T. Lynn Ocean - Jersey Barnes 01 - Southern Fatality (6 page)

Filling my lungs and holding the breath for a long beat, I willed
myself to take Spud and his attitude in stride.
Incognito
wasn’t going anywhere. She would still be in her dock next week, patiently awaiting my arrival. Or next month, the way the Chesterfield thing was panning out. It had been days since I’d bugged the family’s high-rise condo and so far, nothing had jumped out and announced itself as a clue.

I let the breath slowly out and displayed my benevolent smile. “Hiya, Spud. I thought it was cholesterol pills you were out of.” Even though my father collected prescription drugs like an investor collects portfolios, he was in good health. Although arthritis caused a stiff walk and knobby knuckles, he got around just fine, especially when using one of his hand-carved wooden walking canes. The one he sported today was adorned with a mermaid in lieu of a handle. Her curvaceous nippled breasts were the finger grips.

“Yeah, well,” he said. “I won some cholesterol pills from Trip last week during our poker game. But now I need heartburn pills. I’m starting to belch, and you can’t attract babes sounding like a frog, for crying out loud.” Spud’s idea of a babe was any woman who could walk faster than he could, regardless of any healthcare aids in use.

“Okay, I’ll drive you to the pharmacy before they close,” I agreed. “Let me get something to drink first.” Spud’s eyesight had deteriorated to the point that North Carolina deemed him unable to safely operate a vehicle and took away his license.

Seeing me tote him around, people assumed Spud was my grandfather. They didn’t factor in that he’d impregnated my mother when he was twice her age. If I thought too long about the injustice of regaining a father just in time to play chauffeur for his aging body, I felt cheated. But as Ox pointed out, the spirits had a purpose when they deposited Spud on my doorstep.

“I was going to drive myself but Ox busted me just when I
cranked the ignition.” The mermaid’s tail swished with annoyance. “He threatened to call Dirk and have me arrested.”

A smile tugged at my mouth, as I knew it to be an empty threat. Ox was a direct approach type of guy. If forced, he’d have gently removed Spud from the car and deposited him in a booth at the Block.

A month ago I had received a call from a highway patrolman at the Department of Motor Vehicles, where Spud had failed the eyesight test and thrown such a tantrum that only the mention of arrest quieted him down. When I arrived to collect Spud and his vehicle, I paid an off-duty cop to follow us home in Spud’s car. Dirk Thompson ended up joining us for dinner and swapped insults with Spud right up to the point of cheesecake with fresh blueberries. By the time we sipped after-dinner drinks of Baileys Irish cream on ice, Spud admitted that maybe it was best if he didn’t drive. Later, Dirk told me he hadn’t enjoyed a night out so much in a long time and that, if I ever needed anything out of the department, I should give him a call. He’d since become my main source for running quick vehicle registrations and license checks.

“Any response on your classified ad yet?” I asked Spud, opening the refrigerator with a Coke in mind.

“Hell, no!”

When the interior light popped on, a Bass ale screamed my name but I grabbed a can of Coke instead.

“Not a single response!” Spud raved.

He had tried to sell his car to Dirk, then to the neighbors, and then to the world via the Internet before succumbing to the high classified rates of the local daily newspaper. Selling the car had become his sole mission in life. He was obsessed with getting rid of it since North Carolina revoked his driving privileges.

His cane stabbed the air. “Our newspaper is supposed to have a
circulation of sixty thousand readers. You’d think that just one of them would decide my Chrysler is the best deal going, for crying out loud.”

Spud’s car is a bright red Chrysler LHS. I’m still not sure what the LHS stands for, but the car looks exactly like the old New Yorker. Spud’s has tan leather seats, power everything, and a sunroof. Immediately after he’d lost his license, we tried to sell it to a dealership, but they weren’t too impressed with the fantastic deal we offered. Spud claimed that the car had been pampered and was worth at least fifteen thousand dollars. The eager kid who’d mistakenly thought Spud was there to trade it in on a brand-new car explained that the sales manager could buy a similar LHS off the auction block for five thousand dollars. Spud told the kid exactly where his sales manager could put the five thousand bills.

“No big deal on the newspaper ad, anyway,” Spud said, “because we’ve got another plan to get rid of the car.”

