In It for the Money

by David Burnsworth

  “No. Like they were protecting her.”

  “Bodyguards?”

  She took a pull from her drink as if to think about the question. Then she said, “You know, I think they were bodyguards, like the old movie with Whitney Houston? She’s my favorite singer of all time.”

  This girl was too young to remember Whitney in her prime.

  “What did the rich woman look like?”

  “My age. Very pretty. No tattoos that I could see. Blonde hair. Taller than me. She dragged Jeremy around like a pet.”

  He asked, “Were they together?”

  “I don’t think so. This girl was more like one of those Hilton girls. All show and glam and things handed to them on a silver spoon.”

  “Platter.”

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind. So they weren’t together, but she had two bodyguards—”

  “Three.”

  “Three what?”

  “She had three bodyguards. And a driver.” She paused. “And come to think of it, I want to say her name was Tristan.”

  “Okay, three bodyguards, a driver, and her name might be Tristan.”

  “Yes.”

  This trail Jeremy Rhodes left was not exactly breadcrumbs leading to anything specific. But Blu had a name now—Tristan. And a partial description. He excused himself from the table, made a call to Gladys, and gave her Tristan’s name. There couldn’t be many twenty-something women in the county with that name. She told him to give her some time.

  Now for the magic question.

  Back at the table, he asked, “How long ago did you see them together?”

  “About a month ago.”

  After the food came and they ate, Blu handed an envelope full of money to Carissa.

  She said, “It hardly feels like I earned this.”

  “Take it,” he said. “Use it to fix your car or whatever.”

  Touching his arm, she said, “How about you buy me another drink?”

  He nodded at Pelton and gave Carissa a smile. “I’ve got to get back to work. How about a rain check?”

  She said, “It’s kind of like shopping at one of those warehouse stores. If you see something you like, you better get it, because the next time around it might not be there.”

  Blu said, “You make a good point, and I’m sure I’m going to regret this, but I really do have to get back to work. You know where I can find this Tristan?”

  “I may be able to find out.”

  “It’s worth another hundred if you can.”

  She gave him a wink and a wave.

  Pelton brought him back to his boat and he followed the long route home.

  By the time he docked, Gladys had emailed him with a copy of a driver’s license. Tristan Fall was a blonde, blue-eyed beauty. Twenty-four years old. Five foot seven, one hundred and thirty-five pounds.

  He wanted to know what Jeremy Rhodes had done to get hooked up with her. Whatever it was, he did all right for himself. At least for as long as she let him.

  From his front porch, Blu called Cynthia Rhodes.

  When she answered, he asked, “Do you know a Tristan Fall?”

  Cynthia said, “I know her father, Caldwell. He’s an acquaintance.”

  “From your charity circles?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did Jeremy know him?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “So you don’t know of any connection between Tristan and her father and your son?”

  “No, I told you. But I’ll need to call Caldwell and ask him about it. He’s very protective of his daughter. So much so that he has several guards assigned to her along with a driver.”

  It matched what Carissa had told him.

  He said, “How about if I talk to him? Can you set up an appointment for me?”

  “Mr. Carraway, I don’t understand. Why don’t you want me to call him up and ask him for you?”

  Because you would probably screw it up, he thought. He said, “Because no offense, Cynthia, but this is too personal for you. You hired me to investigate. Let me do what you’re paying me very well to do.”

  “You think I’m going to mess things up, don’t you?”

  “I’d rather talk to the man in person.”

  Her tone hinted at beginning to accept his logic in the way she said, “So you can get an impression of his involvement or something?”

  “Something like that.”

  Chapter Eight

  Within the hour, Carissa called and said Tristan would be at a specific underground, meaning off the books, club in the warehouse district of the city later. Not having heard from Cynthia Rhodes, Blu decided it was more important to talk to Tristan than to get clearance from her father. He’d have to improvise on how to deal with the guards.

  At almost midnight, he paid a twenty-dollar cover charge and got a hand stamp.

  The young woman working the window smiled at him.

  He smiled back, said thanks, and walked into the club, a large dark room with concrete block walls.

  Resonance from the bass and kick drum pounded hard in his chest. Dry ice created a haze in the strobe lighting flashing over the crowd of millennials dancing as if there was no tomorrow. Maybe for some of them, there wasn’t.

  Lucky for him it was an unregulated business and there were no metal detectors. He wasn’t about to walk around unarmed. The Beretta, his pistol of choice, was tucked down his back waistband.

  Also lucky for him, his workout buddy and favorite meathead, Heath, had bouncing duties. Heath saw him at the same time Blu saw Heath.

  The giant came over to him and gave him a mock headbutt.

  Blu reciprocated.

  “Hammer-time! What’s shakin’?”

  He thought about lying to his friend, but then thought that wouldn’t make him much of one.

  “Working a job.”

  Pulsing his pecs again, Heath said, “Awesome. Anything I can help with?”

  “Let me get my bearings and scope out the situation.”

