Out of the Past
A Reed Ferguson Mystery
First Digital Edition published by Llama Press
copyright 2014 by Renée Pawlish
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
The author gratefully acknowledges all those who helped in the writing of this book, especially: Beth Hecker, Beth Treat, and Janice Horne. If I've forgotten anyone, please accept my apologies.
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Out of the Past
CHAPTER ONE
“Put your hands up.” The voice snarled, low and menacing. At the same time, I felt something jammed into my back, and I had a pretty good idea what it was.
I was playing pool at B52’s, a bar near my condo. I’d just headed down a long hallway that led to the bathrooms, and now this.
“I said ‘hands up’,” the guy insisted. He leaned in close and I got a whiff of cheap cologne. The gun pushed deeper into my back.
I slowly raised my hands and pressed my palms to the wall, then glanced over my shoulder. “ ‘Put your hands up’. Isn’t that a bit of a cliché?” I asked, stalling for time. There were two of them, one directly behind me with the gun, the other standing off to his right. “You could try something more original, like ‘Stick ’em up’, or ‘Don’t move.’ Those are good.”
A hand grabbed my hair and a second later my head connected with the wall near the bathroom door. My vision clouded with colorful stars.
“Ow!” I groaned. “Was that really necessary?” I resisted the urge to rub my forehead and instead kept my hands to the wall.
“A wise guy,” he said.
“Ah, another cliché.” I tried to turn around. “Really, gentlemen, you can do better.”
He punched me in the kidney. I gasped and slid to the floor, clutching at my lower back. Okay, being a smartass wasn’t getting me out of the situation. Why didn’t I keep my mouth shut?
“Hey, Oscar, lighten up,” the second heavy said in a voice like James Earl Jones as he grabbed Oscar’s arm. “The boss is gonna be mad if you rough him up.”
I moaned as I turned around and put my head between my knees. “Hey, I just came in to relax, play a little pool.” Confusion mixed with the pain. I had to stop and think for a minute…let’s see…my name is Reed Ferguson and I’m a private investigator. I love old detective novels and classic movies, particularly film noir, with its dark detectives and femme fatales. But I wasn’t working a case now, so why were these guys bothering me?
“I’m not looking for trouble,” I mumbled.
“I guess it found you,” Oscar said.
Oscar kept setting me up with the clichés, but this time this wise guy, namely me, kept his mouth shut.
I sucked in a few deep breaths as I contemplated Oscar’s black wingtip Oxfords, then gazed up and surveyed the two men.
Their looks matched their talk – clichéd. Both wore dark three-piece suits and white shirts, thin black ties. Oscar was a white guy built like the Hulk, muscles everywhere that threatened to rip the seams of his jacket. The other was slightly smaller, with skin the color of mocha, and was disproportionately built with a huge chest that tapered into a thin waist and spindly legs. A couple of goons.
Oscar glared down at me. “Feeling better?”
Before I could respond he quickly pocketed the gun as a man in jeans and a green sweater walked around the corner. He glanced at Oscar, then at me on the floor.
“Hey, man, you okay?” he asked me.
“He’s fine,” Oscar said out of the corner of his mouth. “Leave us alone.”
The man shrank away from Oscar, then turned and fled.
I took a few more breaths, working to keep from throwing up. “What do you want?”
The black guy held out a thick hand. “We need you to come with us.”
I ignored his hand and edged my way up the wall. The spot where Oscar slugged me was burning. “You could’ve just asked.”
I moved carefully past Oscar and back into the bar. It was eleven o’clock on a Saturday night and B 52’s was packed. It was a converted warehouse that was now a pool hall decorated with old plane propellers and advertisements from a time long gone, and I loved hanging out here. The New Wave sounds of the Talking Heads filled the bar, and people jammed into booths and tables in the main room, eating snacks and drinking beer.
