by A W Hartoin
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Scene 1
Scene 2
Scene 3
Scene 4
Scene 5
A Good Man Gone Preview
A Good Man Gone Chapter 1
COKE WITH A TWIST A MERCY WATTS SHORT
A.W. Hartoin
Published by A.W. Hartoin
Copyright © A.W. Hartoin, 2012
www.awhartoin.com
Edited by Lauren Baratz-Logsted
Cover by: Karri Klawiter
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Also By A.W. Hartoin
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Fierce Creatures (Away From Whipplethorn Book Two)
Mercy Watts Mysteries
Touch And Go (A Mercy Watts Short)
Nowhere Fast (A Mercy Watts Short)
A Good Man Gone (A Mercy Watts Novel)
Young Adult
It Started With A Whisper
For Shanna
The Mercy in my life.
I lifted a tray loaded with empty plastic pitchers high above my head and worked my way through the Monday night crowd. My hips nudged people out of the way, which guys took as an invitation to grope me. I made it to the bar, put in yet another order for Bud Light pitchers, when I felt a big hand on my ass. It was the fifth one to make a landing in the last hour. I smacked it, but it stayed, heavy and insistent. I spun around and stuck a finger in the chest of a guy roughly the size of my pickup. My finger sunk in to the first knuckle.
“I’m going to kick your ass, if you don’t knock it off,” I said.
The guy reached out and grabbed my finger. His hand was slow and assured; not the usual drunken frat boy action I was used to. Still, he was definitely on something. He looked at my finger like he was considering breaking it. Instead, he tried to put it in his mouth.
I whipped my finger away, grabbed an empty tray, and whacked him on the top of the head. No reaction. Then a couple of slow blinks and he melted like lard in a skillet. I don’t think I hit him all that hard; maybe it was just his time to pass out.
“Well now, Mercy. That’s a first.” Tom leaned over the bar to get a better look at my handiwork and smiled. Tom was the owner and chief bartender of the American Ball Club or the ABC, as he liked to call it. The name made the place sound classy, which it wasn’t. Tom decorated it in early American plywood and dirt. How it managed to pass health inspection was a mystery. Tom must’ve known a guy. The kind of guy that thinks breaking knees is educational. Health inspectors, beware.
“Had to be done,” I said.
“No doubt,” he said, still smiling.
Lard Butt lay on the floor making snuffling sounds like a hog at a feed trough. His friends came over, apologized, and pulled him out the door by his feet.
“The ABC’s lucky to have you,” Tom said.
“Don’t get used to it.”
I wasn’t waitressing a minute longer than necessary. My dad was a PI and he asked me to fill in on a case while he was off testifying in Chicago. Actually, Dad doesn’t ask, he orders. I agreed because it was easier than arguing about it and the case looked like a no-brainer. All I had to do was waitress at the ABC in case a university student, Josh Byers, showed up. Dad said Byers was a witness, which translates to “guilty of something,” but the bar was a waste of time in my opinion. Anybody who’d go to their favorite hangout while being hunted by the cops and a PI was an idiot. None of what I’d seen on Josh Byers said he was an idiot. But Dad insisted I spend a week waitressing, no matter how much grabass I had to deal with. He must’ve known something I didn’t. He usually did.
“Seriously, Mercy. I didn’t think you’d last a shift,” said Tom. “Even our ugly waitresses get hassled.”
“Thanks,” I said with a sneer.
“I meant that as a compliment.”
Saying I looked like I couldn’t handle a bunch of drunken frat boys was not a compliment. People tended to make certain assumptions about me. For the record, pretty doesn’t equal weak. It doesn’t equal drug-addicted dingbat either. I’m just saying.
Tom filled some more pitchers for me and put them on a tray. I delivered them, returned to the bar, and plunked down on a convenient stool. My waitressing days were over.
“You heading out?” Tom asked.
“In a minute.” My feet were killing me. Waiting tables was worse than nursing. I’d rather give an enema than get felt up for eight hours. Tom leaned over the bar and looked at my swollen feet in the peep-toe pumps I once thought were comfortable. Then he told his customers he was done serving and to come back tomorrow. Undoubtedly they would.
“What can I get you? On the house,” he said.
“I’m too tired to care,” I said. “Knock yourself out.”
Tom poured several ingredients in a cocktail shaker, shook it with gusto, and then poured the concoction into a dusty martini glass.
I cocked an eyebrow at him. “Really? A vodka gimlet.”
“I don’t have any Dom Perignon ’53.”
“Are you serious?”
“Come on,” said Tom with a sheepish grin. “I just want to see you drink it.”
“My dad would smack you in the mouth and you wouldn’t be the first.”
“With a wife like that, who can blame him?” A blush bloomed across Tom’s red-veined cheeks. “Sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“You’ve seen my mother, I take it.”
“She dropped off your paperwork. She’s something, ain’t she?”
“That’s one way to put it,” I said.
“She looks as much like Marilyn Monroe as you do. I guess you get that a lot,” said Tom.
