of town. But Blu didn’t quite fit the category. He needed to complete his work. Anything less would be like giving up, and he had never done that in his life. When his marriage fell apart, he’d worked extra hard to keep it together. When his finances came to a head, he’d signed on for some day labor work just to keep the lights on.
And then Crome rolled back into town with the same amount of money he left with. It would have made Blu feel completely inadequate except Crome wasn’t necessarily as selective as he used to be. Crome would choose a job based more on the amount than the task. Blu had a hunch some, if not all, of the money came from the gray area. But he realized he couldn’t take the high ground anymore. This job had been about the money and his lack of it.
As if she knew he needed to be pulled out of his funk, Billie called and said she and Hope would be coming for dinner. After Blu processed his girlfriend and his daughter conversing withou
t his prompting, he realized he needed to get to work. He put Crome in charge of cutting up the vegetables since the guy was a master with a knife. With Crome busy, Blu got the grill ready.
The meal consisted of chicken kabobs because it was about all the ingredients Blu had. Crome manned the grill while Blu cleaned the place up enough for company.
Hope and Billie arrived on time in Billie’s Honda Pilot. Hope wore jean shorts and a t-shirt with Psychedelic Furs on the front and carried a bottle of wine. She was the same height as Billie at five foot eight. Her naturally brown skin was a few shades darker thanks to her spending too much time, in Blu’s opinion, playing beach volleyball. Billie looked lovely in an apricot sundress and handed Blu the dessert when they approached.
When Hope saw Crome, she set the wine on the counter, ran to him, and gave him a big hug. Blu watched his partner stroke her long brown hair and kiss the top of her head. As rough as the man could be, Crome was every bit the uncle Hope never had.
They ate on the back patio overlooking the marsh, Citronella candles and bug spray at the ready. Dink and Doofus stood close by to clean up any errant vegetables somehow making their way to them.
After the four humans finished eating and cleaned up, they relaxed with coffee and dessert.
Billie said, “Cynthia Rhodes is not who you think she is.”
Blu asked, “What did you find out?”
“She puts on this innocent act, but she’s as shrewd as the day is long.”
He’d had a hunch his client wasn’t being completely square with him. Billie’s read confirmed what his gut was telling him. “You find out anything specific?”
“No one knows where the kid is,” she said. “Aside from a few small shows for his artwork, Jeremy kept to himself.”
Blu nodded.
Crome vaped.
Billie said, “I think you need to walk away from this job.”
There it was.
Blu said, “I’m not sure that would solve the problem.”
“You’d be alive, wouldn’t you?” she asked.
In It for the Money Page 7