I debated running, but I wouldn’t get far in the crowd, and I didn’t want anyone else to get hurt, so I nixed the idea. I’d ridden over with my friends Ace and Deuce Smith, and they were in the back room playing pool. I wondered how long it would be before the Goofball Brothers realized I hadn’t returned from the bathroom. I refer to them affectionately as the Goofball Brothers because they were lighthearted and fun, but a few clowns short of a circus. Which meant I could be gone for a long, long time before they’d notice.
This thought had just raced through my mind when I heard Deuce’s lazy drawl.
“Hey, Reed, you leaving?” He was coming from the bar, carrying two mugs of amber beer.
“Uh, yeah, I need to go.” I was torn. I could ask Deuce for help, but that might get him snatched with me. And since he was still recovering from a recent kidnapping, I didn’t think putting him in harm’s way again was a good idea.
I gave a slight nod of my head at the thugs. They weren’t my type, socially speaking, and even Deuce should realize that this wasn’t a friendly encounter. If he sensed I was in trouble, he could get Natalie Bowman, the regular bartender, to check up on me.
“These guys want to play pool with us?” Ace, the other Goofball Brother, approached.
Yep, a few clowns short. I should’ve known the brothers wouldn’t get it, which was probably best. I didn’t need to watch out for them as well.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said. Even though we didn’t have plans, maybe they’d think we did, and come looking for me.
“We don’t have any plans tomorrow,” Deuce said.
Man, they were killing me.
“Keep moving,” Oscar said, nudging me forward.
“See you later,” Ace called after us.
The Goofball Brothers were no help, and my girlfriend, Willie, was working the late shift at Denver Health Medical Center, so no one would know until sometime tomorrow that I’d been abducted. Great…
“Can I get my coat?” I asked. I was not only stalling again for time, but I really wanted to get my coat. It was the end of January, and Denver was in what we locals called “Stock Show weather”, a bitter cold where the temperature never crawled out of single digits during the week of the National Western Stock Show.
Neither thug answered me, and we kept moving toward the door. I was sandwiched between them as we walked out of the bar. They guided me to a black full-size SUV parked across the street. On my first investigation a few years ago, I’d been similarly forced into a black SUV by guys I wrongly assumed were the FBI. Was this the case again?
“Get in,” Oscar ordered me as the black guy trotted around the car to the driver’s seat and got in.
I hesitated.
“Relax,” Oscar said. “If we wanted to kill you, we already would have.”
“Oh, I feel so much better,” I muttered as I slid in and Oscar sat down beside me. I was now squeezed between the two, my shoulders curled forward.
“Where are we going?” I tried for cheery, even though my stomach was a knot an
d my lower back screamed.
“You’ll find out soon enough,” the black guy said as he started the car. It roared to life and he pulled into traffic, headed south.
“I know his name.” I jerked a thumb at Oscar. “What’s yours? James Earl Jones? Darth Vader?”
The right side of his mouth twitched.
“It’s Tyrone,” he finally said.
We drove in silence for a few minutes, weaving our way through downtown Denver. My shoulders began to cramp. I sighed heavily. Oscar turned his head and glared at me. I tried to shrug but couldn’t. Tyrone soon turned onto Broadway and we left the high-rises behind. We crossed Colfax and four blocks down, he pulled into a spot on the corner but kept the engine running.
“Now what?” I asked.
“See that over there?” Oscar said. He pointed across the street at a row of large two-story brick buildings.
“Yeah?” I said.
“The brown one, with the neon blue lights,” Tyrone clarified.
The building he indicated had two large, recessed windows and an arched doorway. A predominantly college-age crowd lined the sidewalk, waiting to get in. Their attire was somewhat casual, the guys in pants or jeans and dress shirts, a few in tee shirts. The women seemed to be going for provocative, wearing tight jeans or short skirts, and even from my vantage point, the cleavage was obvious. Hardly any of them wore coats, even though it was cold enough to see their breath, but I guess that was the price they paid to be seen and ogled. They all looked to be at least ten years younger than me, and I suddenly felt old.
“Okay, it’s a nightclub,” I said. “So?”