“We who?” I questioned.

“My poker buddies. Bobby, Hal, and Trip. They know how to solve a problem. Four heads are much better than one.” I wasn’t so sure, considering it was Spud’s poker buddies that we were talking about. In their case, four heads probably equaled one and a half. Maybe two.

“Okay.” I had to spur him on. “Tell me about it.”

“Insurance. I’m going to just collect the average retail value of the car from the insurance company.”

“I don’t think they’ll go for that,” I told him. “They probably don’t need a used Chrysler.”

“I’m not going to
sell
it to them. They’re going to pay a claim. The car will be sunk, you know, horrible accident and all that.” I didn’t know whether to laugh or scold him so I just waited for the rest.

“Next time it rains real heavy, Bobby is going to accidentally
drive it into that retention pond in the middle of the parking lot at the shopping center where our barber is.”

“I think that’s called insurance fraud,” I said, “and that would be illegal. Not to mention dangerous.”

Spud’s cane dismissed my concern with a wave. “It’s no more dangerous than driving on these roads every day. Besides, Bobby’s gonna drop us all off at the barber,
then
go drive into the lake. He’ll have his window rolled down, so he can climb out before the thing sinks. We’ll act shocked, dry his wrinkled ass off, then call the coppers. And, it ain’t illegal if it’s an accident.”

My father’s logic never ceased to amaze me. Especially considering the fact that he used to be a cop. Enforcer of the law and keeper of the peace.

“Sounds like you’ve given this some thought,” I said.

“Of course we have. Got it all planned out. Bobby’s the best swimmer, plus he volunteered to do the deed.” Bobby was well over eighty and probably hadn’t seen the inside of a swimming pool in more than twenty years.

“Spud, tell me this is all a joke.”

“Okay. It’s all a joke,” he agreed much too quickly. “All I want is a decent price for the damn car. It’s useless to me,” he said in a rising voice, the mermaid’s breasts almost touching the ceiling. “The damn state of North Carolina ought to buy it after what they did! Taking away an innocent man’s license to drive. What’s next, they gonna tell me I can’t take out your boat?”

Spud had never captained
Incognito
, at least not to my knowledge. I’d have to remember to hide the keys, just to be sure. I downed the rest of my Coke, Spud propped a bright yellow beret on top of his obstinate head, and we journeyed to the pharmacy.

A red blinking light on the answering machine caught our attention when we returned. It was Soup instructing me to call him.

“Soup here,” he answered on the first ring.

“Whatcha got on the flash drive?”

“Very interesting.
Very
interesting. I got a clean copy, but it’s completely encoded.”

“So?” Encoded data was a speed bump to Soup. He could navigate over or around anything.

“No, I mean really encoded. Some unusual shit; I haven’t been able to break it yet. I think it could be government stuff, though.” Government? What was Chesterfield doing with government data on a flash drive hidden in a gym bag?

“Keep trying. I’m good for your time.” He knew that we would settle up eventually—whether via money, trade, or otherwise.

“I’m on it,” he agreed and disconnected.

Whatever Chesterfield was involved in, it certainly wasn’t a case of infidelity. I should just explain to Lolly that her hubby wasn’t cheating and get on with my life after retirement. But it was against my nature to walk away from unanswered questions. I was cursed with a noble—or possibly stupid—desire to unravel mysteries and plow my way directly to the motivating core of a person’s actions.

On the other hand, I had only agreed to tail Chesterfield as a favor to Bill. Lolly wasn’t paying me a dime for this assignment. In fact, I didn’t have an assignment. I had stumbled upon something that, on the surface, appeared illegitimate. I could dig deeper or I could forget about it, and I really had no reason to get involved. Not sure what to do next, I headed downstairs to enjoy a cold drink and mull it all over.

Cracker greeted me with a wet-nosed nuzzle when I reached the bar.

“Did you have a good time studding yourself out at the breeder’s?” I asked, scratching the dog’s neck.

“Trip reported that your dog performed beautifully,” Ox answered through a grin, “especially considering it was his first time.”

