JAKE CASSIDY: LOSER FRIENDLY
by
Jake Cassidy
SMASHWORDS EDITION
* * * * *
PUBLISHED BY:
New Pulp on Smashwords
Jake Cassidy: Loser Friendly
Copyright © 2010 by Jake Cassidy
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Smashwords Edition License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.
* * * * *
This book is for the Posse: Professor Michael Kent, Matt, and Shiloh
* * * * *
JAKE CASSIDY: LOSER FRIENDLY
* * * * *
1
“If you don’t help me, they’re going to kill Gordon. And if they kill Gordon, Jake Cassidy, I’ll never forgive you.”
Holding down elbow space at the corner of the granite bar in Tito’s Bar & Grill a couple blocks up from the marina, I stared in full-blown astonishment at Callie Aames. I’m not a guy who’s easily surprised, but she could do it to me. She had plenty of times in the past.
And I believed her about someone getting killed. Callie brought that kind of luck to the game.
Sheathed in a little black dress that hugged every supple curve, she sat on the stool next to me. Her small feet dangled a few inches from the floor. Her long, curly red hair spilled across her bare shoulders and a bright blue stone dangling from a tiny silver necklace winked at me from her cleavage. Hazel brown eyes glared at me.
If she’d sat there and kept her mouth closed, it would have been as close to perfect in a relationship as I’d come in a while. But being quiet wasn’t one of Callie’s skill sets.
We had a history, Callie and me, but we definitely didn’t have a future. Two people couldn’t have been worse for each other. I thought of her as the one that got away. People who knew us both -- my friends -- told me she was the bullet I’d dodged. Most of them held the opinion that me staying with, or anywhere around, Callie was likely to get me killed.
When I didn’t respond immediately to Callie’s declaration, she poked my chest with her perfectly manicured finger and followed with another declaration. “You owe me.”
I blinked at her, but I knew it was true. In the beginning she’d been one of the cases I specialized in: recovery operations. Somebody takes something from you in Miami, I’m the guy who can get it back.
But Callie had gone from client to lover, and for almost a year most of that relationship had been good. There had been a lot of arguments, a lot of tension, but there had been good times. The problem had come when Callie started wanted more. Let me rephrase that. The problem had come when she’d realized that I wasn’t the guy who could give her what she needed.
She’d left my life in a storm of pain and hurt for both of us. I don’t think either of us had really recovered, but Callie kept trying. My friends faulted her because she couldn’t stay away from me. And because, generally, she involved me in dangerous situations.
Like saving the life of some guy I’d never heard of.
Her eyes blazed. “Don’t look at me that way. You owe me, and you know you do. All those nights I lay awake worrying about you, about what might be happening to you, weren’t easy. You owe me for those, big-time.”
I resisted the urge to point out that she hadn’t lain awake at my sailboat when we’d been together. And I didn’t mention that she’d probably struggled hard squeezing any worrying in between the party circuit she’d been on. Most of the time during the difficult periods I don’t think she knew if I was home or not. I’d either been with her or I’d been recovering people or assets. That job doesn’t come with fixed hours.
She’d followed one get-rich scheme after another, determined to build herself a life like the one she’d never had as a child. She’d never met an overnight success story that she hadn’t believed in. Probably grew up on fairy tales too, but she never talked about being a kid. I knew from a couple of people that had known her a little then that she hadn’t grown up in good circumstances.
My lack of ambition was another problem between us. I was content keeping a roof over my head and a sailboat deck under my feet. I liked working and getting my hands dirty. Getting rich just wasn’t a life goal for me.
“Want another beer, Jake?” Emma Gray tended bar at Tito’s. She was also a good friend. In her late thirties, she was tall and tough. Japanese tattoos of koi and dragons sleeved her arms. She wore a black tank top and khaki shorts. A bar towel lay over one shoulder. A leather band held her dishwater blonde hair out of her face.
“Sure.” I pushed the longneck empty back to her.
“I’d like a tequila sunrise.” Callie didn’t look at Emma.
“You sure you got time for a drink? Thought you knew somebody that was busy getting killed.” Emma’s tone carried acid-etched sarcasm, the kind women reserve only for other members of their species. She’d never bother to get to know Callie as anything other than a gold digger. Friends tend to pick sides, and they’re just as wrong as anyone else involved in the argument. But they’re your friends. “And anyway, you ain’t drinking here as long as I’m behind this bar.”
“You can’t do that.”
Walking away, Emma pointed at the WE RESERVE THE RIGHT TO REFUSE SERVICE sign hanging over the liquor bottles. She drew another longneck from the ice bin, popped the cap with a church key hanging from the bar, and placed the bottle in front of me on a new paper coaster.
Before I could reach my beer, Callie snaked out a hand to claim the bottle and glared defiantly at Emma. For a moment I thought the two of them were going to go at it right there. Several of the regulars, guys that swamped boats and didn’t chase after the Miami night life that blew into town on cruise ships, showed interest.
Emma loosed a salvo of invective that would have scraped barnacles from rust-eaten hulls.
“Mom!” Evidently Brian, Emma’s twelve year old son, was hanging in the back office playing games on the computer.
“Sorry, kiddo.” Emma spoke softly, but her glare never left Callie. Unable to stand there and watch Callie drink my beer and probably not wanting to make a scene in front of Brian, Emma retreated. She didn’t bring me another beer. That was punishment for not being man enough to hang onto the last one.
I studied Callie’s reflection in the bar mirror. I told myself I didn’t want to be interested, but I was. I’m a curious guy, which is probably one of the reasons I get into trouble, and definitely the reason I was in my line of work. Plus, I still wasn’t sure where the scales balanced between us.
I took a breath, considered, and hoped I knew what I was doing. “All right. Who’s going to kill who?”
“Do you know Harry Tatum?”
I thought for a moment, then shook my head. I know a lot of people through my work, especially the guys that would kill people and commit other crimes, but Miami is big and people come and go all the time.
