“Buddy of mine is moving up to Jacksonville. He's selling a 2014 Dodge Charger.”
“Convertible?”
“No. Does it have to be?”
“It's what I was hoping for.”
Red sat the Coke in front of Derrick. “Beggars can't be choosers,” he said to Dan.
Mel pushed his glass to the edge of the bar. “I'll have a Coke, Red.”
“No you won't,” Dan said. “You know you're not supposed to have caffeine.”
“I'll have another water then.”
Derrick looked puzzled. “Who's your friend, Dan?” he asked.
Dan leaned back in his stool. “Oh, you've never met Mel?”
“I don't think so,” Derrick responded.
“Derrick, this is Mel Gormin. Mel, Derrick White.”
Mel laughed. “That's funny, because your name is White but yet you're black.”
“Um, yeah,” Derrick said.
Mel reached out to shake Derrick’s hand. “It's nice to meet you. I'm a private investigator.”
“Well that explains how you figured out I was black.”
“I'm good at what I do.” Mel sipped his water.
Derrick leaned in to Dan and whispered, “He's dressed like Magnum PI. Is he okay?”
Dan whispered back, “No, he's nuts.”
“Oh.”
Dan stabbed his finger into the paper. “Here's one. 2013 Jag Convertible, $52,600.”
“I thought you were looking for a Porsche,” Mel said.
“What's wrong with a Jag?” Dan pulled his cell phone from his pocket and dialed the number. “Hi, I'm calling about the Jaguar you have for sale.”
“Yes, what would you like to know?” the person on the other end replied.
“You still have that?”
“We do.”
“Can I swing by and take a look at it?”
“You can.”
“Where are you located?”
“530 White Street.”
“Twenty-five minutes good?”
“Sounds good.”
Dan hung up the phone. “I need a ride.”
Derrick and Red stared at each other, each waiting for the other to volunteer.
“Don't everyone speak up at once,” said Dan.
“I'll give him a ride,” Red finally said. He grabbed his car keys off of the back bar. “Come on.”
“Let me finish this drink first,” said Dan.
Cindy came back through the kitchen doors tying an apron around her waist and walked behind the bar.
Red removed his apron and tossed it under the bar. “I'll be back in a little while, Cindy. Ask Jock for the specials and put them on the board, will ya?”
Cindy began filling up the bar sink. “You got it.”
Dan downed the last of his drink and he, Mel, and Red walked out the front door.
“Shotgun!” Mel hollered.
“Bullshit!” Dan hollered.
“I called it first,” Mel argued.
“I don't care.”
“He did call it first,” Red said.
“Fine.” Dan pulled open the door and climbed into the back seat.
Red drove out of the parking lot and headed up Seminole Street and took a left onto Reynolds Street. “Where's this place again?” he asked.
“530 White Street,” Mel answered.
“Turn on the radio,” Dan ordered.
Mel did as he was told and tuned it in to 98.7. Luke Bryan was singing “Crash My Party.”
“This is country,” Dan complained.
“I like country,” Mel informed him.
“Since when?”
“Since I'm riding in the front seat and you're not.”
“Ha!” Red said. “He got you there.”
As they drove along White Street, Mel stared down each street they crossed. When they passed Duncan Street, Mel said matter-of-factly, “There's the same truck we saw yesterday.”
“What truck?” Dan asked.
“The U-Haul,” Mel answered.
“What U-Haul?”
“The one that was parked across from the dead guy’s house.”
Dan said, “Pull over, Red.”
Red pulled to the curb and put the Firebird in park.
“Mel, are you telling me that you saw a U-Haul truck parked across the street from Fallon's house and now you just saw it again?”
“Yes, back there on Duncan Street.”
“There's a lot of U-Haul trucks. How do you know it's the same one?”
