by Sandy Night
“So you would have kept me there at the station. You would have told them I helped Blade, because I’m in danger, right? Let the authorities handle it, right?”
Colt wondered if he was digging himself into a hole. “I wasn’t lying to you. That was not my intention. But to be honest, I don’t know what would have happened while we were giving our statements about Esther Ketch and her shotgun.” He gazed out the window at the passing scenery. “You may be right,” he reluctantly agreed. “Your safety would have taken priority over going after Whip.”
“Well what now?” Alaska tilted her head. “Are you going to flag down one of your buddies and have me arrested?” She began a rapid fire of glances.
“But I wasn’t going to tell them you were guilty of aiding your brother, not then and not now. I may have inquired about Blade’s case and the possibility of fraud though. And besides, Blade is probably telling them everything he told you, so why not let the authorities get involved? They could help us locate and apprehend Whip, if he’s really alive and in Branson.”
“No, we can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because, me and Blade already discussed that, if we told the authorities, they’ll tell Sheriff Thornville and he’ll tell Deputy Haggard and we don’t want him and the Ketches to find out what we know. They’ll tell Whip and he’ll take off and then we’ll never find him.”
“It seems to me they already know or suspect you know. Why else would an old woman come after you with a shotgun?”
“Well let’s see if we can’t find Whip first, and if he’s gone then we’ll tell.”
“Okay, we’ll look for Whip first, but if anyone should present any kind of threat at any time, I’m getting back-up. Is that understood?”
“Whatever.”
*****
It was an hour’s drive to Branson and halfway there, from out of nowhere, the powerful urge to have sex overwhelmed Alaska. She throbbed and tingled. She would have thought that the night before would have sustained her. But it didn’t. Apparently she was just getting started.
Feeling all goose-bumpy, she flicked fleeting looks at Colt who stared gun-ho ahead. His buff body poised like a polished Marines’ and his way too handsome face awakened butterflies in her she tried to choke.
Shit, damn cop.
What he had done to her was unforgivable. She squirmed and focused on sending her female hormones gone wild, back into their box.
Why oh why had she waited so long after dumping two-timing Earl. She could have slapped herself for that. She had opportunities to date.
Alaska swore to herself that immediately after this crisis, ASAP, she was getting herself another man. Someone she could trust—someone who was not married or lying about his occupation. Maybe hire a PI to check to make sure he was who he said he was.
*****
The 76 strip in Branson, Missouri, snaked through the city, and thrived with bumper to bumper vehicles. Both sides were littered with unique restaurants, theme hotels, spiral go-carts, mini golf, and flamboyant theaters with grand neon signs boasting their shows of country, comedy, family, the 50s, and famous icons. Everybody had come out to enjoy the entertainment the Live Music Capitol of the World had to offer.
The warm air stifled inside the cab as the truck traveled at a sluggish pace. Perspiration began breaking out on Colt.
“Damn traffic,” Alaska muttered.
Peering around him he divulged, “I’ve never been here.”
“What? You’ve never been to Branson?”
“No.”
“You’re kidding me?”
“Now would I kid you?”
Their lane stood still and a tour bus with tinted windows passed them spewing ghastly fumes. Alaska turned and stared at him, a scowl began forming.
“Uh…” Colt thought that might not have been the right thing to say, but she started it. “Wait a minute; besides not telling you I was a cop, I’ve been totally honest with you.”
She turned her attention back to the road and accelerated too fast, then punched the brake, jolting everything inside the truck. “I suppose you’re married?”
“What?” He realized that she had him all wrong. “I’m not married. I told you that when we first met.”
“But I bet there’s a girlfriend who’d be mighty upset if she found out that you slept with me.”
Colt hesitated. If he told her there was no girlfriend which was basically the truth and she later found out about Penney, he would have a problem. He spoke, choosing his words carefully. “There is a woman I date on occasion, but there is no committed relationship. She wouldn’t care that I’m with you. I hardly even see her. She’s a flight attendant who’s fixated on some entertainer in Vegas.”