“He runs a strip joint called Louie’s. Has this big purple neon cat on the sign? The cat just fades away time after time and leaves only the smile behind.”
“Haven’t been there. I’ve heard about the place. It’s a dive. What the hell were you doing somewhere like that?” There was a time when Callie was an exotic dancer. It wasn’t something she looked back on with fondness.
Callie glared at me. “Not working, that’s for sure. You need to focus.” She paused and watched my face. “Are you drunk?”
“No.”
She looked relieved. “Good. Like I said, Harry Tatum’s going to kill Gordon.”
“Who’s Gordon?”
“Gordon Geofferies. My new business partner.”
I turned and looked at her and raised an eyebrow. Someone at a back pool table cracked a fresh rack and the impact sounded like a gunshot. Callie jerked in response, and for the first time I saw the fear lying just below the hard shell she wore.
“Hey.” I kept my voice soft, feeling immediately protective and angry at whoever had caused her to feel afraid. “You’re okay. You’re safe here.”
Callie sipped my beer. “I’m not fooling about them killing Gordon. Tatum’s the kind of guy that will do it.”
I took a deep breath and knew I couldn’t walk away. “Tell me about it.”
Glaring at Emma’s back, Callie shook her head. “Not in here. Outside.”
Getting a back booth was out of the question because Tito’s was too small for the kind of privacy Callie wanted. As she headed for the door, I asked for two longnecks to go. Emma wasn’t happy.
She cleaned a shot glass like she was going to take a few layers off. “That girl’s gonna bring you nothing but trouble, Jake.”
I tried to play her comment off lightly. “That’s the business I’m in.”
“You’re an idiot, you know that?”
I put money on the bar, including a generous tip. Emma made no move to take it.
“You want to know what your problem is, Jake?”
“I’m an idiot?” I tried to be helpful, show her I’d been listening.
Emma glared at me like I’d just proven her point. “You’re loser friendly. That’s what. Any loser within a hundred miles of you will find her way to your door. You’re gonna regret tonight. If you live through it.”
“Thanks, Emma.” I took the beers and left.
* * * * *
2
“Gordon’s a writer.” Callie sat curled up in the passenger seat of my blue Dodge Charger. I was parked in the gravel parking lot at Tito’s and didn’t see any reason to leave unless she asked to. We’d sat out there and talked a lot of night before heading back to Magic Dragon.
“Newspaper guy?”
Callie took another sip of her beer and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. The hem of that little black dress crept higher up her tanned thighs and my radar kept going off. “Gordon writes screenplays. Hollywood stuff.”
“Aren’t Hollywood writers usually in Hollywood?” Cars passed in the street behind us. Headlights briefly flared into the narrow throats of alleys and dark windows filled with desperate people. Every now and again angry voices floated in through my open window.
“Gordon’s getting experience. Learning stuff he can write about. He came to Miami to learn about fishing. He was hoping to write a movie like Perfect Storm.” Callie looked at me through the darkness. “You ever see that movie? It’s been on cable.”
I shook my head.
“Still watching baseball?”
“When I can.”
Callie blew out a disgusted breath and brushed a lock of red hair from her eyes. “You could watch cultural things. Movies. Programs. Stuff like that. It might be good for you. Expand your brain.”
I didn’t bother debating that. I’m comfortable with who I am and don’t feel any need to expand my brain. Which was probably another problem Callie had had with me. She liked culture and new experiences. I’d already been around the world a few times as a kid traveling with my Marine Corps father. “Is Gordon gonna get killed any time soon?”
She frowned. “You’re a bastard, Jake Cassidy, you know that?”
I felt a little cranky at that moment because having Callie sitting right there and not being able to just reach over and take her into my arms was torture. In the old days, we’d left Tito’s more or less undressed a few times before making it back to the boat. Twice we hadn’t been dressed at all. Maybe I could have been more adult about the situation, but I chose not to. Sue me.
“I just didn’t know if we had time to discuss Gordon’s problem with Harry Tatum and do the film reviews.” I straightened in the seat, shifted around so my Sig Sauer P-226 wasn’t digging into my right kidney. “How’d Gordon meet Tatum? Maybe it’s just me, but I wouldn’t think Hollywood writers and skin club managers rubbed elbows.”
“Gordon got a job on a lobster boat. After work, the guys used to go to Louie’s for wings and beer.”
“And for the atmosphere.” I tried to look innocent and keep the sarcasm out of my tone, but Callie saw through that.
“He was just trying to fit in with the men. He likes to get into character for his scripts.”
I nodded like I believed that, but I was sure we both knew I didn’t. And Callie didn’t believe it either.
“While Gordon was there, he met Harry Tatum. He told Tatum about being a scriptwriter and the fishing story he was going to write. Tatum was interested. It’s not every day you meet a Hollywood writer. Harry thought it was a big deal.”
“I suppose.” I hadn’t met any Hollywood writers, but I still wasn’t impressed and it was a loss I could live with. I sipped my beer.
“It is a big deal. You just don’t get it.”
“Probably because I don’t have an expanded brain.”
Callie ignored me. “So anyway, Tatum says he’s got this story that would flat beat the hell out of any fishing movie.” She turned more toward me, and I knew it was because she was so interested in her own story. The window fogged behind her. “It’s this crime thing. A mob boss that killed another mob boss over a woman that turned out to be an undercover FBI agent. Gordon thinks the movie could be big, like Wiseguy big.” She looked at me expectantly.
That movie I’d seen. “Ray Liotta and Joe Pesci.”
She rewarded me with a smile. “Yeah. Exactly.”
“I assume something went wrong with the friendship.”
“Partnership. Gordon insisted from Day One that we were all partners. He was the talent and Tatum was the finance guy.”
“We were all partners? I understand Gordon and Tatum partnering up.” Flordia probably beats the national average for dreamers. Everybody plays an angle, the crooks and the straights. “But how did you get worked into the deal?”
