American PI

by Jude Hardin

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  It was after four by the time I made it back to Laurie’s. She was right. It smelled like a brewery in there. She’d put some towels down on the carpet to soak up the spilled beer. Her bedroom door was closed. I didn’t open it, didn’t want to disturb her. I was glad that she’d been able to fall asleep. I could have used a few hours myself, but there just wasn’t time. If my efforts ultimately fell short and Everett ended up dying at the hands of Trent Appleton, it wouldn’t be because I hadn’t tried.

  I thought about making some coffee, but I didn’t think it would set right with my stomach. I was still a little nauseated from the smell of the squatter’s place. Coffee didn’t sound good, but I was thirsty. I grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator and took it to the computer desk, careful to twist the cap back on after every sip. Edgar and I didn’t need any more mishaps. We were in enough trouble already.

  With the prior address on Nora Fetzler, along with her unusual last name, it didn’t take me long to find out where she lived now. Unfortunately, it was all the way up in Macon, Georgia.

  A four hour drive.

  If I knew for a fact that Everett was there, I wouldn’t have hesitated. But I didn’t know, and I couldn’t afford to waste a bunch of time on the road.

  I did a few more searches on the computer and found Nora’s home telephone number. Hers wasn’t unlisted, as Trent’s had been, but it was fairly new and it took me a while to find the listing. I wrote the number down on my notepad and then punched it into my cell phone. It rang for a long time. Finally, there was a click, followed by a sleepy female voice.

  “Hello?” she said.

  “Is this Nora Fetzler?”

  “Yes. Who’s this?”

  “Sergeant William Baxley with the Georgia State Police, ma’am. I’m afraid your husband has been involved in an accident.”

  I heard the flint wheel of a cigarette lighter followed by the sound of Nora Fetzler inhaling and exhaling the smoke.

  “There must be some mistake,” she said. “I’m not married.”

  “Do you know a man named Trent Appleton?”

  “Yes, but he’s not my husband.”

  “There was a business card in his wallet with your name and number written on the back of it. Above your name it said my wife.”

  She laughed, and it ended in a barking cough.

  “He wishes,” she said. “No, we were seeing each other for a while, but he got crazy and I walked out on him a few months ago. Are you telling me he’s dead now?”

  “Severely injured, ma’am.”

  “I told him he needed to get rid of that motorcycle. I was a nervous wreck every time we went out on that thing.”

  “The doctors aren’t sure he’ll make it through the night” I said. “Do you know if Mr. Appleton has any family we could get in touch with?”

  “Not really. No kids or anything. He has a brother, but he hasn’t been in touch with him for years.”

  “I appreciate your time, ma’am. Sorry to have bothered you. Oh, just one more thing. The address on his driver’s license isn’t current. Do you happen to know where he was living now?”

  “As far as I know, he was still in Jacksonville,” she said. “His house was foreclosed on a while back, while we were still together. We stayed there as long as we could, and then we moved into a little place down in Green Cove Springs. Right there in town. It’s an old house that the owner divided into apartments.”

  “Do you remember the address?”

  “No. I was only there for a few weeks. But I can tell you which street, and what the house looks like.”

  She described the house and told me the name of the street it was on. I thanked her and apologized again and told her to have a good night. As soon as we said goodbye, I grabbed my bottle of drinking water and left Laurie’s apartment and headed for Green Cove Springs. If Trent Appleton wasn’t there, maybe one of the other residents would have some information on him. Or maybe the landlord would know something.

  Appleton could have been anywhere, of course. It had been over forty-eight hours since Everett had disappeared. Appleton could have driven anywhere in the country in that amount of time. I was just hoping that he’d stayed nearby. If he’d left the area, there probably wasn’t a lot I could do for Everett at this point.

  I found the property without any problem. Nora had done a good job of describing the place. It was a large house on a large lot, white clapboard siding with green shutters and green trim. The porch spanned the entire width in front, and a tire on a rope hanging from a fat oak branch completed the picture of Deep South charm.

