BAD TIME TO BE IN IT

by David Burnsworth

  While the location might be considered desirable from a real estate perspective, it wasn’t easy to secure. With a road in front and neighbors on the three remaining sides, one man could not easily cover it.

  Crome suggested they get some help.

  Blu was hesitant, if only because Crome sometimes associated with characters on the outskirts of decent society. It wasn’t who they were that bothered Blu, or being around them. The job took them all over the place and their paths intersected with all kinds of people. It was the liability of having a few more men like Crome on this job. The wrong men could get them in over their heads real fast.

  As if reading his mind, Crome said, “You pick them.”

  Irritating Crome wasn’t Blu’s intention when he took him up on the suggestion and hired two off-duty police officers to moonlight with them. It was just a bonus. Sort of like retribution for fornicating with Daron on the couch in the office and almost jeopardizing the job before they got the contract.

  To his credit, Crome kept his tongue in check. One of the officers was Roger Powers, Blu’s good friend. He didn’t just pick anyone to work with them. The extra help was quality, not quantity.

  Powers, in uniform, sat on the couch while Blu explained the job. His partner, a rookie named Les Griffith, sat beside him. Both were in their late twenties like Blu and Crome, both eager to make their mark, and both familiar with the city. Griffith was a dark-skinned African American, about five ten, and stocky. Powers was a trim but not thin six-foot white guy.

  They split up into two teams, Blu and Powers and Crome and Griffith. And then by shifts. Crome and Griffith were night owls. Blu and Powers had families so they preferred the day shift.

  It happened when Crome and Griffith were staking out the elevated house. Crome was on one side and Griffith had the opposite corner. A silver Infiniti pulled into Jansen’s drive. Crome used one of his sources to run the plate, not wanting Griffith to get in trouble because he’d done it while on a private gig.

  Two men exited the car, walked up the stairs, and approached the door.

  While they waited for Jansen to answer their knock, the information on the plate came back that it belonged on a Volkswagen in the system as reported stolen. That was all Crome needed. He radioed Griffith. They jumped out of their cars and approached the house from their respective sides.

  Jansen answered the door as Crome rounded the porch. He yelled, “Get down.”

  The men at the door turned and drew down on Crome.

  Griffith approached from the opposite side and they didn’t see him. He said, “Police! Hands up!”

  Instead of following the command, the men crouched low and pushed their way into the house.

  Crome realized the mistake he and Griffith had made. They shouldn’t have let the men get to the house. It hadn’t felt right to him but he’d played it too safe and it had cost him, and maybe Jansen’s life.

  The two men inside could defend the house. Crome decided to take the fight up a notch. He signaled for Griffith to cover the back of the house and ducked behind the Infiniti, pulling his Ka-Bar knife.

  The fuel tank was made from plastic and he punctured holes in it, letting the gasoline drain onto the driveway.

  Then he lit the puddle off and ran the other way.

  The car blew up beautifully. An explosion replaced the darkness with illumination. In the afterglow, Crome wondered if the neighborhood had ever experienced anything like that before.

  Probably not, and now the inhabitants’ safe and secure upper-middle-class lives would never be the same.

  Welcome to the new world.

  Gunfire erupted out of the front windows.

  It would only be a matter of time before the police showed up. And the fire department. And then the reporters. This would be a hot story in the sleepy lowcountry.

  Crome let the men inside expend their ammo.

  The police could handle it from here. All he and Griffith had to do was make sure the men didn’t escape out some back door or side window.

  The car fire in the driveway put off quite a bit of light which helped them cover the house.

  His cell phone buzzed. It was Griffith. Crome answered and the guy said, “My friends are on their way. I don’t want to be here when they show up.”

  Crome said, “The keys are in the Honda. Circle toward the front of the house and I’ll take your place. Get in the car but wait until you see the lights coming. We need to cover the house so the two idiots inside don’t sneak out.”

  “Roger that.”

  Blu slid a Camel out of the pack and lit up with the Pirate’s Cove matches. What he had here was a Class A screw up: an exploded car in the driveway of a home in the wealthy part of town, multiple gunshots fired, a hostage situation, and his partner sitting on the hood of their other incognito Honda grinning like a first grader.

  After exhaling a lungful of mild Turkish blend, Blu asked what was an obvious question to himself, if not others. “Did you have to blow up their car?”

  His business partner didn’t bother to hide his chuckle.

  “What’s so funny?” Blu asked.

  “You,” Crome said. “Our client is inside with those two idiots who couldn’t hit water if they fell out of a boat and all you’re worried about is some torched Infiniti.”

  Blu looked toward the house. The fire department was busy hosing off the rubble that was a nice car before Crome blew it up. Five police cars parked haphazard in front, their blue lights bouncing off the siding of the surrounding homes. Two officers stood behind the open doors of their cruiser, one of them with a bullhorn.

  Using the bullhorn, the officer said, “Release Mr. Jansen now before anyone gets hurt.”

  The response from the house was silence.

