Bitter Sweets

by G. A. McKevett

  “Thanks, I reckon.” Tears of rage flooded her eyes and she could hardly see the road. “So, are you going to do it?” she said, “Are you going to take me in?”

  She heard him clear his throat. “Would you rather come on in. . . . on your own?”

  “Sure.”

  “Good, I’m relieved to hear that. When?”

  “After I run some errands.”

  “Oh.” He sounded less relieved. “And how long will that take?”

  “Look, Dirk,” she said, trying to sound patient and as strong as she wished she were. “I know your hindquarters are dangling over a hot skillet here, and I don’t want to make things any worse for you than they need to be. But I’ve got work to do. And I’m not going to find Earl Mallock if I’m sitting in that damned station house, getting the third degree from Bloss.”

  He didn’t say anything for so long that she thought they might have been disconnected. Finally: “Okay, Van, I haven’t heard from you, and at least for the moment, I can’t find you. All right?”

  “I love you.”

  She knew that would get his goat. Dirk could handle street violence, criminal brutality, public controversy, and the occasional whack upside the head, but he couldn’t cope with affection.

  “Yeah, right. Talk to you later. Good luck.”

  “You, too.”

  She made a U-turn at the next light and headed back toward the beach and the Shoreline Club. No going home. No raspberry cheesecake. Not now.

  Not until she had some more answers. . . . or at least fewer questions.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Savannah had been in worse dives than the Shoreline Club, but it had been a long time. Just walking into the place made her feel like a full-fledged yuppie. She appeared to be the only one wearing anything other than torn denim, black leather, and enough chain and assorted metal to rebuild the fleet of classic Harleys that were parked outside.

  One sniff of the stale booze and rancid smoke mixed with pungent human sweat told her she was probably the only individual in the joint who had recently bathed.

  The Shoreline had a definite “nautical” motif: a couple of stuffed fish on the wall, nets strung across the ceiling that were embellished with an intricate lacing of cobwebs. The bar was covered with a thick layer of clear resin coating which sported an assortment of hooks, sinkers, bobbers, and lures.

  On the barstool nearest the door sat a couple of scrungy Hell’s Angels rejects. The chubby one had a bright red scar that bisected his face diagonally. Apparently, the doctor who had stitched him hadn’t bothered to line everything up first. He gave her a lopsided grin as she walked by and whispered something to his skinny, hunchbacked buddy about, “Fresh tuna swimmin’ upstream.”

  Savannah resisted the instinctive urge to give him a swift karate kick to the groin. That would require bodily contact, and the thought made her shudder.

  Not seeing anyone attending the bar, she walked to the opposite end and sat down on a stool, as far away as possible from Humpty and Dumpty. The wide, ragged cracks in the stool’s vinyl pinched her rear, and when she leaned her elbows on the bar, she found it sticky.

  A speaker, mounted on an “L” bracket over her head, crackled and spit out a “cryin’ in my beer over you” country song.

  Starving, Savannah grabbed the nearest bowl of peanuts and began munching on them. She would have preferred the chocolate-covered cashews in her crystal candy dish at home, but a calorie was a calorie.

  At the other end of the bar, Dumpty hitched his belt up over his tractor tire – sized stomach and waggled his tongue obscenely at her. Opening her own mouth wide, she showed him her half-chewed peanuts.

  “Gross,” he said, his libido bubble apparently pricked. Picking up his beer and his change off the bar, he retired to the back corner of the room.

  Reliable old “see” food.. . .works every time, she thought. Experience had taught her that a lot of perverts had weak stomachs. She had often told the women in her self-defense classes that one of the most effective ways to interrupt a rape was to barf on your attacker.

  “Good move,” said a female voice beside her. “I’ll have to remember that one.”

  Turning on her stool, Savannah saw she was no longer alone at this end of the bar. Alan Logan’s description hadn’t been exaggerated at all. She truly was over six feet tall, broad-shouldered, and street-rugged.

  From what Alan had said, Savannah had been expecting one of those questionable red shades of hair that was too blue to be real. But Vanessa Whatever-her-name-was had hair the color of a grape-flavored soft drink.

