After a few nods and false starts, Billie was able to get a word in. It was like that talking with Brother Thomas.
Into the phone, she said, “I just met him.”
Another nod and then another glare at Brack.
“Well, he hasn’t exactly made the best first impression.”
A pause with a reflective look on her face.
“Okay, only because he knows you. Otherwise, I might shoot him.”
Brack could imagine Brother Thomas replying with something like, “There be times I wanna shoot Brother Brack myself. Mm-hmm.”
“Good to talk to you, Brother.” She ended the call and handed the phone back. “He said God told him to call you and now he understands why.”
Brack took the phone and slipped it in his pocket. “So how about that cup of coffee?”
Billie looked down the road in the direction Carraway had drove off. “I’ve got some already made. Come on in.”
Chapter Nine
By the time Blu followed King Street all the way to the Battery, the line of large homes facing the harbor that were on just about every Charleston postcard, he had calmed down. He parked and took a walk, not sure why he let Pelton get under his skin like that. Maybe it was because the kid had made him. Or maybe it was because Pelton was more like him than he wanted to admit.
Leading him right to Billie, that was something he would have pulled. Rattling an opponent was always more advantageous than simply shooting them. More times than not they ended up taking themselves out without Blu having to do much but set up the chessboard and watch them self-destruct.
And Pelton had just done that to him.
Blu wanted to call his business partner, Mick Crome, and tell him to get off the barstool at whatever hole-in-the-wall he was perched in, get on his motorcycle, and get back to Charleston. But then decided that he should handle the situation with Skip, the shooter still running around, and Pelton himself. He just needed some time to think about it. Then he’d have all three wrapped up in one neat package.
He strolled down the elevated walk that met the harbor. Million-dollar homes on one side and the Atlantic Ocean on the other. He loved the lowcountry. The view helped him get a grip.
What was Skip into that got him killed? And not just killed, but gunned down. It was as if that was a message to someone else that if they did whatever Skip had done, shot to death was what they could look forward to.
What Blu needed was about thirty minutes with the live shooter. Desert Storm had taught him how to get answers to unwanted questions. And if this Pelton wanted to work together, maybe he’d agree to be the bait. He seemed to be pretty chummy with the police chief investigating the murders.
Since Blu and Pelton were private citizens, his interrogation plan might violate someone’s civil rights. The chief would not want any part of it. And would probably be only too happy to arrest the both of them, turn them over to the Feds because it was a capital crime, and wash his hands of the whole thing.
While Blu ran different scenarios through his head, his phone buzzed in his pocket. The one he was one late payment away from losing. He saw it was Billie calling and answered with, “I’m sorry to run off like that.”
“You should be,” she said.
Why was it he could take on six Mexican cartel thugs and gun them all down but he couldn’t face Billie being upset? He said, “Are you okay?”
“Not so that you’d care. Running off and leaving me in the hands of that animal.”
Blu stopped walking. “Did he hurt you?”
A man’s voice said, “No, you pansy. I don’t hurt women. You, on the other hand, deserve a good beating.”
Tranquility gone, blood pressure back up.
“Pelton? I’m coming there and I’m going to kick your—”
Billie interrupted his diatribe. “You need to calm down.”
Blu stared at his phone. The veins on the sides of his head pulsed. He took time to settle down again. These two were playing him.
After a few seconds, she said, “That’s better. Listen, hon, I think you need to come back here. After you hear what Brack has to say, you can decide what you want to do. If you want to knock his head off, he probably needs it. If you decide otherwise, that might be okay, too. So, are you coming?”
What was he supposed to say? “No, I’d rather continue to act like a jealous schoolboy?” What he actually said was, “I’ll be there in ten minutes,” and ended the call.
Eight minutes later, Blu parked behind Pelton’s truck for the second time. Before he got out of the Land Cruiser, he opened the Beretta’s slide and verified that a round was already chambered. If Pelton so much as sneezed wrong...
He stuck the gun down the waistband of his jeans underneath his t-shirt and headed inside.
There were no customers in the store. Blu found Billie and Pelton sitting at a table in the back drinking coffee and laughing. The hairs on Blu’s neck bristled at the sight of Billie smiling and seeming to enjoy the younger man’s attention.
Pelton saw Blu before Billie did, stood, and offered a hand.
Blu couldn’t help himself. He decked the kid. It was a fairly solid blow. The kid stumbled back, and Blu stood ready for him to attack.
Billie shrieked and stood between the two men. “Stop right there. I didn’t call you back here to beat Brack up.”
Rubbing his chin, Pelton said, “It’s okay. I deserved it.”
What? Blu was expecting a fight. Part of him wanted it. Someone had to teach this kid a lesson about messing with another man’s woman. And that someone would be Blu. One more jab and the kid would have no choice but to fight.
Billie tried to push Blu back. “You get control of yourself, Blu Carraway. Or so help me I will boot you out of my life so fast you won’t know what hit you.”
But he was doing this for her. Why couldn’t she see?
