COLT (A Nicholas Colt Thriller)

by Jude Hardin

  “I own a snubnosed revolver,” I said. “Smith and Wesson Bodyguard. I call it Little Bill. Don’t ask me why. I like to name things. It’s one of my quirks. Right now, as we speak, Little Bill’s 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.

  “I do. Unfortunately, yours are going to be splattered all over the cushion of that booth in about five seconds if you don’t make these assholes go away.”

  He turned to his royal subjects. He seemed to be addressing one of them in particular, a guy with a beard that ended at his solar plexus.

  “I got this,” he said.

  The mob slowly dispersed. I kept my eyes on Fatso, trying not to show my extreme sense of relief.

  “Everett Harbaugh is nineteen years old,” I said. “He’ll be twenty on Saturday. This is what he looks like.”

  I handed him Everett’s student ID. He took the card, examined it, and then handed it back.

  “Never seen him before,” he said.

  “You sure about that?”

  “Positive.”

  I handed him a business card. “If you happen to see him, I want you to give me a call. Can you do that for me?”

  “Why should I?”

  “The local health inspector is an old friend of mine. I would hate for him to have to come over here and shut everything down. It’s such a nice place, in its own slimy way, and I know for a fact that the Pussy—I mean Posse—is running out of dives to hang out in. So, if you happen to see Everett Harbaugh, I want you to give me a call. I would consider it a personal favor.”

  I discreetly holstered my weapon and got up and walked away, keeping my eyes on the door until I was on the other side of it.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I drove back to Yesterday’s, found a spot in the parking lot, and set the alarm on my phone for 2:25. I put my seat back and cracked the windows and allowed the cool breeze to flow through. Inside the club, the band was playing now, a song called “Can’t Get Enough” by a group called Bad Company. A long time ago, I ran around London one night with the guy who wrote it. Mick Ralphs. Great guy, great musician. This was before the plane crash. On the original recording, his guitar is tuned to an open G, but nobody ever plays it that way on stage. They fake it with a standard tuning, and it never sounds as good. Bad Co. really rocked it out back in the day.

  When I opened my eyes, everything was quiet except for the annoying clang of my cell phone alarm. I shut it off and punched in the number Laurie had called me from earlier.

  “Hey,” she said. “I was just getting ready to leave. Where are you?”

  “Out in the parking lot. You want to go to Denny’s and get some breakfast or something?”

  “This is going to sound really forward, but I was thinking maybe we could grab a six pack and go over to my place for a while.”

  “It’s after two o’clock,” I said. “Too late to grab a six pack.”

  “Not if you work in a bar.”

  “OK. Where do you live?”

  “I’ll be out in a minute, and you can follow me. It’s on the Westside, off Collins Road.”

  “OK.”

  I waited. A few minutes later, she came out carrying a brown paper grocery sack. She pointed toward her car, a white Volkswagon Beetle, and I nodded.

  When we got to her apartment, she said she wanted to take a shower. I opened a beer and sat on the couch and turned on CNN. The governor of Florida had issued an order for the feeding tube to be reinserted into a young woman with severe brain damage. It was depressing. I changed the channel and watched Johnny Bravo for a while.

  I took my gun off and shoved it behind one of the cushions. I’d meant to leave it in the truck, but I’d forgotten about it. Johnny Bravo was stupid, so I switched off the television and picked up the copy of Vogue magazine from the end table and thumbed through it until the perfume ads started giving me a headache. I heard the water running, and then I heard it stop. Laurie came out of the bathroom wearing a long white terrycloth robe. She came over and sat beside me. Her makeup was gone, but she was the kind of woman who didn’t need any. Brown hair, green eyes, and a skin tone that reminded me of the beauties who crowd the beaches in Spain and Italy. She smelled terrific.

  “You want a beer?” I said.

  “No.”