  The officer tried again. “You want to consider dealing with us before the suits get here. Once that happens, we can’t help you anymore.”

  Blu’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He checked the number, didn’t recognize it, and answered.

  Grietje said, “Guess who I have?”

  This really wasn’t good at all.

  “What do you want?” Blu asked.

  “Cooperation. Keep the police busy. I’ll call you back.” She ended the call.

  With a nod, Blu signaled Crome to follow him as he stepped farther away from the organized chaos that was the scene of the crime.

  Once out of earshot of any of the officers, Blu said, “The woman has Jansen.”

  His partner’s smile vanished as Blu watched him think about what he’d just heard.

  After a few beats, Crome said, “These people are real good. They must have gone out the back door with our boy right at the start. Those shots were just decoys.”

  “You mean you didn’t return fire?”

  “Hell no,” Crome said. “I didn’t want to risk hitting Jansen.”

  At least he’d kept his head about him.

  Blu stubbed out his cigarette. “How’d they get off the island if you blew up their car?”

  Crome lit a Winston, took a drag, held the cigarette between two fingers on his right hand, and used it to point it at Blu. “They had a backup plan which kicked in as soon as it exploded.”

  “These guys are professionals,” Blu said.

  “They got us on this one, partner.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The next morning, Tuesday, October 2000

  Blu and Crome left the scene when the police and fire department finished restoring law and order. It helped that Crome had developed amnesia when it came to how the car blew up, hinting that it must have been the guys who’d taken Jansen. While sabotage was obvious and spontaneous combustion unlikely, there were no other witnesses to offer alternative theories.

  The closest place to regroup and wait for Grietje’s call was the Pirate’s Cove ba
r which opened at ten. They walked in and the one-eyed bartender, Reggie Sails, greeted them from behind the bar.

  The song playing on the juke was Clapton’s “Wonderful Tonight.” If only it had been.

  “You fellas look like you need drinks,” he said. “I heard a car blew up. And now you’re here. Must be a coincidence.”

  “Must be,” Crome said. “Gimme a draft and a double shot of Crown.”

  “Sweet tea,” Blu said.

  The old man took care of Crome first and then placed a pint glass of tea with two lemon wedges stuck on the rim in front of Blu.

  The grungy bar was not very busy at the moment. Four shirtless college-aged guys shot pool at the worn table in the corner. Two co-eds, both of them potential cheerleader material with bikini tops and cut-off jean shorts, watched the pool players.

  Crome popped a red and washed it down with his shot.

  The old man said, “Those things’ll catch up with you one day.”

  With a grin, Crome said, “Only if I stop.”

  Blu pulled his cell phone out and sat it on the bar in front of him.

  “So will those things,” the old man said, holding a plastic tipped cigar and pointing at the phone. “Don’t want nothin’ to do with ‘em.”

  “I don’t blame you,” Crome said.

  The juke switched to “Surfin’ Safari” by the Beach Boys.

  To Crome, Blu said, “You got phone duty. I’m goin’ for a swim.”

  “What the—” Crome started to say.

  Blu took a swig from his tea, got off the stool, and left the bar. Next door was a souvenir shop that looked like it was new. And open. He walked in and was immediately hit by the smell of cheap rubber and plastic. At a rack against the wall, Blu found a pair of swim shorts his size. On his way to the register, he picked up a bright-colored beach towel that had been marked down along with a discounted pair of flip-flops.

  The cashier, a plump teenaged girl, smacked her lips on gum while she rang up his order.

  Outside, a block down from the store, was a public restroom and changing area.

  Blu changed, put his clothes in the plastic bag that still had the towel, and walked the bridge over the dunes to the surf. He dropped the bag onto the sand, kicked his flops off, and jogged into the waves.

  The water felt warm and soothed the aches of the bad night.

  In college, Blu had competed with the swim team and had a powerful stroke. He charged out to sea until his smoker’s lungs screamed. And then he pushed thirty more seconds before turning around and heading back.

  As he approached the shore and his toes touched sand, he stood and wiped water from his face and short-cropped hair.

  Crome stood by his towel and smoked a cigarette. “Your girlfriend called.”

  Blu picked up his stuff and headed for the shower and changing room. “What’d she say?”

  “I told her you were takin’ a swim. She asked if you were single.”

  “Quit jerkin’ around, Crome. What’s the plan?”

  “Hey, partner,” Crome said, “I wasn’t the one who decided to take a mini vacation in the middle of this situation that could best be described as FUBAR.”

  Blu stood under the outdoor shower and let the cold water wash the salt and sand from his skin. When he finished, he stepped inside the public restrooms, dried off with the towel, changed back into his clothes, and was ready to go.

  His partner used reds to keep his edge. Blu preferred a more holistic approach. The ocean would always be the best place to clear one’s head, in his opinion. And when he couldn’t swim, he went to the gym.

  Outside the public restrooms, Blu asked again, “So what’s the plan?”

  “She thinks she has the upper hand. I’m inclined to agree with her.”

  “Why? Because she has Jansen?”

