Two-Trick Pony (The Drifter Detective Book 8)
Page 9
Jack shuffled aside again for a pair of giggling teenage girls. He pushed through the crowd and nearly tripped over a mound of shoes in the suite's foyer. People filled the main room to standing capacity, though they were doing everything but standing. Most danced barefoot; some atop couches and tables. A conga line snaked its way around the edges. Watching the revel, Jack felt painfully sober.
The music bleating from a pair of hi-fidelity speakers had a familiar quality. He caught the lyrics over numbing percussion:
My little baby likes a Louisiana beat
My little woman goes for ol' southern heat
My little sugar dances on the dark side of the street
My little angel's got bayou feet!
Dix's voice, and probably Dix's trademark double bass, too. It sounded horrible, even for rock n' roll. Judging from the smiles plastered on the dancers' faces, the forced gyrations, the crowd thought so as well. Or were too drunk to care.
He drifted over to the stereo. Displayed next to it was an album entitled Dix Stricklin's Bayou Boogie, by some label called Southern Sky Records. He'd never heard of it. The current, fat version of Dix graced the cover, and there was a tall stack of complimentary copies on a nearby table. The freebies weren't getting many takers.
Despite all the promotion, there was no sign of Dix himself. Or Siti. Or Kind. Old instincts took over, prompting him to scout for booze. But instead of a champagne magnum he found Agnes, still in her chinchilla, holding court over a small buffet table. She looked distinctly alone, and more than a little drunk. Her eyes widened when she realized who'd come sidling up to her.
"Mr. Laramie! What a surprise, seeing you again. You're not here in a … professional capacity, are you?"
She kept her poise well. Probably had no idea her finking on Tom had resulted in kidnapping. Why spoil the mood? "No, no," he said, smiling, "I just heard about the party and wanted to see for myself."
"Has Tom given up persecuting poor Dr. Kind?"
"Oh, I think so. Maybe he'll decide to get with the winning team, like you." Jack picked up a canape and waved it at the crowd. "What's this all about, anyway? Promotional party?"
"For the album, yes. Dix's new material, it's just, well, fantastic."
She was frowning as she said it. Jack bobbed his head to the music, pretending to agree. "Speaking of Dix, have you seen him?"
"Ah, well, we haven't had much contact the past couple days. He's so busy—"
"I mean here. At the party."
Just like in the Carousel Club, her eyes betrayed her. She glanced past Jack at the master bedroom. "Haven't seen him anywhere."
"Kind of strange, given the party's for his record."
"Oh, he'll show at some point. He's just been so exhausted with his production schedule."
Jack eased back into the crowd. "Nice seeing you, Agnes."
Her frown-lines deepened, as if realizing she'd be left alone again. "Do say hello to Tom for me when you see him, will you? Tell him if—when—Dix's album becomes successful I'm sure he'll go back to being his generous self."
"I'll do that."
He left her there with her pitiful hope. Jesus, what some people would do for a meal ticket. The conga line high-stepped its way across his path, forcing him to either wait or join. He waited. After they passed, he wormed through the revelers outside the master bedroom. The door had been left open a hair's width. Leaning close, he could hear voices talking inside, over the tumult of the main room.
He put his eye up to the crack. It allowed a narrow view of Dix's bed, and two shapely legs dangling over the end. Attached to the legs was a pixie-cut blonde in a black cocktail dress. She had her head turned away from the door, leaning against a bald man. Percy. From the way her shoulders drooped and the near-empty bottle of Gran Mariner on the bed between them, she looked ready for a coma. Percy was whispering something to her passionately.
Jack slipped into the room. Percy heard him, but didn't bother to turn around. "Beat it," he said. "The john's occupied."
Someone had left a silver tray on the nightstand, heaped with the remains of shrimp cocktail. Jack snatched it up and swung from the waist. All the jujutsu in the world couldn't counter a sucker-blow to the head. Percy pitched forward, still conscious enough to try and stand. Jack brought the tray down on top of his dome. Silver dented. Percy groaned and slid to the floor.
"Thanks," said the blonde, woozy. "He was getting fresh."
"De nada." Jack flexed his hands; this was the second time today he'd knocked someone out without having to bruise his knuckles. "Have you seen Dix Stricklin anywhere around?"
She gestured at the bathroom door. "He's been in there for over an hour. Didn't want to talk to nobody or see his own party. Just take a bath, he said." She flopped backwards on the sheets and flailed her arms like she was making a snow-angel.
Jack pounded the door. "Mr. Stricklin? Dix? I need to have a word with you. It's urgent."
No response. He tried the knob and found it locked.
"Mr. Stricklin? Open up, please."
Not a sound from beyond the door. The lock was one of those flimsy interior jobs. "Lady, you got a nail-file, something like that?"
"I thought I saw a butter knife around here …"
He found it next to the nightstand, smeared with cheese. The thin blade slid easily between door and frame. He pushed up when it came in contact with the bolt, and turned the knob as hard as he could. After several moments of wriggling the blade snapped clean at the handle. Jack cursed, leaned back, and kicked just beneath the lock. The door burst a hinge as it slammed inwards.
