by Danny Lopez
“Why, you dirty girl, Rach.”
She smacked me on the arm and leaned over the big lens she had on her lap, moving a small cotton rag over the front element before placing it in a tan Domke bag. “A girl’s gotta live, baby.”
“You’re a slut.”
“I am. I admit it. I am. And I fucking love it.”
I took a seat on a chair in the little dinette that separated the tiny living room from the tiny kitchen. On the other side was Rachel’s work desk with two large computer monitors.
“So,” I said. “What’re you doing for Copek?”
“He needs some close-ups of his beer and some party shots, you know, drunks having a good time.”
“Is he paying you?”
She grabbed a flash from the couch, checked the batteries. “Why?”
“How much?”
“I didn’t say he was paying me.” She shoved the flash into the bag.
“But he is.”
She looked away.
“That son of a bitch,” I said. “He’s paying you but he’s not paying me.”
“I don’t work for free, Dex. You know that. And Copek knows that.”
“Neither do I.”
“You made a trade. I told you not to do that. You start doing that shit, you set a precedent. Fucks you over every time. People talk. You know how this town is. No one will ever pay you again. Always a fucking trade.” She poked her chest with her thumb. “I don’t do that.”
“I can’t believe Copek did me like that.”
“You did it to yourself. You chose beer over cash.”
“Yeah, but he said he couldn’t afford to pay me.”
“Whatever,” she said and pointed at me with one of her lenses. “But you’re part of the problem.”
“What the hell, Rach?”
She set the lens in the bag and picked up one of her cameras, checked the memory card, checked the settings, and placed it in her bag.
“Dex, I’ve been doing this for too long. You just started freelancing. You make your choices and they stick with you. If the words you write are worth money, if you want to make a living at this, you need to charge everyone. You can’t live on beer alone.”
“I beg to differ.”
When Rachel talked shop, she turned into a badass—hardcore. Which was probably why she survived in this town as a freelance photographer.
“But you know,” she said, “you seem to be doing okay as an investigator.”
“It’s either my good luck or my bad luck,” I said. “I can’t decide which.”
“Maybe you should get licensed. Advertise. Get more work.”
“You’re serious.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know—it’s dangerous.”
She stood and went over to the kitchen counter, stuffed her pockets with cash, keys, her wallet. “There’s a lot of rich people in Sarasota,” she said. “You could make a killing.”
Maybe Rachel had a point. Perhaps it was something worth looking into. I’d been paid well by my first client, although I felt like a dirty rat afterwards. But this gig with Fleming felt right. I was helping solve a crime. If it weren’t for me, Liam Fleming’s death would always be remembered as an accident. Bob Fleming wouldn’t have the closure he sought. Besides, the gig paid well. And the old man never tried to negotiate or do a trade.
I stood and waved my finger at her. “Maybe you’re on to something, Rach.”
She smiled and grabbed her camera bag, and we walked out of the cool apartment into the hot afternoon, the sun just over the trees to the west.
We made our way down the stairs. “Holy crap,” Rachel cried and walked around the car. “What the hell happened?”
“Some asshole ran me off the road.”
She ran her fingers over the crushed sheet metal. Then she pointed to the broken headlight. “You better get that fixed, or you’re going to get a big fat ticket.”
“With what money?” I said. “I work for beer, remember?”
* * *
The chickee hut at Charley’s brewery was still not finished. Not that it mattered. It was steaming hot out, and his little palm-thatched patio was going to look onto the parking lot. When it was finished, we could all sit out there and drink beer while staring at the damn cars.
For now, Charley had taken matters into his own hands and converted part of his warehouse into a small tasting room. It was cold and plain with no windows. It had a small bar with three beers on tap and six tall wooden pub-style tables and stools. Copek had added a few nautical decorations, a fake schooner wheel, a pair of brass lamps, a vintage longboard, and a small fishing net. None of it did much to hide the fact that we were sitting in a warehouse in a strip mall in Sarasota.
