He stepped out. She turned and said, “I just want to go over a couple of things with you.”
“Okay. Want to go up to the house?”
“No, out here is fine. I won’t stay long.”
He saw Jenny’s SUV now. The big black thing was parked on the other side of his pickup.
Two benches, made out of wooden planks, were against the front of the boathouse on either side of the door. Jenny stepped over to the left, turned and bent over. She swatted at the seat, getting off any random dirt.
Rusty just stared at her ass. Looked like she had lost ten pounds since their divorce. Had her a nice little tight ass going there. She looked like she worked out every day and had one of those tanning salon tans going for her.
Then Jenny twirled around and sat down. Rusty sat up on the nearest piling and put his bare feet up on the lower railing.
“You blew out two windows at The Point the other morning,” she said, in that tone of accusation that only Jenny Clay could deliver.
That took him by surprise. He thought she was here to talk about something important. Life maybe. Marriage maybe.
“What are you talking about?” Rusty said.
“You know what I’m talking about. The explosion woke me up. I ran to the window. I saw you in your boat. I could recognize the way you hold an outboard throttle if I were up in the Space Shuttle. The tenants in 204 and 404, the ones with the broken windows almost called Homeland Security.”
“Homeland Security, hell. They should call Homestyle Construction, the shit asses who put those cheap windows in that condo. They want to call some government agency they ought to call OSHA.”
“You never did like that Yamaha outboard did you?”
“Never.”
“In our divorce settlement the judge ordered me to give you a like kind boat and outboard for the one you claimed I sold out from under you.”
“And I took it just to get the thing settled and get on with our lives.” Rusty couldn’t believe that. That he’d said: Get on with our lives. Next thing he knew he would be saying things like things happened for a reason. And all that other muddy shit people picked up from those Oprah-esque shows.
“I didn’t come here to talk old times,” Jenny said.
“I can imagine.”
“I wanted you to hear this from me. I wanted to tell you face to face,” she said. “Robert and I are getting married.”
“I heard. But thank you for telling me face to face.” He hoped that didn’t come out snide because he meant it.
“I owe you that much.”
“You don’t owe me anything,” Rusty said.
“And you don’t owe me anything. Consider our slates clean with each other.” Jenny stood up and wiped the butt of her pants off.
“Agreed. We’re clean. Don’t owe each other anything. No bad guys here.”
“Yes,” Jenny said. They shook hands.
Somebody observing this might have thought Jenny got up to leave. Got up to officially shake hands. But Rusty’d been married to the woman three times. She did it so she was not sitting lower than he. So that her head was actually higher, him sitting on the pier railing. It was one of those, call it one of those alpha-animal things, where the domineering animal gets higher on the tree limb or the rock than the others. Or speaking of Art of War, that was more like it, she had to get higher on the hill, ready for an attack.
“Just one other thing, Rusty.”
Here it came. He knew it. He stayed seated on the piling.
“Do me a favor.”
“What’s that?” Rusty asked.
“Don’t get rid of your office.”
“What you want it for a real estate branch office in Dolopia or something?”
“No. Just you keep it. You could get rid of that door glass and put that one in that we had made. The one that read The River Clay. Do you still have that?”
“Yeah. It’s still in the closet there. You trying to run my life? I think micromanage is the exact word.” He thought that would set her off—not that he intended to—but she started pacing back and forth, like she was making him wonder when she was going to pounce on him, but good.
“No, Rusty. I just don’t want you to stay off to yourself down here on the river all the time. You know stay connected to the world.”
“Oh, now I get it! You worried about me going crazy. You think I’m going to start howling at the moon like my daddy did. Yeah, that wouldn’t look good for you when your name comes up to be on the board of the Alabama Arts Council or some shit. ‘Oh, Jennifer Compton. Yes, I know who she’s married to now. But wasn’t she married to that crazy river man who howls at the moon. Used to have a door that said The Redneck Detective Agency?’”
“Stop it, Rusty! I don’t give a shit about society stuff.”
“I doubt you’re worried silly about me.”
She stopped pacing and looked Rusty in the eye. Now, she was ready for the pounce. “We still have a daughter together. Crystal may be nineteen now, but she’s still our daughter. You’ve been a good father. But I don’t want her to ever have a crazy father that she’d be ashamed of.”
Damned woman knew right where to get him.
“I stay connected to the world, quote-unquote.” Rusty couldn’t believe he said something like quote-unquote. “In fact, I have a date.” Now, he couldn’t believe he was using his personal life information in an argument with Jenny.
“You do?”
That softened Jenny’s demeanor a bit. He could see it in her facial expression. In her body language. She always was affected by matters of the heart.
“I do,” Rusty said.
“With whom?”
“Gloria Davenport.”
“That figures.” The words themselves seemed a little snide, but she had glanced up before she said it, like she was contemplating it and that it all made sense now. She added, “You always liked older women.”
Rusty had no idea where she got that.
Then she said, “Where are you going on your date?”
“To a play.”
“I see. When?”
“That has yet to be determined. Shortly, after the Catfish Rodeo. She’s consumed with that right now.”
“Are you going to go grabbling for it?”
“Hell, naw!”
