Smoke and the soft murmur of whispered conversation hung in the air. Warren Nichols hunched over his drink at the end of a long scratched and scarred wooden bar. The nearest person sat three seats away from him, transfixed by a cell phone. Behind him, two guys played darts.
Aside from the bartender, no one had spoken to him for more than an hour. That was why he liked Ray’s Tavern. Warren didn’t go there to meet friends or make new ones. He went there to get drunk. Warren preferred to be alone nowadays. He had a daughter with whom he almost never spoke and an ex-wife who called every time she needed money. Sometimes he gave it to her, but sometimes he didn’t. Sometimes she slept with him as a thank you, but most nights she told him to work one out on his own.
Pictures of his ex-wife and daughter had both ended up in the folder given to him by James “Sherlock” Holmes. If he didn’t go along with Sherlock’s plan, they would die. He wouldn’t have minded if Sherlock and his goons knocked off his ex, but he couldn’t let anything happen to his daughter, despite their differences. More than his garage and shop, she was his legacy and his hope for a better future. One day, if he lived long enough, her kids would call him grandpa. The thought of someone hurting her made him sick.
And so he had gotten drunk at Ray’s every night since then. After he had enough to drink, he’d walk two blocks home, where he’d pass out on his couch. If he went along with Sherlock’s plans, no one would hurt his daughter. Maybe he’d even get rich like Sherlock had said. At this point in his life, he didn’t much care.
Warren had stage four colon cancer that had metastasized to his lungs and liver. It was incurable. His doctors gave him a year, maybe two if he were lucky. No matter what happened, he was going to his grave sooner rather than later. He hoped he wouldn’t take his kid with him.
A cell phone rang somewhere in the bar. It was only when the bartender glanced at him that Warren realized the sound was coming from his own pocket. He finished his drink and then pointed to his empty glass as he fished the phone out. Candace, his daughter, had made him buy the phone two years ago when she went to college. Only a handful of people knew his number, and he only liked one or two.
He didn’t recognize the number identified by his caller ID, but he answered anyway. He wanted a fight, so he ran a finger across the screen and then put the phone to his ear.
“Fuck you,” he said, speaking before the other person on the line could say anything.
“Is that how you talk to an old friend?”
The voice sounded familiar, but Warren took a moment to place it.
“Christopher?” he asked.
“Yeah. My lawyer gave me your number. Didn’t think you’d hear from me, did you?”
In fact, Warren had expected a call any day now. Christopher would expect to pick up business where they had left off. He didn’t know everything had changed.
“Good to hear from you, brother. I saw you on the news today. I don’t get to talk to too many celebrities.”
“Hell yeah, I’m a celebrity,” said Christopher, snorting. “My lawyer’s gonna make me fucking rich, too.”
“You’re already rich,” said Warren, nodding his thanks to the bartender as he refilled his glass. “What do you need?”
“What do you mean, what do I need?” asked Christopher. “I got out of prison, and I’m calling an old friend. What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Warren ran a hand over his head and sighed. “Sorry, man. I’ve had a long day. I’m glad you’re out. We should get a drink.”
“Fucking right we should get a drink. You’ll buy, too. I’ve been gone for twelve years. I deserve a drink with my friends.”
“Yeah,” said Warren, nodding. “We’ll get everybody together. Steven ain’t around anymore, but Randy and Neil are still in town.”
“Where’s Steven?”
“Dead,” said Warren. “Shot by somebody.”
“The fuck kind of world we live in?” asked Christopher. “Who would kill Steven? He was a good guy.”
“I don’t know,” said Warren, already picturing in his mind Sherlock’s goons. “It’s a fucked-up thing.”
Neither man said anything, but then Christopher cleared his throat.
“We’ve got to talk. I’m in the backseat of a minivan on my way to St. Louis right now.”
“We’re talking now,” said Warren.
“In person,” said Christopher. “We’ve got to talk business. I need to get back to work. You still got that garage?”
“Yeah.”
“Meet me there in an hour,” said Christopher. “I’ll get money from the county, and I’ve got a few ideas about how I can best reinvest it.”
“One hour,” said Warren, reaching to the bar for his drink. He gulped it down and then grimaced as the liquor tore into his throat. “I’ll be there.”
“See you there, brother,” said Christopher. He hung up, and Warren stared at his now empty glass. The bartender came over, carrying a bottle of Wild Turkey.
“You want another?”
Warren shook his head and searched through his phone’s address book. The bartender stepped away and mixed drinks for the guys playing darts. Warren found the number he wanted and called.
“Sherlock,” he said. “It’s Warren Nichols.”
“You’re slurring your words. Are you drunk?” said Sherlock.
“I am,” said Warren shifting on his seat so he could pass gas. He grimaced as his entire stomach tightened. At least he hadn’t shit blood today. Colon cancer was a bitch. He’d miss his daughter, but he looked forward to being done with everything. He had lived enough. “You got a problem with that?”
