by Robena Grant
“Why didn’t you tell me that Jack is involved in this—” Rachel lifted one hand off the vegetables she’d been cutting, and then waved the knife at him, “—this fiasco?”
“It isn’t information I can share,” Michael said, keeping an eye on the knife.
He knew full well his words would not be enough to placate her. And why is she cutting vegetables at almost ten o’clock at night? He rearranged the photos. At least she’d been good to her word and had printed up the photos from the negatives. And, much as he’d wanted to ask Jack personally for pertinent information, anything that could help with his assignment, he hadn’t. He’d gone strictly on the information from his chief. He hadn’t wanted to risk exposing Jack. After all, the guy had done his service, and he deserved to retire with anonymity. But then the guy had gone and gotten himself into the midst of things. Why?
He took a quick look at Rachel.
She’d already been angry that he’d dropped her off near the cabin, along with the supplies, and then hidden the car a mile away and jogged back. He’d given her a gun. And unable to squelch how hot she’d looked doing that country western dancing, he’d kissed her soundly, but not for near long enough. She’d argued that they should stick together, always. He’d had no idea of her ability to jog. And he’d had to consider Ralph.
So he’d stuck with his plan. He glanced over at the little guy snoozing on the couch. But if he’d thought she was pissed about that, he sure hadn’t expected the anger she now displayed.
“So, explain again this cold shoulder treatment,” he said, waving a hand between them. “And what is it you’re making?”
She snorted. “Soup.” She stared him down for a minute, but finally gave up and chopped furiously at vegetables. Michael wondered how the hell many people she’d prepared food for.
“Jack’s a friend of mine,” Rachel said, after a few minutes of silence. “He’s married to my best friend. They’re family. If either of them are in trouble, or if anything happens…”
“It won’t.” He shuffled through the photographs again, looking at several with a magnifier. He kept his head down, warmed by the fact that Rachel had spoken. Why had Henry snapped these pictures? Jack at sunrise with a gun drawn; Jack inching around the bait shop; Jack peering into broken windows?
“How can you be certain?” Rachel asked.
“The photos, and the negatives, are going into the file at the Indio PD.”
“And what?” Rachel asked, followed by a scoff. “That will keep him safe?”
“That Latino guy won’t get his hands on them.”
“So, you’re saying he’s after Jack?”
“I’m not saying anything.” Michael held his hands up. “Except, whoever locked us in would have come back to the cabin to retrieve the negatives. All hell must have broken loose when he discovered them, and us, missing.”
Rachel bit at her lower lip, but said nothing.
Michael thought over what he’d said. A glimmer of something important kept trying to break into his thoughts. Why would the guy, probably the younger Suarez brother, but he couldn’t be certain, risk exposing his location by attacking Rachel and taking her camera? He sat back, closed his eyes and went quiet. He emptied his mind of thoughts for a minute. Then he sat up straight and snapped his fingers. He’d only risk that if he intended to move on. So would he stay now, would he still want the negatives, or would he move on? He obviously knew that Rachel had back up. The cops had paid a visit.
“You know what? I do feel we’re safe here now,” he said. “That guy will imagine us long gone. And I’m sure he has moved on. But I’m retracting my offer to take you to the bar. I’ll have to go alone.”
“You’re going to stay here overnight?” she asked, and shot him a less angry look.
“Absolutely. But you aren’t.”
“And why is that?”
He couldn’t stand another argument, but he could see by her posture she was getting ready to fly off the handle. “You could be putting yourself in danger.”
“And you wouldn’t be?”
“That’s my job,” he said softly. “And I work alone.”
“Yeah, well good luck on that.” She scowled at a carrot, and then viciously chopped it. “Besides, we came in the same vehicle. You don’t have time to take me back up to Almagro, and then get back to Desert Scapes to entertain them at the bar.”
Michael sat back, resting his head against the back of the couch.
“If I can’t go with you to the bar, and if I can’t come back here with you, I won’t give you the keys to the cabin,” Rachel said. “You’ll have to camp on the beach again. But, either way, I’m staying here.”