“I met Gordon. Not at Louie’s. I was temping for office work and bumped into him at The Sand Dollar Diner while he was meeting Tatum for breakfast. Tatum was late. That guy is late a lot. Like it’s a fricking disease or something.” Callie shook her head in disgust. “Anyway, Gordon asked was I an office manager because he was gonna need to hire a personal assistant while he wrote the script. Somebody to manage things and help him with research. Stuff like that.”
I listened and knew that old Gordon had hooked Callie at “Hollywood.” Personal assistant was just the icing on the cake.
“He explained the partnership him and Tatum had worked out.”
“Tell me about that.” I knew that most partnerships created conflict. It doesn’t matter if it’s romantic or business, they all mainline emotion and can turn lethal in a second. I get some of my best work because one partner or another ran off with something that he or she wasn’t entitled to.
“Tatum was excited about the script. It was this story he’d always wanted to tell. Wanted to see it on paper. Gordon told him writing after working all those hours as a fisherman was hard. You know that’s right.”
I nodded. I’d worked the boats when I’d grown up. The Colonel, my dad -- no one, not even me, called him anything but the Colonel, hadn’t liked me working on the boats, but I’d done it anyway. There was a lot I’d done that the Colonel didn’t like. I’d liked the day fishing, but I liked the extended runs even more.
“So Tatum told Gordon he’d give him an advance, something to live off of while he wrote the script. Development capital.”
I almost smiled. Development capital is the price of leverage in a relationship. Someone has the purse strings and thinks he controls the situation. Unfortunately, the person getting the money usually has something too, talent, property, availability, something, and can take off at any moment. I’ve seen it happen, chased after the people who split those relationships when things went south and somebody needed something brought back.
“So Gordon dropped the fishing job like a hot rock, put you on the payroll as personal secretary, and failed to deliver the script. That about cover it?”
“That wasn’t it at all, you pretentious prick.”
“You do remember you’re here because you want me to get Gordon out of whatever trouble he’s in?” At the time, I wasn’t feeling very sympathetic toward Gordon. He sounded a lot like the kind of guy I usually chased.
Callie bit her lower lip and I knew she was holding back a scathing retort. “Gordon wrote the script. God, it’s such a good script. Makes you laugh, makes you cry, has some action and a good buddy story. Has a fantastic romance burning all the way through it. And there’s a part in there that I could play perfectly. Best friend of the woman FBI agent. Kind of small, but really important, you know. Like Laura San Giacomo in Pretty Woman.” Her eyes gleamed and I supposed the opportunity was a good one. “Gordon says it could be a breakout role for me.”
From personal assistant for a Hollywood writer to a budding co-starlet in the space of a drawn breath. Callie was seriously hooked.
I threw her a bone. “It sounds perfect.”
“It was.”
“What went wrong?”
Callie scowled. “Tatum wasn’t as honest with us as he should have been.”
I knew it had to be someone else’s fault. Messes are never any fault of Callie’s in her world.
“Gordon and I were under the impression that Tatum owned Louie’s. He doesn’t. Turns out he has a silent partner.”
“Tatum’s not as flush as you’d thought.”
“Right.”
“Who’s the silent partner?”
She shook her head. “All I know is that the partner suspects Tatum has been skimming money.”
“Was he?”
Callie closed her eyes. “He must have been. This partner’s breathing down Tatum’s neck, wanting to get the books balanced. Tatum’s been putting him off, but he can’t do it anymore.”
“Tatum wants the money back.”
“Yeah.”
“How much did Tatum give Gordon?”
“Forty thousand. Tatum fronted Gordon ten thousand a month for living expenses.”
“Sounds high.”
“Gordon told Tatum that he needed a proper writer’s environment to get the story told. Nice room with an ocean view. Good food. A chance to wine and dine.”
I got the picture instantly. “And Tatum had dollar signs and fame dancing in his eyes so he couldn’t be scared off with the idea of spending money. He thought he was investing thousands to make millions.” I figured all of them were hooked on that particular dream. Nothing was as seductive as the fantasies you make for yourself.
“Yeah.”
“Does Gordon have any of that money left?” I was pretty sure I already knew the answer to that. I knew from firsthand experience how Callie could get a person to spend money.
“No. Living’s been expensive. Gordon likes to go out. And he paid me real good to be his personal assistant. He’s a generous guy. I really think you’d like him.”
I couldn’t really imagine me and old Gordon tipping back longnecks at Tito’s. I took a breath and blew it out. “Where’s Gordon?”
“At Louie’s. Tatum’s holding him there till I bring him the money.”
“How much money are you supposed to bring?”
“At least twenty thousand. Tatum said he could cover half if we could get half back.”
“But you can’t?”
Callie shook her head and looked mad and embarrassed at the same time. She hated asking me for help. The only way she’d been able to do it in the first place was to view it as a debt she had yet to collect. Or, at least, it had been the easiest way to get help. She would have still come calling. If she’d had anywhere else to go, she’d have gone there.
“You could call the police.” I wanted clear of the situation. “They could get Gordon out of the bar. You know Detective Lisa Martinez.”
“Please. That woman has the hots for you. She’d gouge my eyes out with a spork before she’d help me.”
It was true that Lisa didn’t like Callie because some of the trouble Callie had gotten me into had gotten Lisa in hot water as well. Lisa was a friend, never anything else, but I knew both of us were aware it could be more. I think both of us were afraid of that.
Callie sipped her beer. “I already threatened Tatum with the police. He says he’ll swear Gordon held a gun to his head and robbed him.”
“One way or another, Tatum’s going to try to dodge his partner.” I scratched by beard stubble and considered.
“Please, Jake.” Callie took my hand in one of hers and pulled it to her cheek. “You can do this. I know you can. Won’t you do it for me?”
