I had to give it to him, that was pretty good investigative work. “That’s excellent, Guy, but Erik says-”
I heard Clarence say, “That’s not good,” in the background, then Guy interrupted me again with a, “Gotta go.”
CLICK.
“What was that all about?” asked Howard.
“They’re at the Ashes’s house because the Ashes live on Nectarine Drive—Guy thinks the code in Colt’s text, SOSND, means he’s there and in trouble.” I waved my hand around. “And something about armpits and cell phone batteries. I think he’s onto something. We should go, don’t you think?”
While I had been relaying Guy’s logic-play, Erik and Howard had shifted their attention to the entrance. Their eyes registered a sense of heightened alert, so I was careful to look as nonchalant as possible while trying to gaze in the same direction. I pulled my Corona up for a sip and simultaneously pivoted my neck just enough to see Dr. Kyung Kong flanked by two ultra-slim, immaculately suited Asian men. They moved directly to the bar and Rick Ash, seeming to anticipate their arrival, pointed to a location near the back wall where he proceeded himself. Kong and Ash spoke in hushed tones while Howard and Erik both raised their eyebrows.
“Is that what I think it is?” Erik asked Howard.
“The shorter one is Dr. Kyung Kong—the man I lifted that envelope from,” he said, masking his moving lips with a pretend-swig of beer. “The other two are organized crime.”
“You know them?” I asked.
Howard nodded. “Know of them. They’re connected with a drug money laundering ring. Either they’ve left to work for Kong or he’s been the boss all along. That house seemed suspiciously opulent even for a surgeon,” he said narrowing his eyes. “Wonder what Ash has in that truck out back.”
“Civil War-era gold?” offered Erik.
“Can’t you call in the police right now?” I asked Erik as quietly as I could. “They’re criminals, right?”
“I have to be careful what I do and don’t do. There’s no cause here yet. Just some guys hanging out in a bar. Wait and see what happens.”
What happened was Rick Ash’s voice rose louder and louder as the four men huddled. The three beer drinkers at the bar had turned their heads to observe the argument, but I still couldn’t make out any words from where we sat. Eventually, Korean thugs One and Two broke away from the group. Their smart dress shoes clacked against the floor as they turned abruptly and headed toward the door. Ash and Kong exchanged a few more words, then Kong followed his friends.
The thrill factor was accelerating exponentially. First, a long-lost treasure of Gold from the Civil War days, then a urology surgeon who has sought financial reward from the seedy world of organized crime. Just when I thought things couldn’t get any juicier, they did. Because just as those Korean mobsters were marching out the door, guess who ambled in? Or rather, stumbled in.
I couldn’t believe my eyes. Again.
Dandi Booker. With a few too many margaritas in her, I suspected, by the wobble in her gait. Her eyes fell immediately on Rick Ash, whose face bore the look of a man caught in a trap. She stumbled in his direction, a venomous expression on her mascara-stained face, but then she swayed uncontrollably in the other direction and caught sight of me. Her eyes squinted as she attempted to focus in.
“Barb?” she slurred. “Ish that you, Barbara Marr, my buddy, my pal?”
Erik whispered across the table. “You know her?”
“Wish I didn’t.”
Dandi changed course and began tottering toward our table. I watched Rick Ash, whose eyes were glued on the entire scene. If body language was audible, his would be saying, “Holy crap, what do I do now?” I hadn’t yet figured out why he was so concerned, but I thought if Dandi came any closer, I just might.
Erik shrugged back into his jacket, tucked the envelope underneath, zipped up, and leaned across the table. “This looks like a good time for me to break away and make sure your friends aren’t breaking any laws.” He threw a ten dollar bill on the table. “Meet me there.”
Howard nodded an affirmative.
On his way to the front of the restaurant, Erik did some dancing in an attempt to avoid colliding with the teetering Dandi, but his footwork wasn’t fancy enough and they crashed. Dandi craned her neck upwards like an average-sized pedestrian staring up the side of the Empire State Building.
