Hard Place

by Douglas Stewart

  “Inside.” Her tone was decisive and Ratso looked at her with the slightest question on his face. “It’s gonna rain in ten minutes, mebbe even five.” They headed to a table away from everyone else in the bar. “You met Bucky this morning?”

  “Seems like years ago but yes. Over pancakes.”

  “That’s his daily fix. Never varies but that guy just never puts on weight.” She laughed, flicking her hair so that it danced around the back of her neck before settling.

  Ratso was about to comment when the sound of torrential rain started beating down on the corrugated roof. “You’re in the wrong job. How about TV weather presenter?”

  She smiled, a gentle one, perhaps even affectionate. “You mean I’m a lousy cop?” She spoke in a slow drawl with an impish look on her face. Ratso guessed she had been brought up somewhere else in the Deep South, maybe America’s Bible Belt.

  Ratso laughed, liking the way she had turned his comment around. “Sending you here on a job this sensitive—that says it all.”

  “Well, thank you, kind sir,” she replied, raising her glass to chink it with his. “You Brits sure know how to say all the right things. I gotta tell you, I’m a ways outta my comfort zone doing this.” She let her deep blue eyes linger on him for a moment or so too long.

  Ratso looked away. This Kirsty-Ann was cool, über-cool. He leaned forward so she could hear him above the rat-a-tat-tat of the rain on the roof. He smelled no perfume but vaguely recognised lavender soap. It was fresh and not overpowering. “Your chief explained you got one hand tied behind your back.”

  “Is that what Bucky said?” She shook her head. “He’s wrong. It’s both hands.”

  “Looking with one eye shut,” Ratso replied confidently, adopting an expression on the hoof that seemed to fit what she was doing.

  “Nuts to that, Todd! There’s a hidden agenda up in DC. I call it perverting the truth. Concealing reality, if you will.” She grabbed a handful of pistachios and munched angrily for a moment, her serene face now revealing her inner confusion. “Not my scene. My job is to catch criminals, investigate crimes, not to play CYA games for politicians in the State Department. When I started checking on Ruthven, I made a good breakthrough. I was excited, just hoping to see it through.” She shook her head, eyes lowered. “And now I’m … you know … Washington’s gofer.” She tossed her head dismissively.

  Ratso sympathised, knowing he would have felt the same. “You mean both eyes shut?”

  “Maybe that’s what DC wants but Bucky, no way he would agree to that. Sure, Todd, I can look—maybe even find. But anything I uncover goes to Bucky, no media, no local cops. Bucky tells the guys in DC and …”

  “Nothing more happens unless it suits the suits.” Ratso finished her explanation with a chuckle. “You’ve got to think big picture. If I’m right, this Lance Ruthven guy was helping a power broker called Adnan Shirafi in Afghanistan. Did you know that? Come to that, I don’t know what you know!”

  Kirsty-Ann laughed. “Assume I know nothing.”

  Ratso leaned forward. “For starters, Shirafi is king of the drug trade from Afghanistan but he’s off-limits, a no-go zone; he’s just too big in DC and London. Besides recent opportunities for contact in Kabul, Ruthven and Shirafi were at Harvard together.”

  The American looked impressed. “I did not know that.” Each word was articulated to emphasise how important the information was.

  “But I bet someone knows that up in DC. They just keep it close. Anyway, Shirafi deserves life sentences, keys thrown away.” He drained his drink. “You want some Coke with your ice this time round?”

  She rocked back her head. “Your British humor slays me.”

  He ordered more for them both. “The lives that bastard has ruined. But he’s not even on my radar. Shirafi sits at God’s right side and together with a guy called Boris Zandro, they dominate the European drug industry. But I can’t prove it. Yet!”

  “And if you did?”

  “Zandro will get life. Shirafi will remain untouchable.”

  “So you and me both then. Same boat.” They laughingly chinked glasses.

  Ratso paused to wipe the steam from the window, watching the rain bounce off the stacked chairs on the patio. “If you can prove Ruthven probably drowned, no I guess might have is closer, what happens next is for them in Washington. I guess they might like that. My position is worse.” He deliberately displayed one of his best smiles, demonstrating that the burden was light on his shoulders. “I’m here to find out why Bardici was here but if he killed Lance Ruthven, then either I bury the truth … or bury my career.” He chopped his right hand sharply downwards.