“Fine.” He closed his eyes.
“And you’ll be without a vehicle.”
Shit. He’d forgotten that. He opened one eye.
“Damn it, Michael. We’re a good team.” She ventured closer, with the knife. He reached up took the knife from her hand and stuck it in the floor. Then he pulled her to his chest and kissed her hard.
“Admit it,” she said, taking a deep breath and sinking back into his kiss for a moment. “I’m the most perfect side kick for you. I know bars, and bar people, inside out and back to front. And we had a great plan for tonight. At least let me go to the bar with you. If you want to take me home after that, then that’s okay.”
Michael sat up. Determination was written all over that pretty face. But she did make some good points.
“Besides,” she said. “This is about my family. I know you don’t care much about people, I don’t even know if you have any family, but what little I have, I love, and I protect.”
He did have family, and a father who never thought him good enough. But he wasn’t getting into that argument with her. He rubbed her back and shoulders trying to pull her close again but she resisted. “What about Manuel? If you don’t turn up at Cliffs tomorrow, won’t that raise his suspicions?”
“Not really. Besides, we don’t know for sure if he’s a snitch.”
“Someone you know is.”
Rachel shrugged. “I’m the boss. Manuel has been trained to close up the bar.”
Her facial expressions changed. He could almost see her thoughts forming. He’d never known so much loyalty to family. Without a doubt, she’d put her own life on the line for her loved ones. He’d known people in the force who were like that. He’d never been tested.
She stood up and remained still for a few moments, and then she met his gaze. “I’ll tell him I have a date, and I’m taking the evening off. Or, I’ll claim a migraine.”
“Yes, but if he’s working with our guy…”
“I’ll tell Manuel that I have seats for the theater.” She grinned. “I actually do have.” Then the grin faded. Several emotions played over her features for a few seconds.
In some ways she reminded Michael of his mother. Always busy, and always talking. Then she pressed her lips tight, and started to pull other vegetables out of the crisper. She must be really upset.
“Ah, slow down on those vegetables,” he said.
“Manuel knows about the theater. It’s written on my work calendar. But I gave the tickets to a friend a couple of days ago.” She shrugged. “I’d intended to go with Grandpa.”
Michael blew out a huge breath. Damn. That’s what had made her sad. He eyed her for a moment. She could be playing the sympathy card to get what she wanted. If so, it had worked. He was a sucker for a weepy woman. He walked over and returned the knife she’d been using earlier. He rubbed her shoulders and neck.
“Okay.” Hell, whichever way you sliced it he wasn’t getting laid tonight. “Look, you can come with me. But only if you tell me everything you know about Jack. And only if you stop chopping those damn vegetables.”
She looked at the cutting board with its mounds of vegetables, and frowned. Then a small smile twitched at the corner of her mouth and she got out a plastic baggie and started stuffing vegetables into it. “See,” she said. “I kn
ew that Jack was in trouble.”
He raised his hands. “Okay, forget it. There will be no more conversation about Jack.”
“Not one-sided conversations.” She pointed the knife at him. “You tell me why you want to know things about him. If I believe what you say, I’ll tell you what I know.”
And with that she began to bag up even more vegetables. They might be eating those for the next week. He’d have to think over her offer. How little could he tell her and still make his story convincing?
****
“Bum,” Rachel said, later that night.
Michael had pushed the entrance door to the bar, and still held it open. He peered down at her. “Excuse me?” The pale yellow neon light flickered above his head and he glanced up. Only the word bar, in Sandbar, remained lit. That got the main message across, he supposed.
“Bum…ass…call it what you want,” Rachel muttered, wrinkling her nose. “It reeks.”
Michael laughed and pushed the door wide open. That action, plus his laugh, caused several heads to turn in their direction. “I’ve never heard this place described so eloquently.”
She glared up at him. If she’d been trying to shock him she hadn’t succeeded. He loved her forthright behavior. Besides, he had to agree. It stank worse than a locker room. But he was used to dives like this, and he had a good contact here; if he showed up tonight. He held her elbow, and scanned the room. No sign of him yet, but his snitch was a night crawler, and the night was still young.
