BAD TIME TO BE IN IT

by David Burnsworth

  “Jesus,” Crome said.

  “No,” she said. “My name is Harmony, and I make good on my threats.”

  The call went dead in his ear.

  He put the phone down and looked around. Everyone in the place snuck sideways glances at him. Normally, he was the baddest badass in the room. Today was not a normal day.

  Today, he had just been bitch-slapped by a co-ed.

  His phone buzzed again. Crome looked at it and saw Blu’s number. Since he didn’t feel like getting another lecture, he let it run to voicemail.

  As he waited for the buzzing to stop, a glint of reflection from the parking lot caught his attention. He looked out the window and saw his partner standing beside his motorcycle. And he didn’t look happy.

  Chapter Nine

  Folly Beach, Charleston County, Saturday, October 2000

  Hope sat on a plastic adult chair, giggled, and said, “Daddy!”

  Children ran around the backyard, playing tag.

  Blu snapped the photo, catching his daughter looking directly into the camera with a big smile on her young face. A coned birthday hat with the words “I’m 3 today!” was on her head and she held a bright-colored pinwheel.

  “Did you get the picture?” asked Abby.

  Hope’s mother and Blu’s wife, Abby, had long, brown hair, blue eyes, and, a tall, slender physique. Thank God Hope had gotten her mother’s looks. She also had Blu’s eyes and Latin skin tone. It made for an irresistible combination in the little girl. Blu would be in trouble when boys weren’t icky any more.

  Abby was just playing nice for Hope’s day. Things weren’t going well for them in marriage-land.

  Filled with pride in the beauty and innocence of Hope, Blu said, “Yeah, I think so.”

  Abby went over to Hope, lifted her off the chair, and placed her on her feet in the grass. “Go play with your friends, sweetie.”

  Hope giggled again and ran to the group of children, making sure to hold the pinwheel up so that it spun when the air rushed around it.

  Blu said, “You’ve done a nice job with this today.”

  “No thanks to you,” she said.

  It was a true statement on the surface. He hadn’t offered any direct help in the planning. But he’d made sure there was money set aside for it, even working extra hours moonlighting as a bouncer in a few clubs when nothing else was paying off. He didn’t reply because it wouldn’t help anything.

  The chugga chugga of a Harley could be heard coming down the street.

  Abby said, “Sounds like Mick.”

  The engine rumble got louder, revved one last time, and then went silent. A moment later, a tall, lanky man with long brown hair held back with a bandanna, aviator sunglasses and handlebar mustache strode around the side of the house carrying a decent-sized teddy bear with a bow tied around its neck.

  Hope saw the man about the same time Abby and Blu did. “Uncle Mick!”

  She ran to him and jumped into his open arm.

  Crome held Hope up in one arm and the teddy bear in the other.

  Blu aimed the camera and snapped a picture of his business partner holding his daughter.

  Abby joined Hope and Crome.

  Blu took a few more photos and then watched the parents of the other children. They all worked normal jobs—bank tellers, machine operators, office managers, doctors and lawyers. Blu and Crome were the wild cards in this party—self-employed and free from most all of the constraints. Except for money.

  Crome put Hope down. She turned and ran back to the other children with the teddy bear.

  Abby said something to Blu’s business partner and they both laughed.

  At least she wasn’t holding their marital problems against him.

  Crome slid a pack of Winstons out of his jeans pocket, took one out, and lit up with a Zippo.

  It surprised Blu when Abby motioned to a woman standing by the opened cooler with the beer to bring two bottles over to her and Crome. Thanks to a case Blu had worked, the woman had gotten more than enough evidence against a cheating husband and was recently divorced. According to Abby, she was looking for a rebound and Blu guessed his wife was setting her up with Crome. He wondered if that was the best solution to the problem, Crome being Crome and all.

  The man was always looking, and ran away from every commitment since he got out of the Army. Blu was surprised he’d agreed to join the business.