  The picture was an illusion, of course, someone’s nostalgic idea of a great and simple era that was probably never that great or simple in the first place. An era without automobiles or air conditioning or antibiotics. An era where people worked harder and died younger. If you can find the ones who survived, they’ll tell you things were better back then, but I’m not so sure. I like having a cell phone and a computer and a fast food joint on every corner. I like rock and roll, and I like being able to spend a weekend in Paris when I have the money. In fifty years, right now will be the good old days to someone. It’s all a matter of perspective.

  There was a gravel parking area on the left side of the property, but all the spots were taken. I pulled in there anyway, blocking a gray pickup truck with a topper on the back and a Harley Electra-Glide with leather saddlebags. Maybe the motorcycle belonged to Trent Appleton. Nora had mentioned that he owned one.

  I climbed the steps to the porch and looked at the mailboxes. There was a button and an intercom speaker above each one, a buzzer system that allowed residents to unlock the front door remotely for visitors. Appleton was in apartment 2B. I’d finally gotten lucky. So the bike was probably his, but he must have owned another vehicle as well. I doubted that he could have kidnapped Everett with a motorcycle.

  I tried the door, but of course it was locked. Also, there was an ADT Home Security sticker on the window. It might have been a bluff, but I didn’t want to take any chances. If I broke into the house and tripped an alarm, the cops would come for me and Appleton might get away.

  The only way for me to get inside was to buzz one of the residents and pretend to be a delivery person or something. It was too early for that, so I decided to hang back and wait a while.

  I walked back to the side of the house and started writing down the tag numbers of all the vehicles parked there. If Appleton managed to get away from me, at least I would have something to go on. Something to take to the police, maybe, if they ever came to their senses. Not that I was holding my breath for that to happen.

  “What are you doing?” a voice behind me said.

  I turned around. A man wearing faded jeans and a black denim vest stood there with his arms crossed. He had a shaved head and a shaved face and he wore gold hoops in both ears. Late thirties or early forties, full-sleeve tats on both arms.

  “Is your name Trent Appleton?” I said.

  “I know you,” he said, ignoring the question. “You were at Arenque’s the other night.”

  I reached for my gun, but before I could get my hand on it he punched me in the gut with his fist and clocked me in the jaw with his elbow. Jagged bolts of electric pain exploded behind my eyeballs as my knees went limp and I fell to the ground. I didn’t lose consciousness, but I might as well have. My muscles were useless. I lay there on my side and retched, the shouting throngs of pain in my stomach competing with those in my head, each proclaiming to be number one, like bleachers full of raging stomping fans at a high school basketball game.

  The guy who’d assaulted me pulled my keys out of my pocket and my revolver out of its holster, and then he kicked me in the ribs. He didn’t have to do that. I was down for the count already. Maybe he just enjoyed inflicting pain on people. Whatever the case, I was in deep trouble.

  And that meant Everett Harbaugh was in deep trouble.

  As soon as Mr. Ribkicker
had mentioned Arenque’s, I knew he wasn’t Trent Appleton. He was a member of the Five Points Posse. One of Fatso’s guys.

  I heard the electronic tones as he fingered a number into his cell.

  “Hey, it’s me,” he said. “You still want that guy who was messing with you the other night?”

  There was a pause while the other party spoke. I assumed the other party was Fatso, and I assumed he said yes.

  “Then come and get him. He’s at my place.”

  There was a single beep followed by a snap as Mr. Ribkicker disconnected and closed his flip phone.

  He sat on the gravel beside me. He crossed his legs in a semi-lotus position and lit a cigarette. My rental car was behind us. If someone drove by, they wouldn’t be able to see us from the road. It wasn’t likely that anyone would be driving by at this time of the morning anyway. Especially a cop. You can never find one when you need one.

  “What do you want?” I said.

  “It’s not what I want. It’s what Fatso wants. And trust me. What Fatso wants, Fatso gets.”

  “A young man’s going to die if I don’t get to him in time.”

  “Sounds like a personal problem.”

  “You could help me,” I said. “Think about it. You could be a hero, for once, instead of just a common thug.”

