Текст книги "Before The Killing Starts"

Автор книги: James Harper

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Chapter 7

Evan sat at the bar and wondered what to do next. He picked up his glass and was just about to down the rest of his beer when a shoulder slammed into him, sending the glass flying. One of the inbreds from the end of the bar continued on his way to the men's room without looking back. Behind him, Evan heard the others laughing. He turned to look at them and one of them raised his glass in an up-yours cheers towards him. He felt a hot little worm of excitement in his gut and reckoned he had about a minute—long enough for the guy to take a leak but not long enough to wash his hands—in which to decide what to do. He only really had two options; he could get up and leave or he could wait and deal with what happened when the guy came back.

The bartender walked slowly down the bar making a tut-tutting sound and made a big point of bending over and picking up the broken glass. He straightened up and his gaze snapped back toward Evan, his lips curled into a smile, eyes full of gleeful anticipation, like a fat, spoiled kid on Christmas morning.

Evan decided to stay; he didn't want to disappoint the guy. Apart from the damage to his pride if he got up and left with his tail between his legs, they might decide to stop him from leaving anyway. Besides he'd never been one to let prudence or reason cloud his judgement.

He kept his eyes straight ahead as he heard the door to the men's room open and swing shut. Along the bar, the remaining inbreds had stopped laughing, although they still had the stupid grins plastered across their faces. The pool players in the back had paused their game. The two Hispanic men sitting at the table weren't paying the slightest bit of attention.

Evan took his right foot off the rail and placed it squarely on the floor, bracing himself. He could feel the adrenalin sledding through his blood as he locked his right arm solid on the bar and tensed. The guy walked up, an ugly smile on his lips, and swung his shoulder into Evan on his way past. Or that's what he tried to do, because this time, instead of knocking Evan into the bar, he bounced off and stumbled against one of the tables. The shock on his face turned quickly into anger as his friends sniggered again, but this time at him. What a fun afternoon it was turning into.

Evan sat on his stool staring ahead as if nothing had happened.

The guy looked over at his friends—for moral support, presumably—then stuck his face into Evan's personal space. Evan kept his eyes front, the smell of beer and potato chips on the guy's breath washing over him.

'What the hell do you think you're doing?' the guy said.

Evan ignored him. He didn't want to antagonize the guy unnecessarily by pointing out that he was having a beer. Or had been.

'I said, what do you think you're doing?'

Evan knew it wasn't going to end well; maybe he'd made the wrong call. The guy was getting more confident now, taking Evan's lack of response as fear.

'Look at me when I'm talking to you,' the guy said and poked Evan with his finger.

Evan tried not to dwell on where that finger had just been—the guy definitely hadn't had time to wash his hands.

The guy jabbed again. 'I said look at me.'

Evan took a deep breath and swivelled on the stool to face the guy. He had long, greasy, dirt-blond hair and smelled of beer and body odor and something else Evan couldn't and didn't want to place. There was a dark smiley face of perspiration under his left armpit, but not on the other side, as if he'd run out of deodorant half way through his morning ablutions. That must make him left-handed if he sprays his right armpit first, Evan thought as he lowered his left foot to the floor so that he had both feet firmly on the ground.

'You were in my way,' the guy said, jabbing Evan with his finger for a third time. Whatever might have been left on his finger was now transferred to Evan's jacket. He looked down at it but couldn't see a visible stain. That didn't mean every dog in the neighborhood wouldn't be sniffing around it.

'Don't do that,' Evan said pleasantly enough.

The guy smiled like he'd finally got what he'd been after.

'Or what? You want to make something of it?'

Evan shook his head. 'No, I just want you to stop doing it.'

The guy turned round to his friends, a massive grin on his face. 'D'you hear that? The big tough detective wants me to stop, but the pussy's too yellow to do anything about it.'

Evan raised both hands in appeasement. 'Okay, okay, it's my mistake; I shouldn't have been in your way—'

'Ha. Will you listen to this yellow . . .'

