“Any response on your classified ad yet?” I asked Spud, opening the refrigerator with a Coke in mind.
“Hell, no!”
When the interior light popped on, a Bass ale screamed my name but I grabbed a can of Coke instead.
“Not a single response!” Spud raved.
He had tried to sell his car to Dirk, then to the neighbors, and then to the world via the Internet before succumbing to the high classified rates of the local daily newspaper. Selling the car had become his sole mission in life. He was obsessed with getting rid of it since North Carolina revoked his driving privileges.
His cane stabbed the air. “Our newspaper is supposed to have a circulation of sixty thousand readers. You’d think that just one of them would decide my Chrysler is the best deal going, for crying out loud.”
Spud’s car is a bright red Chrysler LHS. I’m still not sure what the LHS stands for, but the car looks exactly like the old New Yorker. Spud’s has tan leather seats, power everything, and a sunroof. Immediately after he’d lost his license, we tried to sell it to a dealership, but they weren’t too impressed with the fantastic deal we offered. Spud claimed that the car had been pampered and was worth at least fifteen thousand dollars. The eager kid who’d mistakenly thought Spud was there to trade it in on a brand-new car explained that the sales manager could buy a similar LHS off the auction block for five thousand dollars. Spud told the kid exactly where his sales manager could put the five thousand bills.
“No big deal on the newspaper ad, anyway,” Spud said, “because we’ve got another plan to get rid of the car.”
“We who?” I questioned.
“My poker buddies. Bobby, Hal, and Trip. They know how to solve a problem. Four heads are much better than one.” I wasn’t so sure, considering it was Spud’s poker buddies that we were talking about. In their case, four heads probably equaled one and a half. Maybe two.
“Okay.” I had to spur him on. “Tell me about it.”
“Insurance. I’m going to just collect the average retail value of the car from the insurance company.”
“I don’t think they’ll go for that,” I told him. “They probably don’t need a used Chrysler.”
“I’m not going to sell it to them. They’re going to pay a claim. The car will be sunk, you know, horrible accident and all that.” I didn’t know whether to laugh or scold him so I just waited for the rest.
“Next time it rains real heavy, Bobby is going to accidentally drive it into that retention pond in the middle of the parking lot at the shopping center where our barber is.”
“I think that’s called insurance fraud,” I said, “and that would be illegal. Not to mention dangerous.”
Spud’s cane dismissed my concern with a wave. “It’s no more dangerous than driving on these roads every day. Besides, Bobby’s gonna drop us all off at the barber, then go drive into the lake. He’ll have his window rolled down, so he can climb out before the thing sinks. We’ll act shocked, dry his wrinkled ass off, then call the coppers. And, it ain’t illegal if it’s an accident.”
My father’s logic never ceased to amaze me. Especially considering the fact that he used to be a cop. Enforcer of the law and keeper of the peace.
“Sounds like you’ve given this some thought,” I said.
“Of course we have. Got it all planned out. Bobby’s the best swimmer, plus he volunteered to do the deed.” Bobby was well over eighty and probably hadn’t seen the inside of a swimming pool in more than twenty years.
“Spud, tell me this is all a joke.”
“Okay. It’s all a joke,” he agreed much too quickly. “All I want is a decent price for the damn car. It’s useless to me,” he said in a rising voice, the mermaid’s breasts almost touching the ceiling. “The damn state of North Carolina ought to buy it after what they did! Taking away an innocent man’s license to drive. What’s next, they gonna tell me I can’t take out your boat?”
Spud had never captained Incognito, at least not to my knowledge. I’d have to remember to hide the keys, just to be sure. I downed the rest of my Coke, Spud propped a bright yellow beret on top of his obstinate head, and we journeyed to the pharmacy.
A red blinking light on the answering machine caught our attention when we returned. It was Soup instructing me to call him.
“Soup here,” he answered on the first ring.
“Whatcha got on the flash drive?”
“Very interesting. Very interesting. I got a clean copy, but it’s completely encoded.”
“So?” Encoded data was a speed bump to Soup. He could navigate over or around anything.
“No, I mean really encoded. Some unusual shit; I haven’t been able to break it yet. I think it could be government stuff, though.” Government? What was Chesterfield doing with government data on a flash drive hidden in a gym bag?
“Keep trying. I’m good for your time.” He knew that we would settle up eventually—whether via money, trade, or otherwise.
“I’m on it,” he agreed and disconnected.
Whatever Chesterfield was involved in, it certainly wasn’t a case of infidelity. I should just explain to Lolly that her hubby wasn’t cheating and get on with my life after retirement. But it was against my nature to walk away from unanswered questions. I was cursed with a noble—or possibly stupid—desire to unravel mysteries and plow my way directly to the motivating core of a person’s actions.
On the other hand, I had only agreed to tail Chesterfield as a favor to Bill. Lolly wasn’t paying me a dime for this assignment. In fact, I didn’t have an assignment. I had stumbled upon something that, on the surface, appeared illegitimate. I could dig deeper or I could forget about it, and I really had no reason to get involved. Not sure what to do next, I headed downstairs to enjoy a cold drink and mull it all over.