“What’s up, guys?” The young hipster working the bar greeted us with just a bit too much enthusiasm.
“Cold beer,” Rachel said and set her camera bag on the floor by the bar. “It’s hot as shit out there.”
I ordered an IPA.
“The same,” Rachel said. “And a glass of water.”
The bartender smiled. “Two Siesta IPAs comin’ right up.”
I gave Rachel a look. “I wonder how much he’s getting paid.”
She smacked my arm with the back of her hand. “Cut the shit. Try and have a good time. This was your idea. Remember?”
The bartender set two goblets on the counter. “This IPA’s brewed with fresh organic Citra hops from Washington State and a touch of locally grown grapefruit and lemon and—”
“We know,” I interrupted and held my glass under my nose. The brew smelled crisp like a spring morning. It had a slightly opaque yellowish hue and a nice half-inch head of foam. “Charley Copek and us,” I said, “we go way back.”
“Awesome. So, you know all about Blind Pass Brewing. We’re coming out with an amazing Chocolate Porter in the fall.” He pointed at my beer. “But that right there’s what’s gonna put us on the map. By the way,” he said and pointed to a bowl with small strips of paper and half-size pencils, “we’re having a slogan contest. If you come up with the best slogan for the brewery, you get a free case of beer.”
I ignored the contest and took my first sip of beer—a blast of flavor. Actually, the second one was, too: fresh hoppiness and citrus jolting my taste buds. After that, the brew settled nicely into a mild flow. It was comfortable, not too much of one thing. I guess it’s what they refer to as complex. I drank down half the glass, just to get in the mood, ready to sail.
We sat at a table. Rachel didn’t waste any time. She pulled out her camera, set a flash on the hot shoe, and went over to the only other customers, two older men and a woman sitting at one of the tables.
She started joking with them, taking a few photos of them drinking and laughing. A couple of minutes later, she was climbing the stools, getting high up to get different angles.
Another group came in, hung out at the bar, tasting Copek’s three brews. Rachel was on them like a damn paparazzi at the Oscars, getting right into their faces, posing them, ordering them to look this way and that, hovering over their beers, her flash going off like lightning in a summer storm.
I was about to walk up to the bar and order another IPA when Charley Copek’s big barrel frame came marching into the tasting room. His little blue eyes moved quickly from left to right. He marched over to the bar, checked the bowl with slogans: only a handful of entries. But it was still early. He greeted his customers, made small talk, paused to check the taps, then adjusted the fake schooner wheel hanging on the plain white wall—as if anyone would notice it was crooked.
Finally, he came to my table and gave me a pat on the back. “So what do you think?” he said and scratched the side of his bushy red beard.
“Nice to see you, too,” I said.
He leaned closer, placed his hand on my forearm, and whispered, “I’m freaking out, Dex. I don’t know … what if it doesn’t work out?”
“What’re you talking about?”
&n
bsp; “My investor,” he said. “What if he changes his mind?”
“You never mentioned that you had an investor.”
He shrugged and looked around the room. “Technically, I don’t. Not yet. But this dude was pretty stoked about pumping a little cash into the brewery.”
“A little?”
He winced, then gave me a short grin. “He talked of going national with Blind Pass Brewing.”
“That’s great,” I said, thinking of the money I wasn’t getting paid for writing copy for the website.
“Yeah,” he mumbled. “If he shows up.”
“You think he’s on the up and up?”
Charley shrugged. “I’ll be honest with you, Dexter. I’m scared shitless. I’m just getting started. I don’t even know what I’m doing here. Flying by the seat of my pants, you know?”
“Relax, man.”
“Easy for you to say. I have my life tied to this place. Everything.”
“So, what’s the problem?”
He shook his head, ran his hand over his bald head. “I can’t sleep at night. I worry about everything. I have nightmares that we put parched yeast in the vat and—”
“Come on, Copek. You’ve been brewing this shit in your garage for years. As far as I can remember, you never had a problem.”