“You know it.” I tried to be nice, but I was irritated. One of these days, someone would notice a difference between me and Marilyn, but I wasn’t holding my breath. I look like my mother, who’s the spitting image of Marilyn. Together, we look like two versions of the same famous person. I’m Marilyn in Bus Stop and Mom’s Marilyn singing “Happy Birthday, Mr. President” to JFK. I’ve tried to fight it, but there it is.
I sighed and sipped the gimlet. Tom looked so happy, I batted my eyelashes for him and gave him my best surprised look.
“Holy crap,” he said. “That’s kind of freaky.”
“I know and please don’t ask me to do it again.”
“I won’t, but I have to ask this. Your dad calls you Mercy, but it says Carolina on your W-2. What’s the story?”
I had half a drink left and nowhere to be, except bed. My boyfriend, Pete, was supposed to come by and he was late as usual. I gulped half my gimlet down and gave Tom the story I’d been telling since I was eight. Sometimes I embellished, but that night I gave him the straight dope.
“My father claims that he called me Mercy because it’s the first thing that came into his head when he laid eyes on my mother. My mother says I’m called Mercy because the night they brought me home from the hospital, I screamed for twelve hours straight. All my father could say during those hours was, ‘Have mercy.’ It stuck and I’ve been called Mercy since I was three days old. Mom a
lso says that night and every day after is the reason I’m an only child.”
“Who do you believe?” Tom asked.
“Mom. Dad’s a romantic.”
“The famous Tommy Watts a romantic. I never would’ve guessed it.”
I smiled and finished my drink as Pete walked in. He sat down next to me and tried to look contrite for being late. He failed. Pete was a surgical intern at the University Medical Center and terminally busy. Lucky for me it was a ten minute walk to the ABC or I probably wouldn’t have seen him for a couple of weeks. He was MIA most of the time and when he did show, he was late. He did love his work and it was hard to stay mad at such enthusiasm.
He spent the next ten minutes telling me, in detail, about a perforated bowel. I was a nurse, but bowel talk I could do without. My eyes glazed over and I put my head on the bar, but he ran the bowel full to the end.
“Are you looking for Josh Byers?” he asked just as my eyes started to close.
“Who told you that?” I lifted my head and finished off my drink.
“Nobody had to tell me. That case is huge, it happened in my old frat, and all the sudden you’re looking for a guy at the ABC,” said Pete, frowning. “I practically lived here during undergrad.”
“Oh, really. Do you want to get something to eat?”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“What’s the subject?” I batted my eyes and tried to look clueless.
“Why didn’t you tell me you’re looking for a rapist?”
“Well…,” I said.
Technically, Byers wasn’t a rapist. Dad suspected him of drugging the victim, Lara Haven, with GHB, the date rape drug. Before he could get to her, she was raped and sodomized by a couple of happy opportunists, but they weren’t the smartest criminals in town. They managed to tell everyone they knew about the great sex they had, and were arrested two days after the attack. The GHB was the only complication. They denied giving it to Lara. After two polygraphs and hours of interrogation, the cops were persuaded to believe them. That left the question of who drugged Lara and why he didn’t rape her. Byers was seen scoping out Lara an hour before the attack and a week later he was missing. The Haven family felt the cops weren’t being aggressive enough and hired Dad to find Byers.
“He didn’t rape her,” I said.
“If he gave her GHB, he wanted to.”
“GHB can be used for recreational purposes.”
“A guy doesn’t slip it into an eighteen-year-old girl’s soda at a party for recreation and you know it.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I said.
Pete brushed his dark blond hair out of his face. “We should get you home.”
We weren’t going anywhere. At least, we weren’t going together. Pete had to go back to the hospital and I’d go home alone, again. We walked out to my truck and Pete asked, “So when do I get to see you again?”
“Whenever you can fit me into your busy schedule.”
“That’s not very encouraging, is it?”
“No, it isn’t,” I said with a sigh.
A cold October wind came off the Mississippi and Pete’s cheeks looked raw beneath his tired eyes. “I’m going,” I said, but he pulled me to him. He placed my hands on his chest under his jacket and I felt a surge of warmth when he kissed me. It was slow and sweet at first, then deep, and finished with my lower lip in his mouth. He added some kisses down my neck for effect. Pete had lots of effects.
“Are you going to be here tomorrow?” Pete said between kisses.
“Yes. A couple more nights couldn’t hurt, especially if you’ll be by.”
“I’ll come over if the ER’s slow. Have you talked to the guys in the frat?”
“Dad has,” I said.
“How about the little sisters?”
“The what?” I asked.
“Frats are matched up with sororities and they’re called little sisters.”
“Dad didn’t mention it.”
“I have a friend. You can talk to her,” he said.
“And why would you do that? I thought you didn’t like me working on this,” I said.
“I don’t, but the sooner you find him, the better. It’s not like you’re going to stop because I don’t like it.”
“True.”
“Thanks for backing me up on that.”
