Red Fish, Dead Fish

by Amy Lane

  To his surprise, Man-mountain—Jai?—slumped a little, looking defeated. “I would fuck you until you sobbed. I like the yellow hair.”

  Jackson’s eyeballs were going to pop out of his head. “That’s, uh, flattering. And terrifying. And flattering. But I really do need to use the john.”

  Jai waved his hand expansively behind him. “Do you? There is much desert that needs water.” He smiled, and his white teeth looked as big as roof tiles. “It is even the same color.”

  Oh God—he couldn’t even stop it from coming out of his mouth. “Piss yellow is a coward’s color,” he said, lowering his head and getting ready to get beaten back into the ground.

  But the giant just cocked his head. “Which is why it is a good place for burying cowards,” he said, flashing more roof tiles at him. Then he stepped sideways out of the way. “Enjoy your piss, yellow-haired man.”

  Of course, after that conversation, Jackson really did need to pee. He finished, sweltering in the little bathroom attachment, and exited quickly after splashing water on his neck and forehead.

  He ran straight into the slighter, shorter man in the blue coveralls. He had blond hair over his collar, blue-gray eyes, and a thin face. Pretty, in a faded sort of way, like he had to rub off layers of scared to find himself. He was stringy strong, not bulky at all, and would probably be tough as tree roots until he lived to be ninety.

  This must be Sonny.

  Jackson tried a smile again and wondered how Ellery was faring, banging his head against the brick wall in the auto bay.

  “Hello there. Should I give you the key or get it back to Alba?”

  “Ace didn’t do anything,” he said flatly.

  “Uh, we didn’t say he did.” Sonny’s eyes were cutting to the desert and back in hard little darts, like he was having trouble focusing on the goal. “We just—we just want to know if a kid came in here shot.”

  “Kid didn’t do anything either. I mean, if one did. ’Cause he’s the one that was shot, right? Kid that’s shot, he’s not going to be the bad guy. Just running from the bad guys.”

  Well, couldn’t argue with that. “Yeah, well, the guy we’re defending isn’t great.”

  “Ace is,” Sonny said, and Jackson thought that, should he have to fight one of them, the man-mountain or this rabid rat terrier here, he’d take the man-mountain. Sonny would sink needle teeth into Jackson’s jugular and not let go.

  “Is he, now? How’d he get hurt?”

  Sonny looked down. “I did it. Swung my wrench wrong, nailed him in the head. Not his fault. None of it is his fault. He’s a good guy.” He fixed his eyes on Jackson’s face again. “He’s the best guy. Mine. You don’t go fooling with Ace now, you hear?”

  Oh hell. This was a surprise. “Well, as long as he doesn’t go fooling with Ellery, I’m fine with that.”

  Sonny shook his head. “Ace takes care of people. Alba, Jai….” His voice trailed off. “Me. He takes care of me when shit goes south. You can’t be yelling at Ace.”

  Oh hell. Sonny lived in the house too.

  Jackson heard Ellery’s voice raised loud enough to be heard over the small garage.

  “I’ll go fix that,” he said calmly. “But look—I need you to tell me one thing, and then you’ll never see us again.”

  “We’ll see what the thing is,” Sonny said cagily.

  “If, say, a kid came by this garage, bleeding, what would you do?”

  “That depends,” Sonny said softly.

  “On what?”

  “On whether he was a bad kid or a good kid. If he was a good kid, just trying to get his sister back from bad guys, well then, we’d help him. If he was a bad kid and he held a gun on one of us, we’d hurt him.”

  That was oddly specific. “And if he was both?”

  For the first time, Sonny met his eyes. “We’d do both.”

  Jackson nodded. “Well then. We’ll be on our way.”

  “Will you be coming back?” Sonny asked, his voice hard and vulnerable at the same time.

  “Not on your life,” Jackson said grimly. Or his life. Or Ellery’s life. Because Jackson had no idea that coming back to this place might not end in death or blood or terrifying sociopaths holding tightly on to their one true person by killing the whole world.

  But it might.

  He rounded the corner, and Ace hadn’t broken a sweat—but Ellery had.

  “Won’t you even check the calendar?” he yelled.