“That’s Vinyl, one of the hottest clubs in SoCo.”
I think he was waiting for me to ask what SoCo was, but I knew it meant ‘South of Colfax’, so instead I said, “Aren’t they a little young for you?”
He scowled at me.
“You force me from B 52’s to bring me here? What’s the deal?” I asked.
“Just wait,” Tyrone said, throwing Oscar a look that said ‘shut up’.
And so we did. After five minutes of watching young people enter Vinyl, I sighed and exhaled loudly. Five more minutes passed, and I sighed even more dramatically.
Oscar elbowed me. “Knock it off.”
“Hey.” I grunted and tried to shift away from him, but only succeeded in rubbing shoulders with Tyrone.
“Cool it.” Tyrone nodded. “There she is.”
Oscar glanced at his watch, then directed his attention across the street. “Right on time.”
“There who is?” I asked.
“Her.” Tyrone pointed to a woman walking toward Vinyl. “In the pink dress.”
‘Dress’ was generous. The woman wore a one-sleeved mini-dress that looked like it had been painted on, and it barely covered her thighs. She’d pulled her long, highlighted brown hair into a ponytail, exposing tanned shoulders. And even though it was frigid outside, she didn’t have a coat. She must’ve been cold, but she didn’t act like it. And she certainly enjoyed the attention, putting more sway in her hips and running a hand through her hair as heads turned. She walked to the front of the line, talked with a bouncer for a moment, then disappeared inside the club.
“Let’s go,” Tyrone said as he shut off the engine.
They both got out and Oscar leaned a forearm on the hood of the car. He opened his coat so I could see his holstered gun. “No funny business.”
I slid out, eyeing them carefully. “What’s this all about?”
Both men buttoned their coats, then positioned themselves on either side of me.
“You’re about to find out.”
CHAPTER TWO
We crossed the street and approached the door. A few of the people in line hollered about us cutting in front of them, but a cold-eyed glance from Oscar shut them up. The bouncer stood tall as he blocked the entrance, but Tyrone and Oscar both had at least a few inches and a good thirty pounds of muscle on him. Tyrone leaned over and murmured something in the bouncer’s ear, and he nodded and stepped aside.
As we entered the bar, the pounding bass beat of house music assaulted us. The main level was a large room with high ceilings and painted metal beams. Overhead lights bathed the dance floor in neon pink and blue, and young people moshed in a synchronized frenzy. Oscar, Tyrone and I were conspicuous, so much older and not dressed like anyone else. Young people inspected Tyrone and Oscar cautiously, and as we moved into the room, bodies parted around us.
“She should be easy to spot.” I had to holler to be heard over the music. “It’s not like anyone else was wearing pink.”
“Where’d she go?” Oscar asked as he looked around.
Tyrone shrugged as he stared into the crowd. “Let’s try downstairs.”
We made our way around the edge of the dance floor and down to a lower level, where hip hop played, then up to a second level dance floor, but still no luck. The woman in pink wasn’t there.
We finally ended up on the rooftop. It had an indoor/outdoor patio, complete with space heaters and fire pits, but it was still cold. “Situation” by Yaz finished and “Don’t You Want Me” by Dead Or Alive began. This must be the 80’s music area, I thought. For a moment I forgot I was being forced here against my will. I love 80’s alternative bands like The Smiths, The Psychedelic Furs, New Order and Depeche Mode, and I could’ve sat in a corner for hours, listening to the music while I nursed a cold Fat Tire. When I was in college, I loved to visit The Rathskeller, locally known as “The Rat” in Boston, a dive bar that hosted some great bands, including some of my favorites. As I reminisced, a girl who couldn’t have been more than twenty sauntered past, wearing a tight black mini-skirt and lace spaghetti-strap blouse. I shook my head. No one dressed quite like that when I was in college.
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” I asked the thugs for the umpteenth time.
“All in good time,” Tyrone said.
“There she is.” Oscar tipped his head.
