Swamp Team 3 (A Miss Fortune Mystery)

by DeLeon, Jana

  Oh hell no.

  From the weathered age of the board and the flaking paint spots on the lettering, I knew that list had been in place for a while. Which meant Gertie and Ida Belle already knew about wet T-shirt night. And when I got out of here and into fighting clothes, they would both pay. Dearly.

  “Ma’am,” the bartender yelled. “Contestants drink free. I have a nice white wine.”

  I shook the water off of my arms and gave Bucket Man my go-to-hell stare as I did my best to stalk by. It was a bit wobbly, but I figured I still pulled off pissed. The bartender handed me a stack of napkins.

  “Sorry about ole Billy,” the bartender said as I wiped off with the napkins. “He means well but he’s a bit of a half-wit.”

  “Then maybe you should let someone with a higher IQ toss the water.” Of course, I had no reason to suspect that anyone who frequented the Swamp Bar even possessed a higher IQ, but it didn’t hurt to throw the suggestion out there.

  A man slid onto the stool next to me. “That’s what happens when you let Buckshot Billy handle moving objects.”

  Midforties. Six foot tall. A hundred sixty pounds. Wearing dark sunglasses at night in a bar. 1970s sweeping disco hairdo.

  I could definitely take him, but he had such a weird vibe that I wasn’t sure I wanted to touch him. If I’d been drinking a beer, I could have gone for a good clock in the face with a beer mug, but I wouldn’t even make a dent with the cheap wineglass I held.

  “Buckshot Billy?” I asked.

  Weird man nodded. “The locals gave him the nickname because he couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn with a football. The only time he could hit something hunting was using buckshot—it scatters a good bit.”

  I looked at the bartender. “You’re letting a guy nicknamed ‘Buckshot’ control the water bucket?”

  The bartender looked a little sheepish. “Billy’s sorta a sad case. I was trying to be nice.”

  “Then give him free beer. Take away the bucket and be nice to every other woman who walks through that door.”

  He rubbed his chin, as if the idea required deep thought. “You may be right.”

  It was all I could do to keep from rolling my eyes.

  Weird guy’s cell phone rang and he looked at the display and frowned. “Excuse me,” he said, as if I cared where he was going. Then he walked across the bar and outside. The bartender stepped back behind the bar with the bucket, poured a beer, and shoved it across the counter to Billy, who gazed longingly at the bucket.

  “I haven’t seen you in here before,” the bartender said. “You new in town?”

  “Just visiting. Thought I’d look up an old friend. Someone told me he hangs out here.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Floyd Guidry.”

  The bartender narrowed his eyes at me. “Best I know, Floyd ain’t got no friends, and it don’t take women long before they know to steer clear of them. He’s got no qualm about backhanding one.”

  I frowned. “Is that so? He wasn’t really my friend. Just someone my brother met doing a job down here. My brother thought I might look him up and say hello if I had the time. He seemed pleasant enough the one time I met him, but I guess I was wrong.”

  The bartender still didn’t look convinced. “He’s in the phone book. Coulda called him.”

  I smiled. “But then I wouldn’t have gotten a bucket of water thrown on me.”

  He studied me for a second more. Based on my outfit and my flippant attitude, he must have decided I looked like the party type because he finally nodded. “That’s true enough. And I’m happy to have some new blood for the contest. Floyd’s been in here this week, but he usually shows up a bit later.”

  “I’m in no hurry. I stopped by Monday night, but I only stayed long enough to see he wasn’t here, then left. Figured I’d catch him a different night.”

  “He didn’t come in two nights ago,” Billy interjected, “on account that he was in jail in New Orleans.”

  My heart dropped. If Floyd was in jail, then he couldn’t be the arsonist.

  “That sounds about right,” the bartender said.

  “Sounds like Floyd walks on the edge a little too much for my taste,” I said. “Maybe I should take your advice and just give him a call.”

  The bartender nodded. “Probably a lot safer bet to have Southwest Bell between the two of you instead of just a barstool.”

