by Amy Vansant
Declan glanced back at her. “Do you really need to be right behind me? I feel like I’m carrying you up the ladder on my back.”
“Like a fireman.”
“A fireman who carries people into the fire?”
Charlotte knew he had a point so she changed the subject. “I don’t hear anything.”
“Me neither. Un-Velcro yourself from my legs and hang back a second.”
He pulled himself up and climbed through the hole in the wall.
One Mississippi...
Charlotte followed.
Declan crept around the bar, staying low, his gun raised. Now inside, Charlotte could hear a strange, rhythmic wheezing noise.
“What is that?” she whispered.
Declan turned and raised his finger to his lips.
They crept a few more paces forward. The front door of the Disco had been obliterated by something. Presumably, the small pickup truck parked on the threshold. The driver-side door hung open and a man lay on the ground beneath it, unmoving.
As they rounded the bar, a grunting erupted to their right. Declan whipped his gun in the direction of the noise. It was the man who’d first attacked them, still tied to the bar. He must have awakened during all the commotion and now strained against his bindings. He turned, spotting them.
“Let me go!” he roared.
A movement close to the center of the dance floor caught Charlotte’s eye.
Stephanie.
She lay on her back, arm reaching toward them.
Declan glanced once more at the man tied to the bar and ran to Stephanie. Charlotte followed, giving the angry man wide berth as he kicked at her.
Stephanie breathed in short, shallow breaths.
“’Bout time,” she whispered.
A growing red stain marred the front of her shirt. Declan tore it open to find the wound.
Stephanie winced as the fabric ripped. “Burberry.”
“It was stained anyway, there was no way that was going to come out,” said Charlotte, unsure why she felt compelled to make Stephanie feel better about her expensive shirt. Probably, she reasoned, because it would be more difficult to make her feel good about the hole in her chest. It bubbled when Stephanie breathed, little blood spheres growing and popping.
That can’t be good.
Declan frowned. “Her lung collapsed. I need tape. Where did I leave that first aid kit we used to cover your shoulder?
Charlotte squinted, thinking. “Should still be in the kitchen?”
“Okay. Hold your hand over that hole—”
“—we don’t want air getting into the chest cavity,” said Declan and Charlotte in unison.
They looked at each other.
“How do you know that?” asked Charlotte.
“I was trained to treat field wounds like this. How do you know that?”
“I saw it on television.”
“Adorable,” wheezed Stephanie. Her eyes locked with Declan’s and rocked back and forth as if she was using them to point. They both followed her direction and spotted a gun on the ground a few feet away.
Declan nodded. “I’ll be right back with bandages.” He stood, snatching the gun from the ground on his way to search for medical supplies.
Charlotte watched him go. She had so many questions. Did he pick up the gun because Stephanie used it to kill the man in the truck? She wasn’t sure covering for Stephanie was the right move, but the crazy blonde had stayed behind to cover them as they made their escape—
“Hole.”
Charlotte snapped from her thoughts and found Stephanie staring at her.
“Sorry.” She covered the bubbling hole with Stephanie’s shirt and pressed lightly down on it. Stephanie moaned, her eyes screwed tightly shut.
“That’s a really pretty bra,” said Charlotte, wondering how to make small talk when plugging a woman’s lung hole like a little Dutch boy with his finger in the dyke. “Thanks for staying back here. You really didn’t have to.”
“Now...you tell me,” said Stephanie between gasps for air. She kept her eyes closed. Outside, Charlotte heard sirens. Stephanie heard them as well, eyes popping wide.
Charlotte glanced through the destroyed front door. “That’s the ambulance. We called one. Well, Declan did. I was tricking Pirro and his men into getting lost in the swamp. But, yeah. Ambulance. We forgot to tell you there was one coming.”
Stephanie glared at her.
Charlotte smiled, counting the seconds until the EMTs arrived. Less for Stephanie’s discomfort and more for hers.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Dallas held up the playing cards for Ryan to consider using his one good eye. Dallas had long ago tired of beating the older man. Instead, he’d shifted to beating his own boredom by playing five card draw poker with his prisoner.
For comfort, the reedy henchman had agreed to bind Ryan’s hands to the chair arms instead of zip-tying them behind his back. The solution left Ryan still unable to hold his cards, so Dallas splayed the cards like a fan, backs to himself, following each deal.
Ryan considered his hand. “I’ll keep the second, fourth and fifth. Left to right.”
“Your left or my left?”
“Same as last time. My left to right.”
Dallas took a moment to do the calculations, lips moving like a child learning to read. For the life of him, Ryan couldn’t imagine what directional computations the boy employed deciding right from left.
Dallas plucked the cards from Ryan’s hand and pulled two new ones. The boy couldn’t stop grinning. He was the worst poker player Ryan had ever seen.
“Gotta good hand, so you—”
Outside the room, the squawk of a walkie-talkie broke the silence.
Ryan and Dallas froze, staring at each other.
“What was that?” whispered Dallas.
Ryan shrugged. “This is your place.”
The radio quacked again. “43. 10-14 at Elm and Constitution.”
Dallas’s bulging eyes looked like fried eggs with dull brown yolks floating in the center.