We followed his gaze, and sure enough, the woman in pink was sitting across the patio, warming herself by a space heater as she downed a colorful drink in a martini glass. Behind her, the lights of downtown created a spectacular view, but she was oblivious, concentrating on a group of guys standing nearby. She pulled her shoulders back and crossed her legs, and the short dress rode even higher up, exposing shapely thighs. One of the guys watched her appreciatively, and after a moment, he walked over. They chatted for a minute, and he sauntered off, returning a minute later with a bottled beer and a martini glass. He handed her the glass and then took three big gulps of his beer. She said something with a sly look and tipped her head, and he withdrew something from his pocket and slipped it into her hand. She immediately tossed it in her mouth and slammed the rest of her drink. What was it? Ecstasy? Speed? She flirted a bit longer, then tossed her hair seductively, stood up, and ambled off with the guy in tow.
“Stay out of sight,” Tyrone said as Oscar rushed after her.
She led the guy downstairs, through the throng, and down a short hallway to the bathrooms. A trio of scantily clad women came out and they snickered as the woman in pink led the guy into the bathroom.
Tyrone and Oscar positioned themselves near the dance floor, where they could see her when she emerged from the hallway, but where the crowd would create cover for them. I was positioned between them.
I glanced at Tyrone, then at Oscar. “She’s easy,” I said. “So?”
“All in good time,” Tyrone repeated.
A few minutes later, the girl appeared, flush from her quickie. She ran a hand over her dress and fidgeted with her sleeve, relishing the looks she was getting as people passed by. The guy showed up a second later, draping an arm over her shoulder and snuggling his mouth into her ear. She pushed his arm off and started to walk away, but he reached out and grabbed her. She whirled around and snarled at him, trying to extract herself from his grip, but he wouldn’t let her go. They scuffled and the guy’s face tightened. The situ
ation was quickly escalating.
I looked at the goons on either side of me, but both stared impassively at the unfolding scene.
“You may be okay with this, but I’m not,” I said. I started forward but Oscar stepped in front of me. We eyed each other, me having to look up to meet his gaze. I feinted right, and as Oscar took the bait, I dodged left.
“Hey.” Oscar moved fast for a big man and he shoved me backward. I fell onto the dance floor, and cries of surprise erupted over the music.
“Chill, dude.” A guy with slicked-back hair helped me up, then pushed me back toward Oscar.
As I bumped like a pinball between them, Tyrone grabbed me from behind. By now my frustration boiled over and I slugged Oscar in the nose. He stared at me, his eyebrows raised in surprise, but not a sign of pain crossed his face. And before I knew it, his fist slammed into my gut. I doubled over and gasped. Someone yelled “Fight!”
“Knock it off!” Tyrone said. “She’s seen us.”
We turned in the girl’s direction. The guy who’d been harassing her had let go and they, along with a bunch of other people, stared at us. The girl glowered at us, then bolted in the other direction.
“Come on.” Tyrone clamped a hand on my neck and dragged me with him through the bar. Oscar hurried ahead of us and we burst through the exit, stumbling onto the sidewalk. I twisted out of Tyrone’s grasp and gulped in breathes of cold air.
“There!” Oscar pointed. The girl was already across the street, running through a parking lot. Oscar started after her, his progress slowed as he waited for cars to pass by.
“Come on,” Tyrone called at me as he stepped into the street.
I leaned back against the building and shook my head. “No way. Shoot me if you want, but I’m done.” Probably not my best move, but I’d had it with the charade.
Tyrone turned halfway around, torn between going after Oscar and staying with me. He finally approached me, his lips a thin, angry line. Oscar shouted from across the street, and Tyrone threw up his hands, muttering something about me that wasn’t nice. Oscar waited again for traffic to clear, then dashed back to us. He stomped up to me, grabbed me by the shirt and slammed me into the wall, my feet a few inches off the ground.
Out of the Past: A Reed Ferguson Mystery (A Private Investigator Mystery Series - Crime Suspense Thriller Book 5) Page 1