Mel gave Dan a grin, shook his head, and in a condescending tone said, “Dan, Dan, Dan, I'm a private investigator. I'm a trained observer. I know it's the same truck because it has a big picture of a beautiful orange butterfly on the side, which means it's from Louisiana. You see, each state of origin has a different mural. For example, there's a submarine on the ones from South Carolina, and a giant squid on the ones from Newfoundland.”
“What's on Nebraska?” Red asked.
“That's easy—ears of corn,” Mel replied.
“Son of a bitch, he's right,” said Red. “Saw one a couple weeks ago myself and admired the mural.”
“Admired the mural?” Dan asked. “It was a decal on the side of a truck, not the Mona Lisa. Where was the truck parked, Mel?”
“In a driveway on the second block down, left hand side.”
Dan pointed down the street. “Red, go down to Virginia Street and take a right.”
Red put the car in drive and took the next right. He went up two blocks and tuned onto Florida Street and parked at the corner of Duncan.
“Open the door, Mel,” said Dan.
Mel opened it and climbed out; Dan followed. The three men stood at the corner of Florida and Duncan and stared down the street at the U-Haul truck. Sure enough, a gulf fritillary butterfly mural decorated the broad side panel.
“Are you positive that's the truck?” Dan asked.
“I'm pretty sure,” Mel said.
Red chuckled.
“Pretty sure?” Dan asked sternly.
“I'm almost positive.”
“Almost positive.”
“I'm 100 percent sure.”
“Good enough.”
“So, what's the plan?” Red asked.
Dan thought for a second. “How about if you walk down there and knock on the door.”
“And then what?” Red asked.
“If someone answers the door,” Dan instructed, “tell them you're there to look at the microwave they have advertised in the paper.”
Red stared at his friend blankly.
“If it's the bad guys,” Dan explained, “they'll show you the microwave. If it's the homeowner they won't know what the hell you're talking about.”
“Sounds like a great plan,” Red said sarcastically. “But I have one question.”
“What's that?”
“What if they kill me?”
“What are the odds of that happening?”
“I don't know, I'm not a gambling man—but more than 1 percent is bad odds.” Red turned back toward the U-Haul.
“Don't be such a baby, you've had a good life.” Dan slapped Red on the ass. “Now get in the game, champ.”
Red started walking down the street. “I gotta get some new friends,” he mumbled.
“What's that?” Dan asked.
“Shut up.”
Dan and Mel watched as Red neared the moving van. When he reached the front of the house he looked back, and Dan waved him on. Red shook his head and walked up onto the front porch of the light blue, single-story home and knocked on the door. He waited about twenty seconds and knocked again. He heard footsteps and then the door opened. A tall, thin, fifty-something-year-old man filled the door frame
“Can I help you?” he asked.
Red swallowed hard. “I'm here about the microwave oven,” he said.
“Microwave oven?”
“The one in the paper. The one you have for sale.”
“Oh, yeah, the microwave oven.” The
man pulled the door open farther and let go of the knob. The door hit the wall with a thud. “Come on in.”
“Why?”
“So you can look at the microwave.”
Red smiled nervously. “Right, so I can look at the microwave.”
The man turned and headed toward the kitchen, Red followed.
Another man—a few years younger—stood in the living room. He was shorter, but more muscular. He wore red gym shorts and a tight blue wife-beater. On his feet were black Converse high-tops. He nodded as Red walked by; Red nodded back.
There were cardboard boxes on the kitchen counter and on the floor. Some of the boxes were filled with kitchenware. A coffee pot sat full on a Mr. Coffee machine and a plate of chocolate chip cookies sat on a plate next to the toaster.
“Here she is,” the man said, waving his hand toward the microwave.
“Nice unit,” said Red.
“I guess.”
Red pushed some buttons and the oven turned on. “The carousel turns. Gotta light in there.” Red hit stop and the interior went dark. “How much you say you want for it?”
“Fifty bucks.”
“Hmm, fifty bucks,” Red repeated. “How about forty?”
“You got yourself a deal, fella,” he replied, reaching out and shaking Red's hand.
Red threw a thumb over his shoulder. “Those cookies fresh baked?”
