BAD TIME TO BE IN IT

by David Burnsworth

  “You want to tell me why you’re in the back seat of my truck pointing a gun at me?” It was a reasonable question, Blu thought.

  The man took a deep breath and exhaled.

  Blu caught a whiff of peppermint.

  Finally, his passenger said, “I’m not pointing a gun at you anymore.”

  “But you still have it and you’re still in the backseat of my truck.”

  “Is this your idea of trying to get on my good side so maybe I’ll start liking you and we can bond and pretend that we could be best friends when all this is over?”

  “When all of what is over?” Blu asked.

  “You don’t even know what is going on.”

  Blu said, “Why don’t you tell me?”

  The man coughed. “You think Jansen’s screwing my wife? Is that the story he told you? That he’s having an affair and the woman’s husband is after him?”

  “What do you think?”

  No reply came.

  Blu crossed over the Ashley River and entered the city. “First tell me where you want me to go?”

  “You’re meeting your partner, right? Don’t change your plans on my account.”

  The man obviously didn’t know Crome very well. One look at the situation and Crome would pull his three-fifty-seven and blow the masked man’s head off.

  Blu slowed for a red light. “We’re almost there. Why don’t you tell me what you think my client should have told me?”

  The man said, “It isn’t about a woman and jealous husband. There’s a lot of money at stake. But it’s at the expense of our environment. They want to bring cruise ships to town. I don’t want that. They pollute the air, require deeper channels be cut into the rivers, and dump God knows what into the waters. I want Jansen to stop what he’s doing. And I have powerful friends who will do whatever it takes to make it happen.”

  When the truck stopped, the man opened the back door, jumped out, and ran.

  Blu turned his gaze to track him, but he was gone.

  Chapter Twelve

  October 2000

  Crome watched as Blu’s SUV idled up beside him.

  Blu said, “Going my way?”

  “You wish.” Crome took a drag from a cigarette.

  Pointing to the open spot in front of the pickup Crome was using as a bench, Blu asked, “You want me to park?”

  “Yeah.”

  Blu pulled past the spot, reversed in, and inched forward, perfectly centering his truck in the space. He got out and joined Crome.

  “Show-off.”

  Giving him a quick grin, Blu said, “Let me guess, it’s a business dinner.”

  Crome eyed him. “Now how in the hell did you know that?”

  “A masked man with a gun who rode with me into town in the backseat of my truck told me.”

  “No kidding?”

  “No kidding,” Blu said. “Something else, I think we’re being watched right now.”

  Crome asked, “What the hell did you get us into this time?”

  “Three days’ worth of income. I don’t care what Jansen’s into. We’re hired to protect him so that’s what we’re gonna do.”

  “No matter what?”

  Blu watched their client talk to the woman. Crome was right, she was extraordinarily beautiful. “I didn’t put any exceptions in the contract. You stay on him tonight and I’ll pick it up tomorrow morning. See if this discussion turns romantic.”

  Crome said, “God, I hope not.”

  “Remember, Jansen’s the one paying us. Keep your eyes on him, not her dress.” Blu pulled out a hard pack of Camels, opened the lid, took one out, and lit it with the matches from the Pirate’s Cove. Fanning the match out, he said, “I don’t care what you do with her after this is over, but we’ve got to keep our heads in the game in this case. The man in my backseat said there was a lot of money at stake. Something about it being at the expense of the environment.”

  Crome pointed toward the window where their client could be seen paying for the check with a credit card. “You want to know something interesting about the woman?”

  “This should be good.”

  “She doesn’t eat like an American.”

  “What do you mean?” Blu asked.

  “She uses both her knife and fork. Like a European.”

  Picking up subtle details was what kept them in this business. Both of them knew that something like that could be important, or it could be like chasing a rabbit down a hole. Crome had the feeling it was important or he wouldn’t have mentioned it.

  They both watched Jansen and the woman get up from the table. A minute later, he and the woman both exited the front door together. Outside, their conversation got what appeared to be heated. Then, the woman turned and walked away.

  Jansen watched her for a moment and then headed in a different direction.

  Crome said, “As much as I want to, you better follow the woman. My guess is she’s heading to a hotel.”

  Blu knew Crome was right. Most likely, Jansen was heading home. The woman was now the important target. And Blu had a better chance getting close to her without setting off any alarms than a biker like Crome.

  Whatever he found out about the woman, he’d let Crome know. With things on the rocks with Abby, all Blu needed was to be caught in a compromising situation with another female. Especially one as beautiful as this one.

  He followed her, keeping half a block distance between them. Downtown Charleston in the tourist district was a lot of things, but dangerous wouldn’t be a typical description. Still, any woman walking alone at night was always at risk.

  Without her realizing it, Blu had taken up the role of protector. If anyone tried to make a move on her, it would be the last act of their life.

  She walked two blocks and entered the hotel lobby of Charleston Place, an upscale establishment that also housed a shopping mall. It spanned the distance between King and Meeting Streets and had created quite a buzz when it was constructed fourteen years earlier.