He straightened his back and seemed to ponder this while watching Rachel making her way around the bar, leaning to the side, snapping shots. Charley turned to me and smiled. “Those were the days, eh?”
Back then I used to go over to his house and we’d put on an old Stones album or some early Rod Stewart and chill on lawn chairs in the driveway, drinking whatever magic brew he’d come up with that month.
For a moment, Charley seemed lost in his nostalgia. Then he glanced at his phone, pressed a few buttons, and whispered to himself, “Come on, Terrence, where the fuck are you?”
It came to my ears like an echo. I said, “Terrence?”
Copek nodded. “My phantom investor.”
“Bullshit.”
“You know him?”
“What’s his last name?”
“Oliver. Terrence Oliver.”
“Bullshit.”
“What?”
“I’m looking for him.”
Charley grinned. “Good luck with that. Guy’s impossible to get a hold of. I’ve gabbed more with his lawyer than with him.”
I almost didn’t want to ask because I was sure I knew the answer. “What’s his lawyer’s name?”
“Joaquin del Pino. The guy from TV. You know, Justice for All.”
“I can’t fucking believe it. He’s coming here?”
“At least he said he would. But I’m beginning to think those two are just talk.”
“Which two?”
“Terrence and del Pino.”
Just then my phone beeped. I glanced at the screen. A text from Brian Farinas: can’t make it tonight, followed by a sad-faced emoji.
Charley stared at my half-empty beer, then at me. He smiled and walked over to greet a group of customers that had just walked in.
By eight thirty p.m., Terrence Oliver had not shown up. Most of the customers had moved on. Copek collected the bowl with the slogans.
Rachel shoved her camera gear in her bag and gave me a slap on the back. “So what’s the plan, Kemosabe?”
“Kemosabe?”
“Yeah, Kemosabe. I got it from one of the old guys at the bar. Sounds cool, no? I think I’m going to adopt it.”
“It’s kind of racist,” I said.
“Really?” she said and rolled her eyes. “And you’re so damn PC.”
I ignored her and turned to Copek. “No news of Terrence Oliver?”
He shook his head and glanced at his watch. “I gotta lock up the place and pick up the wife at work.”
“Crap.” I set my empty glass on the table. “You don’t happen to have his number, do you?”
“Yeah.” Copek pulled out his phone and pressed a few buttons. “I’ll text it to you right now.”
CHAPTER 25
AFTER RACHEL AND I had a quick bite at the Thai sushi place in Gulf Gate, I tried Terrence Oliver’s number. Twice. No answer. Each time I got the automated voice mail from AT&T. I left messages, said it was urgent. Then we went to up to the Cock & Bull on Cattlemen Road—a beer joint from the days before craft brews even existed. The place was in an old barn. Inside it was all wood with a long counter made with slabs of center-cut wood laid out like big oval tiles. There were half a dozen full-size refrigerators behind the bar with hundreds of different beers and an offering of at least twenty taps. Beer lover’s heaven.
The Cock & Bull was one of the few places left in town that had live bands that played original music. Most of the time they featured acoustic sets. But tonight, The Funky Donkeys were opening for the Belching Penguins.
To the left of the long bar was a foosball table and darts, to the right was the stage and a few tables and chairs. Jimi Hendrix was playing low over the speakers. The place was mostly empty except for a handful of beer aficionados enjoying rare brews at the bar and a few old punks hanging around the back door that led out to the deck. The stage was in the corner opposite the bar. The band was setting up, rolling in their amps and speakers, putting together the drum set, hooking up their mixer, guitar pedals.
Rachel set her cameras down and went to the bar and ordered drinks. Got me a Goose Island IPA. I didn’t complain. She had a Saint Arnold’s Pub Crawl Pale Ale.
