“Here you go, kid, one missing cat.” The animal hissed at me as I passed the plastic carrier across the park picnic table. “Mrs. Sweetums!” The little girl’s face lit up as she saw the
“Here you go, kid, one missing cat.” The animal hissed at me as I passed the plastic carrier across the park picnic table.
“Mrs. Sweetums!” The little girl’s face lit up as she saw the cat.
Personally, I thought the clerk at the pound had a better name for the beast, “Little Demon Spawn.” But it was the kid’s cat. She could call it whatever she wanted, as long as she kept it away from me.
I plastered my most comforting expression over my distaste. “Just be sure you keep her in the house from now on, all right?”
“Oh yes!” The girl’s gaze never left the wretched fur-ball. “Thank you, Miss LaGrange.” She held out a small Ziploc bag of coins and a few crumpled bills.
I took it, half-ashamed of myself. I hadn’t quit the FBI to take little kids’ babysitting money. But then, a gal needed to eat.
Back at my car, I dumped the bag into the cup-holder and started sorting through it. Take out what I paid to spring the cat—plus gas money—and that leaves…enough for a sandwich and a cheap beer.
Sighing, I leaned back in my seat. I hadn’t counted on the runaway cat caper paying that month’s rent, but I’d hoped it would at least make a dent.
I’ve got to find some real paying clients soon, or I’ll be the one out on the streets.
My car sputtered a bit as I kicked it into gear.
“Not you too.” I muttered.
The car’s reply was a choked cough of exhaust, but it pulled away from the curb for me.
I glanced at the time—just after four.
“I need a drink.”
There was a dive bar a couple of blocks from my apartment. Half its clientele were wannabe gangsters, but it was cheap and within crawling distance if I got too smashed. I parked in my building’s garage and walked over.
The Greased Hog lived up to its name. A thick layer of grime covered everything from floor to ceiling. Though there wasn’t a motorcycle in sight.
Honestly, what self-respecting biker would be caught dead hanging around the cheap knockoffs that frequent this place?
It was early enough in the day that only the real die-hards were inside. The bums at the counter who drank from dawn til dusk, the local hustler warming up the pool table before his marks showed up, and one down-on-her-luck private detective.
“What can I get you?” The bartender asked as I slumped into a stool at the bar.
“The cheapest thing you’ve got on tap.”
He nodded and poured me a glass of pale amber liquid.
I paid him in nickels and dimes.
He scowled at me, but took the coins before walking away.
Best enjoy this one, Angola, you probably won’t get served another.
It tasted like cardboard. No, stale cardboard.
I drank it anyway. After all, I’d spent nearly half the profit of my last case on it.
But I didn’t drink it quickly.
After about an hour, the regular crowd started to filter in. The bar got loud in a hurry. I still had half my beer left, but I considered chugging it and leaving.
The rowdy throng held no interest for me.
Other than a passing curiosity about how many of the really young looking men gathered around the loose tables were actually of legal drinking age.
But that wasn’t my problem. Not since I’d quit my reliable government paycheck for life in the private sector.
I grimaced over another sip of my beer. Was the red tape really so bad? It had only been what, three months since I left? Could I just reapply? Get my old job back?
No. I glared down at the glass in front of me. There’s no way they’d just take me back like nothing happened, even if I wanted to. And I don’t.
“Hey, lady, you look like you could use some company.” The man slurred out his words as he leered over me.
“If you find some let me know.” I pulled my purse up to my lap—both to keep him from snatching what little money I had left, and to get a hold of my gun, in case he was a belligerent drunk.
“Huh?” He leaned closer. His breath stank of the same cheap beer that was in my glass. Though he’d clearly had a lot more of it.
“Get lost. I’m not interested.”
With a huff, he stumbled back to his gang of friends.
Time for me to get out of here, before someone does something stupid.
I took another drink and suppressed a shiver of disgust.
Should have saved my money.
“Hey, you’re that detective lady, aren’t you?”
“Not looking for any company.” I suffered through another swallow.
“How about a job?”
I turned to face the speaker. He was young, but not so young he looked out of place in a bar. His brown hair was an unkempt mess and he needed a shave—or a few more weeks of beard growth. There was mischief in his eyes.
“What kind of job?” I kept my tone as disinterested as I could manage.
He slipped into the stool next to me. “A few weeks back I borrowed some money from a loan shark—”
“Not interested.” I turned back to my beer.
“But his goons are hunting for me. I’ve been trying to lay low, but I can only keep ahead of them for so long.”
“I’m not a bodyguard. Pay your debts or keep running, either way it’s not my problem.”
“You don’t understand.” He held a bulging envelope in front of me. “I have the money, but the lone shark is missing.”
“What are you trying to say?” I turned back to him.
There was a surprising earnestness in his expression. “I want to hire you to find the guy I owe, so I can pay him off and get his thugs off my case.”
I drained the rest of my beer in a single gulp. “What’s your name kid?”
“Robert Haskins Jr., but most folks just call me Lucky.”
“Well, Lucky, let’s go somewhere we can talk details.”
“So you’ll help me?”
“Depends on the pay.” But almost certainly.
We left the Greased Hog and headed toward my apartment.
“Do you need to grab your car?”
He waved the question away. “Nah, I don’t drive.”
“Then how’d you get all the way out here?” I glanced around at the half deserted buildings which filled that part of the city.
He shrugged. “Walked mostly.”
I shook my head. Who is this kid, really?
My thoughts were interrupted by the roar of a motorcycle. We’d walked a little over half a block from the bar when it passed us—it was an old-school model, all black leather and chrome. The sound dropped off a little, but it didn’t fade away or cut out as if the engine stopped.