“Ain’t you a hunk o’ handshome!” she gobbled. “I’ll bet you’re a real gentleman, huh?” She peered around him to give Rick Ash the evil eye. “Not like some two-timing, cheashing, shlime-ball, jerk-wad, lying, sonuvbishes I know!”
Erik didn’t reply, but did put out a hand to keep her from falling over. Once she was semi-erect, he continued toward the door. Dandi floundered the rest of the way to our booth and careened into the seat across from Howard and me.
It looked like we were about to learn everything Dandi knew about Rick Ash, but somehow the prospect didn’t cheer me. I was still worried about Colt, not to mention the three amateur sleuths who had apparently landed on something that “wasn’t good.” I checked my cell phone to see if there was a text from Peggy or Clarence – anything to let me know they were okay. Nothing.
Dandi didn’t notice my phone check.
“Hi Barb,” she said with a lopsided smile. “Ish thish your hubby?” Her breath reeked, and I thanked our lucky stars that Big Score didn’t put candles on their tables. Otherwise, the fumes spewing off her breath would probably have ignited.
Howard was visibly tense. Across the room, Rick Ash pretended to wipe the bar down while stealing worried glances our way.
“Dandi,” I said as kindly as I could manage, “would you like a cup of coffee?”
She put her chin in her hand and stared at Howard. “Anyone ever tell you how mush you look like George Clooney?”
Howard whispered in my ear, “Call her a cab.”
She smiled, missing the whole thing.
“So,” said Howard, leaning in, putting on a friendly face. “You’re Dandi Booker?”
“Yeah, that’s me. Dandi Booker. Or Barb Haynes, like the undies with a “y” at the Fever. I saw you there, you know. You’re so cute. I wish I had a husband ash cute as you.”
Dandi was falling into a nearly comatose state of inebriation. I got on the phone and asked the 411 service to redirect me to National Taxi.
“Dandi, why did you come here?” Howard asked. “Tell me quietly, so only I hear.”
She licked her lips and rolled her eyes around. “He said he loved me. The grapes were gonna make it all better. Then they found the gold, but he still won’t leave her.” She seemed on the verge of crying.
Grapes? What the heck was she talking about?
“Sho you know what I did?” she continued. “I drove myshelf out to that farm.” Her head flopped around. “Told Orson they took his gold, that’sh what I did.” She sat back and sighed. “Sheemed like a good idea at the time.”
She was taking longer and longer between sentences and I was growing annoyed. I tried not to show it though. “Anything else?” I asked, hoping to move things along.
“I felt bad, y’know?” She attempted to blow some strands of hair from her eyes and when that didn’t work, she swiped at them angrily. “I went back, but then he wasn’t there anymore...so I called. Said I was his wife, Cherry. You like that name Cherry? I like it almost as much as Dandi, don’t you?”
“By ‘he,’ you mean—and keep this very low, Dandi—do you mean Rick Ash?”
She nodded. Her heavy eyelids were at half-mast.
“And whose wife did you pretend to be?”
“Orson’s,” she sniffed.
Okay. So Orson Sparrow owned a farm. Possibly he grew grapes? I was wishing I could slap some serious sobriety into this woman so we could get a clear
er story.
“Does Orson have a real wife?” asked Howard.
She shook her head, then raised her lids a tad. “Get me a Bloody Mary, would ya? I’m awful thirsty.”
The room was emptying out. The couple who had been seated at a booth had left shortly after Erik, and now the men at the bar were leaving as well.
Rick Ash meandered our way, trying to look a little too aloof. He put a bill on the table and glanced at Dandi.
“I, uh, know the lady,” he said. “I can take care of her from here.”
“Thanks,” said Howard, looking Rick straight in the eye. “But we’ve called her a cab. We’ll make sure she gets home safely.” He pulled a twenty from his wallet and threw it on the table with Erik’s share. “Keep the change.”
Appearing both annoyed and strained, Rick took the bills and left.
