Chapter Fourteen

The next morning, Tuesday, October 2000

  

Blu and Crome left the scene when the police and fire department finished restoring law and order. It helped that Crome had developed amnesia when it came to how the car blew up, hinting that it must have been the guys who’d taken Jansen. While sabotage was obvious and spontaneous combustion unlikely, there were no other witnesses to offer alternative theories.

The closest place to regroup and wait for Grietje’s call was the Pirate’s Cove bar which opened at ten. They walked in and the one-eyed bartender, Reggie Sails, greeted them from behind the bar.

The song playing on the juke was Clapton’s “Wonderful Tonight.” If only it had been.

“You fellas look like you need drinks,” he said. “I heard a car blew up. And now you’re here. Must be a coincidence.”

“Must be,” Crome said. “Gimme a draft and a double shot of Crown.”

“Sweet tea,” Blu said.

The old man took care of Crome first and then placed a pint glass of tea with two lemon wedges stuck on the rim in front of Blu.

The grungy bar was not very busy at the moment. Four shirtless college-aged guys shot pool at the worn table in the corner. Two co-eds, both of them potential cheerleader material with bikini tops and cut-off jean shorts, watched the pool players.

Crome popped a red and washed it down with his shot.

The old man said, “Those things’ll catch up with you one day.”

With a grin, Crome said, “Only if I stop.”

Blu pulled his cell phone out and sat it on the bar in front of him.

“So will those things,” the old man said, holding a plastic tipped cigar and pointing at the phone. “Don’t want nothin’ to do with ‘em.”

“I don’t blame you,” Crome said.

The juke switched to “Surfin’ Safari” by the Beach Boys.

To Crome, Blu said, “You got phone duty. I’m goin’ for a swim.”

“What the—” Crome started to say.

Blu took a swig from his tea, got off the stool, and left the bar. Next door was a souvenir shop that looked like it was new. And open. He walked in and was immediately hit by the smell of cheap rubber and plastic. At a rack against the wall, Blu found a pair of swim shorts his size. On his way to the register, he picked up a bright-colored beach towel that had been marked down along with a discounted pair of flip-flops.

The cashier, a plump teenaged girl, smacked her lips on gum while she rang up his order.

Outside, a block down from the store, was a public restroom and changing area.

Blu changed, put his clothes in the plastic bag that still had the towel, and walked the bridge over the dunes to the surf. He dropped the bag onto the sand, kicked his flops off, and jogged into the waves.

The water felt warm and soothed the aches of the bad night.

In college, Blu had competed with the swim team and had a powerful stroke. He charged out to sea until his smoker’s lungs screamed. And then he pushed thirty more seconds before turning around and heading back.

As he approached the shore and his toes touched sand, he stood and wiped water from his face and short-cropped hair.

Crome stood by his towel and smoked a cigarette. “Your girlfriend called.”

Blu picked up his stuff and headed for the shower and changing room. “What’d she say?”

“I told her you were takin’ a swim. She asked if you were single.”

“Quit jerkin’ around, Crome. What’s the plan?”

“Hey, partner,” Crome said, “I wasn’t the one who decided to take a mini vacation in the middle of this situation that could best be described as FUBAR.”

Blu stood under the outdoor shower and let the cold water wash the salt and sand from his skin. When he finished, he stepped inside the public restrooms, dried off with the towel, changed back into his clothes, and was ready to go.

His partner used reds to keep his edge. Blu preferred a more holistic approach. The ocean would always be the best place to clear one’s head, in his opinion. And when he couldn’t swim, he went to the gym.

Outside the public restrooms, Blu asked again, “So what’s the plan?”

“She thinks she has the upper hand. I’m inclined to agree with her.”

“Why? Because she has Jansen?”

Crome turned his head from side to side as if regarding Blu as the village idiot. Perhaps he was.

Blu opened the chamber of his nine millimeter and blew in it in case any sand had gotten inside.

“She wants you to call her back. Wouldn’t talk to me. I offered to let her talk to that big parrot Reggie’s got in the bar and she hung up.”

“I guess I gotta give her a call.”

“Is what I been tryin’ to tell ya.” Crome handed him the phone.

“Using a heck of a lot of words, Crome.” He snatched the phone. “Not everyone likes to hear the sound of your voice as much as you do.”

“Why the hell not?”

Blu hit redial and Grietje answered with, “I considered shooting Jansen.”

“What stopped you?”

“Curiosity,” she replied.

“Because I didn’t answer your call?”

“Yes.”

Well, la-di-freakin-da.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“Clean oceans. World peace.”

“You sure have a funny way of showing the second one.”

She laughed. It was a nice laugh, and remembering her beauty was distracting. She had, after all, set him up to be shot and had kidnapped his client.

“You didn’t ask the right question, Mr. Blu Carraway, Private Investigator.”

“What’s the right question?”

“When you think of it,” she said, “call me back.”

The call ended.

Crome had been watching Blu. He said, “Well?”

Blu stood there with the phone in his hand and his mind absolutely vacant of what to say.

“Blu?”

He snapped out of it, and said, “I have to think of the right question to ask and then call her back.”

“You want to say that again?”

“You heard me.” Blu just couldn’t believe it.

Crome said, “You asked her what she wanted and she said that wasn’t the right question.”

“Yep.”

“Then it’s not what she wants that’s the question.”

Most people never looked past Crome’s biker wardrobe to get to know the man. If they had, they would understand that his mind was always running. Some might say it was the reds, and there was truth in that. But the man was dangerously intelligent.

Blu said, “I know it’s not what she wants.”

“No,” Crome said. “It’s not what she wants. Meaning it’s most likely what her handler wants. She wants you to think of her as a go-between, as crazy as that sounds. I think she likes you, partner.”

“Why do I always get the whack jobs?” A bitter feeling escaped when he said it. He immediately thought of Abby and felt ashamed at thinking of the mother of his daughter that way.

“Because,” Crome said as he put a hand on Blu’s shoulder, “you got that Latin swagger that drives ‘em wild.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Blu hit redial.

“Yes?” Grietje answered.

“What do they want?”

“Smart man,” she said. “I knew you’d figure it out. They want Mr. Jansen to agree to their terms. Once he does, he will be released.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“Yes,” she said. “I would not lie to you.”

“How about you and I finish our walk around the city?” he asked.

“I’d love to,” she said. “Except that I’m not convinced you wouldn’t lie to me.”

“And your friends would be around to make sure I was a gentleman.”

He heard her laugh again.

“There you go again assuming you know what I want.”

The call ended.

Crome said, “Well hell’s bells, what’s next?”