In It for the Money

by David Burnsworth

Crome bent down to speak directly to the man. “Look, buddy. All I’m looking for is a name. Now we can do this easy or easier. Your choice.”

  With hands on fat hips, the man said, “No one talks to me like that in my own club.”

  A young white woman dressed in not much more than a sheer negligee over underwear touched Crome on his arm. “Why you askin’ about Cleo for?”

  Bingo.

  The man said, “I’m gonna call the cops,” and walked away.

  Alone with the woman, Crome said, “Is Cleo your friend?”

  With a smirk, she said, “Roommate.”

  “What’s your name, sweetheart?” he asked.

  “Medusa.”

  “Wow. Cleo and Medusa.” He scratched his mustache. “Is Cleo okay?”

  She blinked a few times. “She just said she wasn’t feeling good. Wanted to stay home.”

  “Can you do me a favor and call her? Make sure she’s okay?” He slipped her one of Blu’s business cards with his burner number written on the back. “Call me and let me know, and I’ll give you a hundred bucks.”

  Big eyes again. “Of course.” She ran off.

  The short fat man returned. “I called the police and they’re on their way.”

  Crome patted the man on the shoulder. “Don’t you worry about a thing. I’m leaving now.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Blu sat in the backseat of Detective McDere’s unmarked Charger, smiling to himself because neither Detective McDere nor his partner Detective Builder were in a good mood. When they radioed in where they were headed, they were informed a 911 call had come from the place and two uniforms were on route. Apparently, someone matching the description of Crome had stormed in and threatened the owner.

  Blu was not so naïve as to think the police had the story one hundred percent accurate. He knew his partner. Crome would not storm in. He would walk in like he owned the place and start asking questions in a polite fashion at first. Then if he didn’t get the cooperation he was looking for, he would break arms and legs. Since there was no report of injury, Crome must have got something out of someone there.

  And the detectives were real pissed, so pissed that Crome might be arrested for obstruction of justice. With Blu thrown in for good measure, or so Detective McDere said.

  Anyway, joy was in the air. And hopefully Crome was chasing down the lead.

  Crome rode four blocks away from the bar, stopped at a convenience store, and bought a few essentials. His phone rang just as he’d finished off an ice cold twelve ounce Budweiser while he leaned against his bike. In this part of town, open container was a right, not a misdemeanor.

  He chucked the bottle on top of an overflowing waste can, wiped his hands on his jeans, and answered the call. “Yo.”

  “Mr. Crome?”

  “You got him.”

  “This is Medusa.”

  “What’s up, Miz Medusa? Say, I didn’t see any snakes comin’ out of your head. Why’d you pick that name?”

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind. You speak to Cleo?”

  “She didn’t answer. Not my call or my text. She never doesn’t answer me.”

  “You want me to check on her for you?” Crome thought that was a stretch, but he felt he was only a few minutes ahead of the cops. He needed all the breaks he could get.

  She said, “You got that hundred you owe me?”

  “I’ll leave it at yours and Cleo’s place if you want.”

  “Nothin’ doin’,” she said. “Cleo would snort it all before I got home.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m heading there now.” She told him her address, which did turn out to be only a few blocks from where he was.

  He started his bike and roared away.

  Chapter Forty

  The unmarked Charger pulled to a stop in the parking lot of Angel’s last place of employment. Blu thought it was a hell of a place to end a career in stripping. A patrol car had beat them there and parked in the lot, lights flashing.

  He watched a woman walk out of the club followed by a short, fat man who yelled something to her.

  She threw up her hands, got in an orange Miata, and drove away.

  On a hunch, if Blu had driven his own truck, he would have followed the girl. The two detectives must have had other hunches, because they ignored the retreating stripper and focused their attention only on the man and the two officers talking with him.

  McDere and his partner got out of the now-turned-off car and walked toward the man, leaving Blu in the backseat to roast. With the air off and no windows down, it heated up quickly. Blu began to count. When he got to fifty, he was kicking a window out. Then they’d really have something to charge him with.

  He watched the detectives dismiss the uniformed officers and talk with the man. A second hunch Blu had was the man owned the club—another interesting career choice. Judging by the looks of Angel, her joint-smoking friend, and the stripper who took off in the Miata, the place had decent talent. At least, he wouldn’t be above watching a few performances given enough of a legitimate reason to be there in the first place. Maybe a stakeout was required. He wiped sweat off his cheek on his shoulder.

  At a count of forty-eight, the detectives returned to the car.

  McDere turned and faced Blu. “Your friend really screwed things up. I’m going to hang you for this.”

  Builder started the car and glorious cool air blew through the vents. The next time Blu saw someone lock their pet in a car on a hot day, he would break the windows to save the pet and shoot the owner. To McDere, he said, “Aren’t we going inside so I can pick the girl out?”

  “No need. She isn’t there.”

  Blu asked, “How do you know?”

  “The owner told us she called in sick.”

  “And you’re sure it’s the right girl?”

  Ignoring the question, McDere turned to his partner.