  Savannah might have thought it was a wig, but it was only an inch and a half long and stuck straight out from her scalp. Savannah considered the possibility that she was a platinum blonde who had been dipped, headfirst, in Easter egg dye.

  She wore equally purple jeans that bristled with metal studs and a tee shirt.

  Savannah offered her hand. “Hi, are you Vanessa?” she asked.

  “Yep.” She returned the handshake only briefly across the bar. Her skin was cold, damp, and a little pruned. An occupational hazard, Savannah decided, for someone who spent most of her day handling ice and cold drinks. “What can I get for you?” she asked.

  “A minute of your time?”

  Vanessa’s dark eyes narrowed. Apparently, trust wasn’t one of her greatest personality traits.

  “Time for what?”

  “A girl to girl talk.”

  Vanessa crossed her multibangled arms over the front of her black “Shoreline” tee shirt with its fluorescent purple lettering. “Are you a cop?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Why not?”

  “They kicked me out.”

  Vanessa’s frown instantly melted, replaced by a grin. That seemed to be all the personal recommendation she needed.

  “If the cops got rid of you, you must be all right,” she said with a conviction that Savannah found a bit frightening. “Who are you looking for?”

  “Earl. Earl Mallock.”

  The arms went back over the front of the tee shirt, the grimace back on the face. “Why?”

  “I just want to talk to him.”

  Vanessa studied her thoughtfully for a moment, then Savannah thought she saw a light of realization switch on in her eyes. “Hey. . . . what’s your name, anyway?”

  “Savannah Reid.”

  That did it. Vanessa recognized the name instantly, and Savannah could practically see the purple fuzz bristling on her head.

  “I think you better get outta here. Fast.” Vanessa didn’t bother to lower her voice, and several of the nearby customers stopped talking and perked their ears to listen.

  “Why should I? After all, your boyfriend came to me. He contacted me first, but then, I guess you know all about that.”

  “I don’t know anything.”

  She was flat-ass lying. Savannah could see it in her eyes. She knew at least as much as Savannah knew, and probably a lot more. But she wasn’t going to give up a thing.

  “Earl’s in a lot of trouble,” Savannah said, knowing there was no way to pull this one out of the fire, but she had to try. “You could help him if you’d just tell me how to get in touch with him.”

  “Help him? You want me to help him by turning him over to you. Yeah, right, lady. Now get the hell outta my place before I have you thrown out.”

  “Your place? You own this club?”

  “That’s right, and you’re trespassing.” Vanessa turned to the corner where Savannah’s previous admirer was sitting. “Hey, Joe, you want to show this gal the parking lot?”

  Whoop-de-do, she thought. This was just what she needed . . . . to get up close and personal with Joe Dumpty.

  “I’m leaving. I’m leaving.” She held up both hands in surrender as she slid off the stool and headed for the door. “But. . . . next time you see Earl, you tell him that there’s a whole heap of people who want to see him right now. We know what he did, and we aren’t going to stop un
til we’ve got him.”

  She paused for a breath and to let her words sink in. Apparently, Vanessa was listening, because she was getting a bit pale around the gills, like the cobwebby, stuffed fish on the wall.

  “It’s not a question of whether anybody finds him,” Savannah continued, “just of who nabs him first. And you tell him that, so far, the odds are on me, ’cause I’m the maddest.”

  On the way back to her car, Savannah glanced around the parking lot and spotted a bright purple Trans Am sitting near the rear entrance. The color was startlingly vivid, even in the dim light of the setting sun.

  Gee, wonder whose that might be? she told herself.

  She memorized the plates, then got into her Camaro. As she was jotting down the number, her phone rang.

  With some misgivings, she answered it. “Yes?”

  “Hi, Savannah, it’s Tammy.”

  “Thank the stars.” She wasn’t up for another round with Bloss or even Dirk. “What’s up?”

  “Alan Logan sued Earl Mallock . . . . for illegal bookkeeping practices that led to the demise of their business. Logan won.”

  “Mmmm. . . . so that’s what Alan was talking about. Interesting, though I don’t know what that might have to do with Lisa’s death.”

