Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
PRAISE FOR AUTHOR
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Detective Liam Donell
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Sally Stone
Epilogue
Also Available
Also Read
Thank you for purchasing this
Tequila Dirty
by
Mickey J. Corrigan
The Hard Stuff, Book Three
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Tequila Dirty
COPYRIGHT © 2014 by Mickey J. Corrigan
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Diana Carlile
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Scarlet Rose Edition, 2014
Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-482-4
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
To all the girls who’ve had one too many
Screw Jobs. You know who you are.
PRAISE FOR AUTHOR
Mickey J. Corrigan
"I'll read anything by Ms. Corrigan. All her short pieces I have read were vastly different, but no less entertaining."
~Hearts on Fire Reviews
"Mickey J. Corrigan has a fabulous writing style that keeps the reader wanting more..."
~Turner's Antics
WHISKEY SOUR NOIR
"Whiskey Sour Noir is not your average romance novel. There is no prince, no champagne, and no roses. The story is gritty, dark, and oh so real… The author’s strong voice brings Dusky Beach and its inhabitants to life with no frills and bare to the world."
~The Bibliophilic Book Blog
VODKA WARRIOR
"Vodka Warrior…is the perfect quick read that I could not put down… Mickey managed to make me laugh, smile, shake my head, and want more."
~A Novel Review
"It’s official. I am in love with Mickey J. Corrigan… She gives me characters I shouldn’t like with personalities no one would find endearing and makes me want to sit down and have a drink with them… There is no sugarcoating in a MJC book."
~For the Love of Books and Alcohol
Rita Deltone
Chapter One
None of this would have happened if I hadn’t met Ruben Drake in the Kettle of Fish. And none of this would’ve happened if I wasn’t the kind of woman who drank too much at dumpy dives. But I am and I did, so this is where I’m at. Here with you now, all trussed up, flat on my back in this white on white room. With you setting over there in that plastic chair, taking it all down in your little schoolboy notebook. You with the cold hard glitter in your skeptical eyes. You with your neat, clean hands. Those busy writing hands, tired now from your life of duty, from all the hard luck stories you’ve summarized and dismissed in your goddamn reports.
See, where I’m from you learn at a young age not to talk about such things with strangers. And where I’m from, everybody who ain’t family’s a stranger.
Right now, it’s sunny back home in Lemon Run, the air still and hot. Light bounces off the cement sidewalks and cinderblock houses, flooding the open spaces, piercing the heart of the murky lake. The air smells like citrus, tangy and sharp. Dirt blows around, gets in your eyes. No rain in sight, it’s the north Florida dry season, but the fruit don’t care.
If I’d done what everybody else done in Lemon Run, I’d be at the packing plant right now. I’d be weighing squishy grapefruit and tossing bruisers into the juicer barrels. Or I’d be stacking the lumpy skinned oranges and tangelos in the proper crates, lugging them three at a time to the loading bay. I’d probably be laughing at the crazy things everybody at the plant come up with while we’re all being mindless together. In and out of the production line, sweating and swearing, trying not to be too beat down by the heat of the day. I’d be listening to the radio and singing along with the oldies station. Planning a beer run with one of the guys. Thinking about the long dirt road of my life ahead.
Instead, I’m lying here with gauze on my head, rambling on at you. But that’s another story and you don’t want to hear that right now. You want to hear about me and Ruben Drake.
The night I met him I was working a double shift at the burger bar because Sandy had a date with this married trucker she’s been seeing. His wife’d taken the kids to Miami for a weekend visit with the grandparents, and Mr. Unfaithful wanted Sandy to come by. Sandy was leaking her mascara she was so excited.
“It’s my big chance, Rita. You got to work my shift for me, honey. See, if I stay with him at his place all the damn night, he’ll never want me to leave. Please, baby?”
Sandy’s front teeth are crooked enough to overlap, but it only makes her cuter. She’s irresistible when she begs and a real nice person on top of that. Nice to me, anyway. When I first moved here to Dusky Beach and got hired to waitress at Burgers Plus, Sandy was the one showed me around. She taught me the wait order best to use when you got a lot of tables lined up. She told me how to carry the pitchers so the beer slops away from you instead of all over your shoes. She’s been a real friend, first and only one since I left Lemon Run for the big life here in the big city. Well, big compared to where I come from.
So I took on Sandy’s shift even though I knew my feet would use a good long soaking afterward. Besides, I needed the money bad, and the tips are way better from six to two a.m. than they are from eleven to seven. Anybody with half a brain knows that. Including me.
Sandy hugged me for it. She was so thrilled. I had my doubts about her married trucker man. I’d met plenty of them kind when I worked at the plant. But it made me feel good to help a girl who’d been so good to me.
So, come Saturday, I worked my double, and it went past fast, weekends being when the place hops all the way to closing. My feet were still holding out, believe it or not, so I walked them on over to the Kettle to have myself a few drinks and shoot a little skittle. That’s a new game they installed in the back there, back behind the new pool tables. The owner, who’s never around, is trying to attract the college kids and the Easties, the rich folks who come out to west Dusky looking for action. Not sure the marketing plan is working, but it’s the only afterhours bar in town and I myself like games.
