Before The Killing Starts (Dixie Killer Blues Book 1)

by James, Harper

  It didn't happen so often now and he never tried to catch him up anymore, but every now and again he'd sense movement . . .

  Chapter 6

  Evan pushed open the door to Kelly's Tavern and stepped inside. He'd spent a lot of time in different bars over the years and, like anyone else who's a regular bar-goer, it didn't take any longer than that for him to get the feel of the place. There's a difference between a tough, blue-collar bar and a white-trash dive and although he'd never been in the place before, Evan knew he was in the latter. Maybe it was the clientele—men with too much time on their hands and too little money in their pockets who came in to try to forget about what they've lost or never had in the first place. Men who feel comfortable in the knowledge that they're unlikely to come across reminders of all the good things they've been missing, all the things they can never have. Or maybe it was that indefinable smell—a subtle mix of strong beer, sweat and stale cigarettes with an aftertaste of vomit. Whatever it was, you couldn't miss the fact that the place was a dump.

  The bartender looked up briefly as Evan came in and went back to watching the TV. They probably got a lot of people come in, take a quick look around and head straight back out again. Evan would normally have been one of them. Coming in from the bright sunlight outside, it took his eyes a minute to adjust to the darkness. It was still early and the place was almost empty. There were three inbred-looking guys at the end of the bar drinking beer, talking and laughing loudly, another two shooting pool in the back and a couple more sitting at a table who somehow didn't look quite so much like losers as the rest of them. Maybe they weren't regulars.

  The inbreds stopped talking and laughing and watched Evan as he walked up to the bar. Evan would have liked a few more people in the place, perhaps some loud music to drown out his questions. As it was the whole bar would be able to hear every word he said. Somehow he didn't get the impression that more pairs of ears meant more chance of somebody being able to help him. One thing was for sure—he knew why Ellie hadn't wanted to come to the place herself. Why she wanted to find somebody who chose to come here on a regular basis was a different matter.

  The bartender turned his back to get a better look at the TV as Evan sat down on a stool at the bar. Evan was surprised by his sudden interest in world affairs—he looked like the kind of guy who's normal attitude to anything going on in the outside world was who gives a shit? He was heavyset with a crew cut and even though he was in his fifties you could see he still thought he had it in him. Maybe he did.

  Use short words, Evan thought.

  He gave it a minute and then ordered a beer from the bartender's back. With an exaggerated sigh the guy turned away from the TV and pulled Evan's beer. Then he walked down and started talking to the three guys at the end of the bar. That sort of put an end to Evan's plan of having a quiet word in his ear. He might as well jump up onto the bar, clap his hands and ask for everyone's attention.

  He heard the rattle of ice cubes in a glass beside him and turned his head. One of the guys from the table behind him had come up to the bar and stood a couple of feet away, swirling the last of his drink before tipping it down his neck. The bartender came back down and started serving him and Evan took the opportunity to get a better look at him. He was tall and obviously Hispanic, and Evan knew his first impressions were right; he definitely wasn't one of the regulars—one, he wasn't a loser and two; this place was strictly white trash. You could feel he was confident walking into a dive like this knowing there was nothing in here that he couldn't deal with. If the guy had bottled it, Evan would have bought some. The guy looked across and gave him a small nod, then carried his drinks back to his table.

  The bartender was about to rejoin the guys at the end when Evan called him back. Automatically he picked up Evan's glass, then saw it was still half full. He looked at Evan with an aha look on his face: now we'll get to the real reason . . .

  'I'm looking for somebody,' Evan said.

  'Uh huh.' He cocked his head like he didn’t understand what that information had to do with him. 'Isn't everybody?'

  'I think he comes in here.'

  The bartender gave what he probably thought was a smile, his bright, mean eyes crinkling at the corners. 'I suppose there's more chance of me knowing him than if he'd never set foot in here in his life.'

  The inbreds at the end had stopped talking again and were paying close attention to the conversation. The bartender looked down at them and winked. They grinned back. They looked to Evan like they'd have trouble spelling gum and chewing it at the same time.