  Ace Atchison just smiled. “Well, sir, I could, but we’re simple folk. If Alba didn’t have to go to school, we might not even know where summer stopped and winter began. I mean, this is the desert, after all. Unless the rains come or it gets hot enough to cook a dog in the road, we don’t always know.”

  “You know what month it is!”

  “No you don’t,” Jackson said, grabbing Ellery’s bicep and hauling him toward the Lexus.

  “Jacks—”

  “Sorry to bother you, Mr. Atchison!” Jackson called over his shoulder. “I promise you if you ever see us again, it’s ’cause we’re having car trouble on the way to Vegas and for no other reason!”

  Ellery was literally digging in his heels, and Jackson just kept going, letting the hard soles of Ellery’s shoes stir up little dust devils around his legs. “Jackson, he was just going to—”

  “Not tell you a fucking thing,” Jackson muttered, throwing Ellery into the car—passenger’s side—and getting into the driver’s side before Ellery could even scramble to the other side.

  “Got your keys?” Jackson asked, and as Ellery was patting his pockets, Jackson used the push-button ignition and started the car. He didn’t rip out of the dusty parking lot, because that would have resulted in a giant donut and Ellery’s first aneurism. He accelerated at a leisurely pace and turned the car west, toward San Diego.

  “Jackson—what in the hell?”

  Jackson glanced at him and thought he looked rumpled and pissed and… oddly dear. Innocent. He hoped Ellery was innocent enough for what Jackson had to say next to appeal to him.

  “Ellery, I want you to tell me Gordie Ripkin’s story one more time.”

  Ellery huffed, put his seat belt on, and crossed his arms in front of him. “Gordon Ripkin, small-time thug, mob muscle, drug dealer, petty thief, conman. Pulled in for questioning literally two-dozen times, arrested once. Our time. Someone paid his bail and hired us to defend him.”

  “Awesome. So we’re defending a scumbag. Go us. Now tell me his story.”

  “He is accused of shooting a store owner in Sacramento in June. He claims he couldn’t have been, because he was involved in a drug throwdown in Vegas. He and another small-timer were hired for the moment, and some kid was supposed to deliver drugs in Vegas or his sister would eat it in San Diego. It was a double cross—the two bosses in charge had no intention of either giving up drugs or giving up money, and the kid and his sister were sacrifices in some big fucking game. Gordon and his buddy shot at the kid, but the kid drove off. He left a blood trail, and his car was leaking oil, so they followed him to the little shithole we just left.”

  “Victoriana,” Jackson said, but seriously. How many shitholes were there on that road with a Carl’s Jr./ampm, a service station, and a garage.

  And nothing else.

  “Victoriana,” Ellery confirmed. “Anyway—that’s when things get fuzzy. Gordie and his buddy didn’t see anything at the garage, so they took off toward San Diego to see if the kid made it back for his sister. They found no girl—but no buddies either, and a fuckton of blood.”

  “And then….” Jackson needed him to see it.

  “And then they drove back to the people who hired them in Vegas and….”

  “And some Russian mob—these guys were working Italian—but some Russian mob guy tells them that the shop is closed and they shouldn’t be seen any farther south than Bakersfield. And that’s when they drove to Sacramento, that day.”

  “Mm-hm….”

  Ellery grunted. “I mea
n, it’s an unlikely story.”

  “It is.”

  “If we can’t find some corroboration, I’m going to tell him to plead out.”

  “It sounds poetic.”

  “But that doesn’t change that we don’t know what happened, and there might be a murderer out there.”

  Jackson sighed and edged up the speed in the rental. His own car was in the shop—he’d promised Ellery a trip down to San Diego, and Ellery asked if he could take care of some business before they parked themselves at the San Diego Marriott and spent most of their time naked in the hotel room when they weren’t looking out over the harbor.

  “Ellery, do you know why we discourage the hunting of rattlesnakes in California?”

  Ellery frowned. “Because there’s no reason to. They fulfill a vital part of the ecosystem, and they don’t seek people out to kill them. If you introduce a pot-bellied pig or a natural predator to their environment, they don’t overpopulate to the point that they seek out animals or humans. Mostly, you don’t bother them, they don’t come bother you.”

