Текст книги "Before The Killing Starts"

Автор книги: James Harper

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BEFORE THE KILLING STARTS

James Harper

PUBLISHED BY:

James Harper

Copyright © 2015

www.james-harper.net

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

This is a work of fiction. All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Chapter 1

The patrón finished his cigarette and flicked the butt away. He watched dispassionately, bored now, as one of the hired hands buried his heavy boot deep into the boy's midsection, lifting him an inch or two off the ground. He couldn't think when he'd last been so disappointed. And he'd had such high hopes when they'd set out that morning. How long had it lasted? Twenty seconds? Thirty, at most. Not long enough to smoke a cigarette, that was for sure; barely half a cigarette. He thought these peasants were supposed to be tough. The one grunting and gasping and flapping around on the ground in front of him, like a hitherto undiscovered species of fish with vocal chords, blood and snot dripping from his nose into the dust, looked tough enough in a wiry, under-fed sort of way; slim muscular arms with ropey veins that would have looked blue if it wasn't for his dirty, sun-darkened skin.

Perhaps his embellishment of the original idea had been a mistake, after all. He tried to bring a little something extra—a certain je ne sais quoi—to everything he did, but maybe he'd gone too far this time. He knew that the man who was at this very moment taking his turn at trying to eviscerate the boy—and he had to stop thinking of him like that; he was a grown man after all—with the pointed tip of his boot had thought so. He'd seen it in his face, an almost imperceptible widening of the eyes, an is he serious? look, although the man would never dare to say so. They'd all nodded so enthusiastically when the patrón had suggested it, broad smiles displaying bad teeth, eagerly breaking their beer bottles in their rush to do his bidding. Sycophants, all of them.

And would it really have made that much difference? He doubted it. Sometimes movies pissed him off so much. If he was in charge—and, who knows, one day he might be if his luck held—he would pass a law that required them to be as accurate and factual as possible at all times. You watched them in good faith and ought to be able to rely on the veracity of what you saw. It was a contract of sorts; you paid your money; you didn't expect to be misled. As far as the practicalities of imposing such a law on films produced in Hollywood were concerned . . . he'd cross that bridge when he came to it.

He watched the old man swinging gently in the breeze, blood and tar dripping from his bare feet and pooling in the dirt below him. Urine too. He was really quite fat for a peasant. But then he would be, wouldn't he, stuffed to the gills with stolen pig like he was. The patrón wouldn't have been surprised to see the shape of a pig's trotter poking through the grubby shirt that covered his distended belly. The man's furious thrashing had quickly subsided into a spasmic twitching and had then stopped altogether, the obscene (and irritating) gurgling sound in his throat stopping too, thank God. Which one of the idiots had forgotten to put a rag in his mouth? The patrón had been tempted to shoot him but that would have defeated the object of the exercise as well as disappointing his men. They liked their fun.

He lifted his face to the sky, closed his eyes and took a deep breath, hoping some of his irritation would ease away. It was quiet now, almost peaceful, apart from a rhythmic thumping as four pairs of booted feet did their worst. He opened his eyes again and watched the men, fascinated, as they crowded around the semi-conscious boy, legs swinging relentlessly in and out, in and out. It was as if they were choreographed. A couple of them, the older ones, were grunting with the exertion, sweat flicking from their hair, but the boy wasn't making a sound now and the patrón could see a dark stain spreading out from his crotch. Like father, like son.

He took a step closer. The men stopped as one and stepped away, glad of the temporary respite. One of them pushed his hat back on his head and scratched his scalp, another spat noisily into the dust and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Disgusting. The patrón tried to imagine the thoughts of men like these. They'd already consumed a number of cold beers. No doubt, more of the same was right up there as a good idea after a successful morning's work. He snorted. Successful for them maybe, but, as he'd already said, he was extremely dissatisfied with his own morning. He turned the boy's head with his boot, careful to avoid the worst of the blood. The flesh was spongy, like a steak that had been tenderized for too long; it made his skin crawl. Jesus Christ, the boy's own mother wouldn't recognize him now.

He glanced briefly at his wristwatch and did a double take; how had it got so late? He had to get going. His wife would kill him if he was late for lunch again. He'd have preferred to stay a while longer but he'd been married long enough for him to know what was good for him. He turned and headed back towards the new '68 Chevy C-20 pickup sitting at the top of the rise, next to the old heap that the hired help were driving. Its previously gleaming paintwork was already covered by a thick coating of dust. He ran his finger through it and shook his head. It was a constant battle. He hated this country some times.

But then a brighter thought bubbled up and made him smile: I wonder what's showing at the movie theater next week, he thought as he climbed in. Hopefully something else with Charles Bronson.