“Oh, so you’re a player?”
“No, I like women but—”
At that, Alaska jerked the steering wheel, maneuvering the truck in the left hand lane. She gunned the accelerator.
The light ahead of them turned yellow and Colt thought she would be stopping. But she didn’t. She sped through the intersection under a red light. “Whoa cowgirl, you can get a ticket for that!”
“Bring it on cop!”
“I would if I had a ticket pad on me, but lucky you, I don’t.”
“You know what,” she said, fluttering her hand toward him while maintaining her attention on the road, “I’m done talking to you.”
“Fine by me.”
Colt guessed he did say the wrong thing, but at least he wouldn’t have to cross that path later.
After a couple of blocks, she turned by a huge theater showcasing an old Hollywood star. No more traffic. The wind blew inside the truck.
They passed commercial businesses, a bank whose time read eleven-thirty-eight, and a shopping strip. “Do you know where you’re going?” he asked.
“Yes, I know where we’re going.”
*****
Alaska regretted using a sarcastic tone. Colt did act as if he wanted to help. She never did tell him the whereabouts of the bar where Garland had seen Whip.
She could use him. Remembering the last time she had a scuffle with Whip, she lifted her index finger and traced the scar on her cheek, the way she used to do all the time. What had happened between her and Colt didn’t take priority, getting Blade exonerated did.
She slowed the old Ford down, and her attitude. Her eyes darted from one side of the road to the other. “Look for a bar called Dooley’s.”
“It’s a long shot he’ll be there,” Colt remarked. “It might not even be open this early.”
“I know, but I’m betting it is, and someone there knows Whip. He’s the type of person you don’t forget.”
Colt pointed. “There it is.”
Dooley’s Bar and Grill had no windows, and it stood alone, not adjacent to any other business. Cars in the parking lot confirmed they opened early.
Alaska didn’t slumber getting out of the truck. She made her way inside the building in a matter of seconds. Her eyes adjusted promptly to the dim lighting. There were two guys at a pool table. She scrutinized them. They flicked glances toward her. One of them resembled Whip, short and funky, but it wasn’t him.
She headed for the bar. There were three middle-aged men seated in a row. And further down sat a young female with black, shortly cropped hair, facing backwards and holding on to a cue stick. Alaska chose a stool near her and offered a friendly smile, but all she got in return was a glare.
A cluster of draft handles sporting different colors displayed in front of her. A smoky grill lined the back wall and the bartender flipped burgers that sizzled and filled the air with a charcoal picnic aroma. The strike of a cue ball clapped louder than the rock coming out of the jukebox.
Alaska located the men’s room and planned to keep a peripheral eye on it, in case Whip should come waltzing out the door.
The bartender, who had long blond hair in a ponytail, approached her and Colt with an upbeat greeting and his name. That was good, h
e was working for a big tip and that was exactly what she planned to give him.
She smiled and folded her forearms on the rim of the bar. “Matt sweetie, I’ll have a Bud in the bottle.”
“Same,” Colt said, reaching for his wallet.
Her hand motioned for him to keep it in his pocket. Surely didn’t need him displaying his badge, not here.
She pulled a fifty out of her purse and gave it to Matt after he placed the bottles on the bar. He swirled over to the register. The music stopped.
He came back and plopped the change down. Alaska picked up a ten. “Here, this is for you.”
“Thank you.”
“Matt sweetie, can you do me a favor?”
“Why sure darling.”
“I was wondering if you could tell me when Whip or his name could be Floyd, when he usually comes in here.”
The cute bartender leaned against the keg stand and shook his head. “The name Whip doesn’t sound familiar. Floyd? I don’t know. What does he look like?”
“Short, weasel eyes, walks with a limp. Oh and he likes to dye his hair.” Alaska indulged in her first sip of cold barley and malt while Matt pondered the description with a raised eyebrow. A coarse voice hollered from down the bar, “Hey Matt, the frigging hamburgers are burning.”