  “So I want you to keep this in mind. Imagine you are holding a small garage together by the seat of your pants—”

  “And suspected illegal street racing,” Ellery said dryly, because that had been in Ace Atchison’s docket too.

  “Still—not pulling in buckets of cash. And suppose, there you are one day when a kid in a broken car pulls into the service station and holds a gun on you—or one of your people.”

  “Then that kid would be dead,” Ellery said seriously.

  “Well, if it was me, yeah. But suppose you’re the one used to talking people down, and you do this on a regular basis because your boyfriend is a borderline psychopath and you need to keep him together.”

  “You got all that from running into the little blond guy at the bathroom?”

  Jackson remembered Sonny’s eyes and shuddered. “Yup. So you talk the kid down, and your boyfriend comes unglued and accidentally nails you in the head with a wrench and the kid accidentally shoots you, and you wake up going, what the fuck?”

  “You call the police?” Ellery asked, like it was obvious.

  “Unless your trusted employee, and the other person you depended upon to keep your boyfriend from collecting scalps like beads, disappears with the kid to help him get his sister back. Your trusted employee is a big Russian guy with mob connections and a soft spot for young girls—not the pervy kind, just… you know….”

  “Sisters,” Ellery said softly. Well, yeah. Jackson had a soft spot for his own sister. That was the kind of person that would give a young girl a flowered comb that she’d wear with pride, even though it was hopelessly out of fashion.

  “So the Russian guy disappears and comes back and tells you it’s taken care of. And you don’t ask another question.”

  “Because Russian mob?” Ellery asked, sounding appalled.

  “Because family,” Jackson insisted. “Because you were making your family safe and trying not to bite the unwary traveler. And your family closed ranks to take care of you.”

  “But….” Ellery flailed. “My client!”

  “I’d hazard a guess that your client is more dangerous unprovoked than those people are if you walk into their place of business with a gun and insist that they help you so your sister doesn’t die.”

  Ellery let out a groan of frustration. “We don’t have any proof of any of this!”

  “Nope,” Jackson said smugly.

  “But our client is going to be convicted!”

  “And that’s bad because….”

  Ellery’s voice dropped with embarrassment. “It will fuck up my record.”

  Jackson laughed, because Ellery didn’t like to admit he was vain, which meant Jackson had him.

  “Rattlesnakes, Ellery.”

  “A helpful part of the ecosystem.”

  “But don’t step on them by accident.” Ellery nodded, understanding, and Jackson smiled. “So, San Diego Marriott?”

  “You owe me!” Ellery demanded.

  “I owe you nothing but a dick up your ass. And you’ll like it!”

  “This is going to haunt me,” Ellery muttered.

  “Legally you are under no obligations here. This is purely speculation. The official record stands and backs us up. And all of the evidence is, more than likely, rotting in the desert. And I don’t see it coming back.”

  Ellery grunted. “I’m not… this isn’t….”

  “I’ll top all week, Ellery. All week.”

  “I like topping!”

  Jackson laughed, low and dirty, and imagined Ellery on his stomach, thighs spread, body despoiled, monosyllabic with satiated lust.

  “So do I.”

  “What if I think of a reason—oohhh….”

  Jackson squeezed his thigh, then higher, then higher, steering with one hand. “All week.”

  “You are still injured.”

  “We shall find ways.”

  “I want to top,” Ellery said petulantly, and Jackson found him, swelling under his boxers. He swallowed audibly. “Eventually.”

  “Are we going to tell the police about that little service station in Victoriana?” Jackson asked silkily.

  Ellery melted into the leather upholstery, thighs spread. Yeah, it had been a long time since Jackson had been able to top. “Nothing to tell,” Ellery mumbled. “You know I’d do it if we had even one scrap of proof….”

  “Sure. Sure you would.”

  “Can we stop on the way and nail each other?”

  “A shower, Ellery?”

  “Oh God. You suck.”

  “I do—I suck a lot. I suck, I rim, I swallow….”

  “Hurry, Jackson. We’ve wasted enough of our vacation already.”

  “Sayin’.”