  “So give—tell me what’s going on.” Her eyes extended an invitation that was hard to refuse. Though her hands never moved, Ratso felt as if she were caressing his arm to encourage him.

  “It’ll take time.”

  “Time I got.” It was her turn to grin but it was sardonic. “Tomorrow I’m to follow up information received—that someone was seen snorkelling the weekend Ruthven disappeared. Infer a shark attack. My guess, there were hundreds snorkelling.” She grabbed the menu. “Wantabite?”

  “Is that what one shark said to the other?” Ratso’s comment stopped her short and she laughed so infectiously that he joined in. Though he had barely digested the fries from lunch, he wanted to be with her. “Yeah, I could murder some fresh conch, squeeze of lime. How about you?”

  “A green salad. I’ll order. This is on FLPD, by the way. No expense spared—not till you put in the expenses claim, that is.” She made her way to the counter, her long legs and backside shown off to perfection by the pale pink hip-hugging slacks that didn’t seem to be slack anywhere at all. Ratso watched her chatting freely to the bartender, her face quite angular in profile, her nose slightly beaky and commanding. There was certainly a don’t mess vibe in her demeanour until she laughed or smiled, when her aura changed to I don’t bite really. Ratso found the mixed message to be a real turn-on but he guessed with looks like hers, she was bound to be propositioned constantly. Her deep pink cutaway vest top, decorated front and back with a couple of palm trees, showed off her breasts—slightly larger than average. Ratso bet no surgical enhancement; if he was right, Kirsty-Ann was a no-nonsense type who would never have contemplated silicone.

  When she returned, Ratso gave her a potted version of the painstaking efforts to nail Zandro. She was a good listener, only asking occasional but very pertinent questions. When he finished, she turned to the matter in hand. “So you have our Homeland Security pictures of both men, right?”

  “Yes. And my pal in the Bahamas police here is using them right now. On a pretext.” He spotted her concern. “Relax. Low-key. He understands where I’m coming from.”

  “Anything I can do for you?”

  There was no hint of flirtatiousness in her remark and Ratso played a straight dead bat. “Did you find out where Ruthven was staying? Did he have a hired car? Was it parked near a beach or returned to the airport?”

  “No idea. Not yet. But I have no plans to go to every beach looking for a neat pile of Ruthven’s clothes.”

  “Some of what I might discover may be, well, inconvenient in Washington.” Ratso looked thoughtful and rather sombre but then he brightened. “But with luck, I may not need to check out car rentals, hotels, bars, clubs. It all depends what I get from the shipyard.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning if both Bardici and Lance Ruthven went there, I’ve got the connection.”

  “And the ship?”

  “We’re working on who paid for it—the name of the owners, who is to be the master and so on.”

  “You may look confident,” she paused, “and don’t take this wrong but to me you sound, oh, kinda worried. Cautious maybe.”

  “Do I?” He had hoped it hadn’t shown. “Bitter e
xperience, I suppose. It’s like Snakes and Ladders. Up the ladder only to slide down a snake!” Ratso grinned ruefully and shrugged. “Let’s change the subject, shall we?”

  Kirsty-Ann leaned forward. “Sometime … oh, hell, right now—let me tell you about the stuff I’m dodging back in Fort Lauderdale.” She took a deep breath and then began. “I’m being investigated regarding a fatality.” She clasped her hands so tightly that the joints cracked. In a few clipped sentences, she gave Ratso the details. “So, it gets me down—the media, the assholes who phone in to the local radio stations, the tweets, the hate messages. Being over here is an escape from it.” She looked up and Ratso saw the bitterness in her eyes.

  For a fleeting second, Ratso brushed his hand across hers in a gesture of solidarity. “It’ll blow over. I’d trust your chief. Bucky will back you. Anyway, something else will catch the public imagination. Your story will die.”

  “You’re some listener, Todd. Thank you. Now let’s talk about something else. This was kinda funny. After I checked in last night, the concierge at my hotel must have thought I needed some male company. He told me about the Red Poppy Bar just along from my hotel.”