  He kicked me in the forehead with the heel of his boot. Not very hard, but hard enough to jack the pain inside my skull to an eleven on the zero-to-ten scale.

  “Shut up,” he said.

  I tasted blood in my mouth. I started feeling around with my tongue and discovered a loose molar on the right side. Mr. Ribkicker had done that with his elbow. I wanted to kill him.

  “You know the guy up in two-B?” I said.

  “I don’t know anybody.”

  “His name is Trent Appleton. He’s already murdered at least two people. He kidnapped a young man named Everett Harbaugh, and—”

  “Harbaugh. Any kin to a lawyer named Bradley Harbaugh?”

  “It’s his son,” I said.

  And as soon as I said it, I remembered the threatening emails Bradley had told me about. Realizing how badly I’d screwed up, I closed my eyes and tried to think of a way to take it back. But there wasn’t any. I’d probably just signed Everett’s death warrant with my big mouth.

  “That lawyer screwed us over,” Mr. Ribkicker said. “One of our guys went to prison because of him. Because of his incompetence. And now you’re telling me someone’s going to kill his son? I hope they do. I’ll help them. Where do I sign up for that?”

  “I don’t know what kind of problem you have with Bradley Harbaugh, but his son has nothing to do with it. He’s just a kid. Twenty years old.”

  He took a drag on his cigarette. “Life’s a bitch,” he said.

  I heard the rumble of multiple motorcycles approaching.

  “This is your last chance,” I said. “Let me have my gun back, and we’ll call it a day. Otherwise, I’m going to have to hurt you. Bad.”

  He laughed. He stood and waved the riders in. They parked somewhere nearby and cut their engines. A few seconds later, I looked up and saw Fatso’s enormous belly looming over me.

  “Unbelievable,” he said. “You’re not such a badass anymore, are you? And you’re not looking so good. What’s the matter? Not feeling well? I have something at the clubhouse that will perk you right up.”

  “We can put him in my truck,” Mr. Ribkicker said. “Then I’ll follow you guys back to the house.”

  “Excellent idea,” Fatso said. “Get his car out of the way, and then go ahead and get him loaded.”

  I heard my keys being thrown and caught, and a few seconds later someone started the Caprice and backed it out of the parking area. Mr. Ribkicker and one of the other guys picked me up and threw me into the back of the pickup truck. The gray one with the topper. They didn’t do it gently. They heaved me in there like a sack of potatoes. Mr. Ribkicker slammed the tailgate shut, and then he locked the topper’s hatch with a key. He climbed into the cab and started the engine and headed out.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Riding in the enclosed bed of a pickup truck is never very comfortable, even under the best of circumstances. It’s bumpy and noisy and stuffy and hot. You spend the entire time looking forward to getting out. It’s never a joyride, and it’s especially uncomfortable after a two-hundred-and-twenty-pound Neanderthal brute beats the living shit out of you. When that happens, it’s practically unbearable.

  My stomach felt as though I’d swallowed something hard and cold. A paperweight or something. The pain in my head had subsided a bit, but it was still difficult to move. Like swimming in quicksand. I grunted and strained and finally managed to lift my wrist high enough to see my watch. It was a little after five. Still a couple of hours until the sun came up. Nineteen hours until Everett Harbaugh turned twenty.

  Of course Trent Appleton probably wouldn’t kill Everett at the stroke of midnight. But he might. I had to consider that my deadline. Everything after midnight was bonus time.

  Not that it mattered much now. I probably wasn’t going to be around to save Everett anyway. Fatso and crew were probably going to kill me. Game over, as they say.

  I’d survived many ordeals through the years, but I couldn’t imagine how I was going to get through this one. I certainly didn’t have the strength to fight anyone. I was basically at the mercy of The Five Points Posse, and they didn’t seem like a very merciful bunch.

  You know things are bad when the best you can hope for is a quick death, but that’s the way I felt. Maybe they wouldn’t make it too painful. Maybe they wouldn’t pulverize my kneecaps with steel pipes or yank my fingernails out with pliers. Maybe they wouldn’t use my face for an ashtray or chop my fingers off with a hatchet. Maybe they would be nice and just blow my brains out with my own revolver.