  'His name's Richard LaBarre.'

  The bartender creased his forehead and tugged his chin as if he was giving it some serious thought; his eyes flicking sideways to the inbreds, then shook his head. 'Never heard of him.'

  There was a titter of laughter from the end of the bar. The bartender gave Evan a big up-yours smile.

  'Everybody calls him Dixie,' Evan said, feeling stupid as he said the name.

  The bartender gave a half-hearted nod. 'That's nice. Still never heard of him.' He started to move away.

  'I've got a photo of him.'

  The bartender made a big fuss of stopping in his tracks and turning around. He came back and stood in front of Evan and spread his hands on the bar. He wore a couple of heavy rings on each hand, the knuckles criss-crossed with faded, and not-so-faded, scars. Evan assumed the display was for his benefit and felt like pointing out that the liver spots that were starting to appear spoiled the effect somewhat. He got a powerful draft of stale cigarettes. It made him think, between the guy's fists and his breath, he'd go for the fists every time.

  'I've got you,' the bartender said. 'His name's Richard something, everybody calls him Dixie but I'—he jabbed his thumb at his chest—'might know him as Bill or George?' He looked at the inbreds at the end of the bar and got a bunch of you-tell-him head nods.

  Evan wanted to come back with some equally smart ass reply but it wouldn't get him very far. Not that being nice as pie was getting him anywhere, either. The bartender was just one of those guys who wouldn't piss on you if you were on fire.

  'Just take a look, will you?' he said wearily, pulling the photo out of his pocket.

  The three guys at the end were really paying attention now. Evan couldn't blame them—in a place like this, when somebody puts their hand into their pocket it normally comes out with a switchblade.

  Evan put the photo on the bar top. The bartender looked at it as if Evan had placed a steaming dog turd on his nice clean bar, but then his curiosity got the better of him.

  'It's been cut in half.'

  Evan slapped the heel of his hand against his forehead. 'I was wondering what happened to it.'

  The bartender looked up from the photo and gave Evan a withering look. 'No need to be a smartass.' Clearly that was his job.

  'Do you recognize him?'

  The bartender took another quick look and pushed the photo towards Evan. 'Sorry.' Evan didn't think he looked sorry at all. 'Why do you want to find him anyway? You don't look like a cop.'

  'No, I don't suppose I do,' Evan said. All your customers would be long gone if I did. 'I'm a private investigator.'

  The bartender nodded as if that explained a lot. 'You working for his wife?'

  'No, just someone who wants to find him.' Evan got out his wallet and pulled out one of his cards. 'Can I leave this with you?'

  Evan could see him thinking it looked a bit small and inflexible to wipe his ass with but he didn't say it.

  'What? In case a guy I've never heard of or seen in my life just happens to pop in one day?'

  Evan looked around the bar and smiled. 'Who knows? Even if he doesn't, one of your customers might want to hire me.'

  The bartender walked away and laughed over his shoulder. 'I think you'll find the people who come in here have their own way of dealing with problems.'

  Chapter 7

  Evan sat at the bar and wondered what to do next. He picked up his glass and
was just about to down the rest of his beer when a shoulder slammed into him, sending the glass flying. One of the inbreds from the end of the bar continued on his way to the men's room without looking back. Behind him, Evan heard the others laughing. He turned to look at them and one of them raised his glass in an up-yours cheers towards him. He felt a hot little worm of excitement in his gut and reckoned he had about a minute—long enough for the guy to take a leak but not long enough to wash his hands—in which to decide what to do. He only really had two options; he could get up and leave or he could wait and deal with what happened when the guy came back.

  The bartender walked slowly down the bar making a tut-tutting sound and made a big point of bending over and picking up the broken glass. He straightened up and his gaze snapped back toward Evan, his lips curled into a smile, eyes full of gleeful anticipation, like a fat, spoiled kid on Christmas morning.

