Crome nodded. “What’d they do?”
“Asked their questions and left.”
“Learn anything new?”
The iced tea came and Blu squeezed the lemon in. “Not really. Medusa did let loose Angel and Cleo were a couple. She’d neglected to tell us that one.”
“Well, I’ll be. We seem to have got ourselves a gen-u-wine cos-mo-pawlitan job here, Mr. Carraway.”
Blu smiled.
“I just hope,” Crome said, “there really is a load of gen-u-wine cos-mo-pawlitan greenbacks to go with it.”
They clinked glasses.
Blu asked, “What did you find out?”
Crome gulped the last of his beer and wiped his mouth with a napkin.
“Our boy’s in a lot of trouble.”
Their burgers came, and Blu cut his in half before manhandling it. “How so?”
“It seems someone came up short with their inventory about the same time Jeremy traded the coke to the strippers.”
Blu put his sandwich down. “You don’t say? And we’re thinking it’s Skull’s?”
“Could be.” Crome bit into his burger.
Stealing from Skull was a death sentence.
“I wonder if the kid knows how bad he screwed up.”
Chapter Forty-Six
Cleo watched the men from her perch on the floor in the corner of the room, her back against the wall, her legs pulled tight to her chest. It’d been at least a day since they’d taken her. She dug fingernails into her shins until they drew blood, not realizing it until she felt the wetness.
The olive-skinned man in the charcoal slacks and maroon button-down shirt looked almost as afraid as she felt. He said, “I thought you would want to talk to her.”
The other man, a white guy who hit the tanning bed too much, said, “And what was your plan afterward, exactly?”
She felt a finger point at her.
It was Maroon Shirt. He said, “Listen to her story.”
Tanning Bed Skin said, “Why don’t you summarize it for me?”
Maroon Shirt’s hand dropped to his side. “The drugs are gone. She has no idea where the money is.”
Tanning Bed Skin looked at her as if for the first time. His gaze landed on her like a steel plate.
“Is that right?”
She felt herself cower.
He said, “I asked you a question.”
“I-I—”
He turned back to the man in the maroon shirt. “How hard did you ask?”
Maroon Shirt said, “She doesn’t know anything.”
Tim, her drug dealer, had tricked her into opening the door, and Maroon Shirt and two of his thugs had pushed in, tied her up, and dragged her here. She’d pissed her pants and now smelled awful, and this man with the tanning bed skin didn’t believe her?
Tanning Bed Skin said, “You sent amateurs after Carraway and it all backfired. On me. You’ve been one step behind Carraway this whole time.”
Cleo felt her eyes grow wide as she saw Tanning Bed Skin pull a pistol from the inside of his jacket and shoot her captor five times.
The man fell to the floor.
She absorbed everything in four dimensions. It filled her mind so completely she couldn’t process anything else. And then another blast and everything went black.
Sunday, five p.m.
Drug dealers were the lowest of the lowlifes, in Crome’s opinion. They’d had control of his life back when he popped reds like jelly beans. After he finally kicked the pills, he found himself no more in control of things than before, but everything came at him in slow motion. Manageable, if he’d be asked to give it an adjective.
The name of Medusa’s lowlife dealer was Tim. As if there could be a more generic name for a coke pusher. But it was all he had to work with. Maureen knew just about all the lowlifes in the Myrtle Beach area, but Charleston was too far out of bounds for her.
Harmony and Tess had no idea.
Taking the long shot, he called on Brack Pelton. The kid and his wife, Darcy, had already shown him they were for real. Crome figured he didn’t have anything to lose. And Blu had said he got the impression after jogging with Darcy she had some scary information sources.
Sitting at the old oak bar in the Pirate’s Cove, Crome nursed a bottle of Sam Adams while the female bartender went to find Pelton.
Before long he felt a poke at his leg, looked down, and found the kid’s dog looking up at him, a big grin on his face and his tail going crazy.
He gave the dog, a beautiful tan mix, a pat on his head.
Pelton said, “Hey, Crome. What’s up?”
The kid, a solid six-footer, looked him dead in the eyes. It wasn’t a stare down. More like one killer to another.
Crome ran his fingers through the dog’s neck fur. “I got a favor,” he said, hoping the kid really did like to play on the ragged edge from time to time.
“Your partner still owes me from the last go-round.”
Again, no malice. Underneath Pelton’s smirk was this look Crome could swear he’d seen on himself in the mirror before he kicked the reds—the junkie gaze. This kid was addicted all right, to the action. It made Crome feel a little sorry for him. He’d come back from Desert Storm with the same jones. Some called it a derivative of PTSD.
Whatever.
It was real, it didn’t go away, and Crome hoped the kid had it under control enough to keep his marriage.
Still stroking Shelby’s fur, Crome said, “I need some information on a coke dealer named Tim. Works the low-rent strip clubs.”
Pelton sat on the stool next to him, and the bartender poured him an iced tea. He took a sip and set the glass on the bar. He remained silent for a few beats, then said, “You already know I wouldn’t have the information you’re looking for. What you’re really asking is for me to ask Darcy.”