I didn’t want to, but I knew she wasn’t going to release my hand until I said I would. Besides, I have a thing for underdogs, and Gordon sounded like he’d been gigged proper by Tatum and by Callie.
* * * * *
3
I parked the Charger under cypress trees wreathed in Spanish moss at the back fence that lined the gravel parking lot at Louie’s. When I got out, the air was thick with the promise of rain. Droplets coated my face.
I pulled the tail of my pale blue linen military shirt over my Sig and grabbed a Rays cap from the backseat. I also had on khaki shorts and boaters. My ensemble looked working class, and the two-days’ growth of beard enhanced the look. I was near-combat ready.
Of course, at the time I didn’t think it would come to that. I wasn’t thinking about the Ginger Factor. The nickname came from South Park. I can’t remember if I used it first, or if Emma, Lisa, or Dave, the bondsman I hunt bounty for, had used it first regarding my habitual problems with redheads. However the usage had come about, it worked.
I crossed the concrete walkway in front of the bar, glanced up at the disappearing cat on the sign, and stepped through the door. A bouncer the size of a battleship met me.
He was built big enough and strong enough to be ex-football. His coal black skin gleamed neon blue from the club’s sign. He smiled, showing pearly whites, but his eyes remained cold and hard as gunsights.
“Ten dollar cover gets you two beers.” The bouncer looked me over and evidently didn’t like something.
I’m not a little guy myself. Six-two and broad, I work out regularly, run and swim, and it shows. I gave him my winningest smile and tried to get him to relax. I peeled a ten dollar bill from my shirt pocket and put it on the lectern.
“I’m gonna have to search you.” The bouncer smiled and took a step toward me. “Make sure you ain’t carrying nothing you ain’t suppose to be.”
Maybe it was because I was pissed about Callie being threatened, or maybe I was mad about letting Callie involve me in her grief, I didn’t know. But I decided to go in hard rather than try to finesse the situation. I’d already decided Harry Tatum wasn’t a nice guy, and I didn’t mind breaking a few eggs to get the job done quickly.
I looked at the bouncer. “I’ll save you some time. I’ve got a 9mm in back. I’ve got a permit.”
“Still cain’t let you come in here then, boss.”
“Just gonna be a minute. Gotta talk something over with Harry. He knows me.”
The bouncer shook his ponderous head. “I know ever’body Harry knows.”
“Then you know the silent partner, Mr. -- ” I waited.
A cold smile filled the big man’s round face. “I’m gonna have to ask you to leave. Them’s the rules, and we ain’t gonna break no rules.” He closed his hand around something under the lectern.
“Even if you got a bazooka under there, you aren’t gonna pull it out before I shoot you.” I wasn’t in a shooting mood, but I’ve learned that threats go a long way with people. I’ve always wondered why Hallmark doesn’t go in for threats instead of well-meaning wishes. Get better soon or I’ll be by to kick your ass. Pure inspiration.
Growling unhappily and sounding uncannily like a disgruntled bear, the bouncer stepped away from the lectern. I kept him more than arm’s length from me and my right hand wrapped around the Sig’s butt as we crossed the crowded floor. I scouted for another bouncer but Louie’s only seemed to have the one. That meant if the bouncer couldn’t handle whatever came along on his own -- and tonight that was me -- then he was in trouble. This economy was rough on everyone.
The club appeared small, but money flowed from tourists and regulars. Up on the stage, the girls were young, practiced, and frequent. The place wasn’t Tootsie’s Cabaret or Gold Rush. The neon lights battled the darkness and the cigarette smoke. Even the stage lamps struggled with the smoke.
Harry Tatum and the silent partner definitely didn’t overspend on the decor. But the place was clean and the girls would have looked good even in daylight.
Rock and roll played too loud and ricocheted off the walls. Light caromed from the mirror backing the center stage. The second stage was an afterthought.
I nudged the big guy with the Sig. “Where’s Harry?”
“Thought you knew Harry.”
“Thought you didn’t want me to coldcock you and leave you with a concussion.”
The bouncer scowled, then nodded at a short broad man in a bad suit seated at one of the tables. A young Asian woman in a lime green g-string ground away on him, but she didn’t look happy. In fact, she didn’t even look back over her shoulder at the guy.
“Yeah, that’s it, honey. Just keep throwing it.” Harry Tatum shifted, getting in closer, and smiled hugely. “That’s it, you little bitch. Just keep bringing it to Daddy.”
Harry Tatum was built like a stevedore. You could see he’d once been a big guy, but it had all gone to seed at an early age. I figured he was this side of forty, probably only a handful of years older than me. He had a big gut, thinning blond hair, and a round face pale as dough.
I waited, the song ended, the girl got off, and I think Tatum did too. The dancer picked up a matching bra and a short shirt and walked away without looking back.
“Damn, but you’re getting better, Crystal.” Tatum adjusted his pants.
Crystal shot him the finger.
Tatum didn’t take offense. Instead, he laughed and motioned to one of the cocktail waitresses for another drink. Then he looked up at the bouncer and me.
“You’re supposed to be watching the door, Damian.” Tatum’s cold green eyes darted from the bouncer to me.
“Man said he had to see you, Mr. Tatum.”
“I don’t know him. You know my rules about people in the club.”
Before Damian could explain anything, I pushed him away and showed the business end of the pistol to Tatum. “Thought maybe we could talk in private. You got an office?”
* * * * *
4
Small and cramped, the office reeked of reefer and incense that had probably been used to disguise the marijuana stink. A small TV hanging from the ceiling played porn and the actress’s fake moans were only audible in the room. The space was cramped with Damian sitting on the floor beside the metal desk like a baby elephant.
“You’re making a mistake, asshole.” Tatum sat in the squeaking chair behind the desk. “You picked the wrong guy to fuck with.”
“Keep your hands on top of the desk or I’m going to put you in the hospital.”
Tatum glared at Damian, like everything was all his fault. Then Tatum slammed his hands palm down on the desk and looked up at me. “What the fuck do you want?”
