The Paradise Key (Harvey Bennett Thrillers Book 5)

by Nick Thacker

  Another one ordered a Sidecar. Respectable, actually, but I had no idea how I was going to find an actual, real-life sidecar, and even then what I’d do with it. Do you attach it to a motorcycle? Does it have to be one of those German ones they drove around in WWII? So I improvised and just ran him down with my car. A few times over the lower back to wake him up, then once over the neck to put him back to sleep.

  But as I’d suspected, this particular mark wasn’t going to fall for any stupid tricks of mine. He looked at me with those big, dopey, frat-boy eyes and then smiled.

  “Nah, man, you don’t mean what I think you mean, do you?”

  I cocked my head sideways.

  “Like ‘happy ending’ stuff?” He made the finger quotes when he said it.

  I shook my head. “Sorry to disappoint. This is a respectable pub. I just meant food — you want any food?” At least pivoting to another topic didn’t sound awkward. We did serve food.

  “You mentioned that catfish. Any good?”

  4

  I HAD JOEY FLIP A few catfish fillets on the griddle, as the smell of a single one cooking usually earns us a few more orders. I have no idea what the man puts on those things, except butter — lots of butter — but they really are delicious. I keep getting the town’s ‘best catfish’ award, but in a town of 400 with about five other restaurants, I’m not sure it’s much of a compliment. I have a plan to one day pitch to the Chamber of Commerce expanding the award to ‘best grilled food’ or even just ‘best food,’ but for now, I’ll be the town’s official ‘catfish king.’

  I came back out to the bar to find that the half-lovely couple had vanished. Weird. Her drink was still sitting there, a few drops of condensation finding their way down the spout and onto the bar top. His glass was completely empty, save for the ice cubes and straw.

  I glanced around to see if they’d just moved somewhere else, hoping for a view of the beach — (there wasn’t one) or just better company (there wasn’t any). A group of older folks, regulars, sat at two of the five tables on one side of the place, talking amongst themselves. No one sat on the other side; the card sharks had taken off a while ago. The center of the larger room was empty and cleared, partly because I liked the idea that we might do some dancing in here at some point, but mostly because I liked the lack of clutter.

  Joey knew the old folks’ orders well enough to handle them, so he usually took care of drink-running while I parked it behind the bar most nights. It had the best vantage point, and with the addition of a small three-camera closed-circuit system with a monitor just beneath the bar top, I could keep an eye on the entire facility with just an eye flick.

  So it was pretty obvious the couple had left — ditched without paying, too. I thought about checking the restroom, but it seemed unlikely both would go at the same time. Their chairs were empty, too. No purses, sweaters, hats. They were gone.

  What struck me as worse, however, was that my frat boy friends were gone. The two that had pulled up to a table in the corner near the door were gone, and my mark’s buddy was gone as well. The main man, too, was nowhere to be found.

  Something bugged me in that instant. I felt the ‘it’ I talked about before. The sense I have about this stuff, it was suddenly there. I hollered back to Joey to watch the place, generating a positive-sounding grunt from the kitchen area, then booked it through the front door.

  I dash out like this from time to time, so I didn’t need to stop and explain anything to the regular patrons. I recognized Jimmy and his wife, a starlet-turned-smoker who’d nabbed an old, rich, retired guy after her forty year-run in Hollywood. They were across a table from Roger Pennington and Jessup McNaab, another pair of fisherman who had nothing better to do when the sun went down than barhop. And being the only bar like mine in town, they ‘hopped’ down here just about every night.

  They barely gave me a glance as I got up to speed and nailed the front door. It flew open, and I had that silent freak out of wondering whether or not there might be a person trying to come in at that exact moment, but once again I lucked out. The street was dark, the single lamppost long since overdue for a bulb change and bug cleanout, and it took a second for my eyes to adjust.

  When they did, it didn’t help. It was still nearly pitch-black outside, and there was no one around. No cars, no late-night walkers, not even a dog alerting my arrival.

