Swamp Team 3 (14 page)

Despite my earlier objection, I decided my boobs were the best carrying option for my pistol, at least until we got to the bar, so I wrapped the holster around my biceps and shoved the gun into the middle of my cleavage. Ally’s lips quivered but no one was foolish enough to laugh at an irritated woman packing a pistol in her boobs.

“You talked to Myrtle?” I asked Gertie.

“Yes,” she said. “She’s working dispatch until midnight. If any calls come in about the Swamp Bar, she’ll call me and I’ll figure out a rescue option.”

“Great,” I said, with a lot more enthusiasm than I felt. This entire plan was so full of holes it wouldn’t hold water.

Ida Belle had already donned her helmet and a black leather jacket, complete with a Sons of Anarchy patch. “Ready?” she asked.

“As ready as I’m getting.”

She dropped the visor on her helmet. “Good enough for me.”

She fired up the motorcycle and revved the engine. It was so loud I was certain it rattled the windows on every house on the block. I wrapped my arms around her thin frame, she put the bike in gear, and off we went.

I’ll be the first to admit that I rode the first block with my eyes closed. If I was going to die, I didn’t see any point in seeing it coming. It was one of those areas where I felt ignorance was bliss. When a bit of time passed and we didn’t hit the skids, I opened one eye and saw we’d made it safely down the block. Considering it was better than I’d expected, I decided to give both eyes open a whirl and took in a wide-angle view just as we pulled onto Main Street.

The sound of the engine alone had everyone on the sidewalk turning to look, although with our helmets and completely odd clothes, I doubt anyone recognized us. If anything, they probably all thought some skinny dude had picked up a hooker.
 

Ida Belle surprised me by maintaining a reasonable speed and executing good control over the motorcycle. In fact, the highway riding was almost pleasant. And then we turned off the paved road.
 

The road to the Swamp Bar was basically a narrow path of dirt and rocks that wound through the bayou. In some places, it wasn’t even wide enough for two cars to pass each other, explaining the partially submerged automobiles that littered each side of the road. The road was also covered with potholes—some only big enough to provide a jolt up my spine, others big enough to disappear in. Ida Belle wove in and out of the big ones, seeming to hit every single small one on the road. I was fairly certain she shook loose a filling or two.

It was dusk when we pulled into the Swamp Bar parking lot, which was essentially one big patch of dirt that was either dry or muddy, depending on the weather. Ida Belle parked at the far end of the space, near the bayou and on the other side of a van. The light from the bar didn’t extend to where we were, so no one inside would be able to see us. The van blocked us from the view of people pulling into the lot.
 

I did a quick check of the van to make sure it was empty and not a roving meth lab or something equally as dangerous, and grimaced when I saw two child seats in the second-row bench. I hoped they, at least, had one responsible parent at home. People who showed up at the Swamp Bar weren’t usually part of Sinful’s most reputable. Showing up before dark added a whole level of unsuitable to the mix.

“Do you see Floyd’s truck anywhere?” I asked.

Ida Belle shook her head. “No, but it’s a bit early.”

There were twenty or so vehicles in the parking lot. I knew from my last visit that there would be three times that once the place was hopping. “Should I wait for more people to show up?”

It was a catch-22. If I went in while it was quiet, I’d draw more attention, but not the kind I was looking for. If the place was busy and everyone had belted back a few, they wouldn’t care as much when a stranger walked in. If it was quiet and people were still sharp, they might take a closer look and realize they’d seen me before. Things would go further downhill if they recognized me as a friend of Carter’s.

“I think it will be easier to blend if there’s more people inside,” Ida Belle said.

“Okay, but I’m taking off this helmet.”

Ida Belle nodded. “You can certainly try.”

I unhooked the helmet strap and pulled the helmet up. It didn’t budge. I yanked harder and only succeeded in wrenching my neck. “A little help, please?”