“Pretty good hit,” Pelton said. “Listen, I know what this looks like. Don’t worry, I’m not trying to move in on her here. I’ve got my own woman troubles. Billie’s all yours.”
Billie said, “I ain’t his to begin with.” She glared at Blu. “Especially if he’s gonna act like this in my store.”
To Blu, Pelton said, “Look, man, let’s start over.”
The situation was all screwed up. But now wasn’t the time to deal with the kid. Not in that way, anyway. So he folded his arms across his chest. “Okay.”
“Good,” Pelton said. “Me and Ms. Day have been talking. Mostly it was me telling her what happened in my bar. It’s obvious to me that you and I need to be working together on this.”
Blu said, “I just decked you. How can you trust that I won’t try it again? Or, how can I be sure you won’t set me up?”
Pelton said, “I’ve been hit before. Even by a friend. Like I said, I deserved it. But don’t try it again.”
Blu said, “Fair enough.”
Billie sat in her chair and crossed her legs.
Pelton sat down in the seat across from Billie like he had been before.
Both of them stared up at Blu, as if insinuating he wasn’t acting civilized enough because he was still standing. He sat in the empty seat between them.
Billie said to Pelton, “Now, explain to Blu what you said to me.”
The kid said, “I don’t like a guy getting shot up in my bar. And I don’t like having to take my dog to a safe house while I look over my shoulder for Abner Hollander to take a shot at me.”
Billie asked Blu, “Do you know the killers?”
“I know of them. Nasty reputation.” Blu rubbed his five-o’clock shadow. “Abner will definitely come back to settle the score for killing his brother.”
“What I’m trying to tell you,” Pelton said, “is why don’t we let him?”
“I was already planning on that,” Blu said.
&n
bsp; “Yeah,” Pelton said, “but what I’m suggesting is since we know he’ll be coming, we set him up.”
“You mean you actually want to be bait for this nutjob?” Blu asked. Maybe Pelton wasn’t so dumb after all. Except he was if he thought Blu could be trusted not to have second thoughts and let old Abner finish him off.
Pelton said, “I know part of you wishes Abner would finish me off, you love me so much. But I’m going to give you the only thing I have to bargain with.”
“What’s that?”
“My life.”
Chapter Ten
Catoli’s Restaurant, Downtown Charleston
Simon Ness listened to the information being given to him over his iPhone, most of it not particularly good. Except that bastard Skip was gone. But one of the Hollander brothers had also died. The one with the old-fashioned name, Rudyard. The whole reason he’d allowed Rolf to hire them was because they were supposed to be good.
When the voice on the other end stopped talking, Simon ended the call without so much as a goodbye. He paid a lot of money for information and felt that absolved him of pleasantries. Besides, they seemed such a bore.
He lifted the snifter of Chivas, swirled the liquid around in the glass, and took a sip. The back room of the Italian restaurant Simon had taken over was his home base. He knew some people snickered about the dour Englishman running a place that served spaghetti and lasagna. But he found it was a good fit. Besides, all he did was collect his cut. Someone else did the work.
Rolf parted the black curtains separating this room from the main part of the restaurant. Black button-down shirt and slacks over a professional wrestler’s giant body, thick, longish brown hair slicked back, and trimmed beard, Rolf played the part of Simon’s executive assistant well. And also henchman, when needed. Simon had added the “executive” in the title, but Rolf really did so much more than push paper. Although lately the giant was slipping.
He looked at Simon and asked, “Everything alright?”
“No.”
Rolf stood silently.
Simon knew he was waiting for instruction. Rolf was good that way. Simon said, “Rudyard Hollander is dead and I think we may be compromised.”
“His brother?”
“Yes. If they can connect the dots, it may lead back here.”
Rolf said, “I’ll take care of it.”
“Good.” Because, thought Simon, you were the one responsible for the plan in the first place.
Blu headed to his island paradise with Pelton following. They’d decided it would be best if the kid didn’t go home until this blew over and Abner was in jail. Or dead. He just couldn’t believe Pelton agreed to the plan. Suggested it, even. It was one thing to know you were a target, and an entirely different situation to put yourself in harm’s way on purpose. But then again, to this Army Ranger, most Marines he knew should have been called Jughead instead of Jarhead.
An Agent Orange cassette played on the deck in his SUV, helping him avoid thinking about stomping the crap out of Pelton when they arrived on the island.
Forty minutes later, they pulled into the crushed shell drive and parked beside the house.
Pelton got out of his truck and looked around.
Blu did the same, making sure nothing looked out of place.
Pelton said, “Man, I thought I had it good.”
Dink and Doofus clomped over to them.
“You’ve got horses, too?”
Blu ignored the question, reached back into his SUV, and came up with two more apples. He tossed them to Pelton. “Make yourself useful.”
The horses traced the apples in the air and knew they were now in the possession of Pelton. Without hesitation, Dink and Doofus, he wouldn’t call it “charged,” more like “trotted” over to the kid who took a step back, obviously surprised by their enthusiasm.