  The woman, a cute redhead named Daron with a bob cut, freckles on her face and arms, and an outfit she most likely got from the Gap—white t-shirt, jean shorts, and flip flops, walked toward them. Her eyes were shielded behind shades but Blu knew they were green.

  Daron approached Crome and Abby with both hesitation and a slight jitteriness. Any other time in her life, she wouldn’t even consider Crome. But her husband had lived up to the cliché of leaving her, and their kids, for his secretary. This gave Crome the opportunity to be Crome and Daron the opportunity to show her husband up.

  Abby left Daron with Crome and came up beside Blu.

  “Why on God’s green earth are you setting those two up?” Blu asked.

  “Daron has always been the good wife,” she said. “She got a raw deal. I told her about Crome and warned her not to try to attach any strings. She just wants someone to treat her nice. Crome can at least do that much.”

  “I hope you told him that.”

  Abby glared at him. “Of course I did. Anyone else, except you, I wouldn’t have to say it.”

  “Where’re her kids?” he said.

  “At their grandparents’.”

  Hope ran up to them again. “Daddy, come push me on the swing.”

  Blu didn’t know what he’d done to deserve Hope. She put everything in perspective for him. He didn’t matter. Abby didn’t matter. Only Hope mattered. And that’s what got him through the tough times.

  Later on that day, Blu sat on a rocker on his front porch thinking. The phone rang in his home office and Abby answered. During off-hours, Blu had all calls routed from his downtown office.

  Abby spoke in the professional tone she had trained herself to use.

  He heard her say, “Please hold,” and then she pressed the hold button which made a loud beep.

  “Who is it?” he asked.

  “A Mr. Ron Jansen from the Isle of Palms. He wants to meet you today.”

  Blu looked at his watch, a vintage Rolex his father bought off some local thieves in Vietnam who’d most likely pilfered the timepiece from some diplomat. His pawn shop connections already confirmed it was the real deal, vintage 1962. The hands said four o’clock.

  Before he could say anything, Abby said, “You need the work.”

  She was right. In this business, it was either feast or famine. They’d learned not to blow all the money in the feast times because famine normally followed, like at present.

  He took the receiver from her, pressed the button to take the call off hold, and said, “Mr. Jansen? This is Blu Carraway.”

  “Mr. Carraway,” an even voice, not too high or low pitched, said, “I have a matter that I feel the need to seek professional advice on.”

  “If you want, I can refer you to several attorneys I work with.”

  Mr. Jansen said, “I don’t need that kind of advice. Are you going to be in your office today? I know it’s Saturday.”

  “I’ll be glad to meet you. It can be there or anywhere else you’d like.”

  “Your office is fine. Six o’clock okay?”

  “I’ll see you then. Thanks for calling, Mr. Jansen.”

  The reply was a dial tone.

  Blu had an instinct to call Crome but at the last minute thought better of it. Daron had ridden away with him on the back of his motorcycle and Blu didn’t want to interrupt anything.

  He kissed Hope goodbye.

  Abby s
aid, “I won’t wait up.”

  Not knowing how to reply, Blu drove away in one of his work vehicles, an older Jeep Cherokee—the full-size model—his father had used. It sucked gas and had just rolled the odometer for the second time. Two hundred thousand miles on anything was respectable. Another vehicle of his, a seventy-two Dodge pickup, was equally tired and equally reliable. So were his two stake-out sedans. Abby got the newer vehicles, currently a slightly used Honda Accord they’d picked up as a lease turn in.

  As the old Jeep lumbered across the bridges spanning the perpetual tidal creeks that made up the lowcountry of South Carolina, the setting sun glistened on the marsh grass as the shoots swayed in the wind. He punched in the cigarette lighter, stuck a Camel from a new pack in his mouth, and lit up when the lighter clicked back. Rolling with his left elbow resting out the open window—the air conditioning had gone out a while back and now consisted of four windows and sixty miles an hour—he held the Camel with two fingers and guided the wheel with the other three. He used his free hand to load a Misfits cassette into the deck, and when the punk band exploded out of his truck’s speakers, it reminded him of the mosh pits of his misspent youth.