The bartender turned his attention to his irate customer. “Hang on, Nick.” Then back to her. “Sorry darling, a lot of characters come through here.” He pivoted. “I’ll think on it,” he said over his shoulder.
Alaska set her beer down and noticed she had the attention of the female customer with black hair. “Does he spit when he talks?” the girl asked, leaning her cue stick against the bar.
“Yes, yes he does.”
The girl sidled down and sat on a stool next to Alaska. “How bout you buying me a beer?”
“Yeah, sure.” Alaska glanced at Matt who was busy putting burgers in baskets, but it didn’t matter. Her newfound friend stood up on the foot rail, leaned all the way over the bar, grabbed a mug and pressing her legs against Alaska’s to reach the handle, poured herself a draft.
“When does he usually come in here?”
The girl sat back down and sipped at the foam before answering. “I don’t think he has a usual time for anything, he just hangs around. And what’s with the name Whip? I’m sure you’re talking about Floyd.”
“Oh it’s a nick-name. Do you know about where he lives?”
“I know exactly where he lives.”
“Where?”
“And how much would that information be worth to you? Her dark eyes glanced at the bills lying on the bar.
Alaska slid the whole pile over, a twenty, two fives, and some change.
She swiveled and pointed. “Go out here, hang a left and then a right at the gas station. Go down about a half a mile.” She jumped off the stool, and then said while stuffing the money in her pocket, “Apartment twenty three.”
Chapter 10
Whip lived an awesome life. He ate, drank, and played like a king’s son.
It pained him at times that it had been his brother’s death that had started the workings of the windfall. That was not part of the initial plan, but the seed for a new one. He missed Floyd and using his identity somehow kept his spirit close to him. Whip even thought Floyd guided and protected him at times.
Florida had been a horrible experience. After his own funeral, his cousin Tom personally escorted him to Miami, straight dab to the center of the melting pot, and abandoned him at a dirty, roach infested motel with rats. His room proved to be nothing more than a hole in the wall. The humidity permeated thicker than Ozark fog, and man-eating mosquitoes filled the air. Hardly anybody spoke English, and he got mugged, twice.
Promises of big bucks for a beach condo were made, as soon as Blade was behind bars and the insurance money came in. But that didn’t happen. Whip’s monthly allowance, sent by his Aunt, never changed. Whenever he called to inquire about the situation, she would answer the phone with joy in her voice. That wasn’t like her. And every time, she told him the money hadn’t come in yet, and hung up.
Bullshit. They were hoarding his share, expecting him to rot away.
Fuck it. He boarded a bus, destination—Branson, his favorite place in the whole world.
He called Dear Auntie again, this time from the Missouri bus station. She high-tailed there and hustled him to the closest hotel. Once inside the room, she treated him with the fury of a tornado.
Whip stood his ground. What the hell, she was driving a brand-new SUV.
He threatened to expose the whole scam and hit the road if he didn’t get what he wanted, and he meant it too. She reluctantly gave in and threatened to kill him with her bare hands if he screwed up. He believed her.
He proudly changed himself. Dyed hair and tanning beds were ritual. Plus he ordered a pair of special shoes, one higher than the other to conceal his limp. He wore them a lot, but not around the apartments, where he knew everyone, and he knew that they didn’t know him. He put on weight. But most importantly, he kept his distance from meth people and bars on the strip. He told everyone he got disability.
He loved his apartment. It had central AC and heat, a dishwasher, sliding glass doors, cable, chicks at the pool, and washers and dryers in the building. He got lucky too. Not too often but more than before. His favorite was the black widow. She was only after money but he didn’t care.
The knock on the door came within five minutes after Whip returned home from an overnight fishing trip on a friend’s houseboat. There had been a lot of horsing around and his clothes got caked with mud, guts, ketchup, and soda. He stripped down to nothing. He thought it was the trio of twelve-year-old girls he had just seen down the hallway with their arms loaded with doughnut boxes. They were always selling something.