  “I saw it.”

  “He said if I wanted hot dates or to chill out some, that was the place.”

  “Right! I saw the sign outside saying THE Singles Joint.”

  “I didn’t need any hot dates. Or cold ones, come to that.” Her eyes danced as she spoke. “But anyways, I checked it out. Sure is a great pick-up joint. But not for a homebody like me. My priority back home is Leon, my baby son, not listening to testosterone-charged men in bars hoping for a one-nighter.”

  Ratso nearly asked what her priority was when she was not in Fort Lauderdale but there was an iciness in her eyes that warned don’t go there. His mental image of Kirsty-Ann was falling apart. “Your husband? He in the police?”

  “I’m a single mom now. My husband was murdered in the line of duty. He was FBI. Now it’s just me, my mom and baby Leon.”

  “I’m sorry.” Ratso waited for further details but none came. “But the Red Poppy. Why were you telling me? You see a glint in my eye? You reckon I’m testosterone-charged?”

  “No way,” she laughed. “Hey, that sounds kinda insulting whatever I answer! I was thinking about where you would find loose tongues. A place the crew of your ship or the shipyard workers might go to get laid.”

  Ratso wiped the remains of lemon juice from his mouth. “I like it. This Red Poppy could be useful.” He watched her push aside her empty plate. “When do you leave the island?”

  “After I’ve found a store owner who thinks he rented snorkelling gear or a wetsuit to a guy looking like Kurtner. Or any pointer.” She paused thoughtfully. “Or I’m getting nowhere. So maybe a coupla days.”

  “But as I said to Bucky, Ruthven never came here. Sounds like someone is interested in why he came here but dare not admit it.”

  “And no Feds involved. Fool’s errand isn’t it! But perhaps we can meet up, exchange news? Tomorrow evening.”

  “Sure. I’d like that. And some escape from work.”

  “Do we ever escape? Still, it sounds good to me.” Ratso looked out of the window, which was still wet with the rain. “It’s nearly stopped. Shall we?” He started to rise and she followed but neither moved away from the window. They stood, side by side, watching the rain dripping down from the trees and the roof above them.

  “You’ll be back in England for Christmas?”

  “I’m working there on Christmas Eve. We’re piggy in the middle—one gang stealing another’s gear. Could turn nasty.”

  “Some thief in red with a beard going down the chimney?”

  “Not a ho-ho-ho will be heard, I can tell you.” He paused to adjust his shirt, which was clinging unpleasantly to his back. “My Christmas present to myself will be banging up a few thugs and hopefully nabbing a key distributor.”

  “You’ll be in charge?”

  “Not at the scene. I’m leading the planning but the County of Sussex will provide what we call the Tactical Firearms Unit. They’ll handle the heavy stuff, even though I’m trained and allowed to carry a weapon.”

  “Take care, then. You don’t want to be caught in a shootout.”

  “Yeah. I’m working on a plan.”

  She nodded abstractedly, obviously deep in thought and then glanced at her watch. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna ring Mom and say hi to Leon. If I wait till I’m at my hotel, he’ll be asleep.” Moments later, they had parted, an awkward moment when neither party wanted to be so formal as to shake hands or to be so relaxed as to throw in a hug. They parted very simply with a warm smile. Ratso hurried toward his car, the rain still dripping from the palms that lined the beach. As he walked away, Kirsty-Ann’s eyes followed his every step till he reached his car, admiring the athletic figure with the languid gait. Only then did she turn her attention to her phone.

  Before Ratso had even started the engine, his phone rang. It was Darren Roberts. “I’ve some news.”

  “Good or bad?”

  “Urgent.”

  “Let’s meet at the Red Poppy Bar.”

  “You wanna go there?”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Freeport, Grand Bahama Island

  After a swift shower and a change of clothes, Ratso approached the Red Poppy Bar. The evening air was fresh after the rain. The dust and windblown sand had all settled beneath a cloudless dusk and the drying foliage exuded scents to mask drifting diesel fumes and the salty sea tang. The unmade track to the beach had turned to reddish mud and his canvas shoes soon had a dirty rim around each sole. He enjoyed the image of DCI Caldwell ruining his poncy loafers as he squelched along here. Yes, I like that a lot! As he dodged the puddles, every step revealed his sense of purpose, what with action in Cyprus, Gibraltar, London clubs, Brighton and now right here. Dead-end streets now seemed to be opening up.