  I turned and jogged around the back of the building. A small alleyway for trash pickup and deliveries separated my building from the thick wooded area that ran to the beach. The alley ended at my building, but ran alongside the woods and a few other establishments before connecting to the main road once again. Which, in my initial scoping of the property fifteen years ago, I thought to myself would make a nice hideout for some bad guys.

  I saw the silhouette of the woman, only now noticing that she was decked out in a relatively formal-looking dress, standing with her back to me on her phone. I couldn’t hear what she was saying, but it sounded like she was arguing with the other person. Her voice was mostly a whisper, punctuated by a few gasps and surprised breaths. In my opinion, not a good phone call.

  I slowed to a walk and cleared my throat, knowing that jogging or running up behind a person in a dark alley is never a good way to start a conversation. Still, she turned and looked for me in the darkness with a weirdly scared expression on her face.

  “Hey,” I said, “it’s just me. Sorry, I —“

  I saw movement off to the right, farther behind my own building, and assumed it was her brother. Maybe he’d gone outside to relieve himself, which was weird, but not the end of the world.

  The guy started running, and from the tiny flickering of the small light I’d installed above my back door, I could see him reaching inside the back of his pants.

  Now, there are really only three things you reach for in the back of your pants: the first is contraband, but we weren’t in an airport and if he’d shoved something up there was no way he’d be running so fast. The second is a wallet, and I had the feeling he wasn’t excited to show off his new ID picture.

  The third is what I was preparing for. I wasn’t armed — my closest piece was still in a drawer in the tiny office inside — so I pulled out the next-best thing.

  The white towel I’d been using to swab the bar.

  I wasn’t sure if there would be any use for it, but it was better than nothing.

  Maybe.

  The pistol came out, smaller than a 9mm from what I could see, with a suppressor attached. Possibly a Glock 42. Not a ton of stopping power, altogether, but there was hardly any distance between us. Even a suppressed .380 from this distance would do some damage.

  I started running, hoping I was still in the realm of ‘the element of surprise’ against the mark. I figured he’d come out after her, knowing she was alone outside and somehow sneaking out by getting past Joey in the kitchen.

  This guy’s here for her, I knew. I no longer needed to do my due diligence. I knew the sort of asshole I was up against this time around — not a pedophile, but far from a stand-up citizen. Probably the type that preys on women only, assuming they were weaker and easier to nab.

  I should introduce him to some of the ladies I know, I thought. I almost smiled, but knew I had to focus. I pushed the thought out of my mind and hauled it toward the attacker. His hair was floppier now, no match for a gentle breeze and running at full-tilt.

  The weapon rose, and I jumped. He wouldn’t dodge out of the way because it might screw with his aim — an unfortunate truth I learned about long ago. Sure enough, he stood his ground and tried to recalculate his shot since I’d suddenly gained a few feet in the air.

  My head landed on his chest, but my left arm was out, pushing his right arm up and away as best I could. I’d placed myself directly in the line of fire, hoping the girl wouldn’t move — or if she did, that she would move toward the building to our right and not out to my left where the bullet would go.

  Crack! The handgun fired — supp
ressed but still plenty loud — and we fell, tumbling end-over-end a couple times before stopping in a mud streak that cut across the alley’s asphalt. I was on top, thankfully, so I wrapped his legs into mine and sat high up on his stomach. I bounced as high as I dared a few times, hoping for a cracked or bruised rib, but unleashed with a couple hooks onto any open skin I could find.

  Many times in this scenario my mark, not typically a fighter or scrapper, forgets where they are and simply tries to curl up and make it go away. Sometimes they have a little spice to them and they fight back, but they always seem to forget that their weapon is still in their hand.

  This time my mark was not unaware. He flicked the Glock sideways, pummeling me in the temple and effectively removing me from his chest. I rolled, in pain, but recovered and swept out with a leg.

  He jumped but it caught his right foot and he started to fall sideways. I took the momentary advantage and ran at him again, tackling him into the picket fence at the back of the alley. His body cracked, or the wood cracked, but he sort of imploded into himself and ended up in a sitting position on the asphalt, his back to the fence.