He strolled butt naked to the door, and without looking through the peephole which he usually did, he turned the knob and swung the door wide open, expecting to hear three delightful, horrified squeals. But instead he saw Alaska standing there.
His brain bounced rapidly against his skull, screaming, Oh fuck, Oh fuck! His body went into dumb shock.
She stepped forward and slapped his face so hard it knocked him against the wall. He dropped to the floor. She stood over him and smiled. “Hello, Whip.”
Scooting backwards on his elbows, he feared she would try to kick his balls.
She followed.
A tall square guy popped up behind her. Cop? Boyfriend?
Whip intended to pretend he didn’t know her, but when he opened his mouth to speak, nothing came out.
The next attack occurred with the speed of a bullet. Deputy Haggard appeared behind Alaska’s companion like magic and pistol whipped him on the back of the head.
The dude body slammed into Alaska. She turned and let out the beginning of what started to be a scream, but that was interrupted by a strike on the forehead. She crash landed on top of the coffee table, making a mess of a dirty ashtray and leftover Chinese food.
Both unwanted guests lay sprawled out, unconscious.
Chapter 11
Colt thought he had been in a car wreck and was coming out of a coma, or something. No memory appeared as to what happened. Pain pierced his lower back, shoulders, and neck.
He struggled to open his eyes. They seemed as if they had been glued shut. Dried blood? His will pried the lids apart. Tiny particles poked his eyeballs, glass from a shattered windshield? And he saw nothing but pitch blackness. No lights on at all.
Where were the doctors? What kind of hospital did they take him to?
Or did he still lie at the scene of an accident, trapped inside mangled steel? He listened for voices and sirens but heard nothing but static ringing in his ears. He sniffed for gas and got the earthy fragrance of soil.
His muscles responded with short jerks as he stirred, and then he realized he was lying on his shoulders in a slanted position with his legs propped up. Panic that had been biding its time engulfed him like a
flaming torch. He quickly pushed himself backwards and sat upright. Something fell off his neck and landed on his hand. He picked it up, ran his fingers over a billfold, opened it, and then caressed his badge and cards. Money’s gone. He must have been robbed. He closed it and stuck it in his back pocket. But then what happened to him? Where was he?
In total darkness, he reached out and patted a coarse wall. He clawed at it until he had a handful of dirt. Underground?
He trembled and gasped for air. Did someone toss him in a cave or in a primitive storm shelter? Or a pit meant for his grave? Did he dare feel around for the dimensions?
He wanted to remember what happened first. Maybe it wasn’t that bad. He calmed down, controlled his breathing and picked what he now suspected to be dirt out of his eyes. He plowed his way through a bear of a headache and captured vivid flashes of having extreme sex with a woman with silky hair and green eyes that beamed like UFOs in the sky. They moved in one fluid position after another. The memory comforted him and he wanted to hide there but he had to move on.
He recalled the mountains and being at his parent’s cabins. Did he fall into a ditch and it was nighttime? His legs ached and didn’t want to budge but he forced himself up, stood, and patted the side of the unknown. The gritty wall radiated coolness, definitely not man-made but part of the earth. He tilted his head upward as he waved his arms and stood on his toes. He touched no ceiling and no stars shone. He sighed, relieved that he wasn’t in a coffin and running out of air. But why think that? He sat back down and continued digging into the depths of his mind. There had been a call on his cell that sent him out to possibly obtain information from the sister of an escaped convict. Alaska. She had long sensuous legs, luscious lips, and a scar. He fell in love with her. But what happened?
Scattered images appeared of an old woman with a shotgun, a restaurant on an overlook, Alaska’s kitchen and her beat up old Ford, an apartment complex, a beer at a bar with a girl leaning over exposing a tattoo, and the escapee standing there bleeding from his forehead.