“We’ll head for the bar,” he said. “There are a ton of empty seats.”
Rachel nodded, and shook his hand off her elbow.
No doubt still annoyed with him, but thanks to their agreement, he now knew more about Jackson Fischer, once known as DEA agent Jack Davis. She’d enlarged some of the photos. Her grandfather had gotten a grainy shot of one of the Latino men, and the profile of another as they stood inside the bait shop looking out the back door. He couldn’t be certain if either was a Suarez brother, but his gut told him he was on the right track.
“Look cheerful, babe,” he whispered close to her ear, and the scent of her flowery shampoo almost made him dizzy. That sexy sweep of her neck beckoned and he wanted to plant a kiss on it. Hell, he wanted to plant a kiss on those pouty lips.
“Sure,” she said, and then bared her teeth. “How’s this?”
He grinned and took another quick glance around the dark room before moving forward. The place didn’t look promising. Only half a dozen guys, and one old broad, sat at the bar. And a couple stood in the shadows near the juke box.
“You’re back, Dingo,” a big man, with a ruddy face and a huge gut, said loudly. He slid off his bar stool and approached them.
Rachel jabbed him with her elbow. “Dingo?” she whispered.
Michael shrugged. Good a name as any. “Hey, Mr. Mayor of Desert Scapes.”
“Call me Fred. Thought you’d be wasted after the other night. You gave a helluva performance.”
Fred had strolled over, right hand out. He gripped Michael’s hand and shook it, and then encircled him in a half-hug, which caused Michael to bump off of that huge gut.
“Yeah, it was a blast,” Michael said with a grin, and reached for Rachel’s hand. She slid around and tucked herself neatly against his side.
“I see you’ve got the gee-tar with you.” Fred nodded toward the guitar that hung loosely behind Michael’s back. “Gonna sing us a lullaby, eh?”
“Yeah. It’s late enough.”
“Can’t pay you nuthin’.”
“Couple of beers should do it,” Michael said.
“Oh, yeah, the rich kid…I forgot.” Fred gave Rachel a once over. “Who’s the chick?” he asked from the corner of his mouth.
“My girlfriend.”
“Don’t look too happy.” Fred grinned at her and then turned his gaze back to Michael. “You still look like hell even though you shaved.”
“Yeah.” Michael looked down at Rachel and gave her a wink.
“Don’t your rich papa buy you no new threads?”
“Don’t want them,” Michael said with a shrug, looking down at Henry’s clothes that he’d changed back into. “All the guys at college dress like this.”
“Rubber boots?”
Michael nodded, and squeezed Rachel’s hand for a second. He’d outlined their role-playing, but had known instinctively that she didn’t need much help. But in her current bad mood maybe she’d decided not to play along.
“Sit yourself up at the bar, sugar-plum,” Michael said. “I’ll be over there.”
He pointed to an empty barstool, and then a standing microphone. The stage area, lit by one strobe light that had a blue cellophane covering which someone had thoughtfully cut little stars into, played strange shadows on the walls. It could be disorienting if you stared too hard. The couple, who now slow-danced to the sound of the juke box, looked as bizarre as hell, like they’d dropped in from another planet.
Fred turned back to the bar. “Hey, two beers, and make it snappy. Dingo here’s gonna sing for us.”
Michael helped Rachel onto a bar stool, where she turned to face the make-shift stage.
“Go get ‘em, Dingo,” she said, and gave a little growl and snapped her teeth together.
He laughed, grabbed the two cans of beer, and set one down on a grungy cardboard coaster in front of her. “A glass for the lady,” he said, and Fred produced one that actually looked clean. That growl of Rachel’s had Michael feeling hot and itchy, and Henry’s jeans felt even tighter. At least he’d found a black t-shirt long enough to hide his body’s response. And he’d found a windbreaker in Henry’s closet, so he’d gotten rid of the flannel.