  His two-room office overlooked King Street in downtown Charleston and included several parking spots behind the building which were currently empty. He parked and made his way up the back staircase. Sliding his key in the lock, he turned the knob and opened the door.

  And found Crome with Daron.

  On the couch against the wall.

  Their clothes were scattered all over the floor.

  Crome, lying on his back, said, “Howdy.”

  Daron, on top, turned fifty shades of red, grabbed a garment off the floor and tried to cover herself. It didn’t exactly work.

  Blu gritted his teeth for a few seconds, took a deep breath, and said, “We’ve got a client coming to meet me here any minute.”

  “Give us a moment, would ya?” Crome asked.

  Blu backed out the way he came in, closed the door behind him, turned, and bumped into a smaller man with glasses and no hair on top but cut short on the sides. He was dressed in a nice polo shirt, khaki shorts, and leather sandals and had what looked like a natural tan. The man was fit enough, but not for fighting. Blu said, “Excuse me.”

  “Mr. Carraway?”

  And the hits just kept coming.

  Blu recognized the voice. He said, “Mr. Jansen?”

  The man looked at Blu, at the closed door, and then back to Blu.

  Blu held out a hand. “Sorry for my rudeness. It’s nice to meet you.”

  Jansen shook his hand. “Do you mind if we go in?”

  Thinking fast, Blu said, “My partner is interviewing another potential client. Do you mind if we take a walk instead?”

  At that moment, the door opened and Daron exited, her face still red, followed by Crome who gave a nod to Blu and Jansen and said, “All yours.”

  Blu watched the couple walk down the steps to the first landing and turn the corner, the whole time trying not to think about how unprofessional their agency must appear. He held the door open for Jansen, who entered and stood in the reception area where the couch that Crome and Daron had just exercised sat.

  The whole room smelled like sex—musky sweat and adrenaline.

  Aside from the aforementioned couch, there were two desks in various degrees of neatness. Because the agency was small, the receptionist was Abby when she was available and an answering machine when she wasn’t.

  The office had the main room where the couch and desks were, a restroom, small kitchen area and a conference room.

  Blu picked up a tablet and pen from his desk and led Jansen to the conference room, which had a decent-sized table and six chairs. For the money and location, he and Crome had lucked out. The current landlord had been a client who’d cut them a deal on rent after they’d cut him a deal on his case, a dead-beat tenant that needed to be evicted.

  Blu asked, “Can I make some coffee for you?”

  Jansen declined and took a seat.

  Facing him, Blu said, “How can I help you, Mr. Jansen?”

  The man fidgeted in his seat. “I think I’m being followed.”

  “By whom?” Learning Spanish from his mother had also helped his English.

  “I’m not sure.” Jansen looked him in the eye. “That’s what I need you to find out.”

  “Do you want me to follow you to see who is following you?”

  “Yes.”

  Easy enough. He and Crome had done similar jobs. He asked, “What do you want me to do if I find you’re right and someone is following you?”

  The fidgeting stopped. “I want you to blow their head off.”

  Blu thought Jansen was actually quite serious. “I’m sorry, Mr. Jansen. That’s not really what we do here at this agency.” It was as truthful of a statement as a politician’s campaign promise.

  “Okay,” the smaller man said, “then what do you suggest?”

  “We can identify the individual or individuals and perform a background check on them.”

  The fidgeting started up again. “Is that all?”

  No, Blu thought. What he was thinking was that if this is for real and there is a threat, he and Crome could set the target up for a big fall. But he didn’t want to suggest that just yet.