Chapter 9
Jenny had ruined a perfectly good day for Rusty. Why had she showed up at his house? He’d chased her and begged her back before the surgeon came into her life. He’d done his part and his duty. What? She wanted him to beg some more? Naw, he was done with that shit.
It was like he could read her mind about certain things. He knew she thought since she’d gotten rid of Rusty, got rid of the dead weight holding her back, she soared. Rusty knew he was in trouble when he started being able to see things from Jenny’s point of view.
He knew she had an urge for glamour, for a higher position in society. Maybe she needed to climb that social ladder before middle age gave way to senior years. Maybe her biological clock ticked. Instead of fertility this time, it was for social position.
She liked the idea of being part of a power couple. A big time realtor and her heart surgeon multimillionaire. Now Jenny and Rusty, that was the real power couple. Hadn’t they survived four rivers, a tropical jungle, and untold hardships and glories together? Yeah, well, she was tired of just surviving.
Jenny Clay, super realtor of riverfront properties. And Rusty Clay, private eye. Oh, Jenny, your husband is Rusty Clay. Isn’t he the one who solved The Case of the Stolen Catfish? “There’s your power couple, Jenny.”
He didn’t have to ask himself what this man Compton had that he didn’t.
If he could just look this Compton man in the eye—then he would know.
Rusty possessed an almost sixth sense sometimes that way. Sometimes he could look a person in the eye and see into their soul. And he needed to look Compton right in the eye. Rusty owed himself that much. Then he could be done with it.
He was going to do it. Hunt Compton down and look him in the eye and says something like, “My name is Rusty Clay. I’m Jenny’s ex-husband three times over.” See what the man had to say about that.
Rusty walked right past his trusty step-side green Chevy pickup. Straight six with a three on the column. Three on a tree. It stayed parked outside, but he didn’t want to drive it tonight.
He walked out back to his shed of a garage.
He got into his1978 maroon El Camino. Rebuilt V8 Chevy engine with a turbo charger. Could do a hundred and eighty if the body stayed together. Low riding, half car, half pickup. Gloria called it a Redneck Corvette.
Rusty needed something else. The El Camino rode a little low for all the gravel river roads Rusty traveled down. Ray had a short block Chevy engine he wanted to get rid of. Maybe Rusty could find him some fancier car to drop the Chevy block into. Something sleek and sexy that had his name on it.
Rusty drove down to The Point, in case Dr. Compton and Jenny were shacked up there tonight. He cruised through the parking lot twice.
No Jenny car. No car with a medical logo on any tag. No lights on in her condo unit.
Rusty hit the highway to Huntsville, headed to an address he got off the internet. He drove through Huntsville and up the winding road of the exclusive section of Montesano Mountain.
The gates to Dr. Compton’s place were open. He drove onto the circular drive of the sprawling two story house, built out of what looked—best he could see in the security lights—old used bricks. The man had good taste. Rusty gave him that.
No parked cars outside. You could bet Dr. Compton, Mr. Busy Heart Surgeon, would be a man to park right near the front entrance.
The son of a bitch was probably at the hospital. Rusty lost his chance of finding him with Jenny. He lost his chance of finding him at his exclusive mansion where he was king. At the hospital Compton was a god. There Compton had no need for social façade. Maybe Rusty could catch him between cutting people’s hearts out.
The hospital was three miles away, and a quick, easy drive.
Rusty knew the section of the parking garage Compton parked. Last time Crystal came to Alabama, Rusty dropped her off there. Crystal, Jenny and Dr. Compton were all going to meet there and go out for dinner.
Rusty cruised up the ramps, and then on the fourth level, near the corridor leading to the hospital building itself, he came to a row of doctors’ parking.
He slowed. Most the cars were Mercedes and Jaguars. All of them were shiny in the strange yellowish light. One was an older model little two-seater. That was it. Rusty was pretty sure. 450SL Mercedes.
Rusty eased on down a few spaces and pulled into a Dr. Edwards parking space. Nobody came or went much. Rusty got out and went over to the front of the little Mercedes. Yeah, there was the sign. Dr. Robert Compton.
The lines on that car were sleek and sexy. That’s what Rusty needed. He looked at the car. It was a convertible, but a pop-on top--like the old Corvettes used to have--was on right now.
Rusty walked around the car, admiring it. He imagined him with Gloria in that thing cruising through Alabama, headed to the Gulf Coast.
Then it came to him in an epiphany, as Gloria called it. One of these Mercedes jobs was probably a bit above his bank book. But what if he found one with a blown out engine? He didn’t want a damn German engine anyway. He could take the Ray’s rebuilt Chevy engine and get Ray to devise him an adaptor kit and pop that Chevy block into one of these 450 Mercedes.
Rusty felt around at the grill, but couldn’t figure out how to pop the hood. Probably had a latch inside. He checked the door. It was locked.
He got down on the ground and tried to look up under the car where the engine connected the transmission housing. He couldn’t tell a thing. He went to the El Camino and got a flashlight, came back and got down again. Shined it up under the engine there.
Rusty couldn’t really tell. He would need to pop the hood. In fact, maybe he could Google the thing when he got home and get some engine compartment specs on a 450.