  After she cleared the door, Blu double-timed it to close the distance. The last thing he wanted to do was lose her in the lobby.

  Inside, he caught a glimpse of her flowing, brown hair as she entered the restaurant.

  Blu followed her in, watching as she avoided four men standing at one end of the bar and took a seat at the other.

  The maitre d’, a man dressed in black similar to Blu said, “Table for one?”

  With a smile, Blu said, “I think I’ll just sit at the bar.”

  The man extended his arm as both a welcome and to show him where it was. Blu thanked him and made his way over, slipping his wedding band off his hand and into his pocket. He took one of the stools that split the difference between the four men and the woman.

  The men gave him what could be best described as sneers for what he believed they thought was intruding on their mark.

  His pistol was underneath his untucked t-shirt but not really hidden from anyone trained to look for such things. These men were not trained in anything other than being self-important. As Blu situated himself in the seat, placing his phone, a pack of cigarettes, and a book of matches on the bar, the bartender, a man about Blu’s age, late twenties, with slicked back hair, a white shirt, and black tie, stood a martini glass in front of the woman and asked him what he’d like.

  “Tonic and lime.”

  The bartender said, “Gin?”

  Blu declined and took a cigarette out of his pack. He picked up the matches and was about to light his smoke when the woman—the target—said, “I love that place.”

  She had a slight accent that Blu couldn’t identify and she pointed to his matchbook.

  Grinning, she said, “I spent the day at the beach and stopped in there for a late lunch.”

  His mind raced, not from a lack of understandi
ng of what needed to be done, but from the reality of it all.

  “I was there earlier today, myself,” he said. “We must have just missed each other.”

  “The bird was, how do you say? Beautiful.” She took a sip of her drink.

  God, this woman was gorgeous. Any other time in his life, he would have considered this the best of luck. But now, with a marriage going south and a daughter taking collateral damage, he silently kicked himself for this good fortune.

  “Yeah, the red and blue one. I can’t believe the owner lets it fly around like that.”

  She said, “I know. It’s one of the things I love about this city.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Amsterdam.”

  Now was the time to make the play and he regretted it immensely when he motioned to the seat next to her and said, “Do you mind?”

  The reply was a very beautiful, full-lipped smile and nod that was more of an invitation of good things coming his way than he wanted or needed right now.

  He took the seat, glancing at the men who shot multiple glare-darts back.

  The woman held out her hand. “I’m Grietje.” She pronounced it Griy-Tyeh.

  Blu played it straight, giving her his real name as he put down his cigarette and shook her offered hand. Her skin was soft and warm and—

  “Nice to meet you, Blu.” Her eyes were all smiles. “Do you live here?”

  “Across the river in West Ashley.”

  Lifting her glass, she said, “To the most beautiful city in America.”

  Blu couldn’t argue with that. He clinked his glass with her Manhattan.

  “So what brought you here?” he asked.

  “Work. Always work.”

  Now for the money question. “What kind of work do you do?”

  “International law.”

  An international lawyer meeting with an economic advisor. Made sense.

  “Is your work over for the week?”

  She frowned. “Hardly. So what do you do?”

  He handed her a card. “Private security.”

  The bright smile returned. “Really? Like bodyguards and guns?”

  “Yes.”

  Leaning in closer now, she said, “Do you like guarding bodies?”

  He returned her smile. “It pays the bills.”

  “Now, that’s not what I asked.”

  He offered a cigarette, which she took, and lit it for her.

  “Okay,” he said, “you’re right. Some people I like more than others, but I treat them all the same. Business is business and money is all the same color.”

  “Are you good at your job?” she asked.

  There was only one real answer to that question. Actually, there were two answers. He gave them. “I’m still alive and I haven’t lost a client under my protection yet.”

  She took a drag from her cigarette, exhaled, and lifted her glass signaling for the bartender to give her a second drink.

  Blu decided to go all in. “I’m on a job right now.”

  Her eyes cut sideways to him. “But I didn’t pay you to guard my body.”

  “No. Mr. Jansen paid me to guard his.”

  Without hesitation, she said, “I thought so. You think I am here to hurt him?”

  Blu inhaled a lungful of smoke and blew it away from her, toward the four men still glaring at him. “You tell me.”

  “He said there were probably men watching him and that someone might approach me.” She put her hand on Blu’s arm. “I appreciate that you did not lie to me.”

  He smiled again. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “Like you, I work for others. They pay me so I represent them to the best of my ability, whether I like them or not.”

  “You don’t like your employer?”

  Lifting her hand off his arm, she took the drink from the bartender, gave her glass a slight raise, and then took a drink. “I’m not here to hurt Mr. Jansen. But my employer has an agenda and there are some conflicts.”

  “The pen is mightier than the sword.”

  “In this case,” she said, “much mightier.”