Ida Belle motioned for me to bend over and she grabbed the helmet. With her pulling and me pushing, it finally popped off my head. Ida Belle took one look at me and started laughing. I reached up with one hand and met with hair a good two feet from my head.

I bent over to take a look at my hair in the mirror on the motorcycle handlebars, but the mirror was too small to see much. I rose up and twisted the side mirror on the van and gasped. My hair stood straight out as though I’d stuck a fork into a 220-volt plug.
 

I pressed my hand on the top of the hair, trying to push it flat. “I’ve got to get this down.”

“It would take a downpour and weights to accomplish that,” Ida Belle said.

“I don’t have weights and I’m not standing here until a downpour passes by.”

Ida Belle shrugged. “There’s always the bayou.”

“You want me to stick my head in the bayou?”

“Jesus, do I have to think of everything?” She bent over and grabbed an empty soda bottle from the ground, then stomped over to the bayou and filled it with dirty, icky swamp water. When she walked back over to me, bottle in hand, I shook my head.

“No way,” I said. “You’re not putting that stinky water on my hair.”

“It’s either this or you go in looking like a porcupine hooker.”

Crap.
 

“Okay, but just pour a little in my hands and I’ll try to pat it down.”

She gave me a skeptical look, but dumped some of the dirty water into my hands. I tried not to think about what was in it as I flopped my hands on the top of my head and rubbed the hair down. “Is that better?” I asked.

“Better than what?”

“Than before.”

“I suppose it will have to do.”

I leaned over and looked in the van mirror again. My hair was still poofier than it had been after Gertie finished with it, but I had cut it down in volume by at least a third.
 

“Here comes the crowd,” Ida Belle said and pointed over the hood of the van.
 

I peered around and saw a line of headlights coming toward the bar. “It looks like a funeral procession.”

“That’s probably the regulars, so same difference, really.”

I watched as the vehicles pulled into the parking area, switching off in different directions to park. Burly middle-aged men and the occasional sleazily dressed woman climbed out of cars and trucks and headed straight for the bar.
 

“I didn’t see Floyd in the mix,” I said.

“Me either. Now that more people showed up, it’s probably a good idea for you to get in there before Floyd arrives. People aren’t likely to talk about him if he’s sitting in there with them.”

“Maybe I can get the skinny on Floyd from the others, and if he shows up, I might be able to find out more.”

Ida Belle pointed her finger at me. “If he shows up, you get the hell out of there before he realizes you’re one of the people who tore his fence down.”

The mental image of the giant leaping cat and my torn T-shirt flashed through my mind. “You’re probably right.” I unwrapped the holster from my arm and secured it around my thigh, then pulled my pistol out of my cleavage and tucked it into the holster.
 

“Am I good?” I asked.

“Not if you bend over, or maybe even sneeze.”

“I’ll be sure not to do either.”

“I wouldn’t breathe too deeply, either,” Ida Belle said. “You’ve got your phone, right?”

I grabbed the tiny purse at the end of the gold cross-body chain hanging over me and pulled out my phone. “It’s all that would fit in this completely useless purse. One bar for service. That’s not exactly encouraging.”

“Typical this far out in the swamp. Don’t worry about it. I’m going to move the motorcycle to that small spot of grass over near the front door. I brought a ball cap and a pack of cigarettes. I’ll stand around the edge of the porch and keep watch. If anything goes down, make a break for the door. I’ll be ready to go.”

“You took up smoking?”

“No. I took up blending with this crowd. Standing outside for a smoke doesn’t attract attention.”

“Good plan.” I tucked my phone back in the purse, pulled down my skirt, and pushed up my boobs, then carefully picked my way across the parking lot in those god-awful heels.
 

I’d made it halfway to the bar when Ida Belle called out, “The bar closes at two a.m. In case you want to pick up the pace.”

“Smart-ass,” I grumbled as I forced myself into a faster wobble.
 