  We were on the road for over thirty minutes. By the time Mr. Ribkicker parked the truck and cut the engine, I was getting some feeling back in my arms and legs. I was still weak and a little dizzy, but I felt like I might be able to walk on my own.

  I heard the key slide into the lock for the hatch, and seconds later the back of the truck was open and a very welcomed cool breeze was flowing in. I had no idea where we were. Somewhere in Five Points, I supposed.

  “I’ll make you a deal,” I said. “Let me go now, and I won’t kill you.”

  Mr. Ribkicker laughed at that. He reached in and grabbed my left ankle and pulled me toward the tailgate. I was cargo to him. An inanimate object. I shouted a string of expletives as the unreasonably loud and throaty suicide machines pulled up beside the truck, just to let him know I was still alive.

  One by one the bikes went silent and the riders dismounted. Fatso waddled up to the tailgate and conferred with Mr. Ribkicker.

  “What do you think we should do with him?” Fatso said.

  “It’s up to you, boss. But keep in mind, he’s working for that slimeball lawyer Bradley Harbaugh. I say we take him out back and—”

  “Harbaugh,” Fatso said. “I forgot about that. As it turns out, Mr. Harbaugh’s not so bad after all. I talked to someone at his law firm yesterday. They’re planning to file an appeal, and they’re ninety-nine point nine percent sure they can get Dennis off on a technicality. The guy I talked to said they’re in it for the duration. Said they’ll handle the rest of the case pro bono.”

  “What does that mean?” Mr. Ribkicker said.

  “It means Dennis doesn’t have to give them any more money. It means they’re his friends. It also means that Mr. Colt here lucked out.”

  Mr. Ribkicker looked disappointed.

  I was lying on my side with my feet at the edge of the tailgate. I mustered enough strength to sit up. My vision was a little blurry, but I could see that there were three other gang members in addition to Fatso and Mr. Ribkicker. They were standing off to the side smoking a joint.

  “I need to get back to Green Cove Springs,” I said. “The man who kidnapped Everett Harbaugh live
s in the same house with pretty boy here. His name is Trent Appleton.”

  Fatso turned back to Mr. Ribkicker. “This guy he’s talking about live in your building?”

  “I don’t know, boss. I don’t pay any attention to stuff like that.”

  “He’s in apartment two-B,” I said. “I saw his name on the mailbox.”

  “I reckon we need to give him a visit then,” Fatso said.

  This was working out way better than I’d anticipated. Maybe I hadn’t signed Everett’s death warrant with my big mouth after all. Maybe I’d issued his pardon.

  I insisted that Fatso drive the truck back to Green Cove Springs. I didn’t want to ride with Mr. Ribkicker, even if he was supposed to be on my side now. Even after he gave my gun back and apologized and tried to shake my hand. I didn’t want anything to do with him.

  I sat up front in the cab this time. The pickup actually leaned to the left when Fatso scooted in behind the steering wheel. For a minute I thought it was going to roll over onto its side. There was a half a pack of Kool Super Longs on the dash. I helped myself to one, used the truck’s lighter to get it going.

  I looked around and got my bearings and figured out what side of town we were on. It didn’t make much sense, but I didn’t say anything about it.

  “Sorry again about the misunderstanding,” Fatso said. “Sydney gets a little overenthusiastic sometimes.”

  “Sydney. That’s his name?”

  “Yeah. He’s all right. You’ll see.”

  “He knocked one of my teeth loose,” I said.

  “I know someone who can fix it for you. Soon as all this is over. Okay?”

  “I have my own dentist, but thanks. Maybe I’ll just send Mr. Ribkicker the bill.”

  Fatso had said that his name was Sydney, but he would always be Mr. Ribkicker to me.

  And he would always be on my shit list.

  “What makes you so sure this Trent Appleton guy has Everett?” Fatso said.

  I told him about the research I’d done on the Siblings Boards website. About Stephanie Vowels and Philip Davenport.