'—but I didn't know you were going to the men's room.' He shrugged an apology. 'I couldn't see your momma here to hold your little peepee so I thought you were going to wet your pants like you normally do.'

The guy's finger stalled on its way for another jab and his mouth dropped open in astonishment. It opened and closed a couple of times but nothing came out, his eyes bulging in their sockets, like they were trying to escape.

At the end of the bar his friends howled with laughter.

Evan grabbed the finger in mid-air (he'd been right, the guy was left-handed) and bent it sharply backwards, snapping it cleanly at the knuckle. He felt a hot, mean satisfaction right in his belly as he heard the sweet crack of bone followed by a loud scream. He jerked his hand downwards feeling bone grate against bone in the ruined finger. He kept pushing down forcing the guy to lean in.

The guy was making an ah, ah, ah sound, but a lot louder than that. Evan grabbed his chin with his other hand, digging his nails in and squeezing the flesh along his jaw to draw his face close. He let go of the finger and hammered the heel of his hand down onto the bridge of the guy's nose. Bang. Bang. Bang. Same as the number of finger jabs. Fair's fair, after all.

He stood up, feeling the pull of something sticky on the seat of his pants, and snapped his arm out straight sending the guy staggering backwards into the tables and chairs behind him. Funny how he couldn't hear the inbreds laughing any more. He looked at the guy in front of him, trying to disentangle himself from the furniture.

Enough now?

Not a chance.

He bent and picked the heavy stool up by its legs, spun around and swung it through the air, catching the guy solidly on the side of the head, sending him sprawling into a heap on the floor. He kept the spin going like a hammer thrower in a track and field competition and let it loose at the remaining two inbreds. It missed by a mile but you can't win them all. He'd never been any good at track and field.

Behind him, one of the pool players was coming on fast, the pool cue reversed in both hands. Before Evan had a chance to react, the Hispanic guy who'd nodded to him at the bar stuck his leg out and tripped the guy, sending him crashing headlong to the ground. The cue flew out of his hands and clattered across the floor, coming to rest by Evan's feet. The pool player tried to get his legs under him but the Hispanic guy jumped out of his chair and kicked him hard in the balls. Game over. He looked round at the second player and wagged a finger at him. The guy showed him his palms and backed away.

Evan bent and picked up the cue and backed towards the door but nobody else was up for it. He got to the door, pushed it open with his butt, slipped out and pushed the cue through the two door handles. It wouldn't hold up against a good kick but it was better than nothing.

Way to go, Evan, way to go.

Chapter 8

Dixie was just about to get in the car when his phone rang. On the other side of the car standing by the driver's door was the guy everybody called Crispy. Dixie hadn't met his mother but he felt sorry for her even so, because Crispy was the size of something you’d normally climb with rope and pitons, not give birth to. His head sloped straight down into his shoulders like a lamp shade. They called him Crispy because his parents had named him Chris and then either been stupid or unkind enough to give him the middle initial 'P'. Dixie didn't know what his last name was but if there was any justice in the world it would be Bacon.

Crispy was a butt-ugly recidivist who killed as if it were a reflex action. Nestled somewhere between the too-small ears that perched on his head like warts on an egg his brain was solely occupied, as far as Dixie could tell, by thoughts of the different ways of hurting people. He liked to tell anyone who would listen that the real reason he was called Crispy was because he'd set a guy on fire one time and watched him burn to death. Ordinarily Dixie managed to keep out of his way but Chico had insisted he take him along him and that they take Crispy's car.

Dixie checked the screen and the name he saw raised an eyebrow: Dave the bartender from Kelly's Tavern. He walked out of earshot and answered the call. In the background he could hear country and western music playing on the jukebox and the sounds of a bar starting to fill up.

'I thought you'd want to know there was a guy in here asking about you,' Dave said.

'Did he leave a name?'

'He left his business card. Hang on a minute.' Dixie heard Dave put the phone down as he went to fetch the card. Anyone with half a brain would have picked it up before making the call, but anyone with half a brain wouldn't be working at Kelly's in the first place. It was probably the worst bar Dixie knew, but it served a purpose for certain people to get in contact.

