“I need to know who was supposed to drive that Dixie Cake truck,” I said. “Something happened when the original trucker was arrested and the other driver took his place.”
“How are you going to find him?”
“I’m sure the Sheriff’s Office knows, but they won’t tell me. The Gearjammer. Too bad Casey is working. She’d distract the truckers enough that they might spill their secrets.”
Thirty
A serious party crowd packed the Gearjammer on Saturday nights. Marshall Dobson, the smoking dispatcher, held his previous spot at the bar with his dispatching female friend. I scanned the crowded, smoky bar for other familiar faces. Dona and her friends wiggled before the jukebox, groped on the pretense of dancing. The room swam with cowboy hats, trucker hats, and farm caps. If you had a thing for bald guys, you would go to some trouble finding them in the Gearjammer.
I figured to try the couple again and slid between Marshall and his female cohort. My head and shoulders cleared the bar, but I had to stand on my toes to get the bartender’s attention.
“You came back,” said Marshall. He stubbed out his cigarette and scooted his stool to give me room. “You remember Marge? Where’s your boyfriend?”
“Luke’s my ex-boyfriend,” I said. “I’m here by myself tonight. My sister had to work and everyone else thinks they’re too good.”
“Too good for you or the Gearjammer?” asked Marge. Tonight she had rolled her hair into horizontal sausages and backcombed her bangs. Her arms also reminded me of sausages. Thick and heavy links, like she spent time putting in fences and chopping wood. Arms good for brawling.
“Too good for me,” I said quickly. It wouldn’t do to insult the establishment’s patrons. “I’m an artist and word has gotten out I’m controversial.”
“What, like Piss Christ kind of stuff?” said Marge.
I shook off my surprise at her knowledge of contemporary art. “No. Classical representations of a nude male.”
“I saw that poster hanging in the library,” she smiled. “Round of shots for my girl. Give her your seat, Marshall.”
“That’s okay,” I said, happy that my dateless state had made them friendlier. “I’m planning on mingling tonight.”
Marge elbowed me in the ribs and winked. “Good plan. Looking for another hot model?”
That pleasant thought stumped me for a second, but I recovered. “Actually, I’m still trying to figure out what happened with that hijacking.”
I tugged the composite drawing from my pocket and unfolded it. “Have you seen this guy?”
“No.” Marge took the copy and studied it. “Never seen him before. How about you, Marshall?”
Marshall glanced at the sheet of paper. Sliding off his seat, he waved at the empty stool. “Go ahead and sit. I’ve got to use the gents’ room.”
I watched him walk away and a feeling of anxiety unfurled within my core. “Marge, y’all know more about this hijacking than you admitted the other night. The cop is not here. Will you talk to me?”
“I don’t have a problem talking to you. But I’m not in the good ol’ boy network, so I don’t know if I can help you.”
“The trucker driving the hijacked truck was shot, but he was standing in for someone else. Do you know the guy who was originally going to drive that truck?”
She shook her head. “Not me. What are you thinking?”
“I think the real driver had an arrangement with the hijacker and didn’t get a chance to call it off. When he didn’t show at the designated spot, the hijacker tracked down the truck, found the new trucker, and shot him. Maybe because the perp panicked. Maybe because he needed whatever was in that truck. Possibly the new driver threatened him.”
Marge snatched the shot glass sitting next to her beer and downed it. “Shit, that’s a mess.”
“You think it’s a possibility?”
“I hate to say yes, but yes.” She sipped her beer. “Most of these truckers are good guys. Family men. But you get renegades who find easier ways to score more money. Trucking doesn’t pay that well, especially now that gas prices are so high.”
“You ever heard of Max Avtaikin?” I said. “On the radio or even around town?”
“No,” she shook her head. “Sorry, I can’t help you more.”
I opened my mouth to thank her when I felt hands on my waist. I yelped an angry curse and spun around. Zach’s dark eyes gleamed below his cowboy hat. His toothpick rolled around his smile and he moved his hands to the bar, pinning me in a detached embrace.