  She looked at me and smiled, and I leaned over and kissed her. Soft at first, then harder, deeper. I didn’t know her. Not even a little bit. But I knew I wanted her, and I knew she wanted me. We made out on the couch for a while, the intensity increasing with every caress, with every steamy breath, and at one point she ripped my shirt open and kissed my neck and chest and stomach. She didn’t want to stop there, and I didn’t want her to. She got up and led me to the bedroom, and we made wild, passionate, mind-blowing love for what seemed like hours. We fell asleep holding each other, the ceiling fan cooling our hot bodies.

  When I woke up, I could see daylight through the curtains. The clock by the bed said 10:31. Laurie was lying on the other side of the mattress, turned away from me, hugging her pillow and snoring softly. I climbed out of bed and padded to the bathroom and turned the water on and took a shower. When I finished, I found a towel and dried myself and got dressed. My Hawaiian shirt was ruined. All the buttons had been torn off. Small price to pay, I thought. I’d worn a tank underneath it, so at least I wasn’t walking around bare-chested.

  There was a gray cat stretched out on the couch. When I reached for the half-empty beer on the end table, it sprung to the floor and darted behind the set of vertical blinds covering the door to the balcony. I carried the bottle to the kitchen, planning to pour the remaining beer into the sink.

  “It’s a little early to start drinking, isn’t it?”

  I turned and saw Laurie leaning against the wall outside the bedroom. She wore an oversize Miami Dolphins T-shirt that hung to the tops of her thighs. She was smiling.

  “I think this one’s flat,” I said. “I was going to dump it out and get myself a fresh one.”

  She laughed. “How about some coffee?” she said.

  “OK.”

  “Do you like eggs?”

  “I love eggs.”

  She cooked an omelet with cheese and bacon and freshly-ground black pepper and onions. We had that and some strong black coffee and buttered toast and some strawberry preserves from a place called Clearbrook Farms in Oregon.

  “This is really good,” I said.

  “Glad you like it. The fruit was a gift. I wouldn’t buy anything that expensive for myself. Not on what I make at Yesterday’s.”

  “This is a nice apartment. You must do all right. Where did the cat come from?”

  “You met Edgar?”

  “He was on the couch when I got up. Then he ran away.”

  “He’s shy around new people. He’ll get used to you. If you ever come back, that is.”

  “Do you want me to?” I said.

  “Only if you want to.”

  I nibbled the corner off a piece of toast. “I don’t even know your last name,” I said.

  “Day. Like Doris.”

  “Laurie Day. I like that. I might be persuaded to come back, if you promise to take it easy on my shirt next time.”

  “Sorry. I can sew the buttons back on if you like.”

  “You know how to do that?”

  “Sure.”

  I looked at my watch. “I need to ride down to Gainesville for a while. Maybe I could leave the shirt here.”

  “That’s fine. What’s in Gainesville?”

  “A nineteen-year-old kid came to my place yesterday. He wanted me to help him find the owner of the gamete that impregnated his mother. He disappeared, right from under my nose. I think he was kidnapped.”

  “The owner of the gamete that impregnated his mother,” Laurie echoed. “It’s been a while since I took biology. You mean, like, his father?”

  “It was a sperm bank thi
ng. Anonymous donor. The kid wanted to know where he came from, and he wanted to know if he has any brothers and sisters running around.”

  “I’m not sure I would even want to know.”

  “Some people do, some people don’t. Anyway, he lives at a fraternity house, and I thought I would poke around down there for a while and see if anyone knows anything.”

  “Which fraternity?”

  “Phi Epsilon Alpha Kappa. They call it PEAK for short.”

  “I know about them,” Laurie said. “I took some classes down at UF for one semester, right out of high school. As far as fraternities go, they’re not very respected. There was a saying around campus, kind of a joke: if you can’t go Greek, go PEAK. Apparently they take everyone else’s rejects.”

  “I don’t know anything about the fraternity, but Everett Harbaugh didn’t seem like a reject to me.”

  “He was kidnapped?” she said. “Don’t they usually call the FBI for that sort of thing?”