Ever play? You toss a skittle, which is like a plastic puck, into these rings that are worth points. If you got good aim and you get enough points, you win yourself a free drink. I’m damn good at skittle, real good for a girl, so I won myself some drinks whenever I played.
Two or three Screw Jobs, that’s all I had to drink on that particular night. But earlier, I’d sucked down a beer at Burgers Plus once the bar closed. Which might explain why I was feeling no damn pain when Ruben Drake come on over to the skittle board and ask me how I’m doing. I kept playing, said I was focusing keen and he should just go on back to the bar where he’d been setting and leave me be.
I’m not like Sandy. I stay clear of married men, and Ruben Drake was definitely one of t
hem. I’d noticed him soon as I walked in the bar. Ugly but thought well of himself, dressed like he had money and a cushy home life. He had a hungry face, but his jeans were pressed to creases. Only a wife does that kind of ironing. I knew his boxers were creased up, too. Waitressing in a bar gives you insight like that. All’s you need is half a brain and a few months’ experience and you’d know all I know about such things.
But Ruben was persistent. He’d had plenty to drink and was tetchy, acting like his horny hormones were all atilt. When I asked him nice to please move out of my light, he shook his blond mane and says to me, “I already know your name is Rita Deltone and you come from Lemon Run. Bartender says you come in here after your shift’s done, try to beat the system for free drinks.”
I stopped my skit long enough to look over to the bar and give Chito a nasty frown. He was leaning his hard belly into the bar, watching us, his thick hairy arms crossed over his massive chest. I’d given Chito a run for it last year, but his divorce wasn’t final so we’d said our goodbyes. I got as little use for a sorta married man as a married one.
Chito had replaced the sex offender guy they’d had working the bar way back when. Guy got his record cleaned, got married, moved to the beach. Believe that shit? But that’s another story.
I gave Chito my hairiest eyeball. He made me happy a few times, so now he gets to tell strangers my business? When I flashed him the middle bird, he grinned at me. I guess blabbing’s his idea of fun.
“Listen, pal,” I told Ruben, who tried to make his pock-marked face look more puppy-dog than fox. I could smell his heady aftershave and the cigarettes on his breath. I backed up a foot, and he followed. “I’ve had a long day trying to make a lot of people happy. So I come in here to relax, have a few drinks, and not talk. You know, just keep to myself, chill. Nothing personal. Got it?” I smiled without my teeth showing. I didn’t put much into it.
Like an eel from the lake, that guy closed in. He slid his long thin arm around my waist and moved right on down until we were face to face. I held my breath, tensed up. He was strong, and his grip was tight. Too tight. “You’re a little too full of you wow, sweetheart. I’ll overlook it, but you’re gonna have to let me buy you a drink. I got a proposition for you you’re gonna be glad you listened to. Real fuckin’ glad.”
You wow? That was a new one.
“I already got a free drink, and I didn’t have to listen to anybody’s bullshit to get it.” I flashed some teeth because he had six inches on me and maybe fifty pounds. Plus, his mojo was hostile. He was so bad I could smell it. Like a tangerine that’s got a nice bright coat but is rotting inside.
What I didn’t know at the time, I’ve since figured out. I’ll tell you what that is—Ruben’s a genius. The guy’s brilliant, a real sharp people strategist, like some kind of a self-trained psychologist. Just watching me play skittle and slug my free drinks, he had it all figured out. Exactly what made me tick and how he could manipulate me. Turn me into shark bait. His shark bait. Which he was able to do. But, at the time, I had no idea.
I said, “Personal space. Got it, friend?” and tried to peel him offa me.
“How would you like to make ten K in a single night? No strings attached.” He laughed, because I immediately stopped yanking on his arm. “Come on, sugar, sit down. I’ll order you another Screw Job.”
You can’t blame me for sinking into a saggy leatherette booth while he fetched us a round. Ten thousand dollars? Might as well be a million. What I could do with that kind of dough is this—change my freaking life. I could go to community college full-time, or hairdressing school, or get myself some decent clothes to try and land a job in a bank. I’m good with numbers, have a head for them. Must have been all those years counting oranges into crates. But I don’t have the kind of money you need to apply to college or score a dress-up job. Waitressing in a beer and burger bar’s about all I qualify for. Ten thousand bucks, though, that could change my dirt path into a paved road to success.
Hey, you’re on the road your own self. You with your regulation haircut, your regulation pen, your off-the-rack suit jacket, your polished up wingtips. You got a plan and a ticket to ride. Why not me?
Chito come over and set two drinks on the table, all the while standing there, giving me a dirt-on-your-face look. I wrinkled my nose at him. Who’d started the thing anyway by blathering to a stranger, telling some guy my stats? If anybody was to blame, it was big-mouth Chito. He shook his big bald head at me, all hangdog and told-you-so, then went back to his other half-assed customers lining the bar.