  Evan decided to stay; he didn't want to disappoint the guy. Apart from the damage to his pride if he got up and left with his tail between his legs, they might decide to stop him from leaving anyway. Besides he'd never been one to let prudence or reason cloud his judgement.

  He kept his eyes straight ahead as he heard the door to the men's room open and swing shut. Along the bar, the remaining inbreds had stopped laughing, although they still had the stupid grins plastered across their faces. The pool players in the back had paused their game. The two Hispanic men sitting at the table weren't paying the slightest bit of attention.

  Evan took his right foot off the rail and placed it squarely on the floor, bracing himself. He could feel the adrenalin sledding through his blood as he locked his right arm solid on the bar and tensed. The guy walked up, an ugly smile on his lips, and swung his shoulder into Evan on his way past. Or that's what he tried to do, because this time, instead of knocking Evan into the bar, he bounced off and stumbled against one of the tables. The shock on his face turned quickly into anger as his friends sniggered again, but this time at him. What a fun afternoon it was turning into.

  Evan sat on his stool staring ahead as if nothing had happened.

  The guy looked over at his friends—for moral support, presumably—then stuck his face into Evan's personal space. Evan kept his eyes front, the smell of beer and potato chips on the guy's breath washing over him.

  'What the hell do you think you're doing?' the guy said.

  Evan ignored him. He didn't want to antagonize the guy unnecessarily by pointing out that he was having a beer. Or had been.

  'I said, what do you think you're doing?'

  Evan knew it wasn't going to end well; maybe he'd made the wrong call. The guy was getting more confident now, taking Evan's lack of response as fear.

  'Look at me when I'm talking to you,' the guy said and poked Evan with his finger.

  Evan tried not to dwell on where that finger had just been—the guy definitely hadn't had time to wash his hands.

  The guy jabbed again. 'I said look at me.'

  Evan took a deep breath and swivelled on the stool to face the guy. He had long, greasy, dirt-blond hair and smelled of beer and body odor and something else Evan couldn't and didn't want to place. There was a dark smiley face of perspiration under his left armpit, but not on the other side, as if he'd run out of deodorant half way through his morning ablutions. That must make him left-handed if he sprays his right armpit first, Evan thought as he lowered his left foot to the floor so that he had both feet firmly on the ground.

  'You were in my way,' the guy said, jabbing Evan with his finger for a third time. Whatever might have been left on his finger was now transferred to Evan's jacket. He looked down at it but couldn't see a visible stain. That didn't mean every dog in the neighborhood wouldn't be sniffing around it.

  'Don't do that,' Evan said pleasantly enough.

  The guy smiled like he'd finally got what he'd been after.

  'Or what? You want to make something of it?'

  Evan shook his head. 'No, I just want you to stop doing it.'

  The guy turned round to his friends, a massive grin on his face. 'D'you hear that? The big tough detective wants me to stop, but the pussy's too yellow to do anything about it.'

  Evan raised both hands in appeasement. 'Okay, okay, it's my mistake; I shouldn't have been in your way—'

  'Ha. Will you listen to this yellow . . .'

  '—but I didn't know you were going to the men's room.' He shrugged an apology. 'I couldn't see your momma here to hold your little peepee so I thought you were going to wet your pants like you normally do.'

  The guy's finger stalled on its way for another jab and his mouth dropped open in astonishment. It opened and closed a couple of times but nothing came out, his eyes bulging in their sockets, like they were trying to escape.

  At the end of the bar his friends howled with laughter.

  Evan grabbed the finger in mid-air (he'd been right, the guy was left-handed) and bent it sharply backwards, snapping it cleanly at the knuckle. He felt a hot, mean satisfaction right in his belly as he heard the sweet crack of bone followed by a loud scream. He jerked his hand downwards feeling bone grate against bone in the ruined finger. He kept pushing down forcing the guy to lean in.

  The guy was making an ah, ah, ah sound, but a lot louder than that. Evan grabbed his chin with his other hand, digging his nails in and squeezing the flesh along his jaw to draw his face close. He let go of the finger and hammered the heel of his hand down onto the bridge of the guy's nose. Bang. Bang. Bang. Same as the number of finger jabs. Fair's fair, after all.

