SAVANNAH GONE (16 page)

I clicked back to his page and studied his photo. He was a decent enough looking guy. But he had that weak chin and those capped teeth, not to mention the ridiculous tie, the diamond stud earring, and that Steven Segal ponytail.

How on earth had this numbskull gotten Claire Robertson and Natalie Grant, two striking beauties far out of his league, to drop their panties? Women truly are a mystery.

I thought about Natalie. Sensuality seeped from her pores. Was I jealous because Hutchins landed on Plymouth Rock and planted his flag before I had? You bet your ass I was.

~ ~ ~

I got out my cell and placed a call to Randy “The Rainman” Pope. For a substantial fee, Randy can find out damn near anything about an individual or an organization. It’s been said that there are no secrets. I’m here to tell you it’s true. The Rainman is an MIT grad and a computer savant; bits, bytes, and digital data are his lexicon.

Grandpa was a horny drunk with a penchant for barnyard livestock? Not a problem for The Rainman. Granny was a communist sympathizer back in the 1930’s? He’d have that info faster than you could say Joseph Stalin loved potato vodka. Randy’s hacking royalty, and knows more about uncovering electronic information than anyone else, including the NSA.

He explained it to me once...something to do with computer protocols and trap doors. Or maybe it was backdoors and wormholes. Shit, I didn’t know and didn’t care if he retrieved the dirt through a black hole, a pothole, or a sinkhole. If it was out there floating in the ether, Rainman would find it.

I ordered a complete dossier on Jack Hutchins and paid the extra freight to have it done fast. I also had a couple more assignments for him that involved Bill Taylor and Frank Chambers.

I drained the last of my beer and let out a deep breath. I felt like Sisyphus rolling that giant boulder up the hill. In the past twelve hours, I’d been shot at, shut out, and shit on. The woman I was hired to find was dead. I was sleep deprived, my batteries were low, and the killer was still out there.

Plus Natalie probably thought of me as an idiot for turning down a roll in the hay. Shit, I thought of myself as an idiot for turning down her advances. No question, this had not been a red-letter day on the Fontaine calendar.

Yours truly needed to blow off some steam. When in doubt, pound it out. Or in this case, pound a few back.

I locked up and took a cab to Cyril’s, a raucous Cajun joint located a couple of miles east of town. It sits perched on the marsh near the Isle of Hope and looks like a dilapidated swamp shack.

I sat at the bar shoveling in a plate of spicy jambalaya and knocking back a longneck beer. A five-piece Zydeco band, accordion, rubboard, drums, guitar, and electric bass, was in full tilt. The singer was a big black guy with a thick-as-molasses baritone. The music was loud and the place was jumping...I mean literally jumping. Couples were doing the Cajun swing, and you could actually feel the floorboards rise and fall to the beat. Crazy.

Cyril must be pushing seventy, lives on a diet of whiskey and nicotine, and has the energy of a man half his age. A former IRA bomb chucker, he was arrested in Belfast while delivering a large cache of explosives. Cyril made bail, then fled to the Canary Islands before making his way to the States. He joined the marines and went into the Vietnam War meat grinder. Eighteen months later, he was discharged honorably with a Silver Star.

After that, Cyril flew covert operations for Air America, the CIA shell company. He took diplomats, spies, commandos, and sabotage teams deep inside Southeast Asia.

Then he bounced around for a while, made a mint in the marijuana import business, and ended up owning a bar on Toulouse Street down in the French Quarter of New Orleans. Ten years ago, he washed ashore in Savannah.

Anyway, the statute of limitations expired years ago, and Cyril could return to Ireland if he so desired. Besides, the only chucking he indulges in these days, is tossing drunk and obnoxious yuppies out of the bar and onto their asses. A deeply disturbed and demented soul, a former client and good friend...that, boys and girls, is Cyril O’Shea.

The band took a break. A couple minutes later I felt my phone vibrate, letting me know I’d received a text message. I fished it from my pocket and had a look. Natalie Grant. Her message said: Just finished with class. What are you up to?

I’d already downed a few beers, my ability to resist eroding fast. I tapped out my response: Having dinner at Cyril’s. Join me?

Natalie: Love to...see you soon.