“You came back for me,” he said. “I was hoping you’d bring your sister. I got a look at her the other day at your house. Man, can she rock a pair of shorts.”
I shoved him out of the way. “What were you doing at my house?”
“Happy hour.”
I muttered a few unflattering words about Cody and his liberal use of my studio for a party den.
“Let’s dance.” Zach grabbed my hand and pulled me onto the dance floor. He began to shuffle his feet and wave his arms to Sweet Home Alabama.
I stood and watched him, then strode up and put my arms around his neck. He stopped shuffling and waving to clamp his hands on my waist.
“Before you get any ideas,” I said. “I am in this position so we can talk privately.”
“Hey now,” he said, pulling closer. “I like the sound of that. I knew older women were the ticket. Young girls just laugh at me.”
“Probably for the way you dance,” I said. “And I want to talk to you about the hijacking, not whisper sweet nothings. I need to know who was supposed to drive the Dixie Cake rig. I think he had a deal with the hijacker.”
“Ernie Pike.” Zach’s hat brim touched my forehead. The toothpick slipped between his lips and reappeared in the corner of his mouth. His whisper barely registered in my ear. “I went to happy hour hoping I could find you. Ernie Pike is getting heat from the cops. And he’s on suspension for the DUI. He’s looking for squealers.”
“Squealers?”
“I’m worried about you, Miss Cherry. Your name’s been flashed around town quite a bit the past few days.”
“Crap.” A rush of anxiety overtook me, and I leaned my head against Zach’s chest. We continued to sway. “Zach, I’ve been showing the hijacker’s picture around the bar tonight.”
“Maybe not a wise choice.” Zach slid an arm up my back, pressing me against his chest.
I pulled back. “Zach, I wouldn’t play knight for me. You’re likely to get your ass kicked by your trucker friends or worse.”
“What kind of gentleman would I be if I let anything happen to you?”
“A smart one. This is my rodeo, Cowboy. You’ve got a life of truck stops ahead of you, and I don’t want to see it ruined by my interference as a snitch.” I stepped out of his embrace and pulled the drawing from my pocket. “Before I go, have you seen this guy before?”
Zach studied the picture and shook his head. “No, ma’am.”
“Good,” I said and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Stay sweet, Zach.”
I spun away from him and saw Marshall Dobson flag me. I pushed past dancing couples and sauntered to the bar.
Marshall pointed his cigarette toward the door. “I’d get if I were you. Folks didn’t like your cop boyfriend asking questions and they like it from you even less.”
“Is Ernie Pike here?” I asked. “I want to know if Ernie Pike works for Max Avtaikin. And if he knows the man in the drawing.”
“Ernie Pike ain’t going to talk to you. He’d chew your bones for breakfast.”
“You tell Ernie Pike not only is he never driving a truck again, he’s going to be charged with conspiracy, aiding and abetting, or as an accessory to a murder. Maybe all. If he confesses and gets this murderer put away, he’ll get a reduced sentence or a plea bargain.”
Marshall sucked on his cancer stick and blew a column of smoke in my face.
I tried not to blink.
“That so?” he said.
>
“Yep. But if Ernie Pike’s the one who’s been tailing me, I’ll make sure he gets stalking charges attached to his file. He lays a hand on me and he’s never getting out of jail. My uncle is the sheriff.”
“If Ernie Pike lays a hand on you,” said Marshall, “you won’t be alive to press any charges.”
Thirty-One
I took Marshall’s advice and shoved through the crowd toward the front door of the Gearjammer. Trucks of all varieties crammed the lot. I had wedged Casey’s Firebird between a Super Duty pickup and a Ram Laramie. A BMW would stick out like a sore thumb. And it did. The small silver car had parked at the edge of the lot behind a gigantic, unhitched Kenworth double sleeper. I slunk into the shadowed corner between the doorway and building.
Streetlights and a full moon brightened the Gearjammer’s parking lot. Curiosity more than fear kept my back glued to the wall and my focus on the Beamer. What was the purpose of watching me? Waiting to find me alone? It found me in odd haunts like here or Max’s, yet I never saw the hatchback around my house. Before the Gearjammer, I had stopped at the farm to snag one of Pearl’s casseroles for Miss Gladys. Had the BMW found me between the farm and the Gearjammer? That was a twenty-five minute drive.