Steam billowed out. He could see Dix's hazed outline sitting upright in a claw-foot tub. A thin stream ran from faucet to water, which had reached the point of spilling over the tub's side in little rivulets.
Jack's breath caught. Swirls of crimson tinged the bath.
Dix's eyes were open and empty, his head tilted back. Not breathing. His skin had turned so white from blood loss it looked pale blue.
"Lady, call the cops," Jack said, loud enough for the blonde to hear. He took a couple steps closer, peering at Dix's hairless chest. It wasn't moving. On the floor, next to one of the tub's clawed feet, lay a straight razor. Dix must've tossed it after slashing his wrists.
"You hear me, lady?"
He turned. The blonde had passed out atop the bed. She'd been joined by new company, though. And they were both very conscious.
"I'm not going to bother asking how you got out," Siti said, her black heels stepping over Percy's slumped form. The little .22 was in her grip and pointed at Jack. She must keep the damn thing welded to her wrist. Kind hovered beside her, his pipe clenched so firmly in his teeth the stem looked ready to snap.
"Back against the wall," Siti said. "And don't make a sound."
Jack's feet moved of their own accord. When he'd complied, she said: "Good. Now sit down. I can see you're packing this time, so lean forward and touch your fingers against your toes."
He did so—with difficulty. The bathroom tiles felt cold and slick beneath his backside.
Kind shut the door behind them. It sagged a little on its busted hinge.
"Neither of you look surprised about old Dix, here," Jack said.
"We didn't touch him." There was something akin to triumph in Siti's voice.
"He's a troubled man," Kind added.
"Was," Jack said. "But I suppose a coroner will have to confirm that. You know, I didn't figure what your angle was until I heard Dix's album a couple minutes ago. It's terrible. Worse than that movie you got him in. There's no way he could make a comeback, unless …"
"You can't prove a thing," Kind said.
"… unless he up and dies. A celebrity suicide's the best publicity anyone could ask for, and it won't cost you a cent. The morbid curiosity alone ought to boost sales."
Kind seemed rattled enough to take the pipe out of his mouth. "He took his own life, Laramie. Not me."
"But you drove him to it, didn'
t you? Gave him sugar pills instead of medicine, humiliated him in front of the camera. Siti probably turned a couple screws, too. She's good at that."
She shook her head. "You're the dumbest hick I've ever seen. You don't know when to keep your mouth shut, do you?"
"We don't have to kill him, darling," Kind said, putting a hand on her shoulder. "None of this will stick in court."
"He can charge us with kidnapping. Me, anyway. His buddy Reiss is probably talking to the cops right now.
"But honey, we're at a party …"
Annoyed, Siti batted his hand away. The motion caused her dress heels to wobble on the wet tile. She slipped, doing a little jig in mid-air to try and regain her balance, before crashing against the side of the tub.
For a brief moment Jack considered making a grab for the razor, but logic dictated otherwise. He moved faster than he thought possible, faster than he'd ever managed in his twenties, reaching into his jacket to draw the Colt. Its worn steel barrel gleamed under the fluorescent lights. Between heartbeats he leveled the gun at Siti's prone form, as her own slender hand lined the .22 with his chest.
Blam.
The big caliber round struck cheekbone, caving in half her lovely face. Siti's head snapped back. Simultaneously, the .22 spat fire and plaster sprayed inches above Jack's shoulder.
She didn't even twitch.
"That," he said, "was for Joe Crewes."
Kind burst into motion. He bent, hands scrabbling towards Siti's little gun.
Jack shot him.
He pulled the trigger, anyway. The antique Colt, long overdue for cleaning, weakened after countless high-powered rounds, gave a final bark of protest. The barrel exploded in a white flash, peeling back like a banana-skin. Brittle steel gouged Jack's forehead. He couldn't see the chunks of metal against the sudden glare, but he felt their impact, and the waves of numbing blackness that followed.
Finally bought it, he thought. And with my own gun.
EPILOGUE
When the Texas sun set, and the moon came up to turn the highways into rivers of pale silver, a lone rider lit out to drift. He drove a rumbling, cantankerous car built before a great World War, and the treacherous engine inside didn't have much fight. It stranded him at last along a barren stretch, where the skeletons of tumbleweeds rattled past. Jack got out and walked.
Ghost-buzzards circled the stars, but he kept his eyes fixed forward, shuffling tireless, until the sun rose and faded him from sight.
†
About the Author
Garnett Elliott lives and works in Tucson, Arizona. He's had stories appear in Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, Needle: A Magazine of Noir, Reloaded (Both Barrels 2), Uncle B's Drive-In Fiction, Blood and Tacos, Battling Boxing Stories, and numerous online magazines and print anthologies. You can follow him on Twitter @TonyAmtrak.
More from the "DRIFTER DETECTIVE" series:
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