“What are we going to do?” I asked Howard. “Carry her out of here?”
“You take one side, I’ll take the other,” he said. “She can probably walk with our support.”
I did as he said, and after some very awkward shifting of arms here and legs there, we managed to start her on a trajectory for the exit. I was happy to see the taxi pull up just as we reached the door.
“Barb,” she said, blowing her tequila breath all over me. “You’re sho lucky to have a George Clooney who’s so nishe and schweet.”
“Right, right, Dandi,” I said. “I know. He’s a George Clooney in a million.”
She melted into the back seat of the taxi cab while Howard gave the driver money along with a stern order to treat her well. She had kids and a babysitter at home.
“Dandi,” I said. “Tell him your address, okay?”
She worked hard to keep her eyelids from drooping. “Sure will, Barbie, sure will.” Then she grabbed my blouse and pulled me so close to her face I thought we were about to have a Britney Spears and Madonna moment. “He hash a nickname, you know.”
“Who?” I asked, although I was pretty sure I knew the answer.
“Ricky.”
“What’s the nickname?”
Her eyelids fluttered and her head flopped back onto the seat.
“Dandi,” I urged. “What’s the nickname?”
She hauled herself back up, cupped her hand around my ear and whispered, “’The Butcher.’ They call him ‘The Butcher’.”
Chapter Thirteen
The taxi pulled off slowly while Howard and I stood on the curb wondering what to do next.
“She just told me that Rick Ash’s nickname is ‘The Butcher,’” I said. “That can’t be good for Colt if he’s caught up in this mess.”
“Did she say why?”
“Did she need to? I’m betting Orson Sparrow, also known as The Praçia in the Woods, knows why.”
He cocked his head as if giving that some thought. “Dandi riled Orson who went to the Ashes’s looking for gold found on his land; the Ashes’s killed him then butchered him.” He paused. “Maybe.”
Meanwhile, I had pulled out my cell phone.
“What are you doing?”
“Calling Peggy to see if Erik is there yet.” I scrolled down to her name and tapped call. Seconds later I heard her message. I blew out a frustrated breath while ending the call. “Voicemail.” Quickly, I tried Clarence’s phone only to achieve the same result. This was beginning to feel all too familiar. “They’re not answering. We need to get over there.”
Howard put his sights back on the restaurant. “Erik can handle things there. You get in the car and lock the door. I’ll be back in a minute.”
“Where are you going?”
“Just to ask Ash a couple more questions.”
“No! He’s ‘The Butcher,’ remember?”
“Barb, I used to do this for a living, remember?”
“Yeah, until you almost died. Remember?”
I didn’t like the idea in theory. It felt risky. And I was anxious to find my three amigos, praying they were safe, albeit silent. But Howard had a point—he and Erik were professionals. Certainly, Rick Ash wouldn’t pull out a cleaver and chop Howard to bits in a public place without provocation. I relented, deferring to Howard’s expertise.
“How many questions?”
“Two. Three tops.”
“You’ll be quick, safe, and smart?”
He put his hands on my shoulders and looked me in the eyes. Man, but he had dreamy eyes. “Always.”
“Then we’ll head over to the Ashes’s house?”
“That’s the plan.”
We kissed and parted ways. Howard headed back into the bar, which Rick had not locked up yet. I walked toward my van, one of the last in the dimly lit parking lot. The only other was a sedan on the opposite end of the lot.
I fumbled in my purse. I could hear my keys rattling around, but it was too dark to see and my groping fingers couldn’t locate them. I’d never liked being in a deserted parking lot alone, but I found it especially creepy when the accompanying establishment belonged to a man with a deadly nickname.
My hands finally locked around my key ring; at the same time, the lights of the sedan across the parking lot flicked on. I clicked the “unlock” button on the fob, but nothing happened. I muttered a curse word under my breath. I’d forgotten that the fob battery was low. An engine revved on the far side of the parking lot, and I noticed that the sedan was moving slowly in my direction. The click of a lock drew my attention to the door of the bar. Rick Ash stood inside, staring out at me through the glass door. His face was stone-hard.
