Chapter Ten
The next day, Sunday, lunchtime, October 2000
Blu sat at a table on the upper deck of the Pirate’s Cove bar on the Isle of Palms and watched the surf while drinking a glass of sweet tea. The bar was a run-down two-story building in the distinctive shape of an old Spanish frigate with two decks that overlooked the Atlantic Ocean. While Blu preferred Folly Beach on the south side of Charleston, Crome had wanted to check this place out.
The rumor that the owner of the Pirate’s Cove sold packs of smokes out of the vending machines with fake tax stamps sealed the deal.
“Ohio” by Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young blared from an ancient jukebox.
Blu tapped his foot to the beat, thinking about the call to Andeline earlier.
She’d said, “I know Ron. He wants to run for office.”
“Really?” Blu’d asked. “Is that why he thinks he’s being followed?”
“I’m not sure,” she’d said. “He only told me he needed someone tough to do some work for him. I, of course, thought of you and Mick.”
“So he’s one of your clients?” he’d asked.
“Now you know I have to keep confidences, right?”
“Well you have to know him from somewhere, And.”
“You’re right,” she’d said. “Just like I know you from somewhere.”
One lousy night of weakness. Blu and Crome, fresh off the plane from war, pockets full of combat pay, wanting some companionship. Okay, maybe it wasn’t so lousy. But he hadn’t been back to Andeline’s since, although he couldn’t vouch for Crome. To top it off, once Blu had set up shop, she’d been really good about sending work his way.
“Okay,” Blu’d said, “so the guy wants to be president. Anything else?”
“Powerful men sometimes have a thirst for things like women. And money.”
“So this is about money?” He’d asked.
“I think so, but I’m not sure. There’s some kind of important vote taking place.”
Interrupting the memory, Crome pulled out an adjacent chair as Blu took a last drag from his Camel and stubbed it out in the ashtray on the table.
Before Blu could speak, Crome said, “Sorry about that earlier. I didn’t know we had a client coming by.”
“How long have you been using the office for your personal business?”
“Aw, come on, Blu,” Crome said. “We had lunch at a deli on East Bay. Afterwards she wanted to see the place. One thing led to another and then you walked in.”
Blu took a sip of his tea and swallowed. “I guess that’s why your bike wasn’t parked at the office. But you didn’t exactly answer my question.”
“You’re right.” Crome grinned. “Won’t happen again.”
“Pinky swear?” Blu held up his little finger.
“You serious?”
“Yep. Bonking Abby’s friend in the office means you have to sit at this table and give me a pinky shake in front of all these people.”
Crome shook his head. “This almost makes the whole thing not worth it.”
“Really?” Blu had seen pretty much all of Daron, at least a lot more than he’d ever seen before. While it might be embarrassing for two tough guys like him and Crome to do some candy-ass thing like linking pinky fingers, he thought it was a small price to pay.
Crome grinned again. “You’re right. She sure was pissed off at her ex. Wants me to come with her when she drops off the kids at his place later.”
“Don’t kill him,” Blu said. It wasn’t an out-of-line request if someone knew Crome. He could take things a tad far if pushed.
“I was thinking more along the lines of scaring the hell out of him.”
Blu knocked two smokes out of his pack, handed one to Crome, and fired them both off from a book of matches that had the bar’s flag—a cigar smoking jolly roger with a South Carolina state flag bandana and aviator sunglasses.
The bartender, a man in his fifties with long hair like Crome pulled back in a ponytail and wearing a faded Hawaiian shirt, asked them if they wanted lunch menus. He had a black patch over his right eye.
Crome said yes, but Blu wasn’t sure he’d risk eating in the place. The ATF wasn’t the only governmental agency the place was dodging. How it had managed to pass health code inspections would be an interesting mystery to solve.
Blu stuck with a tea refill and wondered if the eye-patch was a prop or actually covered an injury.
The CSNY song ended and “Along the Watchtower” by Hendrix began.
Crome ordered a burger, fries, and a draft beer, pulled a five off a fold of bills from his front pocket and handed it to the bartender. “This is for whoever is picking the tunes.”
The bartender smiled and took the bill. “Thanks. That’d be me.”
Crome nodded and the older man nodded back.
“You two ain’t tourists,” the older man said.
Blu and Crome would probably stand out in most places in Charleston. Both were big—over six-footers. Crome was the consummate biker. He wore do-rags, aviator sunglasses, week-old beards, leather vest jackets, worn jeans, and motorcycle boots.
Blu liked black—black t-shirt, black jeans, and black Doc Martens shoes. Tourists viewed them as oddities. Anyone on the job, living on the fringes of society, or previously incarcerated would recognize them as kindred spirits. Or enemies. Such was life in the gray area.
The bar’s mascot, a beautiful red and blue macaw, sat on a perch next to the cash register. Without warning, it hopped up onto the bartender’s shoulder.
Crome exhaled a cloud of smoke. “Nice bird.”
The man stroked the bird’s breast feathers. “This is Bonny.”
The bird gave his ear a nibble and flew over a family of tourists seated at a table and landed on the railing at the far end of the deck. The old man went to serve another customer.