'His name's Evan Buckley,' Dave said. 'He's a private investigator.'

'Never heard of him.'

'That's what I said when he asked about you.'

'That's the way I like it, Dave,' Dixie said in an encouraging tone. 'Did he say what he wants?'

'No. Just that he wants to find you.'

'He didn't say why?

'Uh uh.'

'Did you ask him?'

There was a long, uncomfortable pause. Behind Dave's breathing Dixie could hear the music in the background. It sounded like some idiot had put the same track on again. He didn't think he was going to get much more out of Dave, who wasn't the sharpest tool in the box. Face to face, Dave liked to watch your mouth in case there were any difficult words, which put him at a disadvantage on the phone. Dixie often wondered who tied his shoes for him in the morning.

'He said he wasn't working for your wife,' Dave said suddenly. He sounded pleased that he'd remembered something else.

Dixie closed his eyes and let out a God give me strength sort of sigh.

'I don't have a wife, Dave.'

'Right.'

'There's probably a whole bunch of other people he's not working for either. The President, the Pope, Father Christmas . . .'

'Right.'

That short word conveyed a lifetime of put downs by people who were smarter than he was. Dave's temporary enthusiasm had pretty much run its course.

Dixie looked up at the sky in frustration. 'There's nothing else you can tell me about him?'

'He had a photo of you. Well, half a photo.'

Dixie was tempted to point out that you couldn't have half a photograph, just like you couldn't have half a hole or half a piece of string, but he knew it wasn't worth the effort.

'What do you mean?' he said, trying to keep the growing irritation out of his voice.

'It was a photo of you cut in half. It looked like you and a woman and the woman was cut off.'

That was more interesting. 'Okay,' Dixie said, stretching the word out a couple of extra syllables as he took the information on board. 'That all?'

'Yeah . . . Apart from the fact that he broke Charlie Watson's finger and busted up his nose pretty bad. I gotta say I was impressed.'

Dixie laughed. 'Charlie's an inbred who doesn't know his ass from a hole in the ground. He probably deserved it. I bet he started it, too.' He heard Dave grunt in agreement. 'I think I like Mr Buckley already; my kind of guy. Give me the details on his card.'

Dixie took down the address and cell phone number and ended the call. He walked slowly back to the car turning it over in his mind. Where had the guy got his name? More importantly, how had he known to start looking at Kelly's Tavern? And what the hell was that about a photo?

He got back to the car but didn't get in. He stood and drummed his fingers on the roof as he tried to think it through. It came to him like a mini epiphany and he smiled to himself. It was the mention of the woman cut out of the photo. Ellie. It had to be. She must have asked Buckley to find him. She gave him the photo, told him where to go. The question was, why? Well, at least it made his job of finding her a whole lot easier. He'd worry about the why later.

The smile slipped off his face. Before he did that, though, he had to go and talk to Alvarez. He knew it was a pointless exercise. It was all very well Chico saying talk to Alvarez. What was he going to say? Hey Alvarez, Chico wants to know if you took the drugs but kept the money for yourself. It was going to take some careful phrasing to avoid a slap, that was for sure, and there wouldn't be much help coming from Crispy's corner unless there were some heads needed punching.

He rubbed the back of his neck and rolled his head, feeling the vertebrae pop, hoping to ease out the tension. It actually made it worse. Finding a diplomatic way of asking Alvarez if he was a double crossing, cheating beaner wasn't his biggest problem, either. He opened the door and climbed in. Getting rid of the idiot sitting in the driver's seat was. He couldn't be one hundred per cent sure, but he reckoned Chico had insisted he take Crispy along because he didn't trust him.

He could hardly blame the guy.