  “Great, then I guess I’ll be going.”

  “Wait,” the bartender said. “You can’t leave yet. We’re about to start the wet T-shirt contest.”

  “Oh, I think I’ll have to pass. I’ve had all the excitement, and water, I can take for one night.”

  The bartender’s face fell. “You were a shoo-in for the win. The usual crew of women in here look a little rough.” Someone yelled at the other end of the bar and the bartender headed off to serve them. I hopped off the stool and pulled down my skirt.

  Billy, who’d been staring intently at the wall behind the bar, came out of his stupor. “That’s funny. You and that other guy both looking for Floyd tonight.”

  “What other guy?”

  Billy’s eyes widened. “I shouldn’t have said nothing.”

  “No, it’s okay. You can tell me. I won’t say anything.”

  Billy looked at me, glanced at the door, then the makeshift stage at the front of the bar, then bit his lower lip. His expression went from worried to calculated—as calculated as an idiot could look, anyway. Then he grinned. “I’ll tell you if you do the wet T-shirt contest.”

  My first inclination was to simply say “hell, no” and leave. After all, what did it really matter that someone else was looking for Floyd? If he liked to hit women and spent regular time in jail, then the list of people looking for Floyd might be as long as the Mississippi River. But something about it bothered me, even though I couldn’t put my finger on it. Maybe it was the timing of someone else looking for Floyd the same night I was, or maybe it was the fact that the other man could have called Floyd or even gone directly to his house, as the bartender suggested I do.

  Or maybe it was just because in Sinful, things were never quite surface level.

  But a wet T-shirt contest? Was satisfying my curiosity really worth the humiliation just to get an answer that probably didn’t matter anyway?

  I glanced around the room, checking out the women who might be competing. “I don’t have to do anything special, do I?”

  Billy frowned. “You have to have boobs and stand there.”

  “Yeah, I got that part. I mean, do I have to walk around, dance, sing the national anthem?”

  “No. You all just line up and then someone throws water on you—used to be me but I traded the job for free beer—then the bartender holds his hand above each of you and the one with the loudest cheers wins.”

  I looked at the makeshift stage. It sounded simple enough, and I was already wet, so nothing lost on that end. Maybe the other man didn’t mean anything. Maybe getting the name was a total waste of my time.

  But what if it wasn’t?

  I sighed. “Fine, I’ll do it. But as soon as I get off that stage, you’ll be standing at the door ready to give me that name on my way out. No other requirements. Deal?”

  Billy nodded. “Deal.”

  He stuck out his hand and we shook on it. I had a feeling I was going to regret it.

  “Attention please!” the bartender yelled into a microphone that screeched.

  Everyone covered their ears with their hands.

  “Sorry,” the bartender said in his regular voice. “It’s time for the contest you’ve all been waiting for. If you beautiful ladies would make your way onto the stage.”

  Three other women stood up, adjusted their chests, and pranced up to the stage. Not to be outdone, I gave my chest a shake and attempted a slow, smooth glide. Hip-shaking was completely out of the question if I had any intention of remaining upright, but I finally managed to navigate the crowd and stand at the end of the row of
contestants.

  The bartender stepped off the stage and grabbed a water hose from one of the patrons. “And now for the fun part.”

  He turned the water hose on full blast and shot a chest-high line straight across the stage. The other women squealed and jumped as the water hit them. I thought I was prepared, but I swear, he must have pumped the water in from a cooler. It was so cold it took my breath away.

  “No fair,” one of the contestants yelled. “She doesn’t have on a bra.” She pointed at me.

  “That’s what I’m talking about!” one of the patrons yelled and a cheer went up around the bar.

  “Is one required?” I asked.

  “Only during hurricane season,” the bartender replied. “Safety issues.”

  “Can we get on with this?” I said. “I need to go stand in front of a heater.”

  The bartender grinned and held his hand over the first woman. “Let’s hear it for Sheena.”

  A small cheer went up and Sheena frowned.