I reached into my purse and let my fingers wrap around the grip of my pistol.
“Friend of yours?” Lucky must have noticed the concern on my face.
“Nope. You?”
He shook his head. “Do you think—”
“Don’t look back.” I grabbed his shirt before his head had swiveled all the way around and dragged him up beside me. “Just keep walking. It might be nothing.”
Motorcycles don’t have to mean criminals. And even if it was, there was plenty of other crime going on in a city this size.
We made it to the end of the block and across the next street before the roar headed toward us again.
But any hope of it being unrelated quickly evaporated as the bike hopped the curb to block the sidewalk.
The rider was a burly man in his late twenties. He couldn’t have looked more like a stereotypical biker if he’d wanted to—big beard, black leather vest and bandanna, and full sleeves of tattoos. He dismounted with a grin and slipped a set of brass knuckles onto his right hand. “Lucky Haskins! I’ve been looking all over town for you.”
I took a step back. I could handle myself in a fight—though I didn’t relish the idea of tangling with the big man—but his weapon’s range was only as long as his arm. Mine was a lot farther.
“Look, Rusty, just tell your boss that I’m ready to meet.” Lucky held up his hands. “I’ve got his money, this is all just a big misunderstanding.”
“It’s a bit late for that, and you know it.” Rusty’s grin widened. “Unless you want to hand over the cash now. Then maybe I’ll forget I saw you.”
I grabbed Lucky by his shirt and pulled him behind me. “That’s not going to happen.”
The biker laughed. “And what are you going to do about it? Scream?”
I leveled the handgun at his chest. “Yeah, I’m going to scream real loud. And when the cops show up, I’ll tell them a sob story about the big bad biker who jumped me. So I shot him. Then I’ll spend months mired in our fine legal system proving that I acted in self defense. But what will you care? You’ll be six feet in the ground.”
His fist clenched, but he was smart enough not to try anything.
“Or you can spare me the hassle by hopping back on your bike and driving away.”
Rusty glared past me at Lucky. “This isn’t over. You won’t always have your pretty little girlfriend here to protect you.”
I shuddered at the thought. “Time’s up, Rusty. Ride or die?”
He snarled as he turned and mounted his motorcycle.
I kept the gun trained on him until he roared back onto the street and around a corner. “Let’s go.” I picked up the pace as I shifted our direction from my little apartment to the parking garage.
“That was badass!” Lucky grinned as he hurried along after me. “If that’s how you deal with thugs, then I came to the right place.”
If my old boss had felt the same, I might still work for the FBI.
“Come on, he won’t stay away long.”
We ducked into the huge concrete structure and headed for the stairs. There was a little passenger elevator on one side, but it wasn’t reliable under the best of circumstances. And I preferred not to trap myself in a rickety box that announced where we were to anyone who looked.
Lucky tried to object, but I held up a hand to silence him.
The reverberating roar of an engine echoed through the garage.
“Level four.” I mouthed the words and held up my fingers so he’d be sure to get the message.
His face had paled at the sound of the motorcycle, but he acknowledged my directions with a nod and hurried up the stairs. I followed more slowly, checking each landing for signs of the biker. From the third floor, I sent the elevator up to the roof of the garage.
If he thinks to check it, then he’ll end up past us.
Lucky waited for me just below the fourth floor landing. He was hunkered down in the shadowy stairwell out of easy sight of any passing cars. I motioned for him to stay put as I climbed past him and checked the landing.
A flickering five shifted to a six above the elevator. The roar of the motorcycle engine continued, but the echoes made it near impossible to tell how close it was. But it did shift in tone slightly as I listened.
Good, he’s not just sitting in front of the exit.
I risked stepping out of the stairwell and into the garage itself. No sign of the biker. My car was parked only a handful of spots away.
Waving Lucky to follow me, I made a quick dash across the open road and ducked behind the closest car—a beat up silver sedan. I made my way to the front of the car, and carefully sidled along the support wall, keeping the vehicles between me and the main thoroughfare.
It wasn’t easy going, but at least none of my neighbors’ cars had hair-trigger alarms. When at last we reached my car, I slipped into the row and unlocked it. The soft click seemed almost as loud as the background roar of the searching motorcycle.
Lucky climbed into the passenger seat while I tried to coax a little life back into the wretched machine.
“I’m not sure how I feel about this plan.” Lucky grimaced as the engine continued to sputter.
“Shut up.” I slammed a fist down on the dash and tried the key again.
The car shuddered, but the engine fired up with another wheezing cough.
I whipped it into reverse and backed out of the spot. And down the lane toward the garage exit.
“What are you doing?” Lucky’s voice was higher pitched than before, though I couldn’t spare the attention to turn to him.
“Trust me, this is the easy part.”
As we backed around the second corner, Rusty and his bike came into view. Along with his sawed-off shotgun.
“Get down!” I grabbed the back of Lucky’s shirt and dragged him forward as the boom of gunfire filled the garage. He must have caught mostly trunk, because the rear window cracked but didn’t break.
I slammed the gas pedal down to the floor. The car lurched back with the sudden burst of acceleration. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to catch the front tire of the motorcycle.
The car rocked as we plowed through the smaller vehicle.
Rusty dived to the ground as we turned his bike into a twisted heap of steel.
I backed the car all the way up to the entry door to the stairwell before shifting gears and tearing down to the street level exit.
Rusty managed one more blast with his shotgun—which punched a few small holes in my rear driver’s side door—before we were out of sight.
Beside me, Lucky was shaking, but unhurt. “I didn’t like that last bit at all. So, now what?”
“Now you tell me what boiling pot you’ve just dropped me into.”
To Be Continued…HERE