by Jude Hardin
“He’s here. Why don’t you come on over? We have a surprise for you.”
“What kind of surprise?”
“The good kind,” she said. “The Colombian kind.”
“Let me talk to Albert,” I said.
“He’s taking a dump. Just come on over, okay?”
She hung up.
I scrolled through Everett’s contact list, which was extensive. Albert’s number was at the very top. Albert was into something from Colombia, which meant Everett was into something from Colombia, and I had a feeling it wasn’t coffee or colorful wall hangings. Everett might have been a responsible young man, but he was getting high on something with his friends.
Not that there was anything unusual about that. When I was twenty, everyone I knew was smoking or snorting or popping or shooting up or all of the above. Of course I was traveling with the band by that time. This was before our chartered jet days. We were burning up the interstate in a bread truck, using crates filled with stage lights for a backseat. We didn’t have much money. Some nights, the five of us would share a pound of bologna and a loaf of white bread for dinner. And some peanut butter, if we were lucky, smeared on crackers stolen from Wendy’s salad bar. We never had much cash, but we somehow managed to get stoned every night after the show. So it really didn’t surprise me that Everett was doing drugs, or that his father didn’t know about it. I figured it was worth checking into, though. And, if he was dealing, that was a different story altogether. That could explain everything.
I reassembled the wallet and shoved it back into the glove box. Everything except the student ID. I kept that. I slid the cell phone into my pocket and grabbed a pen from Everett’s backpack, planning to write down every name and number on his contact list. I wanted to get the information before the cops came. Once they had the phone in their possession, I would never see it again.
I climbed out of the BMW and shut the door. Before I made it back inside the camper, I heard footsteps coming up behind me. I turned. It was Joe Crawford. My landlord. My best friend since sixth grade. He was still in his work clothes. Tan suit, white shirt, striped tie, real shoes. In addition to owning and operating the fish camp, he dabbled in international real estate. Like Everett Harbaugh, debt was never going to be one of his problems.
“Hey, Joe,” I said.
“Hey. Dylan said you wanted to talk to me.”
“Yeah. I just wanted you to know I might be a little late with this month’s rent.”
He laughed. “It’s the twenty-first,” he said. “You’re already three weeks late. So what else is new?”
I felt embarrassed. Joe and I are friends, but business is business. I don’t like to get behind on my financial responsibilities. Especially when a friend is involved.
“It’s been a little slow,” I said. “But I have a job. I should be getting some money soon.”
“Shut up, man. You know I’m not worried about it. Does your job have anything to do with that fancy new convertible?”
“Actually, it does.”
I lit a cigarette and told him what had happened.
“That’s really strange,” he said. “I guess we can expect the police to be swarming the place any time now.”
“I don’t know about swarming, but they’ll be here. The kid’s father said he was going to call them tonight. I’m trying to get as much information as I can before they show up.”
“All right. Well, I’ll let you get to it, Nicholas. Jen’s frying some pork chops and baking some biscuits if you want to come over for dinner.”
“Thanks,” I said. “But I still have quite a bit of work to do.”
“Well, there’s plenty, and you know you’re always welcome.”
“Thanks.”
He gave me a half salute, turned and walked away with his hands in his pockets. I crushed my cigarette into the sand with the toe of my shoe, went inside and set my spiral notebook and Everett’s pen and cell phone on the table. I poured myself a cup of coffee and sat down and started jotting down the names and numbers from his contact list. While I was at it, I wrote my cell phone number on the backs of a few business cards and slid the cards into my wallet. By the time I finished, it was almost ten o’clock.
I figured Albert and his girlfriend would be toasted by then, and I figured it wouldn’t hurt to put a little fear into them.
I punched in Albert’s number. A male voice answered.
“Dude, where are you?” he said.
“I’m not a dude. I’m a private investigator.”
He laughed. “Come on, Everett. Stop screwing around, man. Where are you? I thought you were coming over.”
“Everett was kidnapped,” I said. “His father hired me to find him. My name’s Nicholas Colt.”
“Kidnapped. Are you serious?”
“Yeah, I’m serious. I was the one who answered earlier when your girlfriend called.”
“She’s not my girlfriend, dude. She’s just a girl, you know? She said she talked to Everett.”
“She didn’t. It was me. So you guys having a little party tonight?”
“We’re studying. The three of us have calculus tomorrow. We get together every Tuesday night and—”
“So let me get this straight. If I send some cops over with a dog, they’re not going to find anything. Right?”
He took a second to consider that.
“What do you want?” he said, his tone not quite as arrogant now.
“A little respect, and a few minutes of your time. That’s all.”
“Okay.”
“What kinds of drugs are you using?” I said.
“Just weed, man.”
“Cut the man and the dude and all that. You can call me Mr. Colt. Or sir.”
“Okay.”
“How much marijuana do you have at your house right now?”
“We had two joints earlier,” he said. “Now we have two roaches.”
“Have you ever dealt the stuff?”
“No, never.”
“What about Everett?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Good. You’re doing fine, Albert. Just a couple of more questions, and I’ll let you get back to your studies. The young lady I talked to earlier implied that Everett might have recently broke up with a girlfriend. You know anything about that?”