“Gordon.” I waggled the Sig meaningfully.
“You with that redheaded bitch? The girlfriend?”
Before I knew I was gonna move, I backhanded Tatum in the face and snapped his head back against the wall. Damian chose that moment to grab my leg and try to bite me. I crunched the Sig’s barrel between his teeth and backed him off.
“Bad dog.”
“Me and you, we gonna meet again.” Damian wiped blood off his mouth but leaned back against the wall.
I ignored the threat. I hadn’t come down to the strip club to start a fan club, and voicing threats was all Damian could do to salve his ego. I got that and didn’t take it personal.
I looked back at Tatum. “Where’s Gordon?”
Tatum tried to stem the blood flooding from his nose. “They ain’t got no money, do they?”
I smiled at him. “I believe they already tried telling you that. Which is why I’m here.” I glanced at the clock on the wall. “Let’s get to it.”
“He’s in the storeroom.”
“Alive?”
“Yeah.”
“Then let’s go get him.” I took just enough time to tie Damian up with the phone cord, then we went.
* * * * *
“I wouldn’t have done this if I didn’t have to.” Tatum sorted through the big keyring he’d taken from his pocket. He stood outside the door in the short hallway that led off the office and dressing room. Women in various stages of undress wandered by. None of them really paid attention.
I smiled at them like I was Tatum’s new best friend and didn’t let them see the Sig in my hand.
Tatum was a talker when he was nervous, and he was nervous now. “I like Gordon. Guy’s got a lot of talent. Have you read the script?” The change in him was surprising for just an instant, then I realized that he was hooked on the Hollywood fantasy. I’d seen it happen to other people. There was something magic about making movies that turns people, good and bad, into idiots.
I shook my head. “I’ve been busy.”
“Too bad. It’s a great script.”
“That’s what I heard.” I motioned at the door.
Tatum found the right key, worked the lock, and opened the door. I followed him in.
The storeroom was built like a phonebooth on steroids. Liquor and beer lined the wire shelves against the walls. The guy I assumed was Gordon sat in the floor with his legs sprawled out in front of him. One of his wrists was handcuffed to a beer keg.
He was thin, scrawny, with bushy black hair that he probably usualy gelled, but at the moment it stuck out in all directions. A mustache and goatee framed a mouth too small for his face, and his ears stuck out slightly. Blood from a split lip dotted his plaid shirt. He was probably in his late twenties, a few years younger than me, and probably younger than Callie too, but she would have denied it.
“Hey, Gordon.” Tatum waved at his captive.
“Hey, Harry.” Gordon shifted his gaze from Tatum to me. For a guy handcuffed to a beer keg, he seemed pretty laidback.
“You know this guy?” Tatum jerked a thumb over his shoulder.
Gordon shook his head and looked more fearful. “Should I?”
I blew out a breath and felt foolish for coming into the club so tough. If I’d simply braced Tatum, he’d probably have folded like a cheap chair.
“I’m the Marines.” I smiled to Gordon to let him know he was safe.
“I don’t know any Marines.”
I stopped smiling and spoke slowly. “Callie sent me.”
“Oh. Did she send the money?”
“No. She said there wasn’t any money.” I started to get a little angry then because I knew I’d been had.
“There’s money.” Gordon gnawed at his mutilated lip and winced. He worked his mouth and looked at Tatum. “I promise, there’s money. There should be money. At least ten or twelve thousand dollars.”
Tatum gestured at me. “Well, this guy didn’t bring no money.”
They both acted like I was the one that had broken the rules. I was starting to get a headache, one of those Callie-induced ones that can last for days and become a pain in my ass.
“Get the cuffs off Gordon.”
Tatum unlocked the cuffs, then Gordon got up slowly and straightened his shirt. He looked at me like a kid that had just heard there was no Santa Claus.
“Callie didn’t send the money?”
I shook my head. “She said there was no money.”
“There should be. There was.”
“It’s Callie. Should be is a relative term where Callie is concerned. Especially when money is in the picture.”
Gordon looked back at Tatum. “Sorry about all the confusion. I really thought Callie would have sent the money.”
“I told you that bit--” Tatum caught himself and stopped as he flashed me a look. “I told you she wasn’t no good for you. I have the same kind of luck with women.”
Strangely, that was the worst moment of the entire night. Until later. When I looked around at the Hollywood writer who was an ex-fisherman and the strip club manager and realized we all shared a history of bad women in common, it was really weird. At the end of the day, we were just three guys. And I hated being lumped in with either of them.
“I understand about you needing to give the money back to your partner.” Gordon seemed reluctant to leave.
Tatum sighed. “Yeah, well. I just really believe in your script, you know.”
“It was your story that really makes it all work.”
Tatum raised his shoulders and dropped them. “Took us both, Gordon. Took us both.”
I was getting sick of the mutual admiration society moment. “Gordon, let’s go.” I pulled him out of the storeroom with me.
Gordon glanced back over his shoulder. “I hope you can work things out with your partner.”
“He’s not a very forgiving guy.”
Gordon pantomimed holding a phone to his ear. “Call me. Let me know how it shakes out.”
“Sure.” Tatum looked lost and alone and too big in the tiny storeroom.
Not believing the exchange I’d heard, thinking both of them were dumber than bags of rocks, I hustled Gordon toward the back door.
“He’s not a bad guy, you know.”
“You always feel that way about guys that handcuff you in storerooms?” I asked out of habit, because I really didn’t want to know. I just wanted to get Callie clear of the situation, and now that I’d dealt with it, the whole thing hadn’t seemed like such a big deal. I was ready to get home.
“It was my first time.”
“Trust me, it loses its appeal pretty damn quick.” I pushed the door open and stepped out into the small alley behind the club.
Since I’d been in the club, one of those small monsoons that frequent Miami had cut loose. Wet pavement gleamed all around me and the salt stink of the sea seemed stronger.