  Blu had the feeling they were trying to decide what to do with him. Good. If they had taken him up on his offer to drive separate cars in the first place, they wouldn’t now be in the pickle of having to drag him along to interview the girl or waste time taking him back to the station. Both options made Blu smile.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Crome pulled into the apartment complex the same time Medusa, driving an orange Miata, screeched to a halt in a slot in front of a door marked twenty-five in dull brass numbers.

  He idled up next to her car, shut the bike off, and leaned it on its kickstand.

  She said, “The cops are at Pete’s.”

  “That means we gotta get in there and talk to Cleo before they get here.”

  Big eyes again. “You mean they’re coming here next?”

  “I’m here, ain’t I?”

  Now frowning, she led the way to the door, opened it with a key, and called, “Cleo?”

  No response.

  Crome took in the small apartment with posters of P!nk and someone named Nicki Minaj and bare furnishings around a flatscreen TV.

  “Cleo?”

  Still no response.

  Crome said, “I’ll wait here. You check to see if she’s sleeping.”

  Medusa went down a hall to where Crome guessed the bedrooms were. Overall, not a bad place for someone just starting out. Unless their luck changed, though, Medusa and Cleo might never move up another rung on the ladder.

  Medusa returned. “She’s not here.”

  This wasn’t good at all. “Send her a 911 text and try to call her again.”

  While she tapped on her smartphone, Crome walked around the apartment looking for any clues. Someone had stuck a bong beside the opposite end of the couch. A small plate mirror clouded with white powder dust reflected his image from an end table as he made his way to the kitchen. A few dirty dishes in the sink, but not too messy. He
’d seen a lot worse. Hell, he’d lived in a lot worse.

  The bedrooms were decorated very similarly. One in purple and one in hot pink. Both had various forms of lingerie draped about—work clothes if Crome had to guess. And both had more makeup than the counter at Macy’s.

  Medusa came up behind him. “She’s not answering.”

  He said, “You two keep a fairly neat place. Any chance the dishes in the sink are yours?”

  “No. And Cleo’s anal about not leaving dirty dishes around.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Hmm?” Big eyes again. This time looking strained instead of flirty. “What does that mean?”

  “It means I’d only be guessing, but maybe your friend had to leave in a hurry.” He had another thought. “Since she ain’t here, I better go before the cops show up.”

  “If you leave, I’m coming with you. I don’t wanna be here to talk to them either.”

  He made his way to the door. “Suit yourself.”

  Medusa changed into cut-off jean shorts and a t-shirt and locked up as Crome started his bike. Instead of getting in her car, he was surprised when she climbed on the bike seat behind him. Without wanting to delay any longer, he gave the throttle one more squeeze and roared away.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  From the backseat of the unmarked Charger, Blu watched his business partner exit the apartment complex with a young woman. McDere and his partner focused on the GPS so they wouldn’t miss the turn and neglected to see Crome and the young woman turn five hundred feet in front of them and accelerate away.

  The Charger stopped beside an orange Miata exactly like the one the woman left Pete’s in after she fought with her boss. The two detectives got out, again leaving Blu in the backseat to count to fifty. Although he was thinking of cutting the number down to twenty-five, the same number as the unit whose door the detectives were now knocking at.

  Of course there was no answer to their knock, because Crome had the girl. While this was direct muddling in the investigation of Angel’s murder, the bigger picture for Blu was Jeremy Rhodes. Not because the kid’s mother was paying him to look for the spoiled brat. But because if Blu didn’t find the kid soon, he had a feeling more people would die. A clear-cut case of the end justifying the means. At least, that was what he told himself while sitting in the backseat of the cruiser.

  Before Blu had counted to number thirty, the detectives headed back to their car. He decided not to kick the window out.

  McDere got in and turned to Blu. “You and your friend are seriously interfering with a police investigation.”

  Seriously? Did he just say seriously? “Are you taking me downtown or not?” Blu asked.

  There was no reply.

  “If not,” Blu continued, “then let me out of this car. This is harassment.”

  McDere said, “You want us to harass you? I mean, really harass you?”

  “Take your best shot.”

  “You want to fight us now, is that what this is?”

  “No, I want you to pull your head out of the sand and see what’s going on.” He wanted to say something a little stronger than sand but thought better of it.

  “What’s going on?” McDere asked. “Like we’re missing something? The only thing we’re missing is the information you’re not telling us. The information your partner is turning into tainted evidence we won’t be able to use in court.”

  “You don’t even have a suspect yet,” Blu said.

  McDere sneered. “Unless we find this witness you say was with you and Angel last night, you are the last one who’s admitted to seeing her alive. I’d say you are a person of interest in our investigation.”

  “A person of interest. Great. Then arrest me and let me call my lawyer or release me.” He stopped short of threatening to kick the windows out of the back, thus giving them reason to arrest him. Blu was irritated, but he wasn’t stupid.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Crome rode outside the city and found a fast food restaurant at an exit off the highway. He parked the bike and they went in. After paying for lunch, which consisted of burgers, fries, and sodas, they sat at a booth in the corner beside a large paned glass window and ate.