  Blu fought in Desert Storm which he learned was paid for by the Saudis in an oil grab. Swords killed people but the really powerful men crushed nations and corporations with backroom deals. It was all above his pay grade.

  She took a last drag off her cigarette, exhaled, and stubbed the smoke out in an ashtray. “So, Blu Carraway of Blu Carraway Investigations, would you care to guard my body for the remainder of the evening? I could use a break from my work and a nice tour of your city would be quite lovely.”

  “I’m expensive.”

  “So am I,” she said. “That is why I can afford whatever you wish to charge.”

  His mind filled with flashes of Abby and Hope. At this moment, he understood something that had been haunting him—even if he lost Abby, and it looked that way, he’d always have Hope.

  Blu reached for his money fold to pay for their drinks.

  Grietje put her hand on his arm again. “This is business.”

  It was a true statement.

  She handed the bartender a charge card. “My company pays.”

  “For me as well?” he asked.

  She gave him a sideways, cocked head look. “I think I’ll take care of you personally.”

  The bartender returned with the card and bill for her to sign.

  Blu’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He looked at the display, saw the number for the phone Crome used, and let it go to voicemail. Then he sent Crome a quick text: On target. If he didn’t respond, Crome might get concerned, leave Jansen, and come looking.

  He stood, helped her move her stool back so she could step away from the bar, and smiled at the four men still standing at the other end with nothing but their drinks in their hands.

  One of them said, “Have a nice evening.”

  It didn’t really sound genuine to Blu, but he let it slide.

  After Blu held the door open for her to leave, they stood on the cracked concrete. In Charleston, all of the sidewalks had fissures.

  Grietje said, “I am all yours, as they say, Mr. Bodyguard.”

  With a wave of his hand, he motioned for her to join him and they walked up the sidewalk toward the harbor. She didn’t say anything for quite a while. Blu could sense someone following, but he couldn’t spot them.

  He’d lived in the city for a few years and his job had taken him down some dark alleys. His clients sometimes came from the cracks in the foundation of decent society. Those cracks were under a city going on four centuries old—dark places populated by palmetto bugs and roof rats and characters on the fringes.

  Grietje told him her home now was Hamburg, Germany. While in the Army, Blu had spent time in Hamburg, and a few nights best forgotten on the famous Reeperbahn, Hamburg’s red-light district. She would know about cockroaches and vermin. And she might also know how to work in their midst.

  Taking a short cut to the Battery, Blu cut down Simmons Alley, found himself walking alone, and heard Grietje say something. When he turned to look at her, he saw she spoke into a cell phone.

  She lowered the phone. “I’m sorry, Mr. Blu Carraway, Private Investigator. It’s time for us to part ways.”

  He caught movement to his left.

  The Rangers had taught him quite a bit about self preservation. Their regimental motto was Sua Sponte. The Latin saying meant “of their own accord.” It recognized that a Ranger volunteered three times: for the U.S. Army, for Airborne School, and for service in the 75th Ranger Regiment. And it also referred to the Ranger’s self-reliance.

  Blu had been a model Ranger.

  Within two seconds, he held his Beretta in one hand and lifted Grietja over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes with the other.

  Ben
t over at the waist, she covered his back as he made his way to the exit with the hope that her team would not shoot if there was a risk of hitting her.

  She squirmed and bucked and punched at his back and kidneys. The blows were hard, but worth the bruising. Bullets were less forgiving.

  He exited the alley at the other end, turned the corner, and made his way up Chalmers Street.

  A quarter block up, he dumped her into the bed of a parked pickup with a loud thump and ran. Footsteps of several figures following sounded on the stone sidewalk. He double-timed it to East Bay Street and found a decent-sized crowd of tourists.

  Slipping his gun down the back waistband of his jeans, Blu did his best to use the crowd for cover. Grietje’s attempted set-up told him Crome and Jansen might also be in danger. Ducking into the patio of one of the more popular watering holes set at an intersection, he grabbed a two-top table in a back corner with a perfect view of the sidewalk. Thirty seconds later, while a waitress took his order of a sweet iced tea with a frown, he noticed two men walking with purpose on the sidewalk. Although dressed like tourists in ironed polo shirts and khaki shorts, they were too fit and determined to really be.

  After the waitress left to get his drink and the men had passed, Blu took out his phone and called Crome.

  “Yo.”

  “Watch your six,” Blu said. “Your girlfriend was a setup.” Crome said, “No kidding.”

  “They’ve been a step ahead of us the entire time. The man riding into town with me should have been a tip-off. Where are you?”

  Crome told him he had just watched Jansen pull into his driveway.

  “I think our man is in for it.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Monday night, October 2000

  The previous night, Blu found out that Jansen’s house was elevated on stilts because it stood across the street from the beach front homes, making it what the locals called “second row.” It was a way of explaining hierarchical status without coming out and saying the man was wealthy, but not “front row” mega-rich. Many of the commoners had already moved off the island, no longer able to afford the property tax.