  “We can offer you twenty-four-hour protection until we resolve the situation.” It was a stretch. If it came to that, he and Crome would have to hire an extra body or two. Even with Crome popping reds, he couldn’t stay awake forever. At least, Blu didn’t think so. But he didn’t remember the last time he’d seen his partner sleep. The pills were a problem, but not a big enough one yet. At least not as big as the problems in Blu’s marriage. He and his wife were passing ships in the night, sometimes on a collision course and sometimes in completely different oceans.

  Jansen said, “I don’t think that’s going to solve my problem.”

  “Do you mind if I ask a direct question?”

  The fidgeting stopped for the second time. “Okay.”

  “Is there anything that you’re doing or are a part of that would attract people who wish to do you harm?”

  He rubbed his fingers together, a different type of fidget.

  It really didn’t matter if Jansen answered the question honestly or not. Blu and Crome would soon figure this detail out whether the client wanted them to or not. What Blu wanted to know was whether Jansen would talk about it, be honest about it.

  Jansen said, “I’m having an affair with a woman. A married woman.”

  “And you think her husband is after you?” What Blu was thinking was that Jansen might want the man out of the picture.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you still in contact with the woman?”

  “Yes.”

  “Casual or more serious?”

  Sometimes, Blu felt like a priest hearing a confession. Clients, in laying their sins out on the table, still tried to sugarcoat the facts. If people could lie to God, they could lie to him.

  Looking down at the table, Jansen said, “I love her.”

  Jansen was lying to him. Maybe not outright, but it was there. Blu felt it in his gut.

  He said, “I’ll need to know who the woman and her husband are.”

  Clenching his fists tight, Jansen said, “No one can know.”

  Again, Blu and Crome could find out fairly easily

  Blu sat back. He felt like he’d reached a wall with this man. A wall that would come down sooner or later. It had to, especially if the woman’s husband was some big shot with a big ego who didn’t like a little man like Jansen slipping into his matrimonial bed. He said, “I think we can help you, Mr. Jansen. My partner and I run a small agency, but we get results.”

  For the first time since he’d met the man in person, Jansen smiled. “I
heard that about you.”

  “Really?” Blu asked. “From whom?”

  “Andeline.”

  Andeline. Madame Adeline, Queen of the Charleston elite escort service who provided discrete female companionship at top-shelf rates.

  If Jansen spoke the truth about her, and one phone call would verify or contradict it, then the case was legit. If not, well, Blu could always look up the angry husband and offer to solve his problem for him. Blu would not let someone like Jansen falsely namedrop Andeline in the hopes of getting preferential treatment and get away with it. He had too much respect for the power she wielded and his own reputation for something like that.

  And, Blu wondered how Jansen knew her. Most likely, it was from patronizing her business. So he’d moved from prostitutes to wives. Not exactly a safer avenue. One meant dodging all forms of sexually transmitted diseases. The other meant dodging angry, shotgun-wielding husbands.

  Blu said, “If you want to retain the services of our investigation firm, the cost is four hundred down and four hundred a day plus expenses. Twenty-four-hour coverage is double.”

  The money didn’t seem to phase this man.

  While Blu retrieved a standard contract, Jansen presented a white bank envelope from his front pocket, opened the top flap, and pulled out a neat stack of hundred dollar bills. He counted out twelve, enough for the retainer and two eight-hour days. Handing them to Blu, he said, “This should be enough to get you started. I’ll pay daily after that.”

  “Do you mind if I ask what you do for a living, Mr. Jansen?”

  “I’m an economic advisor.”

  Blu noticed Jansen had a Cartier Tank watch. Even though he’d still verify the information, Blu felt comfortable that the man could afford to pay the freight. “I appreciate you considering our agency and I’ll make sure to thank Andeline for the referral. Is there anything else you think I should know?”

  Jansen said, “Just be careful and don’t tip them off.”

  “Of course.”

  After Jansen signed the contract and left with his own copy, Blu locked up the office. They needed the job, even if it was only for a few days.