But really, much as I’d like to, I can’t pin this mess on him. Not really. Because I was ripe for the picking. Low hanging fruit. Vulnerable to the lure of easy money, a one-time deal that would ease my slide into another kind of life. A better life than hours spent alone in a west Dusky dive bar, getting hit on and skitting for free drinks.
Ruben reappeared from the men’s room, reeking of strawberry hand soap. Instead of sitting across from me like a new acquaintance should, he slid in beside me. Wrenched his long thigh up against mine until I had to twist myself around and sit cross-legged on the bench, facing him.
He laughed. “Don’t be like that, sugar. If we’re gonna work together, we’re gonna have to be intimate. Trust each other. Lean on one another.” He pushed his narrow face toward mine until his nicotine breath brushed across my lips. I coughed at him until he sat back.
I sipped my drink. Jeezus, it was strong. “Is this a double?” I asked, my mouth puckering around the lemony tequila. He said nothing so I shrugged and slugged. Then I said, “Go ahead, sailor. Slap my ass and call me Sally.”
Ruben laughed. His back molars were mostly silver, with a few black holes on the jawbone marking the empty sites of tooth extractions. Maybe he wasn’t so well off after all. His mouth looked like a farm worker’s. Even my own rural girl dental work had more class than that.
“I just might do that, Rita Deltone. In the meantime, here’s what I’m talking about.” He lowered his voice. “There’s some product coming into town and a man who owes me money. Lots of money. To get what I’m owed, I’ll require the assistance of someone hot and sultry, a girl who knows how to be sexy enough to distract. That girl, see, will distract the man while I relieve him of his product. That’s how I’ll settle up his debt. Then the girl will get a generous cut of my recovered funds. A finder’s fee, reward money.”
Ree-ward was how he said it.
Reward money, my ass. Sally wasn’t going to turn any tricks, no matter how much she needed a financial boost.
When he reached for me, I flinched and spilled my drink. All over my white uniform short-shorts. “Shit,” I muttered, but Ruben ignored my distress and ran a gentle hand through my hair. My lap was wet and sticky, a mess, but his caress felt enthralling. Like a snake slithering across your path can be momentarily enthralling. “Shit,” I said again.
“You’re that girl, Rita. Knew it soon as you walked in here tonight. Hot, hard-headed, full of you wow. You look like the kind of chick who can handle a tough order and still ooze sex appeal. Am I right?”
The more I stared into his ice blue eyes, the less sure I was. Of anything. But I guess I must have nodded, because he leaned in and kissed me. His lips were cold, but I wanted them to stay where they were, then head south for a while. He pulled away and laughed again. He had a weird laugh. A soft whinny, a reined animal sound.
He chucked me under the chin. “Okay, sugar, here’s what we can do. I’m in town for a few days, staying over to the King Kong Suites. Room one oh nine. I’ll write it down here on my card. You call me tomorrow, and we’ll set up a meet. Make our plans watertight. How’s that sound?”
I said nothing while he pulled a business card out of a little leather holder and wrote across the back. I examined his hands—nice manicure, no ring. Not even a tan line where a ring had been removed for practical purposes. I wanted to ask where his wife would be during our meeting, but he was already out of the booth and
leaning across the table to say, “I’ll tell the bartender to make you another drink. On me. But don’t fuck up and forget to call me tomorrow.”
By the time I opened my mouth to respond, he’d already turned away. He went straight to the bar and pulled out his wallet. Chito listened to him for a minute, glancing over at me and away.
I examined the business card—plain white with Ruben Drake, PharmD., in some fancy-looking script. Followed by Pharmaceutical Consultant.
I wasn’t sure what that meant, but I’d already figured he was in the drug business. Florida business on the down low usually involves drugs. Either drugs or guns, poached exotic animals, or smuggled illegals. A trail mix includes all the above. It didn’t put me off none.
I see you rolling your eyes. You’re thinking What is wrong with this chick? She knew he was bad news. She could tell he was married and untrustworthy. She lets him kiss her and agrees to meet with him at a hotel? She believes he’ll pay her ten grand just to flirt with some guy? Is she really good with numbers or does two plus two equal zero in her half a brain?
Go ahead, write all that down in your regulation notebook. My head hurts. Do we have to go through the whole fucking story? I’m getting into a mood over here.
Fine, then. I can talk through the pain, been doing it all my life. Here’s the truth. I know I’m dense sometimes, but the idea of all that quick cash just rattled my cage too much to let go. Even Chito tried to warn me off. When he brought over another strong-as-hell Screw Job, he said right out, “Rita, you’re making bad choices tonight.”
I laughed. “Like going home with you was such a good move?”
The fluorescent light made his shiny skull look all yellowed up, like his liver was shot. Maybe it was, I don’t know. He said, “Girl, it’s just lucky you live four blocks away or I’d confiscate your car keys.”
“You can drink this one your own damn self,” I told him. “Take your goddam Screw Job back, Chito. If I have one more sip, I’ll end up down with the dust bunnies and peanut shells under this here table.”
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