When Red walked back around the corner onto Florida Street, Dan and Mel were leaning against the fender of his car.
“What the hell ya got there?” Dan asked.
“A forty-dollar microwave. What's it look like?”
“Wow!” Mel said. “She's a beaut, and only forty bucks, ya say?”
“Yeah,” Red agreed. “She's a beaut all right, but I really didn't need another microwave.”
“Then why did you buy it?” Dan asked.
“Because I was afraid they might kill me if I didn't.”
“They?”
“Yeah, I saw two guys in there.”
“Any sign of the homeowners?”
“No, but I only saw the living room and kitchen.”
Dan's eyes went to his friend's chin. “What's that on your chin?”
“What?”
“Looks like chocolate,” said Mel.
Dan looked closer. “It is chocolate.”
“I had a cookie,” Red said.
“A cookie.”
“Two cookies.”
“Did you bring us a cookie?” Mel asked.
Red glared at Mel. “You want a cookie, you march right down there and buy a refrigerator or something.”
“I need a refrigerator,” Mel responded.
“No you don't!” Dan exclaimed.
Chapter Nine
Mel and Red were sitting on the hood of Red's car and Dan was standing at the corner of Florida Street and Duncan Street keeping watch when Chief Rick Carver pulled up in his patrol car and parked behind the gold Firebird.
Rick hoisted himself up out of the driver's seat, adjusted his gun belt, pushed his gold-rimmed aviators back up the bridge of his nose, and looked around. “What do we got here, Coast?” he shouted to Dan.
Dan put a finger to his lips to shush Rick, and pointed down Duncan Street toward the U-Haul.
“This better be good,” Rick said.
Red and Mel followed Rick to the corner.
“See that U-Haul parked in the driveway down there?” Dan asked.
“Yeah. What about it?” Rick responded.
“That's the same truck that was parked out front of the Fallon's house yesterday afternoon.”
“The guy and his wife who were killed out on Stock Island?”
“Yeah.”
“How do you know it's the same truck?”
“Well,” Mel jumped in. “Each state has murals on—”
“It's got the same decals on the side,” Dan said.
Rick looked from Dan to Mel and then back. “It's got the same decals because you say it does, or because”—Rick threw a thumb toward Mel—“this guy says it does?”
“Well, Mel noticed it was the same truck, but—”
“And you want me to walk down and knock on that door on the word of a mental patient.”
“Hey!” Mel said. “That's offensive.”
Rick ignored him.
“It's the same guy,” Red offered.
“How the hell do you know that?” Rick asked.
“I saw him when I bought the microwave,” Red replied. “He was just like Dan described him.”
Rick looked confused. “You bought a micro—never mind. Alright, I'll walk down and take a look.”
Rick started down the street and the other three followed close behind.
“Where are you Three Stooges going?” Rick asked.
“With you,” said Dan.
“In case you need backup,” Mel added.
“I don't need backup.” He turned and started walking. His backup still followed, but hung farther back this time.
When he arrived at the rear of the moving van, Rick paused and peeked around the corner at the house. He glanced up at the huge butterfly decal and shook his head.
“What are you gonna do?” Red asked.
“I'm gonna knock on the door,” Rick replied.
“Then what?” asked Dan.
“Just wait here,” Rick ordered and walked cautiously up the steps to the front door. He knocked.
Mel turned to Dan and whispered, “You think there's any more of those chocolate chip cookies in there?”
“I hope so,” Dan answered. “That's the only reason I called Rick and had him come down here, so you and I could get one of those cookies.”
“Really?”
“No, not really. Now, keep quiet.”
Rick raised his hand to knock again, but before his knuckles touched the wooden door, three shots rang out from inside the house. The first shot passed through the door and between Rick's left arm and his rib cage. The second clipped his ear as he stumbled backwards off the porch' and the third sailed over his head, ripping a king-sized hole in the neighbor's mailbox.
