Chapter Three

  

Blu replayed the phone call from Skip through his mind while he and the guy formerly holding the Colt Python lay on the wood-planked floor of the pirate ship bar. He hadn’t seen Skip since Desert Storm. The call from him was strange enough. But in addition to wanting to reminisce, Skip said he had something he wanted to hire Blu for. Something about a house on Montagu Street. With money not exactly growing on the proverbial money trees—at least around Blu’s island home—he welcomed the work.

What did Skip say? Something about busting something wide open? Whatever it was, Blu didn’t particularly care as long as it wasn’t drug smuggling or murder and he got his daily rate plus expenses. But he wouldn’t be getting any payout from Skip now.

He watched the barkeep. For someone who’d just dropped what looked like a contract killer and was now hog-tied, the kid was particularly composed.

Blu had met men like him before—only calm in the storm. He’d fought with them in Kuwait and fought against them for clients. This guy hadn’t said a peep since the police arrived.

A loud, commanding voice came from the doorway. “What the hell? Get Brack up off the floor of his bar and cut him loose, would ya, Waters? You know better than that.”

Two officers lifted the barkeep beside Blu up and cut his hands free.

The man rubbed his wrists. “Thanks, Chief.”

Sizing up the chief—clean, pressed polo shirt with Isle of Palms Police Department patch over the right breast, pressed khaki slacks, and polished police-issue boots—Blu decided he looked honorable enough.

The chief said, “Don’t thank me yet. Who’s this?” He pointed at Blu.

“Not sure. He showed up after all the shooting stopped.”

“Speaking of shooting,” the chief said, still to the barkeep, “why don’t you tell me what happened?”

The man smiled. “What do you mean?”

If he’d said that to Blu, he would have gotten in the man’s face for such a smart answer.

Instead, the chief said, “Well, gee, Brack. I’ve got several reports of gunfire in your establishment. I’ve got two dead guys in your establishment. And I’ve got you holding that hand cannon in your establishment when my officers arrive. Not to mention this guy.” He pointed at Blu again.

The barkeep said, “I told you, I don’t know who he is.”

The chief and another officer lifted Blu off the floor. “I’m Chief Bates. Who are you? Brack doesn’t seem to know. But he normally doesn’t tell me everything, anyway.”

It was Blu’s turn to smile. “Name’s Blu Carraway. I’m a PI”

“Got any identification on you?”

“In my back pocket. I’d offer to get it, but I’m a bit tied up at the moment.”

Bates said, “Great. All I need is another smart-mouth. Your bar must breed them, Brack.”

Blu felt his wallet being removed from his back pocket.

Flipping through it, Bates said, “Mr. Carraway, this seems to support what you said. We’re going to run your name. Anything you want to tell me before I find out?”

There was a lot Blu could say. But his previous clients wouldn’t approve of the disclosure. They had enough money to scrub files clean, no matter whose database they were in. He gave Chief Bates another smile. “Like I said, I’m a licensed investigator. I’m probably not Mr. Clean, but I’m not Pig Pen, either.”

“Snoopy references?” Bates looked at the barkeep. “There’s two guys shot to hell here and I’m getting Snoopy references?”

The barkeep said, “Even I wouldn’t do that.”

“Shut up, Brack,” Bates said.

“You want me to shut up or tell you what I know?”

Bates turned to two officers standing by. “Escort Mr. Carraway to the upper deck. Let him enjoy the view while I have a word with Mr. Pelton.”