Howard was in the bar. Why was Rick locking up if there was still a customer in the bar? Panic set in.
Without thinking twice, I started walking back toward the restaurant. Then I stopped, realizing that if Howard was in trouble inside the restaurant, maybe I should get my mace ready. Stopping to think turned out to be a mistake. While I was slowing down, the car was speeding up and was now making a beeline for my body. In a flash of a moment, two things happened: First, I recognized the license plate, FEEVRR, on Rita Ash’s red Mercedes E550. Second, I decided to do what action heroes do when a car is about to mow them down—I jumped onto the hood.
I have been known to pass out on occasion. I wished that now would have been one of those times, because the crushing pain of impact was worse than anything I’d ever experienced—including childbirth and being struck by a bullet at close range while wearing a Kevlar vest. Unfortunately, I did not lose consciousness before, during, or after the whole horrific incident.
After colliding with the hood, I rolled onto the windshield, cracking my head against the glass. Then I rolled farther, across the windshield and almost onto the top of the car, which by now had skidded to a hard stop. Momentum flung me forward onto the cold, hard pavement, where I landed with a thud. I was far too dazed and confused to move. My entire body throbbed, my head pounded, and bile rose in my throat. The door of the car opened and for the first time I saw Rita Ash in person. She was still dressed in sweat pants, the same ones she’d been wearing in the pictures. Her blond hair was pulled back.
My vision began to blur. A moment later I felt myself being dragged and then lifted. Someone grunted in my ear. A few moments later the world began rocking, something like being on a boat.
Although I didn’t actually lose consciousness, I did have a visit from Meryl Streep and Steven Spielberg. Usually this only happens when I’m dreaming, but apparently waking delirium was close enough.
We were in a limousine and Meryl was the driver. She had the black suit and little black hat and everything. Let me tell you, that woman looked stunning, even in her chauffeur’s uniform. She could wear a dirty rug and make it look like runway style. I could see her eyes in the rearview mirror. Steven was seated in the other seat, facing me. His hands were clasped together, his elbows
on his knees and he leaned toward me with a look of concern on his face.
The fact that I was in a limo with Meryl and Steven (that’s what I call them, Meryl and Steven—I feel so cool) gave me goose bumps. I wondered whether we might be headed for my dream destination: The Academy Awards.
“Please tell me we’re going to the Oscars,” I said to Steven.
“It ain’t good, Barb, it ain’t good,” he responded with a solemn shake of the head. He sounded more like Michael Corleone than Steven Spielberg.
“Steven, why are you talking like a Goodfella?”
“You gots a problem, here, y’know?” he continued, ignoring my question.
“Meryl,” I pleaded, “Why is he talking like this?”
“A farm in Africa, I had,” she began, not in her own voice, but that of Frank Oz’s Yoda. “At the foot of the Ngong hills, it was.”
So there I was, in a dream-limo, with an Italian Mafioso Steven Spielberg and Meryl Streep impersonating a Star Wars icon. If only we were on our way to a red-carpet walk, I thought, this dream would be so much more fun. But I couldn’t tell whether we were Oscar-bound or not, since neither of them were addressing my questions directly. You’d have thought they were presidential candidates on the debate trail. I pressed forward for answers, or a possible way out to reality.
I offered a question to the both of them. “Why am I here?”
Steven threw up his hands. “You was run over by a car, don’tchoo remember nuthin’?”
Meryl seemed to be in her own world. “Knew, perhaps he did, that made round the Earth was,” she kept reciting Yoda renditions of lines from Out of Africa, “so see down the road too far, we would not.”
Or was she in her own world? It occurred to me there was a theme—Mafia Steven talked about the car and Yoda Meryl pontificated on “seeing down the road.” Were they sending me a message?
Saturday Night Cleaver (A Barbara Marr Murder Mystery #4) Page 11