The casserole now rested in a cooler next to the locked box holding my daddy’s old Remington Wingmaster shotgun in the Firebird’s trunk.
Since Miss April’s warning at the Sweetgum Estates, I had taken to carrying the shotgun on my local errands. Forget the diamonds. A firearm is a girl’s best friend. Diamonds won’t do you any good if you can’t defend them from armed robbery.
Unfortunately, a firearm locked in the trunk of Casey’s car didn’t do me any good either.
The door to the Gearjammer banged open, and I jumped. Zach strode out, looking left and right. He pivoted and spotted me.
“I hoped you were already gone,” he said, drawing into my corner. “But I was also afraid they found you.”
“Who found me?” I cleared my throat to take the panic out.
“Couple guys who want to protect their asses,” said Zach, tossing his toothpick to the ground. “They’re waiting behind that big tractor with their tire thumpers.”
“Tire thumpers?”
“Just to scare you, probably.” Zach tipped his hat back. “I overheard some townies talking about it inside. Can’t believe they wouldn’t go out and defend you. What kind of man lets a girl walk into something like that?”
“The kind of men who think I deserve what I get. I don’t want you to get hurt, Zach.”
“Now you’re insulting me.” he yanked on the brim of his hat and grabbed my hand. “Where’s your ride?”
“The Firebird. Second row.”
“Is that the one Cody overhauled? Sweet.”
He guided me toward the rows of trucks. Two men strode out from behind the Kenworth, carrying clubs. The largest man measured his steps by whacking a sawed-off baseball bat into his palm.
“Shit,” said Zach. “They were waiting all right.”
“I’m going to get my gun,” I said. “Will you be okay if I make a run for it?”
“Go.” He waved me behind him.
I darted between the trucks, fumbling with the car key. Squeezing between the Firebird and the huge Laramie pickup, I watched the men approach Zach. My brother’s buddy stood rigidly, his hands held out at his sides.
“Get out of here, rookie,” yelled the large man.
“No, sir,” said Zach.
“We just want to talk to that girl,” said a heavy, older man holding a tire iron. “We want a look at that picture she’s been flashing around.”
“I didn’t recognize the guy in the drawing,” said Zach.
“Why would you, son?” asked the old hand. “Get back to dancing with the ladies. We’ll be just a minute with this one.” He jutted his chin toward me.
I scooted from the narrow alley between the vehicles, rounded the Firebird’s trunk, and jammed the key in the lock. The trunk lid popped open, blocking my view of the men, but I could hear the shuffle of footsteps.
I leaned over, reaching for the gun box. My hands grasped the metal, and I righted myself, hauling the box against the rim of the trunk.
The footsteps moved closer, combining with a scuffle that sounded like shoving. Zach started to argue, and I flinched at the crack of wood on skin. My fingers flew over the tiny combination dials. The box snapped open. My hand grasped polished wood. The gun case fell into the trunk, and I slammed the lid shut. At another crack of smacked wood, I hopped backward, swinging the shotgun onto my shoulder in a practiced arc.
“Hold it right there,” I yelled, squinting through the sight. I trained my eye on the older man who stood before the hood of the Firebird. Behind him, the large man let his baseball bat fall into his palm with a sharp thwack.
The older man bent over, laid his tire iron on the ground, and rose with his hands held in the air. Zach watched him, then lunged to grab the tire iron.
“You want to talk to me?” I said. “Talk. Who was Ernie Pike supposed to meet to hand off his haul? I want the guy’s name in the sketch.”
The old hand shook his head. “Don’t know what you’re talking about, honey.”
“I ain’t your honey,” I said. “I’ve got an elderly woman sucking oxygen through a tube who’s counting on me to find out who murdered her grandson.”
“Her grandson is the one who stood in for Ernie?” asked Old Hand. “Real sorry to hear about him.”
“Doesn’t matter who he was,” I said. “I want the name of the guy who shot him.”