  “They do. And that might happen later today, depending on the circumstances. In the meantime, it’s just little old me. His father—the one he grew up with—hired me to work the case.”

  She got up and started clearing the dishes from the table.

  “I’m off tonight,” she said. “Give me a call if you’re not too busy.”

  “OK. I will.”

  “Promise?”

  “Sure. Tell me something. Can you sing like Doris Day?”

  She smiled, cleared her throat, stood there with her hands behind her back and sang one verse and the chorus to “Que Sera, Sera.”

  It was good. She could really sing. It gave me chills. I kissed her goodbye at the door, wondering what I had gotten myself into.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I drove down to Melrose and took State Road 26 to Gainesville. When I got to town, I pulled into a dollar store and bought a cheap polo and a can of Right Guard. I was almost out of money. I hoped the check from Bradley Harbaugh would be in my mailbox tomorrow, as promised. I needed it.

  The Phi Epsilon Alpha Kappa fraternity house was on the corner of College and Eighth. There was a bakery across the street and a sandwich shop and a hookah lounge. I stopped for gas at the Shell station, took a right on Eighth and parked in the gravel lot behind the house. It appeared to be a fairly new building, and it appeared to be well maintained. Two-story brick with dormers on the roof and a front porch you could have parked a semi on. I figured there was enough space for a couple dozen college dorm rooms in there, maybe more.

  I got out and walked around to the front of the building and mounted the steps to the porch. There was a guy sitting in a rocking chair smoking a cigarette and looking at a book called The Trial by an author named Franz Kafka. He looked up when I stepped onto the porch.

  “Can I help you?” he said.

  “Yeah. I’m looking for anyone who might be friends with Everett Harbaugh.”

  “I know Everett, but I haven’t seen him today. I think his roommate’s here if you want to talk to him.”

  “What’s his roommate’s name?” I said.

  “John Patterson. He’s up on the second floor, room two-twelve.”

  “Thanks.”

  I walked in and found the stairway. A guy and a girl were coming down as I was going up. They squeezed past me without saying anything. There was a shiny stainless steel mobile hanging from the ceiling. I guess it was supposed to be modern art. A dozen or so pieces, each cut in the shape of a guillotine blade, dangled from invisible wires. The entire apparatus appeared to be suspended in midair over the staircase. It was a startling illusion. Maybe macabre art would have been a better label for that thing. It looked downright lethal.

  I made it to the second floor and walked around until I found the right room. I knocked, and a guy answered right away.

  “Yes?” he said.

  “Are you John Patterson.”

  He nodded. “You’re here about Everett, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah. How did you know that?”

  “Is he dead?”

  “Well, I hope not. But what would make you even say such a thing?”

  “He didn’t come home last night. I’ve been worried about him. I tried to call him on his cell this morning, but he didn’t answer. Are you a cop?”

  “May I come in?” I said.

  He stepped aside, and I walked into the room. There were two beds and two desks and a small television mounted to the wall and a little refrigerator with a microwave on top of it. A pair of armoires hugged the far wall, cheap compressed wood relics that had probably been in the same spot since the day they were brought in and assembled, sometime during the Reagan administration. I knew they had been there that long because it was the kind of furniture that fell apart if you ever tried to move it. They were covered with some kind of synthetic, easy-to-clean material that was supposed to look like walnut. The room smelled like a guys’ room. There was an open bag of Doritos and a can of Dr. Pepper on one of the desks.

  “Are you a cop?” he said again.

  “I’m a private investigator. My name’s Nicholas Colt. Everett came to my house yesterday. He was going to hire me to find someone for him. He went outside to get a pen out of his car, and he never came back. Disappeared into thin air.”

  “His car’s still there?”

  “Yeah. Keys, cell phone, everything. Mind if I have a seat?”

  “No, go ahead.”

  I sat at one of the desks. The one without the Doritos. There was a leather blotter and an ink well and some other knickknacks from a bygone era, including a letter opener with a shiny gold blade and a handle that appeared to be genuine ivory.