Chapter 2

Evan had just taken a mouthful of beer when he felt the soft touch of a woman's hand on his arm.

'Evan?' a voice he vaguely recognized from the past said.

He turned to look at the woman standing next to him at the bar and just about managed to stop himself from spitting the beer all over her. It went up his nose instead and set him off on a coughing fit. She waited patiently, a hint of a smile on her cushiony lips, as the other drinkers at the bar looked on. It had been a quiet night so far.

'Jesus Christ,' he said, giving her an awkward, mismatched hug, 'Ellie?'

She smiled properly and sat down next to him as the other drinkers shifted along and made room for her. He sat and stared at her a few beats. She didn't look as good as she used to, that was for sure, but still good enough for some of the drinkers to look her up and down as if she were hanging naked in a butcher’s window. He remembered she always liked to think she looked like Michelle Pfeiffer—which she did in a way—except her nose was longer, but you knew what she meant, although it wasn't as if people stopped her in the street and clicked their fingers and said: Hey, you look like . . . Haggard was probably the best way to describe how she looked now, but, then again, he didn't suppose he looked as happy and carefree as he had the last time he saw her.

Ellie Martin had been best friends with his wife, Sarah, ever since high school—until Sarah disappeared five years ago, of course. Ellie had been the first person he'd talked to when Sarah disappeared but she'd been as mystified as he was. He hadn't heard from her since. Just another one of the many people who'd faded away, like Evan wasn't a person in his own right, just half of Sarah and Evan. The lesser half, apparently.

'What are you doing here?' he asked. 'How did you know I'd be here?'

'I called in at your office—the guy downstairs said I'd probably find you here.' She made a point of looking at her watch with a slight raise of her eyebrow. Evan thought that was a bit rich—for one it was gone five thirty, but apart from that, in the good old days nobody had been able to keep up with Ellie's drinking and she'd led Sarah astray more than once. On the few occasions he'd argued with Sarah, it had been after she'd crawled home drunk from a night out with Ellie. As a result, his relationship with Ellie had always been a bit delicate—as in, liable to shatter into tiny pieces at the slightest knock.

'Anyway, aren't you going to buy me a drink?' she said, leaning forward so her forearms rested on the bar, her cleavage leveraged against her arms, her breasts pushed upward. Evan didn't think the display was for his benefit and neither did the other drinkers along the bar, but that didn't stop them all staring.

Evan ordered her something with an umbrella in it, got another beer for himself and asked her again what she was doing looking for him. She took a sip of her drink and looked down at her glass. Evan could see a slight tremor in her hands. She swallowed nervously.

An awful thought suddenly pushed itself into Evan's mind. He felt as if somebody was working an ice cold knife into his stomach and twisting it just for fun.

She was here with news of Sarah—bad news.

She looked across at him. He could see something in her eyes, but it didn't look like concern for him or his welfare, more like an overarching commitment to self-interest. Then again, she'd always been a selfish bitch; Sarah had said as much many times. In fact, now he thought about it, he realized he hadn't minded her fading out of his life. Hadn't even noticed, in fact.

'I'm in trouble. I need your help.'

Evan relaxed and let out a long breath, pinching the skin between his eyes and the bridge of his nose.

Thank God for that. Nothing to do with Sarah.

He put on his best, concerned expression and invited her to tell him all about it.

'I can't really go into the background details—'

He nodded, thinking good start to himself. Full and open disclosure from the get-go. He seemed to remember she'd been devious as well as selfish.

'—but there's someone I want you to find for me.' She looked at him expectantly, as if she needed confirmation from him that he'd got his head round the task ahead, before she gave him any specifics—like a name.

'Uh huh,' he said and nodded intelligently. He took another pull on his beer. She'd hardly touched her drink.

She didn't say anything. Was she just expecting him to say okay?

'Why do you need me to find him—it is a him isn't it—for you? I get the feeling this isn't a missing person case.'

'You're right,' she said, nodding, 'it's a guy and I suppose it's not so much find him as get a message to him.'

'But you can't tell me what it's about?' Or don't want to.

Ellie looked at him as if she was seriously considering telling him all about it, but she wasn't of course.

'Can't you just do it for me without asking a ton of questions?' She tried another smile, but it didn't really work.

Evan thought it was like being in a time machine—he'd been taken back five or six years in time, back to the same old manipulative Ellie. She probably couldn't remember the last time the world didn't work out for her. At least she hadn't said for old times' sake.

She put her hand on his arm again and he laughed silently to himself; here it comes, the emotional blackmail.

'I know we didn't always see eye to eye,' she said, surprising him with her unexpected honesty, 'but I really do need your help. I'm in serious trouble.'