  Birthday Fish

  JACKSON FROWNED at the mail on the table. His was still being sent to his duplex, and he was starting to wonder when he should fix that.

  If. If he should fix that.

  If he should fix that by moving out, right?

  “Mother sent you a birthday card,” Ellery said, handing a mauve envelope to Jackson as he walked by.

  Jackson reached out with his weak arm, determined to rehabilitate his recently repaired shoulder. Twinge! He hissed in a breath, and Ellery glared at him. A few months before, Jackson would have said that look in his eyes was cold disapproval, but now he knew better.

  That particular look was hot irritation.

  “A week, Jackson. Give it a week.”

  “Your mother sent me a card?” he asked, not taking the bait. Yeah, sure, Ellery wanted him to take it easy. Ellery wanted him to move in too, but Jackson was… well, it would be easy. He’d love to move in. Ellery’s house was wonderful, Jackson’s cat loved it here, and Jackson didn’t mind either—but he didn’t want to impose.

  Didn’t want to get too comfy.

  Who knew when he’d drop the last straw of irritation on Ellery’s back and Ellery would ask him to leave?

  Yeah, just as well Jackson’s duplex would be repaired in a month or two, right?

  “Did you hear me about the shoulder?”

  Jackson glared back. “Why is your Lucy Satan sending me birthday cards? My birthday was last month. How did she even know?”

  “Did you tell her?”

  Jackson frowned. “Jade or Kaden might have—I was in the hospital. A lot of people were talking about me.”

  “There you go,” Ellery said.

  Did you know it was my birthday?” He couldn’t remember ever discussing it with Ellery. They’d worked at the same law firm for years—Ellery as a defense attorney and Jackson as a PI—before they’d bonded over a case defending Jackson’s best friend.

  They’d just been getting used to the idea of being lovers when Jackson had gotten shot and his house destroyed.

  “No, I didn’t know I missed your birthday,” Ellery said, annoyed. “My mother had to tell me. If you can avoid wrecking the car or bleeding between now and whe
n I get home tomorrow night, I was going to take you out.”

  Jackson blinked. “Why?”

  “For your birthday, asshole! Oh my God. I know Jade and Kaden had to celebrate your birthday. They seem like perfectly normal people, and somebody had to have baked you a cake at some point, Jackson. Why are you being dense?”

  “Because it was last month!”

  “But you missed it! C’mon, Jackson—making up for someone’s birthday is standard operating procedure—I know you know this!”

  Yes, Toni Cameron had made him birthday cakes after she’d taken him under her wing. Yes, Jade and Kaden remembered his birthday—he’d gotten a kiss on the cheek from his hospital bed this year. Next year he was expecting a phone call and probably a gift certificate from both of them because that’s as elaborate as they got. He returned the favor for them and for Kaden’s wife, Rhonda, and their kids, River and Diamond.

  But he’d never had a lover, male or female—with the exception of Jade, but she mostly didn’t count that way—make him a birthday celebration.

  As promiscuous as he’d been before Ellery, he’d usually made it a point to sleep alone on his birthday.

  “I don’t…. It’s not a thing,” he said with dignity. Then, almost accusingly, “When’s your birthday? For all I know, it happened already too, and you’re just waiting to hold it over me that I didn’t know when your birthday is!”

  Ellery blinked at him, mouth gaping open. Billy Bob jumped on the lovely oak kitchen table and curled up on the embroidered satin runner, and Ellery ignored him, which was unheard-of. He was clearly still in shock.

  “I’ll be in the backyard,” Jackson muttered. “I’ve got some work to do.”

  Ellery let him go, and Jackson took his laptop—and his birthday card. The backyard was well kept—thick grass, mown to a good length for a toddler to play on, and pruned jasmine around the wooden fence. Ellery’s backyard was the sort of place family movies were set in. Jackson couldn’t stop spending time there, now that the weather was nice. He sat on the porch, under the overhang, kicking back on a lounge chair to work. He was in the middle of running down leads on Ellery’s latest case to see what he could dig up on the witnesses who seemed to be coming after Ellery’s guy for plain meanness. Once he’d set the computer to run searches, he opened the card.