The three men hiding behind the U-Haul flinched in unison at the sound of the first shot.
Dan was on his way toward Rick as the third shot rang out. He grabbed Rick by his right arm and dragged him behind a traveler's palm.
Blood was flowing down the side of Rick's head and onto the shoulder of his shirt. He kicked at the ground with his heels as Dan dragged him along.
“The back door!” Mel shouted and bolted down the driveway.
“Mel!” Red yelled and went after him.
Rick grabbed the bloody mic clipped to his shirt and hollered for back up. “Officer down! Officer down!” he hollered into the mic. “Officer needs backup.”
Dan yanked his shirt off over his head and pressed it against Rick's ear. “Keep pressure on this, Rick. I gotta go after Mel,” he said, as he jumped to his feet and ran down the driveway.
Just as Dan entered the backyard he saw Red go over the fence. He leaped to the mid cross piece in the six-foot stockade, and with the palms of his hands on top of the slats, pushed himself up and over, landing in the backyard neighbor's lawn. Red and Mel were already out of sight.
When Dan got to Catherine Street he looked to his left—no one. He looked to his right to see Red rounding the corner onto Florida Street.
Dan was sprinting as fast as he could and knew he couldn't keep up the pace much longer; he was already having trouble catching his breath. Age, booze, and cigars were showing him who was in charge. Sweat ran in tiny streams from his pits and down his ribs. As he reached Florida Street he saw Mel entering Bay View Park. Sirens blasted in the distance.
Red had stopped between Eliza and Virginia streets. He was doubled over, his hands resting on his knees. Dan flew by him.
As Dan entered Bay View Park he slowed to a walk and looked around. Mel was nowhere in sight and neither were the two men he was chasing. “Son of a bitch!”
Dan shouted, and then emptied the contents of his stomach onto the sidewalk.
*****
“I don't need to go to the hospital!” Rick shouted as the two paramedics struggled to raise the gurney and slide the large man into the back of the ambulance.
“You have to go,” said Officer Terence Olivio. “That ear looks like hamburger meat.”
Rick removed the bloody T-shirt from his ear and threw it at Dan, who was standing next to Olivio. “Here,” he said. “Cover up those flabby tits, for Chrissakes. Nobody wants to see that.”
Dan caught the shirt and glanced down at his chest with a shameful look. As they slammed the ambulance doors Dan mumbled, “He's one to talk.”
Red sat on the steps, still trying to catch his breath; sweat dripped from his head and landed on the step between his feet.
The ambulance sped away and a Key West patrol car pulled up in its place; Mel was in the backseat.
“Ugh, thank God,” Dan said.
The officer driving the unit got out and opened the back door to let Mel out. “Picked him up over on Palm Avenue,” the officer said.
Mel climbed out of the backseat, a look of total devastation was plastered on his face. His shirt was torn and his Tigers ball cap was missing. “Sorry, Dan, I lost 'em.” He hung his head down. “Lost my hat too.”
Dan smiled. “Don't worry about it, pal, we'll get you another one.”
Mel walked around the squad car toward Dan. “Probably better get a different one. I'm not good enough to wear a hat like Magnum.”
Dan patted his friend on the back. “Sure you are, pal. Sure you are. You're one of the best private detectives I know.”
“Thanks, Dan,” Mel replied. “And you have the saggiest boobs of any private detective I know.”
Chapter Ten
The alarm on Dan's cell phone sounded at six o'clock the next morning. He grabbed the infernal device from the nightstand and shut it off.
“What's going on?” Maxine asked, rubbing her eyes and rolling over.
Dan climbed out of bed and went to his dresser. “I was gonna go for a run before breakfast,” he answered, pulling gym shorts from his dresser drawer.
“Wait … what? Running? Who are you and what did you do with my boyfriend?”
“Funny.” Dan slipped on the shorts and an AC/DC T-shirt.
Maxine threw back the covers to reveal her very toned—and very naked body. “Want me to come with you?”
Deadly Moves Page 4