“43. 10-6,” replied a man’s voice.
Dallas gasped. “It’s a cop.”
Ryan nodded, straining his neck to catch a better view of their little room. In the corner stood what he guessed was a closet.
“Untie me. We can hide in that closet.”
Dallas grimaced. “Won’t they look in the closet?”
“I’m not sure, but they’ll definitely look in the room.”
Dallas jumped to his feet and thrust his hand in his pocket. Flipping out a switchblade, he cut the cords around Ryan’s left wrist with one deft movement.
Ryan was impressed. What the boy lacked in brains, he made up for in agility.
“Hide the card game. Try to make it look like no one is here.”
Dallas looked at the splatter on the ground with dismay. “What about the blood?”
“Do your best.” Ryan grabbed the bloody towel Dallas had used to clean his face when they shifted from fists to cards and headed for the closet. Opening the door, he found the space empty but for some clothes on hangers.
“43. Uh...10-22. It’s her husband wearing some kind of pirate costume...”
Ryan had listened to enough police scanners since his son’s death to know the cop would soon enter the room. Dispatch had asked for the officer’s assistance with a pirate prowler, and then cancelled.
Typical day in Florida.
“Hurry,” Ryan prodded Dallas.
“43. 10-4,” said the cop.
Dallas bolted for the closet and shut the door behind them. They huddled together, noses nearly touching, pressed into a sea of cheap collared shirts.
The door of the room opened.
Dallas held his breath, much to Ryan’s relief. The boy smelled like tobacco chew and spiced-meat sticks.
A few moments later, the click of a door shutting told them the officer had seen enough and left.
“I think he’s gone,” whispered Da
llas.
“Give it a second.”
“Hey... Why didn’t you yell out?”
“Hm?”
“Why did you hide? You could have yelled for the cop and gotten away.”
Ryan cracked open the door to the closet and peeked out. The room was empty. The outer door was closed.
He walked to the exit and put his ear against the door, hearing only the hum of machinery.
“I think we’re good.”
Dallas had followed him halfway to the door and stood staring at him, hands on hips.
“Seriously, dude. Why didn’t you try to get away?”
Ryan smiled, lifting the blood-covered white towel in his hand to reveal the gun he held beneath it. In the panic to hide the evidence, Dallas had forgotten he’d placed his gun on the table. Ryan had carried it into the closet.
“For the same reason I didn’t shoot you.”
For the second time in ten minutes, Dallas’s eyes saucered. He raised his hands. “Easy buddy. No hard feelings. I’ve just been doin’ my job—”
“You have to tell me these things—” The door behind Ryan burst open and he stumbled back to avoid being knocked over.
“Louis,” said Dallas.
Ryan could tell the boy didn’t know if he should be relieved or horrified. His gaze shot to the gun in Ryan’s hand. Ryan lowered the weapon and let the towel drop over it.
Louis turned his palms to the air and addressed Dallas. “So now—after I let a cop in because I thought I had nothing to hide—Johnny tells me you’ve been asking to see me about some prisoner you’ve got stashed in here?”
Dallas nodded and glanced at Ryan.
Louis followed his gaze and turned, wincing upon spotting Ryan’s face.
“What happened to the one side of your face? You look like Two-Face, the Batman guy.”
“Kid’s a lefty,” said Ryan.
Louis lifted his hands in the air and let them fall against his thighs with a slap. “What’s going on here?”
Dallas swallowed. “We heard the cop coming and hid in the closet. But—”
Louis cut him short. “Oh, good job. But...how’d you keep him quiet? And why is he standing there like he works for me?”
Ryan cleared his throat. “Because I do want to work for you.”
“Boss—” Dallas tried again.
“What?” Louis looked from Dallas to Ryan and back again for explanation. “Who is this guy?”
Dallas scratched his head. “He was watching us. We brought him here to find out why, but you need to know—”
“Who said to bring him to my dry cleaning?”
“Pirro said you wanted us to grab him and find out what he’s up to.”
“I never—” Louis cleared his throat. “Oh, right. I forgot. So, what’d he say?”
“He wouldn’t talk to anyone but the boss, even when I roughed him up.”
“The boss? That’s me,” said Louis. He grinned at Ryan as if he’d just won a trophy.
“You’re the big boss?” clarified Ryan.
Louis’ smile dropped. He seemed unsure. “Yes...”
“You’d be the one to talk to about the books?”
“What books?”
“Clothes aren’t the only things you need to launder, right? Thanks to your other business?”
“Uh...”
Ryan decided not to wait for Louis to ask what other business? “Louis—if I can call you Louis—I’m an expert at hiding money. Money that maybe didn’t derive from a legal enterprise.”
Louis appeared trapped somewhere between confused and angry. He shot his attention back to Dallas. “Is that what he told you?”
“That’s just it, boss. He wouldn’t tell me anything. He said he’d only talk to you. But—”
“So why didn’t you call me?”
“I did. I told Johnny to get you like six times. Thing is—”
“I just saw Johnny. He didn’t say a word until after the cops came in and left.”
Dallas shrugged, shaking his head. “I tol’ him.”