He laced his fingers together, pushed the hands out until the knuckles cracked. He hoped the gesture implied a degree of tiresomeness; made it clear how little that meant to him.

'And you don't think it would help if you told me about it?'

She looked down and shook her head sadly, her hair falling forward, obscuring her face. He leaned forward and towards her but she didn't look at him.

'Why me?' he said. 'How did you know I'm working as a private investigator?'

'I didn't—'

'Then why?'

'—but I didn't have anyone else to turn to.'

Evan knew that was a lie to begin with. She'd just decided emotional blackmail was the best approach to use on him. Obviously he looked like a soft touch.

'That's worked out well then,' he said, 'seeing as I am a private investigator. And putting those investigative skills to work right now—'

She looked up at him now, almost as if he was about to deliver the answer to her problems already.

'—makes me think there's something you're not telling me. In addition to the stuff you've told me you're not telling me.'

He looked at her for confirmation and got a don't be ridiculous look back.

'Like it's dangerous.'

She held his gaze and shook her head. 'Not really,' she said.

Evan's brain did the translation without him having to think about it: Yes, very.

They sat staring at each other without talking for a moment. Evan finished his beer and ordered another. She still hadn't made a dent in her drink. He decided he wasn't going to just say yes without her giving him something more—some explanation as to why she needed to get the message to the guy or at least some proof that it wasn't dangerous. For all he knew the guy might be a drug dealer or a homicidal maniac.

'There is another reason I came to you,' she said eventually.

Evan allowed himself a small smile as he watched her inching her way cautiously towards the truth. Not that he expected she would actually get anywhere near something as alien as the truth, but a little closer would be nice.

'Uh huh.'

She put her fingers between her eyebrows as if stanching a headache. 'You're right, I could have gone to any PI and asked them to do it. But there's something I can do for you in return. Something that would only be of interest to you.'

She sat back in her seat and finally took a big gulp of her drink.

Thank Christ for that, Evan thought. But if she thought he was going to bite, she was wrong. He was sure she was only saying it to get his interest, get him to agree to do what she wanted. She probably didn't even plan on paying him for his time, let alone do something for him in return. If he looked manipulative up in the dictionary he'd see her face smiling back at him.

Then she sat up and leaned in towards him and the smug, almost sneering look in her eyes that said you have absolutely no idea what is going on turned into a cold hand that gripped his innards and twisted and told him he was wrong. That he could not have been more wrong.

'I can help you find Sarah,' she said.

Chapter 3

It's just a question of finding the right button and pushing it. Evan's button wasn't hard to find—it was practically sticking out of the top of his head, and Ellie hadn't so much pushed it as hit it with a sledgehammer.

That's what he felt had happened anyway. If Babe Ruth had come charging into the bar, swinging his bat wildly and caught him round the head with it, he would have been hard pressed to tell the difference between that and how he felt now. His hands began to sweat and the back of his neck went cold.

He'd come in for a quick after-work beer just like any other day and now this. He wasn't sure he'd heard her correctly. He was vaguely aware that she was still talking—he could see her mouth moving, going ten to the dozen like all women's do, the vocal cords twanging away tirelessly, but he couldn't hear anything apart from a roaring silence, his blood a steady pounding of fists against his ears. He thought his own mouth was probably hanging open, catching flies.

His head started to clear. It felt as if it had expanded and snapped back into place like a rubber band. He could hear Patsy Cline singing I've Loved & Lost Again in the background, which was some sick coincidence if you asked him. The song ought to be banned. Ellie was saying something to him.

'Evan! Have you heard a word I'm saying?' She took hold of his arm and shook him.

'I'm not sure I heard you right,' he said. It came out more like a croak than his voice, hollow behind the blood in his ears.

'I said I can't guarantee anything, but I think I can help.'

He grabbed hold of her arm more roughly than he meant to and squeezed. 'Where is she?' Five years' worth of pain and hurt crammed into three little words.

She slapped at his hand. 'You're hurting me.'

He let go and slumped down into his seat. 'Sorry.'

'You have to help me first,' she said.

It took a moment for her words to sink in. He stared at her open-mouthed. Did she think this was some kind of game and he'd pulled the short straw? But there was obviously something in the way he was looking at her that made her realize she'd strayed into territory where anything could happen. Her face softened and she put a conciliatory hand on his arm. Her voice took on a calm, measured tone, as if he was a patient waking from a coma and she had to give him some important, but bad, news: Sorry, we had to amputate your legs; deal with it.

'If I tell you what I know now, you'll be out that door'—she nodded her head towards the door which had just opened behind them—'faster than a scalded cat.'

Evan nodded several times, his breath exiting through his nostrils. He had to admit—to himself at least—that she was right about that.