The lawyer kept his voice tight and controlled.
“I assume you have a reason for calling me.”
“Christopher called, just like you said he would. He wants to meet me at my shop in an hour.”
“You agreed?” asked Sherlock.
“You’ll kill Candace if I don’t cooperate,” he said. The bartender cast him a curious glance, but Warren was many drinks past caring who heard him talk. “So yeah. I set up a meeting.”
“Good. Go to your shop. My team and I will meet you there,” said Sherlock. “We’ll talk about your drinking later. I don’t like to be in business with drunks.”
“Like I give a fuck about your business,” said Warren. “Now go do your thing. I’ll see you later.”
He stood on unsteady feet and put a twenty on the bar, wondering whether he had just signed his own death warrant. That didn’t sound so bad.
Sherlock hung up and looked to Diana. She bit her lower lip. The covers and their clothes lay on the ground. Her soft skin had the perfect amount of padding for a thirty-five-year-old woman, and he slid an arm over her waist and drew her close.
“You’re going to leave, aren’t you?” she whispered.
He nodded. “Yeah, but if you’re still naked when I come back, I’ll make it worth your while.”
She walked her fingers down his chest and to his lower abdomen. “I could make it worth your while to stay.”
He wanted to give in, but he shook his head and slid off the bed. She gave him a disappointed pout.
“Sorry, darling,” he said. “Work is calling.”
“What kind of work?”
He smiled and walked to the bathroom. “I’m going to kill your ex-husband. Then I’ll come back here and screw you until neither of us can walk.”
She purred. “That sounds perfect.”
I didn’t know where the hell I was going, so I followed the minivan. Since the Wayfair Motel and the nearby strip club and truck stop had a steady stream of traffic to and from the interstate, I kept several cars between us on the road. We headed north toward St. Louis. Along the way, I took out my cell phone and called my station. The front desk rang three times before someone picked up. People were shouting in the background.
“What’s your emergency?”
The voice belonged to Jason Zuckerburg. He was a thirty-five-year veteran of the St. Augustine County Sheriff’s Department and could have retired with a full pension. He liked the work, though. In an emergency, we could put him out in the field, but he preferred working a desk now.
“I don’t have one,” I said. “I’m calling the back line. This is Joe Court. What’s going on?”
It was a dark night, and there were few cars on the road, so I kept my eyes in front of me at all times to avoid hitting anything. I let the minivan get about a quarter mile ahead of me so I could just see its taillights.
“Shit, sorry, Joe,” said Jason. “We’re a little hammered here. Didn’t see your ID on the screen.”
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Bar fight at Tommy B’s spilled out into the street. Three drunk soccer moms from St. Louis decided they wanted to get in on the action, so they started swinging, too. So far, we’ve got three in the hospital and nine in shackles.”
I nodded and squinted at the road in front of me, thinking I had lost my minivan. I hadn’t, but it had sped up. The speedometer in my old truck only went to eighty-five, and I neared that speed now. Hopefully we wouldn’t be speeding up too much more because I didn’t think my forty-year-old Dodge could take it.
“That’s surprising,” I said. “Alcohol usually brings out the best in people.”
Jason grunted. “What do you need, Joe?”
“I’m in my truck, and I need you to run a license for me.”
I read him the plate number, and then I heard him type for a moment. Then I heard him warn somebody in the lobby that he’d charge her with destruction of government property if she vomited in the drinking fountain. There were a lot of things I enjoyed about law enforcement, but none more so than the sheer glamour.
“Your minivan is owned by Anita Willits of Festus, Missouri. Looks like a solid citizen. She has no prior arrests and no outstanding warrants. Vehicle has been registered to her since 2015. She’s got a class-E license with an S endorsement.”
Meaning she had a chauffeur’s license and could additionally drive a school bus. The minivan didn’t belong to one of his friends, then; Christopher had called a car service. He could have been going anywhere. This might be a long night.
Before I could thank him, something crashed on the other end of the line. A lot of people shouted after that. Jason swore under his breath.
“You okay there?” I asked.
“Idiot threw a chair in the waiting room, so Sasquatch broke out a Taser. We’ve got it under control, but I’ve got to go.”
“Good luck,” I said. He grunted and hung up. Jason was one of the more jovial members of our department. He had gray hair and a kind face. During the holiday season, he put on a Santa Claus outfit and handed out presents to kids at the local food bank. I didn’t get to see him flustered or angry too often. Then again, we didn’t get too many thrown chairs in the lobby, either.
I tossed my phone to the seat beside me. We were nearing the outskirts of St. Louis, and I had about a quarter of a tank of gas left. My old truck guzzled gas, so I’d have to stop if we kept going too much farther. I shifted on my seat, took a deep breath, and readjusted my grip on the old rubber steering wheel.
“Okay, Christopher,” I said. “You can pull off any day now.”