She didn’t ask for directions, and I didn’t provide any. And no, I don’t play the field. I still had the hots for store-owner Jill Sullivan. But we had yet to go out on that date. At this point, I was a free agent.

Fifteen minutes later, Natalie strolled through the door. She’d abandoned the outfit from earlier and was wearing beige colored pants that flattered her figure, and a snug, pale green top. To say every man’s head turned to check her out wasn’t much of a stretch.

I stood, waved her over, and she parked her sexy frame on a barstool next to me.

I leaned in close. “If any my professors looked half as good as you, I’d still be in school.”

She smiled. “Who was it that said, ‘I can live for two months on a compliment?’”

“I believe it was Homer Simpson.”

She laughed, then punched me in the arm. “Wrong. It was Mark Twain. Now stop being a smartass and order me a glass of red wine.”

There were two bartenders working the crowded bar, but I spotted Cyril down at the far end, pitching in, pouring drinks, and knocking back a shot Jameson Irish Whiskey while he was at it.

I caught his eye, and Cyril made his way toward us.

“And who do we have here?” he said, laying the Gaelic brogue on thick for Natalie’s benefit.

“Natalie Grant,” I said, “I’d like you to meet Cyril O’Shea. Cyril’s the owner of this fine establishment.”

“A pleasure to meet you me dear,” he said. “What on God’s green earth are ya doin with this loser?”

Natalie glanced at me, then said to Cyril, “You’ll have to tell me all his dirty little secrets.”

“Hope you’ve got a lot of time me luv. Now, what can I get you to drink?”

“I’d love a glass of red wine. Pino noir if you have it, anything red if you don’t.”

“I like this one,” Cyril said with a sly smile. Then to Natalie, “Back in a wee moment with your wine.”

He winked, then wandered off to fetch Natalie’s beverage. The band took the stage, and the place looked ready to explode. The bar was four to five deep with revelers, and it was impossible to miss the lustful glances cast in Natalie’s direction. I understood. She had the same effect on me.

Cyril returned and handed Natalie her glass. “Here’s your pino, the very best in the house. And a menu for you too. I’ll check back with the two of you soon.”

As the band was warming up, Natalie asked, “How does a guy with an Irish accent end up owning a Cajun bar?”

In my best Cyril imitation, I said, “It’s one of the mysteries of the universe, me luv.” Then in my own voice, “It’s good to see you.” We touched glasses.

“It’s good to see you too.” She stayed silent for several seconds, then said, “You know I’ve heard about this place, but I’ve never been here.” She took a sip of her wine. “I didn’t see your car in the parking lot.”

“I left it at home and caught a cab.” I didn’t say anything about having my rear windshield shot out. In fact, I didn’t say anything at all. Instead, I leaned over and kissed her. Lightly at first, and then with a little more heat. Natalie’s lips parted, her tongue, lightning hot and silky smooth.

After the kiss, we made small talk for a few minutes. Natalie leaned toward me so I could hear her over the music, and I caught a glimpse of her breasts. They weren’t too large, spilling out and flopping onto the bar. Nor were they too small. They were just right. Natalie straightened, crossed her legs, and took a sip of wine.

“I probably should’ve asked if you had company when I texted you,” she said.

“Don’t worry about it,” I replied. “My date’s in the bathroom. Her name’s Delores. I’ll introduce you when she comes back out.”

She chuckled. “You’re crazy.” She smiled at me over the rim of her wine glass, and her eyes held mine in the dim light of the bar. “Admit it. After I dropped you off at your car, you couldn’t stop thinking about me.”

“Your name’s Mindy, right? We met last week at Button Gwinnett’s cookout. You said you wanted to see my Willy.”

She rolled her eyes and laughed again. She had a nice laugh, kind of throaty and sexy. She looked around for a moment, then back at me. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many single women in one place.” She gave me a knowing smile. “Tell me the truth. Do you come here to score?”

I drained my beer and let my eyes wander over the crowd. I’d been so preoccupied with the murder investigation, I hadn’t noticed all the unattached women floating about. And while Cyril draws an interesting mix on most nights, it seemed like every loony in the lowcountry was in attendance. I said, “It’s kind of like trying to hook up on one of those internet dating sites...the odds are good, but the goods are odd.”

Natalie put her wine glass on the bar. “Let’s see your moves funny man. Dance with me.”