“You wanna hear about the job?” Blu asked his business partner.
“Looked like someone spooked the guy, you ask me,” Crome said. “I’d say he pissed somebody off and now is worried about the blowback. If I hadda guess, I’d say he messed with someone else’s woman.”
Crome was a lot of things, but stupid and unobservant weren’t on the list.
“That’s most of it,” Blu said. “The other part Andeline told me was the guy wants to enter politics. How would you handle it?”
“Andeline? No kidding. God love her. Did the man tell you who the chick-ee was?”
“No.”
“Well, then,” Crome said, “we know what we gotta do first.”
After a few minutes with neither of them saying anything, the song changed to Eric Clapton and George Harrison playing “While My Guitar Gently Weeps.”
The older man brought Crome’s food order and sat the plate in front of him.
Crome said, “You really have a mean music collection.”
The man took a pack of cigars out of his breast pocket, the plastic tipped kind, and stuck one between his lips.
Blu fired off another match from his book, one handed.
The man leaned forward and caught the end of his stogie on the flame. He straightened up and asked, “So who the hell are you guys?”
Crome hoisted his burger off the plate. “Abbott and Costello.”
“No you’re not,” the man said, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “They’re prettier than you lugs.”
Blu said, “So we hear. You own this place?”
The man took the cigar out of his mouth, held it between two fingers, spread his arms and rotated from side to side. “Welcome to my humble abode.”
Around a mouthful of burger, Crome said, “You live here, too?”
“It sure feels like it.”
“Working for a living ain’t what it’s supposed to be, huh?” Blu asked. “Adam hosed us all in the garden
when he didn’t kill the snake before it got to Eve.”
The man pointed at Blu with the two fingers holding the cigar. “A theologian and a soldier. The wonders never cease.”
With a lot of self restraint, Blu asked, “What do you mean?”
Crome took a big gulp of beer. “Yeah. We look like soldiers to you?”
“I can smell military a mile away,” the man said. “You guys ain’t in it now, but you was. I’d stake my left eye on it.”
Blu took a sip of his tea, set the glass back on the bar, and asked, “Is that patch for real or do you just wear it to get the girls?”
With a snort and a chuckle, the man said, “Good one. I deserved that. Yeah, it’s real. Took a round from an AK over the rice patties.”
He left them and went to serve another customer.
Blu said, “The old guy’s somethin’ else.”
“Yeah,” Crome said. “His name’s Reggie Sails. I heard he flew planes for Air America in Vietnam. That story he told about his eye? It’s real. The guy took the hit and still landed the plane.”
“No kidding?”
“Total badass.”
Back to business, Blu said, “So you want dayshift or night?”
“You mean we gotta tail Poindexter?”
“Hey,” Blu said, “it’s your plan.”
“Don’t give me that shuck,” Crome said. “You already had it worked out. Only now ‘cause I said it, I own it. So fine, I’ll take night. It’ll give me more time on the office couch with Daron.”
Blu turned and looked at his partner.
Crome grinned. “Got ya with that one, didn’t I?”
“Since it’s your plan and all,” Blu said, ignoring his smug partner, “and since I sat on the guy’s house last night, by the way, you can have tonight.”
“I’m guessin’ there wasn’t much going on?”
“Stayed in all night,” Blu said.
The older man returned, a glutton for punishment, obviously. Either that, or Blu and Crome were more interesting than the trickle of tourists spending part of their vacation money in his place.
Blu pulled his money fold out, ready to pay.
The man said, “Your money’s no good here. Consider it a gift from one soldier to another.”
Crome said, “That’s awfully nice of you.”
“Hell,” the man said. “Just watchin’ my other customers eyeball you two is worth at least your tab. Plus, it took their focus off me for a change. And that’s saying something here.”
Blu and Crome shook hands with Reggie, as he’d introduced himself, and walked out. On the sidewalk in front of the bar, they paused by Crome’s Harley.
Crome said, “I’m going home to get some sleep. I get the feeling I’m gonna to need it. Poindexter looks like a real party animal.”
He said it straight, but Blu caught the sarcasm.
Jansen might be the other man, but economic advisors, as he’d called himself, did not typically stay out all night closing down nightclubs. But some politicans led double lives. If Blu and Crome were lucky, Jansen might sneak out and meet his mistress.
Crome mounted his bike, gave Blu a salute, started the V-twin engine, and roared off.
Blu watched his friend head up Ocean Boulevard toward the connector that tied the north end of Mount Pleasant to the island. Then he decided that since he was there, he’d take a walk on the beach. So that’s what he did.
Chapter Eleven
October 2000
Blu Carraway Investigations had two cars they used specifically for tailing people and both were popular, midsized sedans sold by the hundreds of thousands every year. Invisible would be how Crome described them. They weren’t fast, but they had working air conditioning and started every time, unlike his partner’s SUV.
After sitting for two hours on the address Jansen had given Blu, Crome hit pay dirt when their client took a drive at nine o’clock. Crome followed the man’s big Audi from his Isle of Palms address into the city, crossing over the rickety old Cooper River Bridge. Locals weren’t fazed by its gentle swaying and narrow lanes as they gunned across the landmark that should have been condemned a long time ago. Tourists could be spotted by their speed, or lack of it, as they tiptoed over the metal structure well below the thirty-five mile per hour speed limit.