  He stood up, feeling the pull of something sticky on the seat of his pants, and snapped his arm out straight sending the guy staggering backwards into the tables and chairs behind him. Funny how he couldn't hear the inbreds laughing any more. He looked at the guy in front of him, trying to disentangle himself from the furniture.

  Enough now?

  Not a chance.

  He bent and picked the heavy stool up by its legs, spun around and swung it through the air, catching the guy solidly on the side of the head, sending him sprawling into a heap on the floor. He kept the spin going like a hammer thrower in a track and field competition and let it loose at the remaining two inbreds. It missed by a mile but you can't win them all. He'd never been any good at track and field.

  Behind him, one of the pool players was coming on fast, the pool cue reversed in both hands. Before Evan had a chance to react, the Hispanic guy who'd nodded to him at the bar stuck his leg out and tripped the guy, sending him crashing headlong to the ground. The cue flew out of his hands and clattered across the floor, coming to rest by Evan's feet. The pool player tried to get his legs under him but the Hispanic guy jumped out of his chair and kicked him hard in the balls. Game over. He looked round at the second player and wagged a finger at him. The guy showed him his palms and backed away.

  Evan bent and picked up the cue and backed towards the door but nobody else was up for it. He got to the door, pushed it open with his butt, slipped out and pushed the cue through the two door handles. It wouldn't hold up against a good kick but it was better than nothing.

  Way to go, Evan, way to go.

  Chapter 8

  Dixie was just about to get in the car when his phone rang. On the other side of the car standing by the driver's door was the guy everybody called Crispy. Dixie hadn't met his mother but he felt sorry for her even so, because Crispy was the size of something you’d normally climb with rope and pitons, not give birth to. His head sloped straight down into his shoulders like a lamp shade. They called him Crispy because his parents had named him Chris and then either been stupid or unkind enough to give him the middle initial 'P'. Dixie didn't know what his last name was but if there was any justice in the world it would be Bacon.

  Crispy was a butt-ugly recidivist who killed as if it were a reflex action. Nestled somewhere between the too-small ears that perched on his head like warts on an egg his brain was solely occupied, as far as Dixie could tell, by thoughts of the different w
ays of hurting people. He liked to tell anyone who would listen that the real reason he was called Crispy was because he'd set a guy on fire one time and watched him burn to death. Ordinarily Dixie managed to keep out of his way but Chico had insisted he take him along him and that they take Crispy's car.

  Dixie checked the screen and the name he saw raised an eyebrow: Dave the bartender from Kelly's Tavern. He walked out of earshot and answered the call. In the background he could hear country and western music playing on the jukebox and the sounds of a bar starting to fill up.

  'I thought you'd want to know there was a guy in here asking about you,' Dave said.

  'Did he leave a name?'

  'He left his business card. Hang on a minute.' Dixie heard Dave put the phone down as he went to fetch the card. Anyone with half a brain would have picked it up before making the call, but anyone with half a brain wouldn't be working at Kelly's in the first place. It was probably the worst bar Dixie knew, but it served a purpose for certain people to get in contact.

  'His name's Evan Buckley,' Dave said. 'He's a private investigator.'

  'Never heard of him.'

  'That's what I said when he asked about you.'

  'That's the way I like it, Dave,' Dixie said in an encouraging tone. 'Did he say what he wants?'

  'No. Just that he wants to find you.'

  'He didn't say why?

  'Uh uh.'

  'Did you ask him?'

  There was a long, uncomfortable pause. Behind Dave's breathing Dixie could hear the music in the background. It sounded like some idiot had put the same track on again. He didn't think he was going to get much more out of Dave, who wasn't the sharpest tool in the box. Face to face, Dave liked to watch your mouth in case there were any difficult words, which put him at a disadvantage on the phone. Dixie often wondered who tied his shoes for him in the morning.