A white Labrador retriever, Cracker was won in a poker game the night I sat in for Bobby during Spud’s weekly card night. The pup was being trained to retrieve birds by Trip’s grandson, a local breeder who thought the animal was a light-colored yellow Lab. But, when he approached a year of age and his fur hadn’t darkened from its snowy-white color, he became useless as a hunting dog since—according to the grandson—he would stick out like a redneck at a wine tasting. Spotting him from the air, ducks would bolt before entering shotgun range. So the grandson gave the pup to Trip.

I learned that purebred solid-white Lab puppies were rare and easily sold for five hundred dollars apiece. A halfway trained white Lab would sell for a thousand, or so Trip claimed when he put the dog up against my royal flush. The pot was only worth one hundred and eight dollars, but I told Trip that he wasn’t getting back any change. Not only that, but he should pay me to take a worthless mutt off his hands. The royal flush beat his four deuces and I acquired a dog, with the condition that his grandson could borrow the pedigreed Lab on occasion for breeding purposes.

Spud called the puppy Cracker, since it was “too white,” and the name stuck. The lucky Lab’s days were spent lounging around the Block and he frequently jumped in the river to take a swim just because he could. The Block’s regulars always had a treat for Cracker when they arrived and, if I were a dog, I couldn’t imagine a better life.

“You look perplexed,” Ox said after I’d situated myself on a bar stool. His deep voice resonated in a surprisingly neutral accent
when you considered that he grew up in North Carolina and Kentucky. He served me a Guinness draught without being asked and our fingers touched momentarily when I reached for the glass. I caught his glance and for a flicker of a second, wondered if he somehow knew about the sensual dream I’d had about him. I wondered if I fell asleep thinking of Ox, I could enjoy the same dream again.

“Jersey?” he said, snapping me out of my reverie.

“Took on a job as a little favor to Bill,” I explained, forcing myself not to wonder about what Ox would be like in bed. Sex with the man would be indescribable, until it happened, and maybe not even then.

“What’s the job?”

“An old friend of his thinks that her hubby is the cheating sort, but it turns out the guy isn’t being unfaithful. Thing is, I found a computer storage device and Soup thinks it could be encoded government data.”

“Who’s the husband?” It was a bright afternoon and a marshy gust blew across the water, Gulf Stream and sea breezes playfully mating. All four of the Block’s industrial-sized garage doors were wide open, welcoming Mother Nature’s late-afternoon gift, and the place had begun to fill with happy-hour regulars.

“Samuel Chesterfield.”

“Of Chesterfield Financial?”

“Yep.”

“Damn, Jersey. You really know how to get yourself tangled in some deep river weed.” He laughed. “And you’re supposed to be retired, relaxing on
Incognito
, going where the tide takes you.” Ox wore a pair of jeans and a plain black T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His olive-brown skin reflected the reds and blues of neon beer lights that were suspended on chains around the bar. I paused to admire my best friend’s build before focusing my concentration on the matter at hand.

“Tell me about it,” I complained, seeking sympathy. “I should be sipping a bottle of bubbly right now, somewhere with a fabulous view.”

“You’ve got a fabulous view right now, so quit bitching and tell me what you’re going to do,” Ox said, ignoring my quest for pity. “I have customers to serve.”

“I don’t know. Something deep under the table is going on, but is it my business? I’m not getting paid to figure it out. Should I just walk away?”

“If Chesterfield is involved, you may be talking high stakes. It could get dark.” Describing a situation as “dark” was Ox’s way of saying hazardous to my health. I had come to rely on his instincts because they were always correct. Some people would say it was mere gut instinct, but I knew that Ox had access to something more.

“I already thought of that. But I’ve got to at least figure out how high the stakes are before I decide whether or not to bail out.”

Ox nodded while I spoke, as though he knew what I was going to say before I said it. “If you need me, you let me know.”

That went without saying. He always appeared when I needed him and covered my ass even when I thought I didn’t. He’d saved my life last year during a bloody shootout in Raleigh, and as he was driving me home, said only, “You want to stop for burgers or pizza?” Unusually shaken, I’d answered that I wanted a cheeseburger and promptly had a meltdown. Ox stopped and we walked into the woods, where we leaned against a huge oak tree and he held me tight until I was cried out, at which point we went for cheeseburgers.

It was the second time I’d ever cried as an adult, the first being when my father reappeared. In both instances, I didn’t feel foolish around Ox for dropping tears. To him, a situation simply was what it was.