“He did. I was here,” offered Ryan. He didn’t know who Johnny was in the grand scheme of things, but he’d see Dallas ask the man to get Louis earlier. For whatever reason, Johnny had ignored the boy.
Louis turned back to Ryan. “So you were following my men in the hopes of talking to me?”
Ryan nodded.
Louis thrust his hands into his pockets, staring at the ground in silence for some time.
“I’ll be honest with you. The books have been a problem. There seems to be a lot of money missing, but Pirro says—” He scowled. “Wait. How do I know I can trust you?”
“He’s got a gun,” spat Dallas, as if the phrase had been building up inside him for some time.
“What?”
Ryan lifted the towel to reveal the gun. Louis leapt behind Dallas and hissed in the boy’s ear. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I tried to!”
Ryan put the gun on the cardboard box they’d been using as a makeshift card table and stepped away from it.
“I’m not here to shoot you. I told you, I want to work for you. Why would I have hidden from the police if I wanted to get away?”
Louis pondered this for a few seconds. “Oh—I know—what if you are a cop?”
“Ooh, good one, Louis,” said Dallas.
Louis glared at him.
Dallas cleared his throat. “I mean, Mr. Beaumont.”
Ryan raised a palm. “Take a few days. Look into me. I’m not a cop.”
“And that’s why you were following my men? To help me with my books?”
Ryan nodded.
Louis appeared to consider this. “If I showed you my spreadsheets, could you tell if someone was robbing me?”
“Sure.”
“Would you do it, like, as a test of your skills?”
“You mean on spec? Sure.”
Louis stared at him until Ryan felt the man was waiting for him to hop into action.
“You want me to look at them now?”
“Huh? Oh. No. I guess you’d probably like to clean up or something. Your face—”
“It would be nice to see through two eyes. Maybe get a shower and put some ice on this...”
“Right. Okay. I guess you can go home. Maybe you can come back tomorrow and I’ll walk you through things?”
“Sounds good.” Ryan remained still until Louis grew visibly uncomfortable.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
Ryan snapped from his thoughts. “Sorry. I—”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Ryan left the room and headed toward daylight at the front of the shop. Men and women working the dry cleaning machines glanced at him and returned to their business.
Ryan couldn’t shake his disappointment.
He thought for sure Louis would be a redhead.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Charlotte sat at Mariska’s counter drinking coffee. She’d wandered over to make sure Mariska was okay after the ordeal at Jackie’s club.
Mariska seemed normal. She couldn’t stop talking about food.
“That was the worst diner on the planet. Nothing. Not a single bagel. Not even pie.”
Charlotte chuckled. “I’m sure it was better than a metal pipeline under the swamp.”
Mariska rolled her eyes. “Barely. I was thirsty after all that and they didn’t have any orange juice to help with my blood sugar.”
“They didn’t have any food at all?”
“Coffee. But who wants coffee when you’re really thirsty?”
“Maybe they weren’t open yet.”
“There were two men sitting there drinking coffee when we came in. They just about had heart attacks when we all came spilling out of the back room.”
“Maybe they weren’t customers. Was there a waitress or a cook?”
Mariska scowled. “Now that you mention it—no. Those two men drinking their coffee were the only
people there.”
Charlotte shrugged. “See? They weren’t open. They were probably workers.”
Mariska nodded. “They looked like workers. They had stuff all over their arms.” She danced her finger over her forearms, which Charlotte knew as Mariska’s sign for tattoos.
Darla walked in with Frank on her heels.
Charlotte was thrilled to see Frank. After being questioned by police following their tunnel escape, Charlotte had discovered very little about the police investigation into the attack on Jackie’s disco. They’d been separated from each other for questioning, so she hadn’t had a chance to compare notes. A late-night call to Declan had gone unanswered. It had been less than twenty-four hours, but she needed to start clearing her plate.
The first thing she’d done upon waking was call Frank and ask him to glean all the information he could from the police who’d handled the disco scene.
“Did you call them?” asked Charlotte.
Sheriff Frank took his hat off as he rambled to the counter. “What a mess that was.”
“Is everything sorted out? Did they find the guys in the swamp?”
“I hope they drowned,” grumbled Darla, getting herself a cup of coffee.
Frank dropped into a seat and leaned back, the old chair tilting precariously to the right.
“No swamp men.”
Charlotte gasped. “None? They got away?”
Frank nodded. “I don’t know how much effort went into slopping around the Everglades looking for them, but yes, they got away.”
“The Everglades are south of here. That’s just swamp here.”
Darla chuckled. “You always were like a little Encyclopedia Britannica.”
Charlotte smiled at both the compliment and the fact that few people on the planet even knew what the Encyclopedia Britannica was anymore. That was a bit of history that still lived in Pineapple Port.
“And no sign of the rival gang,” added Frank.
Charlotte tucked her head back a notch. “What rival gang?”
“That Stephanie girl told the police a rival gang showed up after you left. They killed that man at the door. Heck of a shot. Right between the eyes.”
Charlotte scowled. There had been no rival drug gang. Stephanie needed someone on which to blame the dead men. Someone other than herself. Stephanie shot the man at the door and took a bullet in return, of that she was certain.