“Their names are Dink and Doofus. Dink’s the brown one. Just hold out your hands, palms up, with the apples. Make sure you keep your arms spread wide. Otherwise one of them will try for both apples. Then you will have to run because the one that didn’t get his apple will be on your case.”
Pelton did as Blu said.
The horses chomped their apples contently.
To his credit, Pelton actually talked to Dink and Doofus, just like Blu did. And he patted their massive necks. The horses finished their apples and both nuzzled him, poking the visitor with their noses.
And that pissed Blu off. He wanted to hate Pelton. He needed to hate him.
The horses were not the brightest, but they could pick the good apples from the bad ones. The fact that they both liked this smart-mouthed kid was the last straw. Blu would have to like him as well. Or at least tolerate him until this situation was over.
Pelton said, “Friendly, aren’t they?”
Blu turned and walked to his house. “You want something to drink? I’ve got water or water.”
“I guess I’ll have water. This is a great place. I heard you own the whole island. How many acres?”
Blu thought, “He’s just trying to rattle you with his intel.” He said, “Nine, depending on the tide.”
Inside, Blu filled two glasses with ice and tap water. The kid had followed him in and Blu handed him one of the glasses. “So, is the Python your gun of choice?”
“Not really,” Pelton said. “I’m kinda partial to nineteen-elevens. But I’ve shot Glocks and Rugers. Sometimes I shoot whatever I get my hands on. You?”
Blu set his glass down, reached around, and pulled his nine millimeter. He ejected the clip and the chambered round and handed it to Pelton.
“Beretta. Nice piece.” Pelton set his glass down and used both hands to aim the Beretta at his truck outside the window, checking the sights. “It’s got a good feel to it.” He handed it back.
Blu loaded the single bullet into the clip, shoved the clip into the gun, and slid it down his back waistband.
Pelton walked over to a shelf filled with trophies, all of them with variations of the silhouette of a man shooting a rifle. “You some sort of sharpshooter or something?”
“Or something.” Blu walked over to a hall closet, removed a four foot by two foot black composite case, set it on the couch, and opened it up, displaying a rifle. Then he took out a smaller case and did the same. In it was the scope.
Pelton took it in but didn’t touch. “M24 Remington. Leupold scope. Standard-issue sniper, right?”
“Until a few years ago, anyway.”
“She-it. You shoot that in Desert Storm?”
“Affirmative.” Blu couldn’t help but smile at the kid’s knowledge.
“That’s not in your file, at least nothing I could dig up. Color me impressed. So, what’s our plan?”
“I was thinking you go back to work. I hang out in the bar and we get him when he walks in.”
Pelton said, “That puts my employees in danger. I don’t want that.”
“What do you suggest?”
“We hunt him down.”
Blu said, “My way’s easier. And we can set the trap. You go hunting the man, and he holds all the cards.”
“Still,” Pelton said, “I don’t want any of my employees getting hurt. It’s worth it to me not to put them at risk.”
“The guy could be in your bar right now waiting.”
The smug look came back. “I doubt it. I talked to my bar manager on the way over and instructed her to call me if anyone resembling the shooter comes in. I gave her a picture of him I got from the police.” And then he reached into his pocket, pulled out his buzzing phone, and answered. After a moment, the smug look left. Pelton hung up. “He’s there.”
Rolf sat at a table two rows behind Abner. They were business partners, but he was certain Abner had no idea who he was. Social media was the most antisocial form of communication. Rolf had even been bold enou
gh to follow the killer into the restroom and take a piss next to him at the urinals—still no recognition.
It hadn’t been all that hard to track Abner down. Once Simon had informed Rolf that Abner’s brother had been killed in the attack of Skip, Rolf knew the killer would be all screwed up inside, wanting to get even. And he’d been right. This man had gone off the deep end.
Rolf guessed that Abner would return to the place of the killing. For someone who’d up to this point been so professional, this was by far the most amateurish action that Abner could have taken. Here he was sitting there taking small sips from a cup of coffee, the absence of life that exuded from most killers Rolf had known radiating out from the sorry man like inverse rainbows.
Which was why he’d cut his own piss off early, didn’t wash his hands, and took a slight detour past Abner’s table. With a practiced sleight of hand, he dropped the tablet in the sorry man’s coffee cup and was sitting in his own seat when the killer emerged from the john.
Not too long after Abner returned to his chair and finished off his coffee, Rolf watched the killer slump over in his chair.
Rolf paid his tab and left just as a very pretty waitress noticed Abner had stopped breathing.
Chapter Eleven
Brack drove as fast as he could. There was just not a good way to make the hour drive from Carraway’s island home to the Pirate’s Cove any quicker. The only chance was running I-526 around the city. He’d had mixed results with it in the past and had the tickets to prove it. But now wasn’t the time to be worried about tickets. He pushed the Ram’s Hemi engine and the truck roared up to ninety miles an hour.
Using the hands-free feature, he dialed the Isle of Palms Chief of Police.
Chief Bates answered, “Hey Brack.”
Brack said, “The killer is at my bar.”
“What?”
Blu Heat Page 4