Jansen got off at the Meeting Street exit and threaded his way into the city. Thanks to all the out of town traffic, Crome was able to keep him in sight and watch as he parallel parked at a meter on a side street.
Crome cursed, found a spot a block over, and double-timed it back to see their client walk into one of the nicer restaurants in the city. There was no way he could follow him in wearing his usual biker garb.
The best he could hope for was Jansen sitting at a table on the patio or at a window. He got lucky again when, after making a second pass in front of the brick building built before the Civil War, he spotted Jansen taking a seat across from a woman at an open window.
“Gotcha,” Crome said. He moved to the other side of the street, pulled an automatic camera out of his pocket, used the zoom, and snapped ten shots. Darkness had been his friend and he stuck to the shadows.
The woman was, in Crome’s opinion, spectacular—long, dark, curly hair; skin a natural shade of brown that was not exactly Middle Eastern or African or Latina, but a mixture of at least two of them; and the brightest smile he’d seen in a long time. He felt a longing for the woman and a wish for a piano to drop on Jansen flashed through his mind until he remembered the man was their paying client.
He used the other item Blu had issued him, a cell phone, and called his partner.
Blu answered the call. “You get something?”
“I’ve got our Mr. Jansen, economic advisor to the stars, having dinner with a hot babe as we speak.” He told him the name of the restaurant.
“You get pictures?”
“Yep.”
“Good,” Blu said. “You see a ring on her finger?”
“To tell you the truth,” Crome said, “I haven’t made it down that far yet.”
“Well, unglue your eyes from wherever they’re stuck and look.”
“That doesn’t mean if she doesn’t have one on she didn’t take it off to meet Romeo, I mean Jansen.”
“True, and she could be his sister for all we know.”
Crome took another look at her dark skin and curly hair. “Not by birth. Or at least not by both parents.”
“She Chinese or something?” Blu asked.
“Or something. Not Asian, I’m pretty sure of that.”
“Keep it in your pants, Crome. We need this client to stay alive at least long enough to pay us the balance. I’m on my way.”
“Roger that.” Crome snapped the clamshell shut and stuck the phone in his pocket. Before his nap earlier, it had been two days since he’d slept. He slipped a small bottle of red pills out of a pocket, opened it, and swallowed one dry. With that, he’d be good for the remainder of his shift. Then he planned on crashing hard again.
Blu had been asleep when Crome called. The buzz of the phone on the dresser woke both him and Abby. With the problems they’d been having, sleep was better than fighting. At least he was getting rest.
He swung his legs off the side of the bed and sat up.
Abby grunted, rolled over, and fell back asleep. She was used to him coming and going at odd hours. Otherwise they wouldn’t have lasted this long.
He dressed in black jeans and a black t-shirt, gave Hope a kiss on the forehead, and slipped on his shoes as he exited his house.
The mosquitoes buzzed around him, but they usually didn’t bite.
He got in his truck, started the motor, looked in the rearview mirror as he selected reverse, and caught sight of a figure in the backseat. Quick as lightning he slipped his Beretta out of its holster. B
ut the man in the backseat simply put something metal against Blu’s head.
The man said, “Let’s not do anything rash, okay?”
In the movie Heavy Metal, the taxi driver in the futuristic city had a foot controlled button that vaporized anyone in the backseat who threatened him. Blu wished he had the same gadget in his aging Cherokee at this moment.
He said, “Your call.”
With the gun still to Blu’s head, the man said, “Keep your gun. Now, get this heap moving.”
Instead of holstering his gun, Blu set it on the passenger seat. He backed out of his drive, and headed toward Seventeen which would take him into Charleston. And to Crome. In the rearview mirror, he noticed the man wore a mask. “Any place in particular?”
The man said, “You’re heading there now.”
“I am?”
“Yes. Your partner called and told you Mr. Jansen was in the restaurant having dinner with a woman.”
Blu checked the rearview mirror again. “Is she your wife?”
The man sighed. “Just drive.”
Crome lowered the tailgate on a pickup truck parked at a meter a few cars up from the restaurant and took a seat. The worst case was the owners of the truck came back before Jansen finished his dinner, got one look at Crome, and wouldn’t say much. He’d hop off and they’d leave.
It wasn’t as if he was hurting anything just sitting there.
In fact, with the little red pill taking effect, his mind focused on several things at once: the woman’s naked ring finger, Jansen’s demeanor, and the papers they appeared to be looking over. The ones with the staple in the upper left corner that resembled something he’d gotten so tired of in the Army—reports.
Crome tried Blu again on his cell but it rang out to voicemail. Either he was getting dressed, or talking to someone else or driving, or a combination thereof. He’d wanted this to be the mistress so they could get to the next phase of their investigation which was identifying the person or persons tailing Mr. Jansen. That would help them determine how to protect the weasel. Unfortunately, this was a business dinner and Crome and Blu would have to start over.
BAD TIME TO BE IN IT Page 6