  Medusa said, “I can’t believe Angel’s dead.”

  Crome washed down a mouthful of grease with his drink. “You got anything you want to say about that?”

  “Like what?”

  “Anyone you might suspect from the club? Any new admirers getting a little too friendly?”

  “No. The guys that come to Pete’s are locals.”

  And not the wealthy ones either, Crome thought. The girls who worked there were feeding at the bottom of a very big trough.

  This wasn’t the first time Blu had spent time in a holding cell. The detectives made a tactical mistake and let him make his one phone call. Two hours later, Cynthia Rhodes had Carol Ryan, her pit bull lawyer, make quite a bit of noise to get him out.

  Blu watched with amusement as the holding cell officer fumbled with the keys and couldn’t get the door open fast enough while Carol grilled him. The detectives were nowhere to be seen, and this poor guy took the full brunt of the lawyer’s barrage.

  Outside, in front of the police station, Blu said, “Thanks for getting me out of there.”

  She handed him a new iPhone. “I was told to give you a message.”

  Blu donned his sunglasses. “Okay.”

  “Cynthia Rhodes wants you to pay her a visit.”

  “Is that it?”

  It appeared the experienced lawyer did not rattle easily.

  She said, “Yes, that’s it.”

  Pulling out his vaporizer, Blu took a long drag and exhaled a plume of fog. “She say when?”

  With a smirk, she said, “At your earliest convenience, of course.”

  Ignoring the underlying sarcasm, Blu said, “Your time is more valuable than mine, counselor. Thanks for getting me out.”

  “Call me if you get into any more trouble. It’s in Ms. Rhodes’ best interest if I stay involved.”

  He really wanted to ask if people shooting at him fit her definition of trouble but let it pass. One bullet whizzing by Carol Ryan’s two-hundred-dollar haircut would change her life forever. He gave her a mock salute and went to get his rental SUV out of impound thanks to the police confiscating it when they decided to arrest him.

  Blu plugged his new iPhone into the charger of his SUV, stuck the jump drive Billie had given him into the USB jack, and played the first song from the music collection she had downloaded for him the other day. It was soothing jazz, something he needed at the moment, and it made him think of her. Of being with her. And he knew he needed to put this job to bed.

  He crossed the Ashley River and made his way to his island home, noticing that he’d missed a call from his client.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  After returning the call to Cynthia Rhodes and updating her on what had happened, he called his daughter.

  She answered with a timid, “Hey, Dad.”

  He said, “How would you feel about coming over for dinner?”

  There was a pause. Then, “Um, tonight?”

  “Yeah, if you don’t have anything going on, of course.”

  “I do, but not until later. What’s the occasion?”

  He checked his watch. Then he caught what she said and replied, “I don’t need a special occasion to want to have dinner with my daughter, do I?” It came out almost harsh. He knew he needed to back off. Angel’s death, the detectives, the holding cell, and then having to update Cynthia Rhodes. It was enough to wind him up and he knew it.

  “No, Dad. I didn’t mean it that way.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s been a long day. I would really just like to spend some time with my daughter. Are you sure you can spare a couple of hours for your old man?”

 
“Of course, Dad. I’ll bring dessert.”

  There was a shop just off Sullivan’s Island called Simmons Seafood. They carried the best key lime pies. His daughter might not share much in common with him, but they both loved those pies.

  With his spirit beginning to lift, Blu took a drag on his vaporizer and exhaled, remembering afterwards the windows were up. Air conditioning had spoiled him. He shut it off and lowered all four windows. All the smells of the lowcountry wafted in. Sulfur from the marsh. The ocean. The three-hundred-year-old homes.

  And he loved every scent of it.

  A white stork took flight alongside the road.

  He stopped and got three pounds of shrimp, vegetables, and a six pack of bottled root beer.

  After parking on his crushed shell drive, he carried the groceries in and put more water out for the horses. All of them were grazing in the small unkempt acre pasture close to the water trough.

  Murder, the alpha horse, eyed him as he filled the trough. When the herd was together, they followed Murder’s lead. The horse surprised Blu by approaching before he’d finished filling the trough and bumped him as if to get him out of the way.

  “Hey, now,” Blu said. “Why’d you go and do that?”

  The black horse snorted.

  Dink and Doofus joined them.

  Blu took a risk and held a carrot out for Murder.

  The horse eyed his hand and the carrot, eyed Blu, and then eyed the carrot again. He extended his neck enough to grab the vegetable out of Blu’s hand.

  Blu gently stroked the beautiful black stud’s snout who let him as he chewed. At least for as long as the carrot lasted. Then the horse jerked his head away. Blu knew what was coming next and got out of the way as the stallion reared up on his hind legs and let out a shriek. This was his way of showing Blu he was determined to remain untamed.

  Dink and Doofus flanked Blu in what could be misconstrued as a protective measure. But really they just wanted carrots of their own.