 

 

Chapter 9

Out of the frying pan and into the fire was a phrase that crossed Evan's mind as he walked away from Kelly's Tavern. It appeared that he'd exchanged one barroom brawler with a pool cue for two serious looking Hispanics with . . . he didn't like to think what. As he'd suspected, one good kick had snapped the pool cue in half and the doors had burst open. Looking over his shoulder he'd been surprised to see it was the Hispanics who'd followed him out of the bar and not the inbreds. They were about fifty yards behind him.

At first he'd been surprised—and grateful—when they'd helped him in the bar, but now he wasn't so sure. Their interest must be to do with him asking about Dixie, and he couldn't help but wonder if their concern to stop him being beaten up was driven by the desire to do a better job of it themselves. They didn't look like the types to use something as prosaic as a pool cue, either.

He reached his car, jumped in and pulled out into the traffic. Behind him on the sidewalk the two guys started to run back to their car which was parked directly outside the bar, but facing the other way. It gave Evan a few seconds head start but traffic was light and in his rear view mirror he saw them make a u-turn before stamping on the gas.

Evan accelerated until he was alongside a semi-trailer truck lumbering along. He looked in his mirror and saw the two guys right behind him. He saw a turning on his right just up ahead. He waited to the last second and wrenched the wheel hard, swinging the car in front of the semi-trailer and into a narrow side street, missing the truck's fender by inches. There was a blast on the horn and the angry squeal of rubber as the truck slammed on its brakes and the two guys shot past it. Evan glanced in his mirror again and saw the side of the semi-trailer completely blocking the entrance to the street. He was in the clear.

He goosed the gas and shot forward between the cars parked either side of the narrow street. Another quick look in the mirror and he was still in the clear. Eyes snapped front again, he did a double take and stamped on the brakes. He couldn't believe his eyes. In front of him a Fedex delivery truck had reversed into the street and was coming towards him. He twisted in his seat and looked over his shoulder. Behind him the semi-trailer was on the move again. He hit the horn but the truck in front of him kept on coming. He leaned right into it and the truck stopped. The driver jumped down from the cab and made his way round to the back. Evan hit the horn again and the driver held up his hand, fingers splayed—five minutes.

He turned in his seat again and saw the back end of the semi-trailer clear the end of the street and disappear from view. Behind it, the two guys had reversed and were waiting as it finally got out of their way. They pulled into the street and stopped. Evan was boxed in.

In front of him the delivery driver had opened up the back of the truck and was climbing out again, a stack of boxes in his arms. He looked towards Evan, smiled apologetically at him, and then looked past him. Evan watched him go rigid for a split second, an incredulous look on his face, then throw the boxes away from him as if he'd just been told they were radioactive. Then he turned and ran.

Evan looked behind him and saw the two guys were out of their car and striding towards him, guns in their hands. The driver made it to the cab and scrambled in, dropping the keys in his panic. He half jumped, half fell out and snatched them up again. But he didn't get back in. He looked back at the two guys, then at Evan and then the two guys again. He was wasting too much time. Evan knew he was thinking of forgetting the truck and making a run for it.

He pulled forward until he was almost under the truck's loading ramp. He couldn't see the driver any more. There was a sudden cough of black smoke as the truck's engine fired. It jerked forward and stopped again. The idiot had stalled it. The engine turned over and over but it wouldn't catch. Evan looked in the mirror—the guys had quickened their pace and were only yards away. The truck's engine fired again but still it didn't move.

What the hell was the guy doing? Finishing up his paperwork?

Evan hit the horn again and the truck started to crawl forward. The two guys broke into a run. Evan inched the car after it, his palms slick on the wheel. The truck made it to the end of the street and stopped, waiting for a break in the traffic.

Too late.

Evan's door flew open and the guy who'd helped him in the bar leaned in and tried to pull the keys out of the ignition. Evan knocked his hand away. Then the passenger door opened and the other guy threw himself into the passenger seat, his gun trained on Evan's chest. The first guy stepped back and motioned for Evan to get out. In front of him the Fedex truck started moving again, made a right and was gone. The street ahead was clear, but the truck might as well have still been parked in front of him for all the good it did him. There was no way he could drive off without getting shot.