Blu had said the kid was smart.
Crome said, “That’s right. I can’t promise there won’t be any blowback. But I can promise they’ll have to go through me if it comes to that.”
The kid looked him in the eye again. “I believe you. But it’s up to Darcy. I made a promise I’d keep my demons locked up, and since we got married, I’ve been okay.”
Crome said, “I don’t want to sound like your father here, Brack, but having Blu and me around ain’t the best strategy for beating those demons. It’s—what do they say? Counterproductive?”
With a smile and a nod, the kid said, “I think of it like secondhand smoke. I quit tobacco cold turkey again, but I admit I take a few extra breaths when I get around it.”
“I hope that works out for you,” Crome said.
Pelton looked away. “Me too.” He breathed in and exhaled. “Okay, I’ll ask Darcy. No promises here, though. She says no, then no means no.” He looked back.
Crome nodded. “Deal.”
The kid patted him on the back and left him at the bar, Shelby the dog in tow.
With nowhere else to go, Crome hung out at Pelton’s bar nursing his one beer, eating a plate of nachos, and watching the ladies. There were more bikinis per capita at Pelton’s bar than anywhere else he could remember.
Within an hour, his burner vibrated in his pocket and he answered it.
Harmony said, “I’ve got a message for you from Darcy Pelton.”
She didn’t sound very happy, but reading women was not his expertise. He asked, “What’s that?”
“Tim’s at a bar called Zach’s.”
“Thanks.”
Crome was about to end the call when she said, “One more thing.”
“Yeah?”
“I’ll meet you there.”
“The hell—”
She ended the call before he could finish.
He said, “Just great,” laid cash on the bar, and went out to his bike.
Thirty minutes later, Crome’s Harley slung gravel rocks as he barreled into the parking lot of Zach’s, a dive in North Charleston, half expecting to have to shoot his way in to save the girl. Except the lot was barely half full, and her Jeep wasn’t in it yet.
He pulled to a stop close to the door, killed the motor, dropped the kickstand, and leaned the bike over.
Without the sixty-mile-per-hour wind blowing in his face anymore, the stagnant, hot air of the lot made it almost hard to breathe.
As he lifted a leg over the saddle, the Jeep pulled in beside him.
He preferred to work alone. The only exception was when he joined Blu or vice versa. Even in the Rangers, he preferred to be on point or recon. Less “brothers in arms” and more “Lone Ranger.” And who stepped out of her Jeep right before his eyes to ruin his plan but none other than the strawberry blonde half of the blue-eyed bombshell duo. Harmony even dressed the part.
Crome said, “Nice outfit.”
She had on her usual attire of a nice blouse and business skirt.
He said, “I’m going to need you to stay outside and watch my bike.”
“Nothing doing.” She straightened up and pointed. “I’m going in there with you. If this guy is a murderer, I want to watch you take his head off.”
“Are you out of your mind?” he asked.
Instead of replying, she walked the ten steps across the gravel drive and opened the front door.
Crome watched her enter and waited to see if anyone started shooting. After a few seconds, he pulled his Glock, slid the chamber open enough to verify a round was ready to go, stuck the gun down the back of his jeans underneath his vest, and made his way to the door.
He liked Harmony and all, but that was the dumbest move he’d seen anyone make in a while. Normally, before he walked in the front, he would have checked the back of the place to make sure there was a second exit in case he needed it. But she didn’t give him enough time. For all he knew, they were both walking into a trap. Just because Pelton’s wife had come by the intel didn’t mean it wasn’t tainted.
And Harmony walked right in.
Under his breath, he said, “A damn fine way to get your brains blown out.”
The door swung out, or both ways for all he knew.
There were no windows, something he hadn’t really had time to pick out until the darkness of the inside contrasted with the bright-as-hell outside.
Crome liked most types of music, having bounced in strip and dance clubs all over the lowcountry in the nineties, and a few stints more recently in Margaritaville. The song playing in this bar on this particular day could best be described as bad hip-hop.
Linoleum worn thin in places covered the floor. On it and set up in a haphazard fashion were mismatched tables and chairs.
Through the haze of stale smoke and sour barwash, Crome saw the bar across the room lit by dirty green fixtures. Already perched on a stool, Harmony waved at him.
This girl was acting clueless, which she wasn’t.
And the men in the room, and there were only men, had one eye on Crome and the other on a certain tight business skirt.
Crome walked to the bar and sat at a stool next to his date.
The bartender, an old bald guy with a bushy mustache, placed a bottle of beer in front of Harmony and asked, “What’ll it be?”
“Same,” Crome said, pointing at the bottle in front of Harmony with one hand and pulling his vaporizer out with the other.
He counted six men in the room ranging in age from young dirtbag to seasoned killer.
Just great.
Harmony smiled and lifted her drink. “It’s happy hour.”
For you, maybe, he thought.
One of these guys was Tim, the coke dealer. And Crome bet several of the others were customers. Meaning if anything bad happened to Tim, they’d step in because they’d need to protect their source.
Crome’s beer came. He tapped her bottle with his. They both drank.