  I wasn’t done yet, though. I kneed him in the face, feeling more than seeing the blood spatter out everywhere, and laid in again with my fists. He groaned, but turned his head at the right moment and sent my left fist through a picket.

  This hurt, and it severely pissed me off. But in that moment I realized I had underestimated my mark. Dawson rolled over and came up swinging, hitting me in the groin and stomach in two quick shots, then finishing with an uppercut that nearly connected. I stepped back just at the right time to dodge the punch, then fell forward onto him with a punch to his gut, simultaneously wrapping my leg around his.

  This time I was able to get him falling backwards, so I pulled up on my leg, then jumped, aiming the point of my elbow at his sternum. I heard a pretty satisfying crack sound when we landed and felt something inside him give way, but I wasn’t going to take any chances.

  I’d already underestimated him once, but I’m not one to enjoy making the same mistake twice. This was the mark, and this man would die. I wouldn’t get the luxury of deciding how it’d be done, but that didn’t matter now.

  I wrestled the pistol from his hand and saw his eyes bulge out, either from the surprise of it all or the pain that was no doubt sending scores of signals through his body. I lifted the tiny thing up the side of his head and didn’t hesitate.

  Like I said, a .38 at close range — or no range, like in this case — will do some damage. He was lucky he died immediately, as I was still pissed he’d gotten the jump on me, and almost on the girl.

  I shuffled through his pockets as quickly as I dared, trying to feel for anything that might identify him. Trying to find the token…

  5

  I TURNED AROUND, STILL KNEELING on top of him, still hoping the token had simply fallen out and rolled somewhere close by. I searched around a bit, but I eventually caught her eye. She was there, watching. She’d seen everything.

  The white towel I’d accidentally dropped lay nearby, right where I’d started my run. In my haste, I hadn’t even been able to come up with a plan to use it.

  “You… you okay?” I asked.

  I wasn’t exactly sure what to do — there was rarely anyone else around, and in the cases that there were, I just cleaned up the mess of the second person the same way I cleaned up the mess of the first. The boss never tried to send two marks at once, but sometimes things weren’t as simple as they seemed.

  Like right now.

  This girl had seen me kill a man, in cold blood and right in front of her. Was she going to be in shock?

  “I’m…” she didn’t get out more than the single word, a useless contraction that told me nothing.

  I waited.

  She still didn’t speak, but I did notice that she’d already hung up the phone and put it away, into a pocket on her dress or something. Hopefully the person on the other end of the call hadn’t heard anything strange.

  “I’m sorry about that,” I said, trying to make the best of it. Make the best of what? I thought. There’s a dead guy on my back porch, and this woman saw me do it.

  She was shaking, but she let me approach her. “He was running at you with a gun,” I said. “I just… wanted —“

  “I know,” she whispered. “I know, I saw it. I — I hung up the phone, but you had already started —“

  I didn’t know what else to do, so I grabbed her and hugged her. It felt weird, since I was still riding high on the adrenaline rush, but still oddly comforting. For me. And she let me, even sinking in a little bit as I held her.

  “Who was on the phone?” I asked, remembering her scared expression when she’d noticed me coming out to her.

  “It was just… sorry, I’ve been on edge lately. It was a lawyer — nothing to worry about. You just startled me.”

  I nodded. “Where’s your husband?” I asked softly.

  She looked up at me, those amazing eyes just sitting there, trying to piece things together. “Oh, you mean —“ she actually smiled. “That’s my brother. He’s — he went to the restroom, I think, and —“

  At that exact moment a man’s voice cut through the night air. “Hey! What do you think you’re —“

  She whirled around, ripping free of my hold, and turned to her brother. “No, Daniel, he was helping me…” She had her phone in her hand, waving it around as she ran up to him. I followed along, hoping we could stop Daniel before he got to the corner of the building and saw around it.