He took a slug of his icy cold brew, and swiped the back of a hand over his mouth. Better not to think about Rachel. He had work to do, and he needed to concentrate on that. He’d been on his best behavior tonight, but it had been hard not to think about kissing her again. Rachel had prepared a damn good meal, and even if neither of them had spoken much, he’d been happy. He guessed she was still stewing that he wouldn’t tell her the whole truth about Jack Fischer.
After another swig of beer, Michael smiled at her, and this time she smiled back, and with her eyes too. “See ya’ babe,” he said, and then swaggered to his seat at the mic. The bar got real quiet. Every eye in the room settled on him. He strummed the guitar and sang a few old favorites, and the place started to fill up with new arrivals. Fifteen minutes later, he asked for requests.
“Adios and Vaya Con Dios,” someone yelled.
Michael grinned. He loved that song—The Zac Brown Band—one of his favorites. He began to sing, thinking of Rachel and lying on some beach, his ass in the sand, a cold beer in his hand, and her at his side. The floor in front of him held a mass of writhing, dancing bodies, if you could call it dancing. More like dry-humping. Every table was filled, not a spare seat anywhere, and the beer flowed. He looked across the room and felt the heat from Rachel’s gaze. She raised her glass, and gave him a sultry grin.
Fred wended his way through the dancers, and then propped the front door open.
Michael knew that the music drew people from the rundown trailer park across the street, but he doubted they could fit another body in here. The same thing had happened two nights ago, and when he’d played here last week. He’d become a star, but only because they didn’t get live musicians dropping in.
Rachel headed for the phone, alerting his attention and causing him to almost miss a beat. He’d told her, if she saw a skinny guy with a buzzed head, one who danced like a praying mantis on crack, she was to go to the public telephone and pretend to make a call. Then he’d wrap up his song, and take a short break out back.
He’d given the guy an assignment last night, and nicknamed him Mantis, because of his long skinny legs and quick movements, and he could barely wait to find out what he’d deliver.
“That’s it folks,” Michael said, and propped the guitar against the stool. “Have another b
eer, and I’ll be back in five.”
He slipped out the back door, walked down the alley, and sniffed at the stale air. The place smelled worse than inside the bar, if possible. Several rusted out vehicles had been abandoned near a Dumpster. He walked over to the filthy pick-up, where they’d met before, and leaned against the passenger side door.
He turned his face to the sky. Pitch black, but he didn’t need to see. He stood perfectly still, and listened. Soon he heard the softest fall of footsteps.
“Word on the street says there’s a Hispanic living in the old bait shop,” Mantis said softly, from somewhere behind him.
The guy gave Michael the creeps. But he’d learned to trust guys like him. He pulled one leg up to rest his heel on the running board, and removed a C-note from his boot. He turned slowly, and slid it across the hood of the truck.
“You got a decent description?”
The young Latino shook his head, and pocketed the cash.
“Want to get one?” Michael asked, keeping his voice low.
“We’ll see.”
Michael waited.
“So, you sing here every night?” Mantis asked loudly, and pranced around the truck like he walked on tiptoes.
“Nope. Only on occasion,” Michael said.
Mantis joined him. “You’re good.”
“Thanks.”
Both guys leaned against the truck door. Michael took a cigarette from the pack the guy held toward him, even though he rarely smoked. He worried about Rachel. He’d told her to stay inside, and told Fred to keep an eye on her. Would anyone be obnoxious, or try to hit on her? He drew on the cigarette, and let the smoke out slowly. He wanted to make a deal for information. And he wanted to do it fast.
“When did you last see the Hispanic?”
“An hour ago…he went out for a leak.”
Good. “Can you get ID?”
Mantis hesitated. “It’ll cost ya’.”
“I’m good for it.”
“No, I mean big bucks,” Mantis said, and took a few quick hop-steps around the area, talking loudly about rock bands. Minutes later, seeming satisfied that they were alone, Mantis came back. “Rumor has it he’s got guns and ammo. Someone got too close. Got shot at a few nights ago.”