“You tell your old woman that it was a big mistake,” said Baseball Bat. He swung the bat at his side, keeping his eyes on Zach. “The crew was expecting Ernie to stop somewhere else. When they realized it wasn’t Ernie, someone got a little excited.”
“Shut up, idgit,” said Old Hand and spat on the ground.
Baseball Bat swung his club up. “I told you to stop calling me that.”
Old Hand looked over his shoulder at Baseball Bat. At the sight of the raised bat, Old Hand fully turned to face him. “Stop acting like a rookie, and I’ll stop calling you names.”
“Zach,” I called. “Car.”
Zach took a running three steps and slid behind Old Hand and over the hood of the Firebird. He landed in the tight passageway next to the Super Duty truck and held up his free hand.
“Keys,” he said.
I tossed the keys underhand. Zach caught them, still grasping the tire iron. He unlocked the driver’s door, slid inside, and revved the engine. With the gun still mounted on my shoulder, I slipped in the narrow alley between the Super Duty and the Firebird.
Old Hand glanced behind him. “This isn’t over, girl.”
Baseball Bat dropped his club to his side. “Your grandma isn’t getting anything from Ernie or anybody else. Ernie’s not squealing, no matter what. The cops got nothing and so do you.”
“How about Max Avtaikin?” I said. “What’s he got?”
“Who in the hell is Max Avtaikin?” said Baseball Bat.
Old Hand waved to shut him up. “If you’re talking about the Atlanta crew, they won’t be as nice as us. They won’t care about that shotgun either. Think about what happened to that driver, girl. That crew doesn’t ask questions, they shoot first.”
Beside me, the Firebird rolled backward. “Who’s the Atlanta crew?” I said. “Ernie’s with the Atlanta crew? Max Avtaikin, too?”
“Pow pow.” Baseball Bat shot me with his fingers. “Keep your mouth shut and forget about this.”
I stepped away and the Firebird jerked back. The driver door swung open.
“Get in,” said Zach.
I lowered the Remington and dove across his lap. The door hung open as Zach spun the wheel to the left and popped the clutch into first gear. I scrambled off his lap to the passenger seat. Zach floored the accelerator and we jerked forward with the door swinging.
“Grab the wheel,” he said and leaned out
to snag the open door’s arm rest.
The door swung shut and he tore through the parking lot. We passed the gigantic Kenworth, bumped out the entrance, and onto the street.
The BMW had taken off during our tussle with the truckers.
After refusing his plea for a post-scuffle make out session, I dropped Zach at his house and headed northeast, toward Halo, on zigzagging country roads. Now I had Ernie Pike’s attention. I didn’t think a trucker would drive a BMW, but I didn’t want to take chances.
On Max Avtaikin’s street, Luke’s truck remained on stakeout duty. I didn’t wave or stop to talk. He had abandoned Jerell to the system before I could work out a better solution. Instead, I flipped Luke the bird to express my feelings over his disloyalty.
Maybe I should have taken up Zach’s offer, just to tick Luke off.
I whipped the Firebird into the drive before Max’s closed gate and honked. The gate didn’t move. I stomped from the Firebird to the intercom and pressed the talk button.
“Bear,” I said to the intercom. “You’ve got to talk to me. I can tell something’s coming down on you.”
He didn’t respond, but I could feel him listening.
“Do you know Ernie Pike? How about an Atlanta crew who jacks trucks?”
Nothing.
“Know a Sweetgum hustler named Regis Sharp?” I waited. “No? Thought that was a stretch. What about the fact that your SipNZip is stocked from the back of a U-Haul? But Little Anatoly and Sam don’t know you from Adam. I thought that very strange since you’re their employer.”
I swore a growl emanated from the small black box.
I had written the name from Max’s file on the composite sketch. I pulled the drawing from my pocket and checked my scribble. “Do you know an M. Hawkins? You should. They had something to do with your immigration. By the way, I didn’t know you went to Emory. I love the Michael C. Carlos Museum and the Visual Arts Gallery.”
Hijack in Abstract (A Cherry Tucker Mystery) Page 20