  “Sorry. I thought it might help.”

  Tammy sounded so disappointed that Savannah could have bitten her tongue. The kid needed to stay busy; it was the only way to heal her heart.

  “Everything helps, honey. Good work. I have something else for you, if you don’t mind.”

  “Of course not.” She perked up instantly. “What is it?”

  “Call Denise Harmon at the station. She should be on the desk by now. Ask her to run this plate for us.” She read her the Trans Am’s letters and numbers. “If we’re lucky, we’ll come up with the address where Earl may be staying.”

  “Really?” Her voice sounded thick, desperately hopeful. “Do you think that’s where the little girl is now?”

  Savannah thought of Christy’s message, frantically scribbled with a red crayon in the Pocahontas coloring book. “Ah, Tammy,” she said, feeling the ever-increasing sense of urgency that was twisting her nerves into knots. “From your mouth to the good Lord’s ears.”

  Savannah was relieved to see that Captain More Gun’s didn’t close at six o’clock, along with most of the other downtown stores. Apparently, survivalist/gun enthusiast types shopped later than the usual boutique/cappucino bar patrons.

  Hurrying through the door, she mentally rehearsed her string of white lies that would hopefully garner some information about Earl Mallock. Something told her he spent a lot of time here.

  Reeking of cordite and excessive testosterone, the store contained everything any self-respecting anarchist could want: guns, knives, flak jackets, camouflage, and K rations. And, of course, powder, primers, brass casings, and lead slugs—all the ingredients necessary to make your own bullets from scratch.

  On the wall to her left hung a large poster of a Rambo-wanna-be, bristling with guns, knives, grenades, and rocket launchers. He was covered with sweat and grime, his fatigues ripped, veins popping on exaggerated muscles. No doubt, some males’ idea of sex appeal.

  A large Confederate flag nearly covered the back wall, and the sight of it gave her a little twang of homesickness. Good ol’ Dixie. Magnolia trees gently draped with Spanish moss, tall glasses of iced tea with sprigs of fresh mint, and sultry summer nights.

  But after seeing the two yahoos behind the counter the sweetness of nostalgia faded, and she decided that the rebel flag might have different significance for the store’s owners.

  “Yo, darlin, what can we do you for?” said the guy who was wiping down a Sig Sauer. The second one guffawed at his partner’s attempt at humor, and Savannah thought of every Jeff Foxworthy redneck joke she had ever heard. Certain scenes from Deliverance came to mind, too.

  Gee, that was a real knee-slapper, she thought, but she plastered a smile on her face and sauntered over to the counter.

  “Actually, I’m looking for a fellow, who—”

  “Hey, got one for you right here! His name’s J.T.” He gave the other guy a gouge in the ribs with the barrel of the pistol he was cleaning. Savannah cringed, amazed at some people’s lack of common sense when handling firearms. “Course, if you want somebody more prettier,” he said, “you’ll have to settle for me. I’m Bobbie.”

  “Thank you, Bobbie. But it’s a particular gentleman I have in mind,” she said, slathering on the Southern charm. “I met him at a gun show down at the fairgrounds last month. His first name is Earl, I believe, and his last might be something like. . . . Bullock or. . . .”

  “Mallock?”

  “Yeah, that’s it.”

  The twosome exchanged knowing looks and giggled like a couple of adolescent boys over a Penthouse.

  “What you want with Earl Mallock?” J.T. asked.

  “Yeah,” Bobbie added. “What’s he got that we don’t got?”

  “A Colt Sportster. He said he might sell it to me if the offer was right. I’ve been saving my pennies, and I’m ready to take it off his hands.”

  “What does a lady like yourself need with a high-powered carbine?” J.T. wanted to know.

  She smiled and deepened her dimples. “Home protection.”

  “Where do you live, sugar, Fort Knox?”

  Rather than disappoint him, she chuckled, then leaned across the counter, ignoring the cigar that smoldered in a tray under her nose. “Seriously, do you know where I might find him?”

  “You don’t need Earl. We got Sportsters.” Bobbie—whom she had dubbed Yahoo Number One—lifted a rifle from the wall rack behind the counter and laid it in front of her.