  “Damn it, Lester,” Sheena yelled into the crowd. “You better open your mouth and yell for me, or you’ll be cooking your own dinner for the rest of the year.”

  A man sitting up front rose from his chair, a bit wobbly as he went, and started yelling. “Let’s hear it for my wife’s hooters.”

  Sheena grinned. “That’s my old man. You tell ’em, baby!”

  Good. God.

  The next two women either didn’t have an “old man” in the bar or didn’t want any help marketing their wares, so the bartender moved quickly in my direction. Before he even put his hand above my head, the patrons started going wild.

  The other three women shot me dirty looks, then piled off the stage.

  “We have a winner!” the bartender yelled. A couple seconds later, I felt something drop onto my shoulder and glanced down in horror at the satin banner draped across my chest proclaiming me “Best Boobs.” Before I could rip the sash off, lights flashed and a bevy of smartphones took my picture.

  I looked over the crowd to the door and saw Billy standing there, giving me a thumbs-up. But just as I started to step off the stage, Floyd walked in the door and his gaze locked directly on me.

  I should have taken advantage of the fact that his stare started with my chest. Maybe if I’d have reacted quicker, he wouldn’t have had a chance to move up to my face, but the absurdity of the entire mess combined with my surprise at him walking in the bar at the worst moment possible caused me to hesitate. And that hesitation was my undoing.

  His eyes widened and he pointed his finger at me, his face contorted in anger. “You’re the bitch that ruined my fence.”

  Chapter Eleven

  I jumped off the stage, ready to run, but one of my feet landed on a rotten piece of plywood and the heel went straight through the wood and lodged there. I pulled as hard as I could, but it didn’t budge an inch.

  “You’re not getting away this time,” I heard Floyd yelling in the crowd, but even more disturbing was it didn’t sound as if he was very far away.

  I gave the shoe one last tug, but it was no use, and I had neither the time nor the flexibility to undo the straps myself—not without flashing the entire bar my weapon, anyway. I reached up and grabbed a bottle of beer out of a man’s hand, broke the bottle on the table, and swiped at the straps with the broken glass. I held in a string of cursing as I felt the burn of a glass cut on my ankle, but with my foot free, I stumbled forward, like a drunken, peg-legged pirate, hunched over so Floyd couldn’t see me.

  I made it to the back door and pulled Billy outside. “Who was the man?”

  “That was great,” Billy said. “I knew you’d win. You got a great set of hooters.”

  “The man who was looking for Floyd. Who was he?”

  “Oh, right.” Billy scratched his head. “He was that dude you talked to at the bar. Marco something. Said Floyd was in big trouble…or little trouble. I can’t remember exactly.”

  “Marco’s last name?”

  Billy shrugged. “I didn’t catch it.”

  “You bitch!” Floyd appeared in the doorway, clutching a beer bottle and wearing an expression that said he had every intention of using it. As I took off down the steps, he shoved Billy off the porch. “Move out of the way, you moron.”

  I heard the motorcycle engine fire up and took off down the steps. Ida Belle roared toward me and slid the bike around in a one-eighty right in front of me, showering me with dust and rocks. I might have screamed just a little before she skidded to a stop, but I’ll never admit it.

  I leaped onto the back of the bike and barely grabbed on to Ida Belle before she took off, handing me my helmet over her shoulder as she went. I felt Floyd’s fingers run down my shoulders as he just missed pulling me off the back of the bike. I turned around and saw him running for his truck. A couple seconds later, the engine fired and he roared backward out of the parking space, scattering dirt and rocks in every direction.

  “He’s coming after us!” I shouted as I tugged on my helmet with one hand and held on for my life with the other.

  Ida Belle rolled the throttle back as far as she could manage and keep us upright, but I knew the motorcycle was no match for Floyd’s V-8 engine. Ida Belle took a sharp corner too fast, and the back end of the motorcycle broke loose and started to slide. My mouth was clenched so tight my jaw started to ache, and I was afraid that with the death grip I had on Ida Belle, I might bruise one of her ribs.