  I’m coming to get you, Boris Zandro.

  But who was JF? He still needed background about Terry Fenwick’s partners. The F pointed to Fenwick but Tosh had texted that his brother’s name was Adrian. Tosh was now checking on Google for Albanian surnames beginning with F in West London. “Like looking for a Mr Chin or Mr Li in Beijing,” Tosh had muttered on being instructed.

  At the large mat outside the entrance, he paused to scrape off the worst of the mud, noting with irritation that some had splashed onto his sandy slacks. Above the double doors was the garish red strip lighting depicting a poppy. The bar was barely a mile from the shipyards, as the crow flew—conveniently close for ships’ crews to drop by. And it looked the type of place where loose tongues might wag after a few beers or stronger. Beyond the low-rise housing, he saw the distant, powerful overhead lights and the towering height of a giant cruise ship. From somewhere in that direction came the rumble of cranes. Though he could not see the Nomora, just knowing it was there quickened his pulse.

  He pushed through the swing doors and was surprised how quiet the bar was. Not in terms of sound, because the thump of heavy metal shuddered round the dimly lit room. It was spacious but the dark colors and the alcoves and booths for canoodling made it seem smaller. Apparently, the island’s fast set had yet to appear. Ratso glanced toward each corner, wondering if the inspector was tucked away at a table behind a flickering candle. He took in the rock-star artefacts, the fishing nets, the conch shells, the stuffed flying fish and a blue marlin that all somehow blended to create the ambience.

  Satisfied that Darren Roberts had not arrived, he swaggered toward the bar. Sitting at a table with a clear view of the door was a group of young women. Ratso reckoned by their raised voices and raucous laughter that they had been hitting the rum for several hours, maybe young Americans on a bachelorette party. Judging by the hungry way they eyed Ratso as he crossed the room, they were already flying. Quite reluctantly but with
a cheery smile and wave, he refused an invitation to join them and headed for the line of barstools.

  He shuffled up beside a couple of local girls who looked drugged out and who he assumed were anybody’s for a hundred bucks, perhaps even less. Their full lips were caked with red lipstick and their once unblemished skin was coated with blusher to highlight their cheekbones. The prettier one, relatively speaking, had dyed her hair a deep red to match her lips; the other had her hair close-cropped. She must have thought this improved her looks but Ratso reckoned it added ten years to her clapped-out eighteen.

  The redhead gave him a tired smile but Ratso simply nodded hello and turned to the bull of a barman, who asked him his pleasure. Ratso ordered a Hurricane, picking it at random from the list of cocktails he had been handed. He stood, one elbow on the bar, watching in disbelief as the barman filled an hourglass-shaped goblet with dark rum, coffee liqueur, Irish cream and Grand Marnier. A green parasol, pieces of pineapple and a cherry added to the Del Boy appearance. He sipped cautiously, liked the flavor and so sucked a hefty draft through the twin straws as he skirted the empty dance floor and settled in a booth close to the pool table.

  He had almost drained the glass when Darren appeared, beaming hugely as he crossed the room. “What you drinking, mon?”

  “A Hurricane.”

  Darren’s eyes rolled in amusement. “You looking to get laid tonight?”

  “No plans but …” He grinned “Right now I’m flying high.”

  “That’s just fine, Todd, ’cos I got good and bad news.”

  “Better get me another Hurricane, then. More rum, less Irish cream.” As he waited for Darren’s return, he gazed at a faded photo of Freddie Mercury, arm defiantly raised. As if from nowhere the red-headed hooker appeared close to him, her large backside bulging around her white denim hot pants. She stopped beside the pool table and gave him what she assumed was a sly and sexy come-on. She picked up a cue, turned it upside down and suggestively stroked the thick end, rolling her eyes in apparent ecstasy. As her performance ended, she gave Ratso a huge wink of her false eyelash. “How ’bout it, big boy?” she suggested.