  “You were… you guys were —“

  “Daniel,” she said, cutting him off once again. “Look at him in the light.” She yanked me to the side and toward some invisible light she thought she could see, and pushed my chin up. “He’s from our high school, back home. Don’t you remember? He was a few years ahead of us, when we were in school, but — Daniel, you have to remember him!”

  She seemed almost frantic now, perhaps realizing like I did that Daniel was mere steps away from stumbling onto a murder scene that involved his younger sister and a disgruntled bartender that was far more than ‘a few years ahead’ of them. She started walking forward, toward the front door of the bar, and Daniel and I followed along.

  “Oh,” Daniel said, “yeah, okay, now I see it, I think.” He studied me from his perch a head shorter than me, looking me up and down as if he did in fact see something in me he recognized. He reached out a hand for me to shake, and I returned with my own hand. His sister kept walking, even picking up her pace as she headed around the front corner of the building.

  Daniel was obviously distraught, barely able to comprehend what was going on, but I wasn’t about to complain about that. He’d come in that way and he’d come out to us that way, so I just went with it.

  We returned to the bar, the same regulars curled up in their tables with fresh beers in hand, the smell of Joey’s catfish mingling with the hoppy aroma of freshly poured ale. I guided the sister — still didn’t know her name — to her chair at the bar, and shook Daniel’s hand again before walking around.

  “I need to take care of a few things in the back,” I muttered. “You guys sticking around for another? On me.”

  She nodded, a slight smile on her face, but not enough of one to cover the fear in her eyes. “Yes,” she said. “Same thing, please.”

  Daniel looked at his sister, seeming to notice for the first time that she wasn’t okay, then looked back at me. “Just a beer, please. Something light.”

  I poured his beer and mixed her drink, then placed them on the bar and turned to the kitchen. I could see Joey’s small frame standing at the grill. I announced my presence before walking in, then brought my voice down a bit. “You see anyone come through here?” I asked.

  He frowned, then shook his head. “No, I don’t think — shit, boss, you got another one tonight?”

  Joey is one of the few people on the planet who knows what I really do, aside from my stint as a bar ow
ner. He did a run in the Navy, but I found him cooking down at a street cart on the beach in the summertime months. One taste of his shrimp tacos and I offered him a permanent nightly gig.

  “Yeah,” I said. “He’s behind the bar. In the alley.”

  “In the alley? Damn, man, you usually get them out in the woods at least, maybe —“

  “I know, Joey,” I snapped. “But I didn’t. Almost got the jump on me and the lady in there. Think you can trust me with the flipper enough to head out and start cleaning up?”

  He shrugged, but sniffed loudly. “Yeah, of course. And it’s called a spatula. When you ever going to learn? What we doing, anyway? Fishbait?”

  I nodded. “Yeah, might as well. Nothing to salvage.” Fishbait meant he would be taking the body, after it was bleached, through the woods to a small skiff and out into the bay. He’d go as far as he trusted the old motor, then wrap the guy tightly and hang weights on him that would keep him down long enough to, well, become fish bait.

  He grabbed the bucket of bleach by the back door, a few heavy-duty contractor bags, and a spool of rope, then kicked the back door open and walked out.

  6

  BACK AT THE BAR, THE brother and sister were whispering softly to each other when I returned. I raised my eyebrows, asking a silent question, and she gave me a quick nod.

  Everything okay?

  Yeah.

  It was all I needed, but I knew she’d need more. She would want closure, or an explanation, or just someone to process it with. I knew she wouldn’t be telling her brother. Whatever that man was dealing with, he didn’t need this dumped on him, too.

  I figured I’d have to wait around for them to finish, get tired, and leave, then another hour or so for her to figure out how to ditch him and come back here, so I got comfy. I poured a finger of an old standby bourbon, local to the area, over an ice cube and added a bit of simple syrup and a couple dashes of homemade bitters. I was a bitters addict, and had about two-hundred varieties between the bar and my apartment. This one was a standard-issue herbal, tasting similar to Angostura’s main issue with a little more spice, and it went perfectly in an old fashioned.