  “I’d need extra magazines.” She picked up the Sportster and checked the breech, finding it empty.

  “Got ’em,” he said.

  She slammed the block home, swung the gun to her shoulder, expertly sighted at the poster boy’s crotch, and squeezed off a dry shot. “And steel-jacketed ammo?”

  His eyes widened, and she could see that he was quickly falling deeply in lust with her. “I’ll get you some,” he said, far too eagerly. He lowered his voice and leaned into her face. “I’ll get you anything you want, sweet thing. Anything at all.”

  “Why. . . . thank you so much, kind sir,” she said, batting her lashes. Abruptly, she dropped the rifle onto the counter, along with her demure act, and fixed him with blue lasers. “But my mind is made up. I want Earl’s gun. Do you know where I can find him, or not?”

  “Well, I . . . . I don’t know. . . .” He turned to his friend. “What do you think, J.T.? Should we—?”

  “Get her phone number, Bobbie. Yeah, that’s it. Get her number and we’ll have Earl call her. How’s that?”

  Bobbie gave him a look of deep appreciation. “That’s good.” He turned back to Savannah. “Leave your number, honey bunch, and we’ll tell Earl you’re looking for him.”

  Tired and disgusted, Savannah left a few minutes later. She was no closer to finding Earl Mallock or Christy. Her head ached, she was weak with hunger, and her spirits were dragging the pavement.

  But she could take satisfaction in imagining the look on J.T.’s and Bobbie’s faces when they called the number she had given them and spoke to the no-nonsense, not-so-benevolent despot, Sister Mary Theresa, who ran the local rescue mission. Best case scenario: They might even be dumb enough to ask Sister for a date. . . .

  The moment Savannah heard Tammy’s voice on her car phone, she knew something was wrong.

  “Savannah, could you come home, right away? Please!”

  Immediately, Savannah did a U-turn on Harrington and headed the car toward home. “Tammy, what is it? Are you crying?”

  “A little. It’s just that. . . . well. . . . someone is here and. . . .”

  Savannah’s heart leapt as she imagined the worst. “Mallock?”

  “No, the colonel. He’s here in the office, and he wants to talk to you, an
d he says it’s all our fault that something’s happened to his daughter and—”

  “Tammy, listen to me.” She gripped the wheel, fighting her temper. Sure, the man must be worried out of his mind, but that was no excuse for. . . . “You take the colonel into my sitting room and tell him to ‘Sit’, then get him a cup of coffee. Stick it in his hand, leave the room, and close the door firmly behind you. Lock it if necessary to keep him in there, but don’t put up with any more guff off him. Got that?”

  “Yeah. And Savannah. . . . thanks.”

  “No sweat, kiddo. I’ll be there in four minutes, five tops.”

  She put the Camaro’s pedal to the metal. Maybe three and a half.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Savannah stood in the middle of her living room, staring up into the angriest eyes she had seen in ages. “Colonel Neilson,” she said, keeping her voice low and even, “I’m going to assume that you are, at heart, a gentleman, and this momentary lapse in your manners is due to the fact that you are overwrought with grief.”

  The moment she had walked through the front door, he had verbally attacked her, calling her names that—as Granny Reid would put it—“No man should say and no lady should hear.”

  In the corner of the room stood Tammy, still quietly crying. Apparently, the colonel had not accepted her offer of refreshments or obeyed the command to “sit.”

  “You’re damned right, I’m overwrought,” he said. “You saw what he did to my baby. That bastard had her trussed up like an animal. And he shot her in the head like a . . . .”

  His voice broke and she thought he was going to start sobbing, but he seemed to rally. She could see the war of emotions in his eyes, the grief versus the fury. It was a battle she had seen every day when she had patrolled the streets.

  Rage won.

  “And you led him straight to her.” Neilson’s fists were tight balls at his sides. “For all I know, you helped him do it.”

  “Surely, you don’t believe that, Colonel.”

  She could smell the heavy odor of liquor on his breath as he leaned close to her. For a moment he swayed on his feet and she thought he might go down.