We said good-bye and Tom smiled at me from beside the dumpster as I got into my truck. He called out that he’d see me tomorrow and raced inside the bar. I clunked my forehead on the steering wheel. More time at the ABC. That was the last thing I wanted. I drove home determined to soak my feet and maybe my head.
The next morning, the phone wouldn’t stop ringing. Dad wanted a progress report, every floor in my hospital wanted me to work a double shift, and Mom called for no reason. Typical Mom. Lastly, Pete texted his friend’s number to me.
After a couple of hours of stalling, I got up the nerve to cold call her. Pete had already asked her to arrange a meeting with the sorority president. I gave her my e-mail address and she promised to send me the entire list of current little sisters. She asked no questions, expressed interest in meeting me, and we hung up. She’d made my meeting with the president at four.
I spent the rest of the afternoon rifling through my closet trying to find something suitably college. Something that said, “I’m one of you.” I put on a Gap long-sleeve tee and low-rise khakis. I pulled my blonde hair back and installed a bow. The look was pretty generic, but I wanted to resemble Marilyn as little as possible.
I needn’t have bothered. The sorority house wasn’t what I expected. Whatever happened to columns and class? It looked like a turn-of-the-century apartment house with rusting gutters and peeling paint. Once inside, a freshman doing the doorman thing greeted me. She had a bow, too. I told her about my appointment with Jennifer Kestler. I signed in and she went to get Kestler. After five minutes, she came back and told me Jen would be out in a minute. I sat, uninvited, on one of the flowery wing backs. The freshman eyed me as she fiddled with some pens in a cup. She looked at my boobs with a disapproving frown. I wanted to inform her that they weren’t implants, just nature’s way of giving me a permanent backache. Instead I asked, “Why are you watching the door?”
“It’s for security. Freaks try to get in sometimes.”
Apparently, no freaks were expected during her five-minute absence, so it was okay to leave the door unguarded.
“What a pain,” I said with a sigh. “Everybody has to sign in?”
“Only from eight till ten. We use our keys after hours.” She rolled her eyes and shrugged her shoulders.
Then I noticed she had homework in front of her. “Sorry to bother you, but do you know Josh Byers?”
“No.” That was it. No explanation this time.
“He’s in your brother frat.”
“Is he?” She opened her book and picked up a highlighter. Interview over.
Jennifer Kestler came out wearing a lacrosse uniform and a sleek ponytail. She shook my hand and led me into what she called the audio-visual room. It was the TV room.
“What can I help you with?”
“I’m looking for information on Josh Byers and Lara Haven.” No use beating around the bush. If the front desk denied knowing Byers, the wagons were already circled.
“I don’t know how I can help you,” she said.
“How well do you know them?”
“He’s in our brother frat. I don’t know her at all.”
“You heard about what happened to her?”
“Yes.”
“And?” I was getting impatient.
“And nothing.”
“You’re not concerned.”
“She wasn’t one of our girls,” she said.
“So it’s okay?” Breathe, I thought. Don’t get pissy.
“No. It’s not okay.” Her face was stone. Her lips set into a thin line.
“But you know him,” I said.
“Vaguely.” She shrugged her shoulders and looked aw
ay.
“Has anyone else talked to you about him?”
“No. Why would they?”
“You’re connected.”
“We’re not connected.”
“All right. You’re socially connected,” I said.
“Not even that.”
“Are you saying you’ve never spoken to him?”
“No. I might have.”
I took a leap. “You were at the frat the night it happened. Did you speak to Byers?”
“No.” She sounded sure and, for once, honest.
“How about the rapists?”
“You don’t know they’re rapists.” She showed her first flash of anger on that one.
“They confessed.”
“It was a plea bargain.” Jennifer jutted her chin out at me and looked pleased with herself.
“So they lied.”
“They wouldn’t lie,” she said.
“So they wouldn’t lie and they’re not rapists.” I was irritating her. It felt good because she was sure irritating me.
“I don’t know anything about it,” she said.
“Which of your girls has dated Byers?”
“None,” she said.
So much for honesty.
“None? In three years, none of you has dated him? Did he ever have a girlfriend?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
What would you know? I had to take a deep breath not to say that out loud.
“Can I talk to some of the other girls?”
“I don’t think so. I have to go now. I have a date.” She tried to lead me to the front door, but I said, “Don’t bother. I can make it out.”
I felt her eyes on me as I walked down the hall. I didn’t want to leave, but I couldn’t think of a reason to stay. When in doubt, stall.
I paused at the front desk. “I’m not feeling so good. Do you mind if I sit for a moment? Cramps. You know how it is.”
The desk girl looked like she had no idea what I was talking about. Yeah, right. After five long minutes spent bent over in my chair, I still hadn’t thought of a way to talk to anyone, but sometimes waiting does the work for you. A couple guys came in and asked to see DeeDee and Loni. They signed in and asked to be taken straight back. Desk Girl took them without hesitation. Their security sucked.