Fortunately, the owners of the Swamp Bar were not only disreputable but cheap, and the flooring on the entire front porch and inside was sheets of plywood. That gave me long stretches of flat board to balance on and I managed a more natural-looking walk as I strolled to the front door.
 

I paused a couple of seconds at the threshold and took a deep breath before shoving the door open and stepping inside. A second later, a tidal wave of cold water hit me in the face, completely drenching me. I heard a cheer inside the bar as I sputtered and wiped at my eyes with my fingers.
 

“You idiot,” the bartender yelled. “Throw the water on the chest, not the face, or they’ll get all upset over your ruining their makeup.”

Directly in front of me stood a man holding an empty bucket—I assumed the source of my current soaking-wet status. He stared at my chest and yelled back at the bartender. “They’s so big, they’re up next to her face. Can’t aim that narrow with a bucket.”

“Why are you throwing water in the first place?” I asked,
 

The bartender pointed to a wall behind him with a list of events. Next to Wednesday, in barely legible handwriting, were the words “Wet T-Shirt Contest.”

Oh hell no.

From the weathered age of the board and the flaking paint spots on the lettering, I knew that list had been in place for a while. Which meant Gertie and Ida Belle already knew about wet T-shirt night. And when I got out of here and into fighting clothes, they would both pay. Dearly.

“Ma’am,” the bartender yelled. “Contestants drink free. I have a nice white wine.”

I shook the water off of my arms and gave Bucket Man my go-to-hell stare as I did my best to stalk by. It was a bit wobbly, but I figured I still pulled off pissed. The bartender handed me a stack of napkins.
 

“Sorry about ole Billy,” the bartender said as I wiped off with the napkins. “He means well but he’s a bit of a half-wit.”

“Then maybe you should let someone with a higher IQ toss the water.” Of course, I had no reason to suspect that anyone who frequented the Swamp Bar even possessed a higher IQ, but it didn’t hurt to throw the suggestion out there.

A man slid onto the stool next to me. “That’s what happens when you let Buckshot Billy handle moving objects.”

Midforties. Six foot tall. A hundred sixty pounds. Wearing dark sunglasses at night in a bar. 1970s sweeping disco hairdo.
 

I could definitely take him, but he had such a weird vibe that I wasn’t sure I wanted to touch him. If I’d been drinking a beer, I could have gone for a good clock in the face with a beer mug, but I wouldn’t even make a dent with the cheap wineglass I held.
 

“Buckshot Billy?” I asked.

Weird man nodded. “The locals gave him the nickname because he couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn with a football. The only time he could hit something hunting was using buckshot—it scatters a good bit.”

I looked at the bartender. “You’re letting a guy nicknamed ‘Buckshot’ control the water bucket?”

The bartender looked a little sheepish. “Billy’s sorta a sad case. I was trying to be nice.”

“Then give him free beer. Take away the bucket and be nice to every other woman who walks through that door.”

He rubbed his chin, as if the idea required deep thought. “You may be right.”

It was all I could do to keep from rolling my eyes.

Weird guy’s cell phone rang and he looked at the display and frowned. “Excuse me,” he said, as if I cared where he was going. Then he walked across the bar and outside. The bartender stepped back behind the bar with the bucket, poured a beer, and shoved it across the counter to Billy, who gazed longingly at the bucket.

“I haven’t seen you in here before,” the bartender said. “You new in town?”

“Just visiting. Thought I’d look up an old friend. Someone told me he hangs out here.”

“What’s his name?”

“Floyd Guidry.”

The bartender narrowed his eyes at me. “Best I know, Floyd ain’t got no friends, and it don’t take women long before they know to steer clear of him. He’s got no qualms about backhanding one.”

I frowned. “Is that so? He wasn’t really my friend. Just someone my brother met doing a job down here. My brother thought I might look him up and say hello if I had the time. He seemed pleasant enough the one time I met him, but I guess I was wrong.”