Retribution

by Jasmine White

  Chapter Twelve

  A few nights later, Bailey was stepping down two stairs as he reached forward to pull open the heavy door to the brick-lined café. A dimly lit interior filled with the smell of liquor and smoke first greeted then enveloped him in a haze. He sized up the tiny room in one glance: against one side at a square table sat a couple speaking in low tones, staring into each other’s eyes. Another tiny table, this one round and at the front of the bar, was occupied by an overweight man sporting a greasy handlebar mustache.

  Only one lonely table was empty towards the center of floor, an ugly affair of un-hewn wood that didn’t look fit for a termite. In the next second Bailey had made his way to the bar, the larger portion of the ‘café,’ and had chosen a wooden stool of some substance in the corner butted up to the wall.

  Now all that was left was the waiting. No problem, he considered as he sat alone with his thoughts. He’d just order himself a drink. He was used to waiting—being patient worked well for his job and had gotten him to where he was now: head detective of the homicide division. A position which gave him a good amount of pull if he so chose. It had come in handy to influence the Chief. Nobody else had believed the professor’s death to be intentional. Even Green had had to be convinced. He mentally congratulated himself—it had taken some doing. Only after he’d dug up enough leads to support his theory had the officer agreed.

  And with that his thoughts switched to another track, to the man he was waiting for to join him. Why had he agreed to meet him? He was the last man he’d have thought would volunteer help. What did it mean? Was he just genuinely trying to do good, or was there an ulterior motive of some sort? Previous experience told him probably the first.

  “Ya here to order some’m, or ya just gonna’ brood here all night?” A burly bartender, his hair grizzled and gray, stood looking at Bailey beneath bushy brows. He wore a black muscle tee that revealed his biceps and arms with a tattoo of a dancing girl on the right one. He swung a faded cleaning rag in one hand. The swinging rag suddenly stopped and hung limp in his hand as his palm slammed down on the top of the bar, his body position suggesting a confrontation.

  “I’m waiting for someone,” Bailey replied vaguely, and saw a glimmer of understanding sweep away the challenging look in the man’s craggy face. “But I’ll take a gin and tonic while I wait,” he added with a grin.

  The bartender nodded. “She’ll be late anyways,” he commented as he squirted the tonic onto two ice cubes that rested at the bottom of a clouded glass. “Dames always are. They’ll make ya wait half the evening for ‘em or theys won’t show up at all. Depends on how hard theys wanna’ make ya work.”

  He set down the drink hard in front of Bailey. Some if it splashed on the bar counter. “The question is, how hard is this one gonna’ make ya work?”

  “Actually,” Bailey replied as he tasted the drink, cringing slightly that even he noticed how cheap the gin tasted. “I’m not meeting a woman at all. I’m meeting an acquaintance of mine, a male last time I checked.”

  “Well. That makes everything easier then.” Despite his words, the bartender seemed a bit disappointed. “In that case he’s most likely has a real reason for being late.”

  “Sorry I’m late.” Wesley’s words drifted across to Bailey right before the dank smell of his clothes as he sat down at an empty stool next to him. “Took a bit longer than I expected to find the right clothes.” The detective's eyes widened as he surveyed his appearance and his nose processed the smell of horse manure. Wesley was dressed as a homeless bum, his clothes ripped and tattered, his shirt old, his pants caked with some black at the bottom.

  “How do I look?” he asked when the bartender stepped away to help another customer. “McNab couldn’t find any clothes bad enough, so we were forced to fix up our own—even sent me out to the stables.”

  “Well . . .” Bailey searched for words. “I don’t think I would’ve recognized you out of context.” He peered closer at the long tear across the knee of Wesley’s pants. “Was that cut deliberately?”

  “Of course,” Wesley responded with obvious pride. “Told you McNab had to fix some clothes up. Good thing dirt and natural fertilizer are cheap.”

  Bailey chuckled as he motioned the bartender over to serve Wesley a drink. “McNab did an impressive job. I’ll have to remember next time I need a quick disguise.”

  “Whiskey, straight up,” Grant told the bartender, who nodded and poured some amber liquid from a small bottle he had stuck in his apron. “So,” Wesley began, cutting straight to the point, “I want you to put me to work on Drake’s case. You need me. I can help. Problem solved.”

  “Murder is classified information, but of course with your connections, you find out about stuff you shouldn’t.”

  “Of course,” Wesley replied carelessly. “That’s what my cousin is for. Now, what do you want me to do first? Stalk Johnny? Protect Katherine? Both?”

  “Hold you horses—pun intended—for a minute. Why do you want to get involved so badly all of a sudden?”

  “This murder happened in my town, to a friend of mine. Of course I want to get involved.”

  “You weren’t so anxious before. I remember you pulling your wannabe girlfriend Katherine out of my office, threatening to call your cousin as you left.”

  “That was before the verdict was changed from suicide to murder. And you were barking up the wrong person. Kinda funny nobody noticed the gun was in the right hand when Drake was left-handed, isn’t it? Who discovered that little gem?”

  “Yours truly.” Bailey preened momentarily before he switched the questions back onto Wesley. “What do you bring to the table that we don’t already have?”

  “Besides my extensive influence?”

  “The police have all the clout we need, I’m afraid.”

  “I know more people than you do. I can show up anywhere much more naturally than you can. Everyone would know you were there with an ulterior motive — you stick out like a sore thumb. Like at Drake’s auction for example. I spotted you instantly. Well, more like smelled you first. Those overalls were a nice touch. Which, incidentally, is why I suspected something new had developed related to his death. Got in touch with my cousin, and sure enough, the verdict has changed from suicide to murder. Kind of a significant change.”

  Disappointed that Wesley had recognized him at the auction, Bailey fell silent. Maybe he could use McNab’s assistance with his wardrobe after all. “You may have a point about easy access in a lot of areas.” He hesitated, not entirely convinced. Although he knew Wesley had a spotless record—he’d checked that out long ago—that didn’t mean he was completely clean where Drake’s murder was concerned. On the other hand, if he was involved somehow, having him close by would make it easier to uncover him.

  “It’s a yes, then?” Wesley’s humble outfit did nothing to disguise his self-confidence.

  “All right,” Bailey conceded grudgingly. “It’s a yes. Here’s the idea . . .” He leaned forward, and Wesley bowed his head to listen as Bailey explained a modified version of his plan to him. The longer he talked, the happier he was with his new-side sidekick. Trustworthy or not, Mr. Grant fit right in with his plans.