  The back tire gained a hold on the dirt road again and the bike jerked upright. Ida Belle didn’t even hesitate before rolling the throttle again. I glanced back and saw that Floyd was gaining on us at an alarming rate.

  “He’s going to run us over,” I shouted.

  “We’ve got to get off this road,” Ida Belle said.

  “What? The only thing off this road is swamp.”

  “Closer to the highway, there’s a stretch of mostly solid land.”

  Mostly?

  No one placed a bet on “mostly.”

  The glare of headlights beamed over my shoulders. I held one hand over my forehead and glanced back. “We’re not going to make it.”

  The truck’s engine revved and it leaped forward, coming so close that I could count the squares in the grille. It took nerves of steel and the limbs of a contortionist, but I let go of my stranglehold on Ida Belle with one hand and worked my pistol from the holster between my thighs. I swung my arm around, trying to get an aim on a tire, and fired.

  Missed.

  Between the shoddy road, the glare of the headlights, and the small amount of tire showing beneath the massive bumper, my chances of making the shot were low, even given my abilities. I took aim again, this time at a headlight, figuring that if he couldn’t see where he was going, it would slow him down.

  Direct hit.

  Plastic and glass exploded from the driver’s side headlight and the glare I stared into was instantly cut in half. I shifted the pistol to my right hand and twisted around to take aim at the remaining light.

  Aim. Fire.

  Right as I squeezed the trigger, the motorcycle dropped into a huge pothole and the shot went low, pinging off the bumper. The truck swerved and fell back ten yards or so, then the engine revved up again and it launched forward. I aimed again and fired.

  Bingo!

  The remaining headlight shattered and the truck immediately dropped back as we shot off down the road, putting good distance between us. I turned around to try to gauge how close we were to the highway, but before I could make out any of the markers I’d taken note of on the way to the bar, bright lights encapsulated us and I twisted backward, trying to see where they came from.

  Not good.

  Floyd’s truck was gaining on us again, a row of four spotlights in full force on top of the cab. Crap. That was an option I never had to consider back in DC. Of course, back in DC I wasn’t usually balanced on the back of a motorcycle trying to avoid being run over by an angry redneck who thought bobcats made great pets. In fact
, now that I’d processed the entire scene, it just might be the most ridiculous thing that had happened to me since I’d arrived in Sinful.

  Might be.

  In the meantime, I needed to figure out a way to live to tell about it. Otherwise, it was going to be a very sad ending to a short career in unintended private investigation. Even worse, I would die dressed like a hooker. It was the sort of thing nightmares were made of.

  I only had one bullet left and four spotlights. No matter how you arranged the numbers, they didn’t add up in my favor. I could always fire through the windshield. I had a really good chance of hitting Floyd, but that meant I had a really good chance of killing him, too. Floyd may be trying to kill me, and he was definitely an asshole, but taking him out went against everything I believed. He may be a bad guy by Sinful standards, but in my world, he was just another civilian. Before I could change my mind, I took aim at the tire again and fired.

  Miss.

  My pulse shot up as I realized how quickly the truck was closing the gap between us. I peered over Ida Belle’s shoulder, hoping to see lights from the highway, but we’d just entered a stretch on the road with rows of tall cattails surrounding us and I couldn’t see anything at all through the thick reeds. I whipped back around and my heart fell when I saw only a couple of feet between me and the truck.

  Inch by inch it crept toward me, until I felt the heat coming off the engine. I could make out a dim outline of Floyd in the driver’s seat and for whatever reason, I was certain he was smiling. Just when I thought it was all over, Ida Belle swung the bike around a corner and the truck dropped back as it negotiated the corner. The breath I didn’t know I’d been holding rushed out of me so quickly my chest hurt, and I prayed the road had enough turns to keep us ahead of the truck until we reached the “mostly” solid land.

  Two more stretches passed with the truck just about to overtake us as we reached the corner. Two more times we narrowly avoided being roadkill. But the next stretch seemed to be longer than the others. My head was a swivel, looking back to see how close the truck was, then forward, praying I’d see a turn coming up.