The aura of Harmony all but distracted him from seeing the two men approach her from the right, opposite the side he sat.
She winked at Crome and turned to face her new suitors. “How are you guys doing?”
The closest one, of the young dirtbag variety, with a ballcap turned backwards, side burns, and a smile full of crooked teeth said, “You here with the geezer?”
The stiff shape of the Glock poking into Crome’s back was almost more temptation than he could resist. It called to him to draw down and get to work.
The music changed to Nickelback’s “Fight for all the Wrong Reasons”, better than the previous song’s disgraceful representation of hip-hop, a genre that—unlike Blu—Crome usually liked.
Harmony elbowed Crome in the ribs. “He’s like my dad.”
Thanks a lot.
“Your dad?” the dirtbag said. “Well, that means you’re up for a dance.”
Harmony gave him a slight pout. “I’d love to, but my dad gets jealous. I’d hate for you to get beat up over me.”
Did she just say—
The dirtbag looked Crome over. “I ain’t afraid of that Hell’s Angel wannabe.”
She said, “You should be.”
Crome said, “Cut it out.”
The dirtbag bowed up his shoulders. “You wanna say that to my face?”
Ignoring him, Crome spoke to Harmony sotto voce. “What the hell are you trying to do?”
The bartender came over. “I don’t want no trouble in my bar.”
Harmony said, “Then tell me which one is Tim the dealer.”
The bartender’s eyes landed on a man in the corner of the room with hair stuck up in front and a t-shirt advertising some beach bar in Hilton Head and then went back to her.
Crome almost laughed.
The dirtbag courter standing beside Harmony said, “You laughin’ at me, geezer?”
Standing, Crome showed his entire six foot three height plus the lift from his boots.
The dirtbag topped out a few inches short and took a reflexive step back.
Crome said, “Sorry for any misunderstanding.”
Harmony slid off her barstool. “He gets confused a lot. Comes with age.”
She skipped over to the man the bartender ID’d for them like a woman who’d spotted a real Louis Vuitton handbag on discount.
He hoped it really was Tim the lowlife coke dealer.
The dirtbag pulled a knife. Crome popped him in the nose and used his free hand to chop down on the wrist holding the knife in a move that only came with practice.
The knife dropped.
The dirtbag’s buddy, more the seasoned killer type, stepped in.
Crome caught him in the face with an elbow in a backwards jab and got distracted for a split second watching Harmony walk out the front door with Tim, the lowlife.
The bartender racked a shotgun behind Crome’s back. “That’s enough.”
Crome turned toward him and raised his hands. “I’m leaving.”
“Damn right you are,” the bartender said. “Right after you pay me.”
Slowly, Crome lowered one hand, slid it down the front of his jeans, and pulled out a small fold of bills. “How much?”
The bartender grinned. “How much you got?”
Crome dropped the fold. “Take it.”
“And your bike keys.”
How did he know about the bike?
The two guys with broken noses were still indisposed with welled up eyes.
The bar was three feet deep, but the bartender had made the mistake of reaching over it with the shotgun.
Crome feigned left.
The bartender followed with the shotgun barrel.
Crome caught the barrel with his palm and shoved it away.
It went off with a loud boom, taking
out the kneecap of the dirtbag’s partner, the “seasoned killer.”
Crome landed a solid punch in the bartender’s face and the shotgun clambered to the floor. Crome kicked it away and ran out the door.
Tim and Harmony were gone along with her Jeep.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Crome called Blu and explained what happened.
Blu said, “You want to say that again?”
“You heard me. Get Tess on the horn and tell her to call Harmony. The guy’s connected and probably killed Angel and Cleo, and she thinks this is a game.”
Without argument, Blu said, “On it. What are you going to do?”
“Run them down.” He ended the call, got on his bike, and roared out of the lot.
Lucky for him there was only one way in and one way out. At the intersection of the main road, he had a fifty-fifty shot at heading the right direction.
He turned right and took a few deep breaths to calm down. Harmony was a lot of things, but she wasn’t dumb enough to willingly take a ride with any lowlife. She shouldn’t have gone outside with him, but that was a discussion for another time.
The modified hundred and three cubic inch Harley engine revved through the first four gears.
And up ahead was Harmony’s Jeep.
Crome sped up faster to catch it.
The Jeep swerved across the median. From the passenger seat, Harmony punched at Tim the lowlife repeatedly.
Over the sound of the Harley’s engine, Crome thought he heard a gunshot.
It seemed as if Harmony stopped fighting.
Tim gained control of the truck, which had slowed to about thirty-five miles an hour.
Crome pulled his Glock, aimed over the handle bars, and pulled the trigger twice. The Jeep’s rear tire blew out with the second shot.
Tim fought to control it.
As the truck slowed further, Crome caught up and shot out the other back tire.
It glided to a stop in an abandoned strip mall parking lot and Tim jumped out as if to run.
Crome followed them into the lot, sliding the hot Glock in his waistband and not caring that it burned. He pulled a wheelie on the bike, and ran Tim over. The front wheel knocked Tim underneath the bike and then touched the ground as the rear wheel bucked over his torso.
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