“I’m starting to feel like some kind of informant,” he said. “Shouldn’t I be getting paid for this?”
“You are getting paid, Albert. In exchange for a little information, I’m going to allow you to go about your business without a vice cop looking over your shoulder twenty four hours a day. How does that sound? Is that enough payment for you?”
“Her name’s Shelby Spelling,” he said. “Everett dumped her a few weeks ago. She’s a total psych job if you ask me. After he broke up with her, she started calling him about a thousand times a day, and she even showed up at his room a few times. Totally stalking him. I think he finally blocked her number on his phone, and he called campus security the last time she came to the fraternity house.”
“Which fraternity?” I said.
“Phi Epsilon Alpha Kappa. They call it PEAK for short. Everett pledged when he was a freshman, but he just started living there this year.”
“All right. I appreciate your help, Albert. I’ll give you a call if I think of anything else. Try not to smoke too much dope, okay? I really don’t think it’s going to do anything for your math skills.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said.
I checked the call records on Everett’s phone, but he must have deleted everything before he came to my place. The calls to and from Albert were there, but that was it.
I took the phone back out to the BMW and placed it on the center console where I’d found it. I went ahead and took the keys out of the ignition and locked the door and set the alarm. If the cops had a problem with that, then so be it. We don’t usually have to worry about any sort of theft around the lake, but then we don’t usually h
ave to worry about kidnappers either. Better to be safe than sorry.
Next to Everett’s car, my 1996 GMC Jimmy looked like a piece of junk. But it wasn’t. It was a good truck. The silver paint had started to peel a little, and the tint on the windows had started to bubble a little, and one of the hubcaps was missing, but it was paid for and it ran like a top. The options included four-wheel drive, a 4.3 liter Vortec engine, a five speed transmission, a Smith and Wesson .38 and a sawed-off twelve gauge pump.
When I put the pedal to the metal, my truck would flat get up and go. I’d bought it new, and I’d put over a hundred thousand miles on it. I considered it my partner, my sidekick.
I even talked to it sometimes.
“Hello, Jimmy,” I said. “Let’s go for a ride.”
I climbed in and fired it up and headed for Five Points in Jacksonville.
CHAPTER FOUR
There was a blues club on Park Street called Yesterday’s. I’d been there plenty of times. I’d even played some music there on occasion, back when I was still doing that kind of thing. There was a well-lit room in front where customers could play nine ball by the hour, and a darker room in back with a bar and some bistro tables and a large concert stage.
I slid the holstered .38 onto my belt, concealed it with the tails of my Hawaiian shirt. I walked in and looked around. It was slow, even for a Tuesday. A man and a woman stood by one of the pool tables with sticks in their hands, but they weren’t playing a game. Not at the moment, anyway. They were just standing there drinking beer and talking. The man tipped his Jacksonville Jaguars ball cap as I sauntered by.
I walked back to the main nightclub and took a seat at the bar. I counted five other customers, and it didn’t take me long to figure out that four of them were in the band. They must have been on break. They were drinking shots and laughing and having a good time. I’d been there. It’s never much fun to play to an empty room, but you do whatever you can to make the best of it. Alcohol helps.
There was a cocktail waitress sitting alone at one of the tables. She was skinny and blond and she had dark circles under her eyes. She looked bored. She took a drag from her cigarette and then put it out in an ashtray that needed to be emptied.
The bartender wore tight black shorts and a T-shirt cut to expose the shiny gold stud in her belly button. Mid-thirties, long brown hair, cute smile. Her nametag said Laurie.
I ordered a draft beer. Laurie brought it and set it on a napkin in front of me.
“Where is everybody?” I said.
“That’s what I would like to know. Can’t make a living like this.”
I took a sip of my beer. It was cold and delicious.
“Those guys in the band?” I said, gesturing toward the cluster of tattooed fellows on the other side of the bar.
“Yeah. They’ll be going back on in a minute. You should stick around. They’re pretty good.”
“What kind of music?”
“Rock and roll. AC/DC. Zeppelin. All kinds of stuff.”
“Cool. Maybe I will stick around. You guys ever get any bikers in here anymore?”
She wiped the edge of the bar with a towel.
“Sometimes,” she said. “Why? You ride?”
“Not me. Those things are dangerous. Actually, I’m trying to find someone. Guy they call Fatso.”
“Never heard of him,” she said.
I slid a business card and a folded twenty dollar bill across the bar in her direction.
“Now have you heard of him?” I said.
She took the twenty, bypassed the wine carafe they were using for a tip jar and stuffed it directly into the front pocket of her shorts. I figured she didn’t want to have to share it with the cocktail waitress.
“What do you want to know?” she said.
“Where can I find Fatso?”
“He rides with the Posse. Those guys don’t come in here anymore.”
“Why not?” I said.
“Because the owner told them not to. They were causing too much trouble. Starting too many fights.”
“So where do they hang out now?”
“Arenque’s. You know where that is?”