  Crome turned his head from side to side as if regarding Blu as the village idiot. Perhaps he was.

  Blu opened the chamber of his nine millimeter and blew in it in case any sand had gotten inside.

  “She wants you to call her back. Wouldn’t talk to me. I offered to let her talk to that big parrot Reggie’s got in the bar and she hung up.”

  “I guess I gotta give her a call.”

  “Is what I been tryin’ to tell ya.” Crome handed him the phone.

  “Using a heck of a lot of words, Crome.” He snatched the phone. “Not everyone likes to hear the sound of your voice as much as you do.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  Blu hit redial and Grietje answered with, “I considered shooting Jansen.”

  “What stopped you?”

  “Curiosity,” she replied.

  “Because I didn’t answer your call?”

  “Yes.”

  Well, la-di-freakin-da.

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  “Clean oceans. World peace.”

  “You sure have a funny way of showing the second one.”

  She laughed. It was a nice laugh, and remembering her beauty was distracting. She had, after all, set him up to be shot and had kidnapped his client.

  “You didn’t ask the right question, Mr. Blu Carraway, Private Investigator.”

  “What’s the right question?”

  “When you think of it,” she said, “call me back.”

  The call ended.

  Crome had been watching Blu. He said, “Well?”

  Blu stood there with the phone in his hand and his mind absolutely vacant of what to say.

  “Blu?”

  He snapped out of it, and said, “I have to think of the right question to ask and then call her back.”

  “You want to say that again?”

  “You heard me.” Blu just couldn’t believe it.

  Crome said, “You asked her what she wanted and she said that wasn’t the right question.”

  “Yep.”

  “Then it’s not what she wants that’s the question.”

  Most people never looked past Crome’s biker wardrobe to get to know the man. If they had, they would understand that his mind was always running. Some might say it was the reds, and there was truth in that. But the man was dangerously intelligent.

  Blu said, “I know it’s not what she wants.”

  “No,” Crome said. “It’s not what she wants. Meaning it’s most likely what her handler wants. She wants you to think of her as a go-between, as crazy as that sounds. I think she likes you, partner.”

  “Why do I always get the whack jobs?” A bitter feeling escaped when he said it. He immediately thought of Abby and felt ashamed at thinking of the mother of his daughter that way.

  “Because,” Crome said as he put a hand on Blu’s shoulder, “you got that Latin swagger that drives ‘em wild.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  Blu hit redial.

  “Yes?” Grietje answered.

  “What do they want?”

  “Smart man,” she said. “I knew you’d figure it out. They want Mr. Jansen to agree to their terms. Once he does, he will be released.”

  “You expect me to believe that?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I would not lie to you.”

  “How about you and I finish our walk around the city?” he asked.

  “I’d love to,” she said. “Except that I’m not convinced you wouldn’t lie to me.”

  “And your friends would be around to make sure I was a gentleman.”

  He heard her laugh again.

  “There you go again assuming you know what I want.”

  The call ended.

  Crome said, “Well hell’s bells, what’s next?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  October 2000

  Blu had an idea what was next. He just couldn’t
believe he was thinking it.

  “Jansen’s also playing a game.”

  Crome coughed out smoke from his cigarette. “Why?”

  “Think about it,” Blu said. “He goes in his house. You guys are practically on top of him. And he’s kidnapped? Grietje’s men are not that good—we should know. It’s the only explanation.”

  “So he pays us to dupe us?”

  “No.” Blu had to think about his answer. It still didn’t make complete sense, but his hunch felt right. “Something’s missing. We don’t know the reason yet.”

  Crome flicked ashes off his smoke. “So what are we supposed to do now? Forget about our client and hope you’re right?”

  With a smile, Blu said, “We’re going to play along. I’ll call Grietje tomorrow.”

  “Before you forget,” Crome said, “you’re still married.”

  Blu heard his partner, and at the same time didn’t hear him.

  Hope looked up at her father with the eyes of an angel. They were his eyes, but were filled with her spirit. And they were perfect.

  Blu lifted her up and kissed her on the forehead. “How’s my girl?”

  “Good, now.” She rubbed her nose on his.

  Abby said, “We haven’t seen you for two days, Blu.”

  It always came back to this—his job. The source of their income while she finished her nursing classes. He had a feeling after she graduated, sooner or later, she’d leave and take Hope with her.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “Someone kidnapped our client.”

  “How’d they do that, Daddy?”

  He said, “They were sneakier than me and Uncle Crome. But we’ll get him back. We always do.”

  Hope chanted, “We always do! We always do! We always do!”

  Abby took her from Blu. “Come on, Sweetie. It’s bedtime.”

  “No!” Tears ran down her face.

  One moment she’s happy. The next, she’s miserable. Such was the life of a three-year-old.

  Blu watched his wife take their crying daughter to bed and got a glass and filled it from the kitchen faucet. Abby liked the bottled stuff. Blu was just a tap water kind of guy. And that wasn’t going to be good enough for her in the long run. He couldn’t remember the last time they had a quiet moment together, much less made love.