I pushed Gordon forward, then a car rounded the corner and painted us with bright headlights. Instinctively, I closed my eyes in an effort to save my night vision, then reversed Gordon and got him going back the way we’d come. I got the distinct impression that I was dead wrong about the situation being a cakewalk. I blamed Callie and I was cursing as I was moving.
A luxury sedan cruised beside us. The driver was good. There was barely room for all of us in the small alley.
The driver’s window silently rolled down. “Gordon?”
Before I could prevent him, Gordon stumbled to a halt and looked at the driver. “Yeah?”
The driver shoved a pistol out the window and pointed it at Gordon’s head. “Get in the car.”
* * * * *
5
As Gordon froze like he’d just met Medusa’s gaze, I caught the driver’s wrist in my free hand and twisted hard. The guy yelped and dropped his piece. The gun clattered on the pavement and thankfully didn’t discharge. I wanted to get Gordon up to a run, but the car’s back doors opened like the action had been choreographed.
I pointed the Sig at the windshield and fired a round into the empty passenger seat. As I expected, the driver panicked and hit the accelerator. The sedan leaped forward and the two guys trying to get out hung on for dear life. By the time I grabbed Gordon again, the sedan slammed into the side of the alley. Sparks showered and briefly lit up the immediate area.
Dragging Gordon behind me, I managed to take three quick steps. Then two shots blasted into the brick wall above my head.
“I’ll drop you or Gordon with my next shot.” The voice was heavy as pig-iron and flatly factual, like he was talking about tying his shoes. “I’d rather keep Gordon alive. You, I’m not so worried about, but maybe we could talk. I figure a bright guy like you, you could do yourself some good here.”
I pulled Gordon to cover behind the Dumpster and took aim around the corner. With the sedan’s lights behind him, I couldn’t see the guy clearly. He was big and blocky. Standing there with a smoking pistol in one hand, he took a drag off his cigarette. I could have shot him, but the guys in the car would have opened up. And if I killed him, I was sure I wasn’t going to get out of the alley alive without serious luck.
The man’s accent was East Coast by way of Brooklyn or New Jersey. I’d dealt with enough snowbirds, the retirees that came down to Miami to escape the Northern winters, to recognize that.
“We don’t have a lot of time, so I’ll lay it out for you.” The man took another drag and the cigarette glowed bright orange for a heartbeat. “You won’t make the end of the alley before me or my boys pump your ass full of lead.”
Two big shadows clambered from the wrecked car. Moonlight and neon glare reflected from the weapons in their hands. One of them held a machine pistol. They took cover behind the vehicle.
“And if you wait too long and piss me off by disrespecting me, I’ll have my driver run over that Dumpster. That about do it for you?”
I stayed focused. “What do you want?”
“Mr. Hollywood. Gotta have a private chat with him.”
I held my ground and felt Gordon shivering against me. “What about?”
“This and that.”
Gordon whispered in my ear. “That’s him.”
“Who?” I was pissed by that time. I couldn’t have owed Callie that much. I was full in the middle of a bad roll of the Ginger Effect.
“The silent partner. Harry’s silent partner.”
“Do you know this guy?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know it’s him?”
“It’s gotta be him. This is something he would do.”
“You don’t know this guy, but you know what he would do?”
“Sure. He’s Teddy Nickels, the Mafia boss in my script. That’s not his real name. It’s just the name I gave him. I knew Harry didn’t just make that story up like he said he did.”
The big man launched his cigarette butt against the alley wall. A flurry of sparks shot out from the impact site, but quickly died. Everything that died in that alley was going to die quickly.
“I’m getting old standing here. The deal’s on the table. You gonna take it? Or are we just gonna stand up and do this Old West sytle? You a cowboy, hotshot?”
“Gimme a minute.” I thought furiously but nothing came to mind.
“Here’s how this is gonna work. You give me the writer and tell that bimbo he’s been keeping time with that I want the movie script and all the notes first thing tomorrow morning. You do that, I’ll let you live. That sound good to you? I’m thinking that should sound good to you. Vinnie, does that sound good to you? I’m being generous, am I right?”
“Sounds good to me, boss.”
“See there?” The big man shrugged. “Vinnie thinks it’s a good deal.”
“Maybe Vinnie still believes in the Tooth Fairy.”
“Vinnie don’t believe in no Tooth Fairy, but he believes in me. I want the script. I want the notes. I want all of it. I could turn this town upside down looking for that bitch, already got guys hitting the apartment she has with this clown, but she’s in the wind. Both of us, you and me, are in a hard spot. I give you a way out of yours, you give me a way out of mine.”
I peered at the man over my gunsights. I told myself I could take him, unless he was wearing a bulletproof vest, and I told myself I could get one of the others, maybe both.
The problem was, I couldn’t get both me and Gordon out of that alley alive.
* * * * *
6
“We don’t have a choice. We have to do what he says.”
I turned to face Gordon, to argue with him even though I knew the idiot was right, but he shoved away from me and raced out into the alley before I could stop him. I just knew the stupid son of a bitch was going to get cut down before he made a handful of steps.
“Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot! It’s Gordon! Mr. Hollywood!”
I peered over the top of the Dumpster with my Sig pointed at the big man, ready to give cover fire that I already knew was going to be too late.
One of the guys shined a flashlight over Gordon.
“Hold your fire, boys.” The big man held his ground and motioned Gordon into the back of the sedan.
Gordon slid into the car.
The big man looked at me and the light cut his hard face into hollows. I didn’t recognize him, was certain I’d never seen him before in my life. The light flashed in my eyes and I retreated to cover, trying desperately to blink the spots from my eyes.
“Good call.” The big man sounded kind of disappointed. “But you want to think about picking up the other end of this deal, you know. Bring me the script, the notes, all that shit they put together to write that thing.”