She took a long sip and licked her lips, all the while watching Dana setting up for the gig. She looked nothing like the crime scene investigator I’d seen at Jaybird’s murder scene. The khakis, pressed police polo shirt, and blue latex gloves were gone. Now she was all Goth: black fingernails, black straight hair, thick black eyeliner, black lips—the works. She knelt beside the drum set and pulled a dark purple Rickenbacker from a case, focused on tuning the instrument.
The band had two guitarists. The other was also the singer. He had a bald head and a face covered in piercings. The drummer was older, clean cut, and wore khakis and a blue and white checkered shirt. Looked like he belonged on a golf course with Fenton Kendel.
When the band finished setting up, Dana set her axe on a stand and came to where we sat. She ignored me and scowled at Rachel. “Whassup, bitch?”
Then she marched off to the bar.
Rachel watched her go. Then she turned to me with a wide smile. “She’s so fucking hot.”
She was, in a Dracula kind of way. I was here for Rachel, but I also had my own secret mission: I was hoping to have a little time to ask Dana if she’d found anything peculiar in Jaybird’s drowning.
After Dana got her beer, she walked up to the stage, took a long drink, and looked over the sparse audience. The singer was flattening out a sheet of paper with their song list. He kneeled, placed it in front of him, and held it down with the guitar effect pedals. He quickly crossed himself, stood and slung the strap of his Fender Strat over his shoulder, touched a couple of stings, turned a tuner knob.
Finally, he glanced at Dana and the drummer and the bass player who looked like he could be fourteen. Then he walked up to the microphone and said, “Thanks for coming. We’re the Funky Donkeys.”
He turned, nodded to the drummer who banged his sticks: one, two, three, four. The singer jumped in the air and came down with a stroke of his guitar and the band dropped in with an explosion sound: vintage Cult shoved in with the Red Hot Chili Peppers, thanks to the intensity of the kid jamming on the bass. The guitars sounded like breaking glass. Dana carried the melody, saved the band.
Rachel pulled out her camera and changed lenses. “Aren’t they great?”
I nodded. She smiled, checked the settings on the camera and went to work, moving on and off the low stage like she belonged there.
They played five songs, one of them a monotonous ballad with the singer screaming over the weeping lead guitar. It was pretty annoying. Afterward, the singer announced they were taking a
short break. Halleluiah.
Rachel came back to the table, sat, and scrolled through the images on the back of her camera.
Dana set her Rickenbacker on the stand and stepped off the stage. She was walking past us when Rachel pushed out a chair with her foot, blocking her path.
Dana’s eyes narrowed. She turned the chair around and straddled it, her legs spread, her armpits resting on the backrest.
Rachel glowed like a teen meeting her idol. “You guys rock, babe.”
“Oh, yeah?”
Rachel nodded toward me. “You know Dexter?”
Dana glanced at me with tired eyes. “I seen you around.” Then she turned to Rachel. “He work at the paper with you?”
“Used to.”
Rachel and Dana. The two of them dated for a few months, then broke up and then slept together one drunken night, then broke up. I guess now they were working it out again. To be young, beautiful, and gay.
Dana nodded at the camera. “How do they look?”
“Awesome.”
“You stayn’ for the whole set?”
“Hell yeah.”
Dana grinned. She reached over the table, took Rachel’s Saint Arnold’s, and tossed it back. Then slammed the bottle on the table. “Excellent.”
“Hey,” I said, “aren’t you investigating that drowning in the Intracoastal?”
“And?”
“I was wondering if there was anything that could tie it to that other drowning a couple of weeks ago.”
“Yeah,” she said. “They both drowned.”
“I’m serious.”
She glanced at Rachel, then at me. “The one we fished out last night was tied to a cinderblock with a surfing leash.”
“What’s that?”
“One of those plastic straps surfers use on their surfboards so the boards don’t go far when they wipe out.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Learn something new every day,” Rachel said, annoyed.
Dana glanced at her and stood.
“What about the other one?” I said.
“Nothing. He was just a floater.”
She marched off to the bar to get a drink. Rachel frowned at me. “What the fuck, Dex. You messing up my game.”
“What game?”