  “This your stuff?” I said.

  “Yeah. My mom made me bring all that crap. It belonged to her grandfather when he went to school here, like back in the thirties or something. It’s a bunch of junk as far as I’m concerned.”

  “I think it’s nice.”

  “It’s all right, I guess.”

  I decided to get right to the point. “Was Everett into drugs?” I said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I know he smokes some dope every now and then. Was he into anything harder? Coke? Meth? Heroin? Did he ever sell anything to anybody?”

  “Absolutely not,” Patterson said. “Not that I know of, anyway. And I think I would have known.”

  “So the two of you are pretty close?”

  “We’re fraternity brothers, and you can see how big this room is. It’s kind of hard not to be close.”

  “I talked to some friends of Everett’s last night,” I said. “They told me he had recently broken up with a girlfriend.”

  “Shelby. She didn’t take it very well.”

  “Does she go to school here?”

  Patterson sat on his bed. There was a poster on the wall behind him, Jack Nicholson grinning maniacally through a door he’d ripped open with an axe.

  “She’s not a student,” he said. “She’s a little older, like twenty-five I think. She’s a manager at Woof-A-Burger.”

  “How did Everett get involved with her?”

  “I don’t know. I think they met at a bar. He really liked her for a while, but then she started getting weird.”

  “In what way?” I said.

  “She would just bug him all the time. She would call a lot, and sometimes she would show up unannounced. She would even show up at his classes sometimes. And she would get really mad if he went to a party without her or something. She kept accusing him of cheating on her, but he never did. Not that I know of. I think she was obsessed with him.”

  “Sounds like it. You think she would have hurt Everett? Physically?”

  “I wouldn’t put it past her,” he said. “That’s what I thought when I opened the door and saw you standing there. I thought the crazy bitch had killed him.”

  “Do you have her phone number?”

  “No, but it should be on Everett’s cell phone, if you have that.”

  “I looked at his
phone, and I wrote down all his contacts,” I said. “But there wasn’t a number for anyone named Shelby. He must have deleted it. Where’s the burger place she works at?”

  “Right up the road. Just take a left on College. You can’t miss it.”

  “You think she would have followed him all the way up to Lake Barkley?” I said.

  “She would have followed him all the way to China. That’s what a nutjob she is. To me, if you tell a girl you don’t want to see her anymore, or vice versa, then that’s it. You both move on with your lives.”

  “I agree,” I said. “That’s the way it should be.”

  “Absolutely.”

  I stood and took a business card out of my wallet and handed it to him.

  “I’m going to go have a talk with Shelby Spelling,” I said. “I want you to give me a call if you hear from Everett, or if you think of anything else that might be pertinent to the investigation.”

  “I sure will,” he said. “I hope you find him, Mr. Colt.”

  “I hope so too.”

  I left John Patterson’s room and walked down the stairs and out the front door. The same guy was sitting in the same chair reading the same novel.

  “Did you talk to John?” he said.

  “I did. Thanks.”

  “No problem.”

  I gestured toward his book. “Is that for a class?” I said.

  “Yeah. World Lit. You don’t think I’d be reading Kafka for fun, do you?”

  “Well, he’s no Stephen King,” I said. “That’s for sure.”

  He laughed. I walked around to the back of the building and started my truck and headed for Woof-A-Burger.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I bought a newspaper from the rack outside the restaurant, walked in and ordered two Big Woofas and a large order of fries and a Sprite. It was a lot of food, especially after the big breakfast, but all the sex last night had given me a voracious appetite. Plus, I hadn’t eaten much of anything yesterday. I took my tray to a table and sat down and looked at the newspaper while I ate. Politics, war, murder, arson. It was enough to give me a bad case of heartburn. I turned to the sports page, but the news there wasn’t much better. The Marlins had lost game three of the World Series, and the Yankees were up two games to one now. Game four was this afternoon, and I thought I might like to find a place to watch it.