“How am I supposed to get in touch with you when I get the script? I don’t know you.” My vision still had spots, but I made out the car. The brake lights flared bright red.
“I’m leaving a phone with a pre-programmed number logged in here on the ground. When you get everything, gimme a call.”
“When?”
“In the morning. Tennish. We’ll do business at a civilized time.”
Ten o’clock also meant the tourists would be out and about, and the regulars would be at work. A lot of innocents could be in the line of fire if this thing went badly.
“That sound good to you, hotshot?”
“Ten o’clock. Where?”
“We’ll figure it out in the morning.” The big man climbed back into the sedan, which shot through the other end of the alley and disappeared out on the street.
Tense, I looked around the alley and waited a bit. Maybe he wouldn’t have gained anything by killing me, but I would have been too dead to argue if he’d left a shooter.
Harry Tatum opened the back door of the club and peered out. “Anybody out here?”
I stood and flattened against the wall, just enough to draw his attention. “There’s a phone out there in the middle of the alley. Get it for me.”
Tatum hesitated. “Is he gone?”
“Yeah.”
“Is it safe?”
“Maybe. Get the phone.”
Tatum walked out and retrieved the phone. When it didn’t blow up, I joined him and took it.
“You saw him?” Sweat trickled down Tatum’s florid face.
“Yeah. Who is he?”
“I don’t know.” Tatum shrugged. “Seven years ago, I had the club and went through a bad patch. Slow ponies and even slower greyhounds. You know how it is. That was before I joined Gamblers Anonymous. I’m about to get my six year pin.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thanks.”
Evidently Tatum wasn’t big into sarcasm. The phone was a burner, a cheap off-the-rack model. But it had GPS. Some phones maintained constant GPS contact and could still be traced.
I checked the phone registry. There was only one phone number logged. I copied the number into my phone, then dropped the burner phone to the ground and crushed it underfoot.
I looked at Tatum. “So you went through a bad patch.”
Tatum nodded and lit up a twisted joint. His hands shook. “Yeah. Guy, this guy, comes up out of nowhere when I’m sitting here thinking I’m gonna have to shut down my club and run from the bookies. It was that bad. This guy tells me my club looks like an investment opportunity. A little money for me, a little money for the place, and Louie’s could be more successful. It was. The guy knows about investments and titty clubs. This place, it might not look like it, but it’s a gold mine.”
“But it’s not Hollywood.”
“No.” Tatum grinned self-consciously. “Everybody figures they have a movie in them, you know? I had this one. The one Gordon was working on.”
“Only it wasn’t your story. It was this guy’s.”
“Yeah. One night after the club reopened, after he got the bookies off my back in ways he still hasn’t told me about, we get drunk together with some of the girls. Just letting off steam, celebrating. And this guy, he tells me this story while he’s extremely roasted. I could tell he hadn’t let his hair down in a long time. He gets ahead of himself, tells me this story, and passes out.”
“Did he know he told you this?”
“Something like that? I wasn’t gonna mention it again.”
“How did he know about Gordon?”
“I swear to you, I got no idea. This guy, whoever he really is, is one scary guy. Like he has mutant abilities or something.”
I didn’t say anything, but I figured it wouldn’t have been a stretch of the imagination for “Teddy Nickels” to get his information from one of the dancers. I thought about the young Asian woman he’d manhandled earlier and figured that was indicative of his managerial style. They had no love for Tatum, and the guy probably talked about the sure-thing movie script he was developing with the Hollywood writer.
“So what are you going to do?” Tatum studied me.
“What would you do?”
Tatum looked sad. “Get him the script like he said.”
“Me too.”
“That’s too bad. Gordon wrote a really nice script. It would be a hell of a movie.”
* * * * *
7
I walked to the end of the pier and boarded Magic Dragon, my pride and joy. And my home. She’s a fifty-one foot cruising sailing-yacht with fore and aft cabins, a large salon, fully-stocked galley, and a bathroom equipped with a shower.
After getting out of college, I started saving. I bought Magic Dragon from an old couple that had taken good care of her while running ganja from Jamaica to Florida to supplement their retirement. When they had a tidy sum put back that replaced everything they’d lost in the dot.com crash, they sold me the boat. I learned how to clean, repair, and replace every part aboard her. She wasn’t just a sailboat. She was that piece of me that wanted security and a place to call mine.
Magic Dragon was everything I wanted to be. In a moment’s notice I could pitch off the mooring ropes and be gone for days or weeks or months at a time. Unfortunately, I didn’t get to do that as often as I wanted to because work got in the way. But I dreamed about it a lot.
After I checked my perimeter under the marina’s security lights, I headed belowdecks. Callie nearly took my head off with the heavy duty flashlight from the emergency kit.
I stepped back and caught her hands.
“Jake?”
“Yeah.” I helped her regain her footing.
Callie looked behind me. “Where’s Gordon?”
I stowed the flashlight back in the kit under the starboard bunk. “Teddy Nickels has him.” I took a beer from the fridge and walked into the salon.
“Teddy Nickels?”
“Yeah.”
She gave me a confused look. “Teddy Nickels is a character in Gordon’s script.”
“He’s also a crack shot and has ice water in his veins. Furthermore, he’s Harry Tatum’s silent partner.”
Callie took a beer from the fridge and joined me in the salon. She reached for the light switch but I caught her hand.
“No.” I released her hand.
Realization tightened Callie’s features. She peered through the window. “Is someone watching us?”
“I don’t know, but this guy knows a lot about Gordon. And you.”
“Me?”
“He knows you’re Gordon’s personal assistant.”
Callie sipped her beer. “Do you know who he is?”
“We traded bullets. Not names.”
“Is Gordon all right?”
“He was the last time I saw him.” Her concern over the guy bugged me and I didn’t know quite what to do with how I felt. I wanted to wash my hands of the whole matter, but that would have only started a fight, which would have been extremely counter-productive under the circumstances.