Evan climbed slowly out of his car and wiped his hand on the side of his pants, his heart banging away in his chest. The second guy came around the front of the car and stood behind him. He was trapped between them. He took a closer look at the guy in front of him. He was heavyset and a couple of doors down from good looking with a bandit's mustache and the sort of eyes you didn't want to catch if you knew what was good for you.

'Thanks for stopping that guy in the bar,' Evan said and grinned nervously.

'No problem,' the guy said and grinned back, not so nervously.

'I don't suppose you've chased me because I forgot to say thanks,' Evan said hopefully.

The guy dropped his eyes and worked a small, sad smile onto his face. 'It was quite rude,' he said, 'but, you're right, there is something else.'

Evan nodded. 'I thought so.'

'Why are you asking about Dixie?'

'Why don't you tell me who you are first?'

The guy smiled. 'Sure. I'm Juan and this is José,' he said with a sweep of his arm towards his friend. José gave a slight nod of his head.

Evan looked past Juan to where their car was parked. Juan saw him looking and shook his head. 'Don't be silly.' He needn't have worried. Evan wasn't about to put himself at risk. He'd already done more for Ellie than she deserved. He wasn't thinking of making a run for it anyway; he just wanted to get a look at their license number.

'So, now you know who we are, why are you looking for Dixie?'

'A client asked me to try to find him.'

Juan nodded. 'What are you? Some kind of investigator?'

Evan nodded back.

'So who's your client?'

'You probably wouldn't know them.'

Juan smiled again. 'Try me. I know a lot of people.'

'His name's John Thomas.'

Juan cocked his head at that, his eyes diminishing to slits as he gave it some thought. 'You're right—I never heard of him. If he exists that is.'

He nodded to José standing behind Evan who stepped up and slammed the barrel of his gun into the side of Evan's head. Evan let out an involuntary gasp and staggered sideways against one of the parked cars. A trickle of blood wound its way down the side of his face.

Wrong answer, obviously.

'Let's try another one,' Juan said as if nothing had happened. 'Why does this John Thomas want to find Dixie?'

Damn. Evan knew another bang on the head was on its way whatever he said. Should he make something up? The truth—that he didn't know—was guaranteed to annoy them.

'He didn't say,' Evan said, glancing round at José behind him. 'That's the truth, by the way. Said I didn't need to know.'

There must have been something about the resignation is his voice that stopped them from hitting him immediately. Juan cocked his head to one side again and studied Evan's face, trying to make up his mind whether further motivation was called for. It didn't take long. He nodded and José obliged with another clout on Evan's ear.

'That might teach you to take a fuller brief from your client,' Juan said. He grinned again and José chuckled.

'Thanks for the advice.'

Juan gave a no-problem flick of the hand. 'My pleasure.'

He didn't say anything more for a moment. Maybe he was all out of questions.

'Well, if that's it, I think I'll run along now,' Evan said, and gestured with his chin towards his car.

José stepped forward and drew his arm back to give him another whack when a noise in the distance made them all freeze. The sound of police sirens. The delivery driver must have called it in. Evan managed to keep the grin off his face but Juan saw it in his eyes nonetheless.

Juan gave a small shrug and pointed directly at Evan's face. 'You're a lucky man. If I were you, I'd drop this.'

The sound of the sirens was quite close now. They couldn't be more than a block away. It didn't seem to worry him.

'Tell your client that you couldn't find Dixie. Give him his money back. Whatever. Just drop it,' he said and patted Evan's face a couple of times.

Then the two of them turned and jogged back to their car. They reversed out into the main street and drove off just as the first police cruiser pulled across the other end of the street. Evan got another look at their license plate then turned towards the police and raised his hands above his head.

The police didn't take long with him. With the delivery driver's story to back him up, he managed to convince them it had been a mugging that went wrong. They probably didn't believe him but they let him go anyway, which was the main thing, with a promise to come in and give a full statement in the next couple of days.

As soon as they'd gone Evan got back in his car and made a couple of calls.