He stepped back and took a good look and went to the back of the car, got down on his back, and stuck his head under best he could and shined the beam around. He wondered if he could use the same transaxle and exhaust system.
Rusty slid out from under, stood up and took the whole car in, looked at it as a whole, imagined it cruising down the highway. She was a beaut.
If the compartment was too shallow, he could cut through the hood, let the intake system stick out. He could rig it with oversized tires, jack it up a bit, so it was a little higher off the ground and could take the river roads easier.
The little things in life gave Rusty excitement.
He got in the El Camino and backed out of Dr. Edward’s space and cruised around to the next lane. He still had a shot at Compton’s car. And it looked even sleeker from this distance.
Rusty cut the engine and got ready to go in and find Dr. Compton. He doubted they would let him be disturbed if he was in the middle of a heart transplant, but all Rusty had to do was be real humble and ask them to tell Dr. Compton that Rusty Clay was there to see him. That would get an immediate response. Old Dr. Compton would come right out if at all possible.
Dr. Compton was no dumb ass. He knew he would have to talk to him sooner or later.
Rusty was about to pull on the door handle to get out, when he noticed someone walk to Dr. Compton’s car and put a key in the driver’s door. It was Compton. Thanks again to the internet, Rusty knew what he looked like.
Compton tossed something over into the passenger seat and then Rusty thought the man was going to get in the car. Rusty got to run over and meet him.
But then Compton walked very quickly past Dr. Edward’s empty space, got out his cellphone and put it to his ear. Looked like he said two words, put the phone away and kept walking.
Rusty eased back. No reason to meet him just yet. Something untoward was brewing.
The man was about six feet. With this lighting, Rusty got a dimmed view. Compton looked like one of those soap opera handsome older doctor guys. Not that Rusty had watched a soap opera all the way through. Compton’s gray hair was combed back and his clothes looked pressed. Here was a man who could get two hours sleep and look like he just came back from a spa. One of those guys life forgot to beat up on their looks.
Compton walked over to the next lane. He stepped between some cars about ten spaces to Rusty’s left.
Then Rusty heard a car pull in the lane down to his right. The tires squealed when they made the turn, the way tires are apt to do in parking garages if you’re going a little too fast.
A red BMW stopped right behind Rusty. One of those little two doors. Not the two-seater one, but the small, cute bottom-of-the-line, two doors. The ones that cost only thirty or forty thousand dollars.
What? Somebody was after him? He reached under the seat and got his .45 automatic, chambered it. But then he saw the driver. A tall, young blonde. Sitting in a car, he could still tell she was a six footer. She must have been about twenty-five years old.
Rusty kept staring in the rear view, fighting the urge to turn and get a direct look. He glanced over to his right to make sure nobody was coming in on him. When he looked back in the rear view, Compton opened the red car’s passenger door and hopped in.
The little BMW took off.
Hellfire. This man was about to marry Jenny and he had a honey on the side. Son of a bitch. Well…maybe Rusty shouldn’t jump to conclusions. Maybe that was his daughter or his niece.
Rusty pulled out and started tailing. The BMW got on a main drag and then got off less than a mile later in the southeast section. At a stop light the two kissed and it was no peck on the cheek. That blew the daughter/niece theory.
Rusty honked the horn when the light changed. The girl un-lip-locked herself from Compton and swung a left, never even looking i
n the rear view. All their attention was on what was ahead for the night.
He followed them down a two lane. They turned into a cul-de-sac of apartment buildings. She pulled into one. Rusty pulled into the next building’s lot and parked, facing them.
The blonde and Compton got out and held hands walking into the building.
Rusty fumbled around with his cellphone. Wasn’t the damn thing supposed to have a camera on it? Rusty needed more than the ten seconds it took them to get on into the apartment to figure it out.
He drove around. Took down the apartment building number and address, got the BMW’s license plates.
Jenny was one week away from her engagement party. The wedding date hadn’t even been announced yet. Rusty didn’t really know what to think about that. Maybe that’s the way the high society world operated.
Rusty—he had never cheated on her, from when they had first started dating. So, he felt he was qualified to, as Gloria said, cast that first stone. Ironic thing was, he didn’t want to. Not just yet.
Chapter 10
At six o’clock the next morning, Rusty sat on his couch, an elbow on either knee. He held a cup of coffee in his hands, but it had been a few minutes since he’d taken his first sip.
Last night he didn’t get to be until twelve-thirty. He stayed up Googling and printing out everything he could find about the chassis and engine compartment of 450SL Mercedes—which was no quick taste because all Rusty had in his house was dial up. South of Elk from the marina—the Elk Riviera—they had cable and all that went with it. But north of there, where Rusty was, all he had was a telephone line, dial up, and a small TV antennae that got him three stations on a good day.
His conclusion at twelve-thirty last night, best he could tell after a couple hours of Googling on the Mercedes, a V-8 Chevy engine could be put in a 450SL . Something about that was reassuring to know. But all the research had been mostly a distraction from a moral dilemma which weighed heavy on him this morning.
The Redneck Detective Agency (The Redneck Detective Agency Mystery Series Book 1) Page 4