“I’d love to.” I took her hand and led her out on the floor. Even though we were far from experts at the Cajun stomp, or whatever the hell it was called, we moved pretty well together.

The band ratcheted down and played a slow one. I held Natalie close, pulled her in nice and tight, our bodies swaying to the music. Her head on my chest, lithe body, firm breasts pressing into me. Longfellow roused from his slumber and stretched.

Later, we went out to the back deck to get some fresh air. The moon was up and the stars were out in a big purple sky. A light breeze rustled the spartina grass, the air ripe with the smell of the marsh, an aroma that always makes me horny.

We stood front to back; I leaned against the deck railing with my arms wrapped around her while Natalie leaned back into me. Her hair smelled good...a light, fresh, apricot scent.

Any inhibitions Natalie and I might’ve felt seemed laid to rest. I’m not going to lie and say it felt like we’d known each other forever, but there was a comfort and ease between us that far exceeded the small amount of time we’d spent together. Simpatico, that’s what we were.

Out on the water, the moonlight shimmered on the rippling current. And the murder investigation was the furthest thing from my mind.

Without turning around, Natalie said, “This is so nice.” Followed shortly by, “What are you thinking about?”

Women have asked this question since Eve handed Adam the apple. I said, “I was trying to picture what you looked like naked.” Though in Adam’s case, he was probably trying to imagine what Eve looked like with her clothes on, since they were about to be evicted.

Natalie laughed. “Are you always this brazen?”

“That’s me...Brazen the barbarian. Vanquish the enemy, pillage the village, steal all the horses and capture the women. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

Back at my place, I poured us both a glass of wine, then put on an Etta James CD. We danced to “I’d Rather Go Blind” and then to “Stormy Weather.” What a set of pipes.

With Etta singing “At Last,” I took Natalie by the hand and showed her the rest of the house...starting and ending with my second story bedroom.

I dimmed the lights. Natalie pulled my shirt over my head, then ran her hands over my chest. I kissed her long and deep, before ditching my pants.

I stood there in the altogether and watched her wiggle out of her clothes. She unhooked her bra, then slid her low-cut, lace panties off. She looked even better than I’d imagined: pert breasts, taut stomach, and long, well-toned legs. Her skin was bronzed, with well-defined, distinct tan lines...a major, major turn on. In a show of approval, Willie the Conqueror pointed due north.

We slipped into bed side by side, touching, kissing, exploring. A tangle of limbs. Natalie rolled over onto her back, and I got on top. Her body was electric. She took me in her hand and guided me inside. Wet. Warm. She raised her legs and wrapped them around my back.

Anyway, without giving too much away, we were more than good together, with none of the fumbling or awkwardness new lovers often feel. The second time, even better.

I fell asleep with her curled in my arms, and dreamed I was running naked through an apricot orchard. Go figure.

~ ~ ~

Judging by the angle of the sun slanting through the blinds, I guessed the time at about 8:00
A.M.
I’d been awake for about ten minutes, but was still in bed. Natalie was on her side sleeping next to me, naked and warm, her lean stomach rising and falling with each silent breath.

I kissed the back of her neck and began to pull away. She stirred, then shifted back into me, erasing the space I’d created. I held her like that until I felt her drift off, then slid out of bed.

I needed caffeine. I pulled on a T-shirt and shorts, then went quietly downstairs to the kitchen.

I got the coffee started, then headed for the bathroom. I washed back a couple of aspirins and hopped in the shower.

I lathered up and let the hot spray pound down on my shoulders for a few minutes. After a quick shave and a mouthwash gargle, I was in fighting form, ready to face the day.

Coming down the hall, I thought I heard voices coming from the kitchen. But when I turned the corner, it was just Natalie, with bedroom hair and wearing an old faded shirt of mine that ended at about mid-thigh. She was sipping coffee and watching the news.

She looked up and said, “They were just talking about Claire.”

I nodded, trying to shift gears and get my head in the game. “Did they have anything new to say?” I poured myself a cup.

“I’m not sure,” she said. “I just turned the TV on, and all I caught was the tail end of the report.”

Sometimes the morning after can be a little weird, and I wasn’t sure how this one was going to play out. I said, “Feel like going out for breakfast?” I wasn’t the least bit hungry, but wanted to be a gentleman and extend the offer.