Cracker greeted me with a wet-nosed nuzzle when I reached the bar.
“Did you have a good time studding yourself out at the breeder’s?” I asked, scratching the dog’s neck.
“Trip reported that your dog performed beautifully,” Ox answered through a grin, “especially considering it was his first time.”
A white Labrador retriever, Cracker was won in a poker game the night I sat in for Bobby during Spud’s weekly card night. The pup was being trained to retrieve birds by Trip’s grandson, a local breeder who thought the animal was a light-colored yellow Lab. But, when he approached a year of age and his fur hadn’t darkened from its snowy-white color, he became useless as a hunting dog since—according to the grandson—he would stick out like a redneck at a wine tasting. Spotting him from the air, ducks would bolt before entering shotgun range. So the grandson gave the pup to Trip.
I learned that purebred solid-white Lab puppies were rare and easily sold for five hundred dollars apiece. A halfway trained white Lab would sell for a thousand, or so Trip claimed when he put the dog up against my royal flush. The pot was only worth one hundred and eight dollars, but I told Trip that he wasn’t getting back any change. Not only that, but he should pay me to take a worthless mutt off his hands. The royal flush beat his four deuces and I acquired a dog, with the condition that his grandson could borrow the pedigreed Lab on occasion for breeding purposes.
Spud called the puppy Cracker, since it was “too white,” and the name stuck. The lucky Lab’s days were spent lounging around the Block and he frequently jumped in the river to take a swim just because he could. The Block’s regulars always had a treat for Cracker when they arrived and, if I were a dog, I couldn’t imagine a better life.
“You look perplexed,” Ox said after I’d situated myself on a bar stool. His deep voice resonated in a surprisingly neutral accent when you considered that he grew up in North Carolina and Kentucky. He served me a Guinness draught without being asked and our fingers touched momentarily when I reached for the glass. I caught his glance and for a flicker of a second, wondered if he somehow knew about the sensual dream I’d had about him. I wondered if I fell asleep thinking of Ox, I could
enjoy the same dream again.
“Jersey?” he said, snapping me out of my reverie.
“Took on a job as a little favor to Bill,” I explained, forcing myself not to wonder about what Ox would be like in bed. Sex with the man would be indescribable, until it happened, and maybe not even then.
“What’s the job?”
“An old friend of his thinks that her hubby is the cheating sort, but it turns out the guy isn’t being unfaithful. Thing is, I found a computer storage device and Soup thinks it could be encoded government data.”
“Who’s the husband?” It was a bright afternoon and a marshy gust blew across the water, Gulf Stream and sea breezes playfully mating. All four of the Block’s industrial-sized garage doors were wide open, welcoming Mother Nature’s late-afternoon gift, and the place had begun to fill with happy-hour regulars.
“Samuel Chesterfield.”
“Of Chesterfield Financial?”
“Yep.”
“Damn, Jersey. You really know how to get yourself tangled in some deep river weed.” He laughed. “And you’re supposed to be retired, relaxing on Incognito, going where the tide takes you.” Ox wore a pair of jeans and a plain black T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His olive-brown skin reflected the reds and blues of neon beer lights that were suspended on chains around the bar. I paused to admire my best friend’s build before focusing my concentration on the matter at hand.
“Tell me about it,” I complained, seeking sympathy. “I should be sipping a bottle of bubbly right now, somewhere with a fabulous view.”
“You’ve got a fabulous view right now, so quit bitching and tell me what you’re going to do,” Ox said, ignoring my quest for pity. “I have customers to serve.”
“I don’t know. Something deep under the table is going on, but is it my business? I’m not getting paid to figure it out. Should I just walk away?”
“If Chesterfield is involved, you may be talking high stakes. It could get dark.” Describing a situation as “dark” was Ox’s way of saying hazardous to my health. I had come to rely on his instincts because they were always correct. Some people would say it was mere gut instinct, but I knew that Ox had access to something more.
“I already thought of that. But I’ve got to at least figure out how high the stakes are before I decide whether or not to bail out.”
Ox nodded while I spoke, as though he knew what I was going to say before I said it. “If you need me, you let me know.”
That went without saying. He always appeared when I needed him and covered my ass even when I thought I didn’t. He’d saved my life last year during a bloody shootout in Raleigh, and as he was driving me home, said only, “You want to stop for burgers or pizza?” Unusually shaken, I’d answered that I wanted a cheeseburger and promptly had a meltdown. Ox stopped and we walked into the woods, where we leaned against a huge oak tree and he held me tight until I was cried out, at which point we went for cheeseburgers.
It was the second time I’d ever cried as an adult, the first being when my father reappeared. In both instances, I didn’t feel foolish around Ox for dropping tears. To him, a situation simply was what it was.
The sudden realization that my bar manager could comfort just as effectively as he could kill made something elemental move inside me. What could be more sexy than a man who was both wise and lethal? I’d bet money that his performance in bed would be just as perfect as his performance in combat.