“Why does this guy have Gordon?”
The beer bottle felt cold and sure in my hand. “He wants to trade Gordon for the script and all the research materials.”
“Why?”
“Maybe he’s a fan.”
“Don’t be a bastard.”
“Getting shot at puts me in a mood.”
Distractedly, Callie drummed her fingers on the table top. Waves slapped against Magic Dragon’s hull, but the sound didn’t bring the usual feeling of serenity. I just felt alone.
“Do you have the script?”
Callie stared at me in disbelief. For the first time I realized she was wearing one of my old tee shirts. The black mini was probably hung up in the closet. She looked gorgeous, and the sight of her draped in marina lights and shadows reminded me of all those nights we’d spent together aboard the boat.
“Callie?”
She sighed unhappily. “Yes, I’ve got the script and the research stuff. But it’s just not fair. That script is ours. Gordon’s, I mean. This bastard can’t just take it.”
“Yes, Callie, he can.” I spoke calmly but I knew she was still going to deny the possibility. “This guy isn’t someone you can just blow off. If you do that, you’re going to get Gordon killed. And that’s a start with. Chances are, he’ll come after you next.”
That possibility was the one thing that kept me linked to the situation. I would probably have stayed involved with just Gordon in a bad way, but Callie sealed the deal.
She looked at me. “What are we going to do?”
“Give him the script. Unless you’d rather write Gordon off.”
She winced. “Gordon’s a good guy. He doesn’t deserve any of this. He’s just been in the wrong place at the wrong time.” She groaned. “It’s just such a good script. It would make the perfect movie.”
“Look at it this way. As long as Gordon’s alive, he can write another good script. It’s kind of hard to do that when you’re dead.”
“Okay, I get it. We don’t have a choice.” Callie studied me and her face softened. “You usually don’t give up so easily.”
“Usually when I find myself in a bad situation, getting out isn’t as easy as giving someone back something that belong to them. All we’re doing now is giving back a story that wasn’t rightfully Gordon’s to tell. Seems like a no-brainer to me.”
“You aren’t losing a part in a blockbuster movie.”
I chose not to argue with her and focused instead on her swaying breasts beneath my tee shirt. “True.”
I tried to turn my thoughts from breasts to something else, thinking maybe I should have a look at that movie script. Knowing who Teddy Nickels really was might be dangerous, but one thing I tried to adhere to on a recovery job was knowing everything I could about everything that could go wrong.
Unfortunately, the breasts were winning. Too many memories crowded my mind, and the sweet scent of woman flesh just proved too strong. I was thinking I needed to go topside for another look around and to get a breath of fresh air.
Then Callie leaned across the table and grabbed me by my lapels. The tee shirt gaped open and I peered down at the creamy hills waiting inside. She kissed me hard and long, and when we broke apart, we both had trouble breathing normally.
Without a word, I took her hand and guided her back to the bed.
* * * * *
8
Beside the bed, I skinned Callie out of the tee shirt and revealed those taut curves that haunted my dreams. I’ve had other women since Callie and I were together, and I remember them all, but none of them were like Callie.
Her looks were part of it. Redheads have some quality about them that just sets my blood on fire. Emma is of the opinion that when I cash in my chips, it’s going to be over a redhead -- probably Callie.
Maybe that’s true.
Callie’s nimble fingers plucked my shirt buttons open, then she reached inside the folds of material and peeled me out of it. I felt the bullet hardness of her nipples brushing at my chest, backed by the overripe heated fullness of her breasts pressing against me as she moved. I could have just stood there and let her undress me.
Could have, but I didn’t.
As she worked on my belt, I unclipped my holster and put the Sig in a bedside drawer. I kissed her and she kissed me, and her fingers worked from memory as I slid my hands down her sides and cupped her ass.
I was up and ready for action by the time my shorts hit the floor. I stepped out of my shoes and followed her onto the bed. Her breath was sweetly alcoholic as she reached down and seized me. In spite of myself, I groaned and shuddered, just a little. She giggled at my lack of control.
My breathing was rough, more animal than human. I hooked a hand behind one of her knees, then the other, and spread her. From the smell of her musk, I knew she was ready, and probably had been for some time. I rolled on top of her and impaled her, sliding easily through her burning core.
She didn’t giggle then. She moaned. Maybe it was a little theatrical because she was putting on a show for me, but a lot of it was the sexual beast we’d unleashed. I worked against her, continuing to kiss her even though both our breaths came ragged and uneven and there wasn’t enough air in the room.
I went at her hard, giving in to the hunger, to the craving, that I’d always felt every time I was near her. And she took everything I offered and returned my investment with interest as she swung her hips up to meet mine.
In one of those moves that lovers learn through long and frequent practice, Callie flipped me over onto my back. I shivered for a moment as I changed angles inside her. Then she smiled down at me as she started hammering me with her hips.
I grabbed her ass and tried to slow her down, but she bulled right through, ignoring my guidance like a rookie pitcher shaking off signs from a veteran catcher. She was out of control and so was I. The only hope I had was staying in the game long enough to take her with me.
She moved against me one more time and the moist heat of her tipped the scales. I exploded inside her and my senses whirled and splintered. Thankfully, I felt her convulsing around me, eyelids fluttering, as she continued to grind. When the moment passed, she collapsed on top of me and we both slept.
* * * * *
“Get up.”
Still groggy, Callie wrapped herself more tightly in the sheets.
I stood patiently by the bed, but I felt the pressure of the clock on the nightstand. “We’ve got to go. It’s late.”
Reluctantly and with some hostility, Callie sat up in bed. The sheets lay in total disarray and smelled like sex. I enjoyed the smell.
“Gordon, remember?”
Without a word, Callie got up naked and trudged toward the shower. I watched the naked roll of her ass and wished I’d woken sooner, or that Gordon wasn’t in the picture. But if he hadn’t been, Callie wouldn’t have ended up in my bed last night.