  Heath patted him on the shoulder, which was the equivalent of being hit by a twenty-pound medicine ball. “Just let me know. I’m always up for some action.”

  Blu gave him a nod and walked into the scene.

  A man on a platform operating a jib with a camera on the end of the boom captured the audience in digital. Large flatscreens mounted around the room on the walls and ceiling had him wondering how this could still be classified as an underground operation. Someone was getting a kickback, that was for sure. The televisions projected the images from the camera. Currently, Blu’s and the camera’s focus was on a dark-skinned woman swaying to the beat in a long white dress with an extreme plunge down the front and a slit all the way up one leg. In a word—stunning.

  Blu made his way through the mass of youth, the oldest of them at least fifteen years his junior, and headed for the bar, the only oasis in this desert.

  A young woman with short raspberry hair, a nose piercing, pasties, trainer shorts, and tattoos all over asked him what he wanted.

  After blinking twice, he said, “club soda.”

  She gave him a frown until he tossed a ten on the bar and told her to keep the change.

  He watched her scoop ice with the cup, shoot the liquid from a dispenser, stick a lime wedge on the rim, and hand it to him. He squeezed the lime over the drink while he forced his attention away from her wardrobe choices and scanned the room for Tristan Fall, sipping from the straw as cover.

  It didn’t take long to find her. If he hadn’t been distracted by the music, the jib, the dark-skinned goddess, and then the bartender, he would’ve already been working on a plan to get to her.

  The femme fatale danced on an elevated platform, her natural blonde hair feathered around her face. Her hands reached for the artificial
heaven the chemicals in her system had probably promised her was there. She moved with the assured grace all her ballet dance lessons Blu had discovered in a background check had given her, but with a more raw and unabashed fever.

  Reality settled in when he noticed the three men standing below the platform Tristan used to display her physical perfection. The three he knew would be there thanks to Carissa and Cynthia. The men each faced a different direction and, from what Blu could see, had her covered and the entire room cited in. No one could approach without going through them.

  Blu wondered how good they really were. With a last gulp, he finished off the club soda, set the empty cup on the bar, and looked for Heath.

  The bouncer was chatting up two young, slender, and scantily-clad women who probably got in with fake IDs, if the underground business even cared about such things.

  He saw Blu, waved him over, and made introductions. The women called themselves dancers.

  Blu didn’t ask for them to elaborate.

  To Heath, he said, “I could use your help.”

  Heath’s face brightened with a smile. “You got it! Excuse us, ladies.”

  One of the eighteen-year-olds said, “You guys work together?”

  Blu decided to pave the way for Heath with the women. “We’re working a case. Can I steal him from you for ten minutes?”

  The women eyed Heath like he was the only man in the room who could satisfy the jones from the ecstasy coursing through their veins.

  He guided Heath to an open bar table. “I need to talk to that woman on the platform over there, but her guards are going to be a problem.”

  Heath focused on Blu’s target. “Tristan? Hell, man. Why didn’t you say so?”

  “You know her?”

  “Every guy in here wants to know her, if you catch my drift. She’s too good for any of us. Comes in here, kicks off whoever is dancing on the platform, and ignores everyone else. Those stiffs keep everyone away and even escort her to the can. Total snob city.”

  “I can handle the guards,” Blu said. “I just don’t want to make a scene.”

  Heath nodded.

  After a count of ten, Blu began to wonder what was going through Heath’s mind.

  Then Heath said, “I got it. You see the door just behind her platform?”

  Blu caught the lit exit sign above the door. “Yep.”

  “That’s how she leaves. Two guards in front and one behind. Always at two a.m.”

  “No kidding?”

  Heath nodded again. “Always.”

  “What’s back there?”

  “That’s the best part,” Heath said. “A hallway leading to the back parking lot, where her Escalade is parked along with her driver. The club uses the space for storage. It’s pretty narrow.”

  “Can I get back there without Tristan or her goons knowing it?”

  A very big smile and another nod. “Hammer-time, you are talkin’ to the right person.”

  Chapter Nine

  Sunday morning, quarter to two

  Blu bumped fists with Heath after the giant led him through a maze and got him staged in the hallway. Heath wanted to stay and help, but Tristan’s guards were armed men and Blu could not live with himself if anything happened to his friend. A force to be reckoned with in his competitions, Heath, who had never seen combat of any kind, was considered an innocent.

  When Blu’s father’s Rolex displayed two o’clock, the door opened and it was just like Heath described: two guards in front, then Tristan, and then the tailgunner.

  The man noticed him as he approached. Blu knew he looked more like a manager of the place than a patron to this guy, which gave him an edge. He put on a serious, “I need to tell you something important,” look on his face and leaned in as if to speak.

  The bodyguard made his second mistake of the evening, the first being he didn’t take Blu down immediately. He turned his head to listen to what Blu was about to say.