Pleasantly aware of the boats gliding steadily by the Block, I watched my beer disappear and threw a tennis ball for Cracker. It occurred to me to wait until I knew what the flash drive contained before I decided whether or not to drop the Chesterfield case. Meanwhile, something told me that it would be a good idea to get a tracker on Chesterfield’s digital phone. Smaller than a dime, the trackers I use provide an avenue to listen in and track the location of the individual carrying the phone. They are basically a miniature GPS device, with the added benefit of a nifty chip that allows me—or Trish—to listen in by dialing a preprogrammed phone number.
Trish is a local street dick who does occasional contract jobs for me. I’d have her accidentally bump into Chesterfield, ask to use his phone, and insert the tracker inside the battery compartment. As long as he didn’t change the rechargeable battery, the tracker would go unnoticed. It was an expensive gamble that would cost the Barnes Agency several thousand dollars if we didn’t recover the device. With electronics, the smaller, the more expensive, and most everything was available in a miniature version if you were willing to pay for it.
Feeling good about having a plan of action, blind though it was, I celebrated with another draught and a dozen hot wings. Maybe I’d call Bill and cajole him into joining me for an evening of total-body massage therapy. Maybe spending the night with him would take my mind off of Ox. Or maybe not. Either way, I’d worry about Lolly, Samuel Chesterfield, and their problems tomorrow.
FIVE
A steady drizzle fell outside my window and an empty bed greeted me when I awoke Monday morning. Bill had left me a handwritten note, propped against the bathroom mirror and held in place by a foil-wrapped protein bar: “Enjoy your breakfast, and see you Wednesday. Luv U.”
He’d mentioned something about doing a photo shoot for a new casino opening in Vegas. Wondering what type of costume they’d make him wear, I unwrapped the granola bar and headed for the Mister Coffee machine. Spud sat at the kitchen table, reading the newspaper and drinking a bottle of chocolate Yoo-hoo. An empty plate with remnants of what resembled scrambled eggs rested on the table in front of him. Cracker had wedged himself between the legs of Spud’s chair, hoping for a fallen morsel.
“The damn dealerships are advertising two-percent financing on selected new vehicles, for crying out loud,” he grumbled.
“Morning, Spud.”
“Who’s gonna buy my Chrysler, when they can keep their money in the bank to earn interest and get a new car at two percent?” he demanded.
I eyed the empty plate in front of him and decided that he’d had grits, too. “Good breakfast?” I asked, munching on a bar of what tasted like toasted dirt with dry leaves mixed in.
“Bill cooked for me. Two scrambled, cheese grits, bacon, and toast. He even shook my Yoo-hoo.” Spud traded the classifieds for the metro section and made a show of wadding up the former.
“So glad my boyfriend thinks more of my father than me,” I muttered, stomach growling.
“Some cantaloupe left. Eat a piece of that with your horse food.”
My brain was still foggy with sleep and I couldn’t grasp a snappy retort to throw back at Spud. The phone rang as I poured a much-needed cup of coffee. “This is Jersey.”
“It’s Soup. I’ve been up all night.” He sounded wired. “You’re not going to believe what was on that flash drive.”
My brain perked up in an instant. “Lay it on me.”
“Social Security.”
“Come again?”
“Remember the Social Security Reform and Privatization Act that went into effect in January?” he asked.
“Of course.” Everyone remembered the Social Security Reform Act. It was one of the most hotly debated political issues that had come along since cloning.
The SSRP Act said that Americans, beginning at age thirty, could elect to leave their Social Security benefits in the hands of Uncle Sam or choose to manage their own retirement money. The idea was that by age thirty, an adult knew enough about investing to make a wise decision. If one wanted to control their own Social Security funds, they could transfer their entire balance from Uncle Sam into a Social Security investment privatized account, or SIPA. Future Social Security taxes withheld would be transferred from the government’s account to the individual’s account four times a year, on the first day of each quarter. And it was all going to take place electronically.
Some people claimed the new program could only result in tax increases, while others believed it was time to make a change because the Social Secur
ity retirement program originally enacted by President Franklin Roosevelt in 1935 had grown into an unmanageable monster.
Regardless of the continuing debate, the act passed last year and took effect in January. So far, only four national firms had been given Uncle Sam’s blessing to handle SIPAs and I recalled reading something about Chesterfield Financial joining the SIPA-approved list.
“Well, I’ve got what appears to be Big Brother’s list of taxpayers who turned thirty last year and elected a SIPA,” he explained. “Or, at least a piece of the list. From two states. In the file for each individual, there’s a little chunk of data inside another encoded field. I haven’t gotten into it yet. The code is different.”
“Different how? Somebody accessed a federal database of names, then added their own stuff to each name?”
“Something like that.” Soup sighed, not wanting to waste time explaining technical details. “Basically, somebody is using these names for another purpose, other than what the original database was set up for. I just don’t know what yet.”
It was not unfeasible that Chesterfield Financial would have a list of taxpayer’s names, especially if they had just made the approved list of SIPA brokerage firms. But, what was the additional data that had been tagged on to the database? And, back to my original question, why was the flash drive hidden inside a gym bag in Chesterfield’s home?
“How long before you break it?”
T. Lynn Ocean - Jersey Barnes 01 - Southern Fatality Page 5