'Also,' she said squeezing his arm in a patronizing way so that he knew something nasty was on its way, '. . . and there isn't any nice way to put this, but you've been waiting five years already. Another day or two won't make any difference.'

He felt as if he'd been slapped.

Had she really just said that? You've been waiting five years already.

'I need help right now. If you don't help me, I probably won't be around in five days' time, forget about five years.'

He didn't believe a word of it—she was being melodramatic. But he was back where he seemed to spend most of his life—between a rock and a hard place. He was going to have to do what she wanted if she was going to help him. Unless he took her outside and beat the crap—and the information—out of her. That idea was currently a very close second. It wouldn't take a lot to move it to the head of the line. He stared at his reflection in the mirror, his eyes never blinking, and almost prayed for her to give him an excuse to erupt.

'Evan?'

He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, his jaw moving tightly, as another hateful hypothesis intruded into his mind; did she really know something or was she just pulling his chain, pushing the right button to make him help her? There was only one way to find out and he hated himself for being so easy to manipulate. He threw his hands up in the air, unable to put his frustration into words.

'So, what's this guy's name?' he said eventually, sucking air up from the floor.

He saw a flash of triumph in her eyes.

'Dixie.'

He pulled a face. 'That's it?'

'No, his full name's Richard LaBarre, but everybody calls him Dixie.'

'Why? Is he from down South?'

She shrugged. 'I don't know—it doesn't matter anyway. I know he spends a lot of time in a bar called Kelly's Tavern. That'd be a good place to start looking for him.'

Evan knew the place; it was probably the roughest dive in the whole city. No danger, my ass.

'What do you want me to say to him if I find him?'

'Just ask him to call me.' She handed him a piece of paper with her number scribbled on it.

'Nothing else? What if he asks why?' His voice had taken on a long-suffering tone. He wondered if this is what his life would feel like after a few more years if Sarah ever did come home. A life of summary orders handed down to him without explanation or the possibility of non-compliance: do this; don't do that; do this chore now; what the hell are you doing that for? until he wished that she'd never come back. If only he knew, because if that's what life was going to turn into, he'd be out the door right now and Ellie could shove her problems up her (shapely) ass.

'I might be prepared to do everything you ask without a word of explanation,' he said, 'but not everybody's so amenable. Some people want a reason before they hop to it.'

'He won't,' she said, ignoring the jibe, the smug confidence in her voice irritating the hell out of him.

Everything she said made him realize there was a lot more going on that she wasn't telling him (all the important bits) and here he was about to walk into it all blindfolded. If it wasn't for the carrot she was dangling . . . Christ, how many more times did he have to think it before he got up and walked out and hoped next time she left it ten years before she came looking. In fact, make that twenty.

Talk about a prisoner of hope.

'Have you got a picture of him?'

She fished in her bag and pulled out half a photograph. It had started out as a photograph of two people but one of them had been cut out. It looked as if it had been taken somewhere hot and sunny and he could see a woman's arm but that was all. He wondered if Ellie was the other person and she didn't want him—or anyone else—to know it.

'Was that you who's been cut out?' he asked.

'No.'

'Really?' He leaned away from her and studied her for a moment. 'Because that'—he pointed very carefully at the dimples of cellulite pocking the white flesh under the woman's arm in the photo—'looks like your arm.' He chewed on the inside of his mouth to keep a grin from breaking out.

Her self-satisfied smile evaporated and was replaced with a look like she’d sat on a hot coal. She shot him a look of such hatred and contempt, it gave him goosebumps. At least she had the presence of mind not to glance down at her arm.

He gave a small it was worth a try shrug and topped it off with a smug smile. He felt much better. 'Do you know who it is?'

'No.' She shook her head. Not no, sorry, just no.

He smiled again as if to say he'd have been surprised and disappointed by any other answer. He'd find out who it was if he needed to, but the cellulite would never go away. Ha, ha, ha.

'There's no risk of me drowning in a sea of facts then.'

She climbed off her stool and picked her bag up off the bar, ready to go. That suited Evan just fine; he hadn't been about to offer her another drink anyway. He gave her his number and she punched it into her phone as if he'd given her the number for dial-a-cockroach. He watched her in the mirror behind the bar as she walked back towards the door. He was pretty sure she stole a quick look at her arms in the mirror as she went. A number of the other guys were watching her too, all sitting in a line at the bar like grinning idiots. One of them picked up his beer bottle and blew a hollow toot with it. You couldn't blame them—she was good to look at after all, in a selfish, manipulative bitch sort of way.

He ordered another beer and sat staring into the distance, wondering how likely it was that a person, even one as narcissistic as Ellie, would wait five years before telling her best friend's husband what she knew about her disappearance. Unless the best friend had asked her not to, of course . . .