  Except Blu didn’t say anything. The next fifteen seconds went as follows: he headbutted the man and relieved him of his nine millimeter, sticking it down the front waistband of his own jeans. The other two guards reacted a lot faster, and smarter, than their fallen comrade. They each drew down, but Blu caught the next one in mid draw, broke his arm, and flung him toward Tristan and the third guard, who both sidestepped the falling man, letting him crash face first onto the floor. Blu used the time the third man took to avoid getting hit by his partner and stepped into him.

  Tristan did not move.

  The man’s gun was drawn but not aimed. Blu gripped the wrist holding the gun with one hand and struck a solid gut punch with the other. The man grunted and dropped to his knees. Blu finished him off with a knockout punch.

  He stood over the three on the ground only long enough to make sure they were out cold and to retrieve the other two nine millimeters, both of which he stuck down his waistband, making four guns total on him. Needless to say, his belt felt very tight. And the action burned another three seconds.

  Tristan screamed.

  By his count, he had ten seconds. Fifteen, tops.

  Her beauty really was distracting.

  He said, “I just need to ask you one question.”

  She tried to slap him with her free hand.

  He blocked her hand. “It’s about Jeremy Rhodes.”

  The name must have caught her off guard because she hesitated.

  He asked, “Was he with you a month ago?”

  Anger flared across her face. “That’s what this is about? You beat up my guards and kidnap me and all you want to know is if I was with some smelly painter?”

  She tried to slap him again and he grabbed her hand.

  Her answer had acknowledged a lot of things.

  “I’m not kidnapping you.” He let go, pushed her away from him, and showed his PI badge. “Jeremy’s missing and I’m being paid to find him.”

  Instead of attacking him a third time, she dropped her arms to her sides and looked down, all fierceness leaving her like steam out of a locomotive. “He was. But it’s not what you think. I don’t go for the starving artist types. And he played the part all the way up to not bathing.”

  The door she’d exited through pushed open and two bouncers, neither of them Heath, rushed Blu.

  Tristan stood between them. The one in front stopped short, but the other collided into his partner. She stepped aside as the two fell past her to the concrete floor in a tangled mess with her knocked-out guards.

  Blu watched the two men try to untangle themselves. “There’ll be more coming.”

  She grabbed his hand. “Come on.”

  He didn’t know what to make of her quick change of heart but followed her through another door outside to where a long wheelbase Escalade awaited. And the driver, who most likely had his own nine millimeter.

  And so he did, with the pistol pointed at them as they exited.

  Tristan said, “Stop! I’m okay.”

  The guard did not lower the nine millimeter, an exact copy of the three Blu had taken off his partners inside the club.

  She said, “Stand down. Now!”

  The gun lowered at a snail’s pace.

  Blu did not move.

  Tristan turned to him. “The last I saw Jeremy, he was going to see a man named Dicks. Something having to do with his mother.”

  “His mother?” Blu asked. “You mean Cynthia Rhodes?”

  “Yes. I didn’t see him again.”

  Blu said, “I’m going to reach into my pocket to hand you a business card.” With his eyes on the guard, Blu, very slowly, slid out his wallet and handed her one of the cards Cynthia had made for him. “If Jeremy contacts you, I’d really like to know.”

  She held the card in her hand. “You beat up three of my best guards and now you want a favor?”

&n
bsp; “They were not that good.”

  Looking at the card, and then at Blu, she said, “I’ll think about it.”

  He nodded. “Why were you with Jeremy in the first place?”

  “Having him around irritated my father. After a while, it irritated me too, so I cut him loose.” She turned and walked toward her ride.

  Blu said, “I’m sorry about your men.”

  Not bothering to face him, she said, “You were right to assume I would not give you the time of day otherwise. Well played.”

  Sunday morning, two thirty a.m.

  Blu puffed on the vaporizer as he drove home, three nine millimeters richer. Sometimes the end justified the means. What he’d done was extremely dangerous. He’d calculated the odds, planned his attack, and executed. The Ranger in him would never die.

  But it might eventually get him killed.

  Or at least suffer the consequences of being a bigger meathead than Heath or Roger.

  The iPhone buzzed in his pocket and he let it ring out, figuring it wasn’t going to be a good conversation no matter who it was. At the next gas station, he pulled in and came to a stop before he looked at the screen to see who had called.

  Cynthia Rhodes.

  So it was going to be one of those not very good conversations.

  He hit redial and she answered.

  Before he could speak, she said, “I just received a call from Caldwell Fall.”

  “Oh.”

  “Oh?” she said. “Is that all you have to say?”

  “I told you I needed to speak to his daughter.”

  “Did you have to go to such extreme measures? I thought you were going to allow me to make the introductions, not terrorize a nightclub. You know, in this day and age, that was probably not one of the wisest things you could have done.”

  It was his turn to exercise restraint. “I was just following a lead.”

  “Mr. Carraway, Caldwell Fall is not someone who will let his daughter be attacked and kidnapped.”

  “I did neither of those things.”

  “Those were his words, not mine,” she said. “Tell me, Mr. Carraway. Did I make a mistake in retaining your services?”