“I know where it is,” I said. “It’s always a good idea to have a suture kit handy when you walk into that place.”
“I wouldn’t go there,” she said. “But hey, you asked.”
“So I did. Thanks for the information. I appreciate it.”
I chugged the last few ounces from my beer mug, climbed off the stool and started to walk away.
“I thought you were going to stick around to hear the band,” Laurie said.
“Maybe next time.”
“All right. Well, don’t be a stranger.”
Unfortunately, a stranger was exactly what I was going to be at Arenque’s Bar and Grill, and Arenque’s was the kind of joint where they didn’t care much for strangers. I’d only been there once, but once had been enough. It was on my Avoid Like the Plague list of restaurants and taverns. You know a place is bad when the ketchup stains on the bar towels aren’t from ketchup.
I walked back through the billiards room and out the front door. The guy in the Jaguars hat told me to have a good one.
“I doubt it,” I said. “But thanks.”
My cell phone trilled as I was climbing into my truck. I shut the door and answered the call.
“This is Colt,” I said.
“Hey, this is Laurie. I just wanted to tell you, I get off around two-thirty. You know, if you feel like doing something.”
I looked at my watch. It was quarter past midnight.
“I have some work to do,” I said. “But we’ll see how it goes.”
Maybe I was going to have a good one after all.
CHAPTER FIVE
My dreaded point of destination was only half a mile away. Someone had painted BEER TACOS FAJITAS in bold white letters on the plate glass window out front, and above that a neon sign shouted the name of the establishment in a shade of red you probably could have seen from outer space. The sign’s designer had used a sombrero for the apostrophe in Arenque’s. A clever touch, I thought.
The parking lot looked like a Harley-Davidson dealership. I figured there was at least a quarter million dollars’ worth of chrome pipes and leather saddlebags lined up out there. The money spent on those things amazed me sometimes, because I knew for a fact that most of those guys in the Posse didn’t even have jobs. Half of them still lived with their parents, and the other half sponged off of women in stable professions like teaching and nursing. For beer money, those bad little boys sold a little dope and took a little book and broke a few kneecaps for the local loan sharks.
I parked on the street, fed some coins into the meter, and walked inside.
Nobody paid any attention to me at first. It was crowded, and everyone was busy drinking and eating and throwing darts and racking pool balls and shoving quarters into video poker machines. Nothing had changed much since the last time I was there, especially the smell of the place. There were onions steaming on the flat top, chimichangas sizzling in the deep fryer, hot tamales and cold beer and lime and cilantro.
I found an open barstool and ordered a Tecaté.
“No salt,” I told the bartender. “In fact, you can skip the glass altogether.”
The bartender set the sweaty aluminum can in front of me, and I paid him for it. I wiped the lip of the can off with a cocktail napkin and took a drink.
“You want something to eat?” he said. “Kitchen closes in ten minutes.”
“No thanks.”
I spotted Fatso in the mirror behind the bar. He was sitting alone in a semicircle booth, like some kind of big shot. He’d gained some weight since the last time I’d seen him. He was enormous. Three hundred pounds or better, I guessed. He wore a white T-shirt and a leather vest and a long goatee and some gold chains. His head was shaved bald.
There was a plate of tacos in front of him and some refried beans and a galvanized steel bucket filled with crushed i
ce and bottles of Carte Blanca. There were a bunch of empties on the table, as if a party had been there—one of those beer-commercial parties where everyone is drinking the same brand. I walked over and slid into the chair across from him.
“Who are you?” he said.
“Swallow your food, and I’ll tell you.”
He swallowed his food and took a long pull from the beer bottle closest to his hand.
“Who are you?” he said again.
“Did you drink all this beer yourself?”
“Listen, mother—”
“You don’t remember me?” I said.
“If I remembered you, I wouldn’t be asking.”
He reached into the bucket and pulled out another bottle, opened it and took a drink. I offered him a Marlboro and he waved it off. I lit one for myself.
“Nicholas Colt,” I said. “There was a little skirmish in a place called Kelly’s on St. Patrick’s Day a couple of years ago.”
“Now I remember. You were the guy with the Balabushka.”
“It’s a replica, but yeah, that was me.”
“I’m eating,” he said. “What do you want?”
“Everett Harbaugh.”
“Who’s that?”
“You know who it is, Fatso. Where is he?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, brother, so if you don’t mind, I’d like to get back to my—”
“Your boy Dennis Jackson went down for one-eighty-seven a few weeks ago, and the law firm you hired to represent him has been getting some threatening emails. You still don’t know what I’m talking about?”
He shook his head. “In the first place, I didn’t hire anybody to represent anybody. We’re not the mafia, man. We’re just a motorcycle club.”
His voice had risen in volume, and some hairy guys with leather hats and cue sticks and longneck beer bottles had started gathering around and listening in. I flicked my cigarette ash on the floor with my left hand. My right was under the table, wrapped around the grips of my .38.
“I own a snub-nosed revolver,” I said. “Right now, as we speak, its fat barrel is pointed between your fat legs. It might behoove you to tell your guys to back off.”
He looked at me and laughed. “You got balls,” he said.