23

 

Friday, early afternoon

Wes approached the counter of Easy Pawn. Another man stood there, hands on top of a glass display case full of watches, peering at an open doorway of an office and the source of a mumbled conversation from an unseen party. Wes nodded when they made eye contact.

A man’s voice drifted out of the office, one side of a phone conversation.

Jess stood at Wes’s side a second then strolled around the store. Guitars, amplifiers, one set of drums, hand and power tools, watches, cameras, rings, knives, guns, name it, anything and everything was stacked against the wall, displayed behind glass or hung from the ceiling.

The merchandise ranged from junk to Rolexes. It looked like most of the store’s goods leaned heavily toward the former.

Stickers and signs advertising payday loans with no credit check, offers to buy and trade coins, cash paychecks, and brand name cameras and watches splattered the front windows. He’d seen an episode of Pawn Stars once. This wasn’t the place.

Jess stopped her window shopping and leaned forward, hands on her knees, and squinted from the guitar rack, past Wes. Wes did a double take when he looked back. The guy who walked out of the cubbyhole looked like the gas tank on the Harley parked on the concrete walk just outside. Or his head did. It was shaved and tattooed with bright yellow and red flames.

The flames seemed to fit on the black gas tank of the motorcycle.

Wes stepped away to let the customer barter and finish his business in private. He winked at Jess. She rolled her eyes.

Flame held up a gold ring. He told the man the price the store would pay and stuck to his guns when the owner countered. The guy accepted, took his money, and left. Flame placed the ring in a small case and set it just inside the office door.

“What do you need?” He addressed Wes.

“I’m looking for Marlin Sands. Does he work here?”

Flame’s eyes narrowed over his hawk nose. The tats on his head dominated his looks and could not have been more distracting than if he’d stepped out of the office in his underwear. “I’m Marlin. What do you want?” If the direct question wasn’t enough, the reply had a defensive edge to it.

Jess moved to the counter. Marlin gave her an appreciative and obvious onceover. Wes knew the look was anything but welcomed. She smiled back at him, but her eyes told a different story.

Wes tried a conversational tone. “My name’s Wes Hansen. This is Jessica Wahl. I’m an investigator. If you have a minute, we’d like to ask you a few questions about Lane Woodard.”

Marlin shook his head, looked down, then back up and locked on Wes. “I’ll tell you just like I told a New Orleans cop yesterday, I don’t talk to the fuzz. You might as well take your babe and find someone else to bother.”

Wes matched Marlin’s stare. He was a punk and spoiled rotten. The Marine DI’s he knew loved to get their hands on guys like this. “I’m a private investigator, not a cop.”

“I don’t care. Same thing in my book.” Marlin looked away first and waved off Wes. “I’m busy. Get lost.”

Wes stood his ground a long moment. “We understood you and Lane were friends. He sent you a text just before someone cut his throat. He knew his assailant, and we believe you know him too.”

Marlin messed with an item in one of the cases and never looked up. “I haven’t seen Lane in years. Suddenly I get a text from him. Big whoop. Can’t help you. Beat it.”

Wes nodded at the exit, hinting to Jess. He thumbed a business card from his shirt pocket, tossed it on the counter, and followed her out into the bright sunlight. He stopped next to the motorcycle. Ape-hanger handlebars, leather strings dangling from the grips … and flames on the gas tank. “Marlin just boosted my ego. Suddenly, I feel…normal.”

Jess eyed the bike, studied the tank, and then glanced at the tinted front glass of the store before looking back. “They did a better job of painting the bike. I wonder if the gas tank influenced the tats, or the other way around?” Jess shaded her eyes and peered down the street. “Well, we went nowhere fast with him. What’s next?”

Wes turned and looked at the madhouse of cars and people on the main thoroughfare a block away—casino-generated chaos. “First, fast-food, I’m starved. Then back to New Orleans. Time to arrange a dinner out with a federal prosecutor.”

Jess nodded. “Yeah, and see if the match-head inside and our man from fire have a connection.”

 

~*~

 

Friday afternoon

Meshach stood on the bow of the boat, facing a stiff southerly breeze. He’d motored into a little cove in the cane breaks to get out of the waves. The low-pressure system and associated thunderstorms stirred the shallow Gulf and inland waters into a muddy mess. No one had a line in the water today, no matter how avid the fisherman.

He faced the marina two miles away. He needed gasoline, but was hesitant to enter a public area to buy it. What were the odds of meeting Scott, Shanteel, or the cop? A gambler who fanned open his hand one card at a time and uncovered the ten, jack, and queen of spades wouldn’t go all in before he checked if the next two were the king and ace of spades.

Too many coincidences had piled up on the wrong side of the scales lately.

It all started with the decision to gamble at Harrah’s. Then bumping into Lane. Really too bad about him. Meshach remembered a scrawny, buck-toothed boy. At least he’d grown into his teeth like a dog grows into his paws. A strange feeling he’d only experienced a couple of times in his life tugged at his soul. If he didn’t know better, he’d call it guilt. He did know better. Guilt held no meaning for him. He never had the urge to apologize for anything he’d done, ever.

The Hilton trio still had him baffled. He’d push that issue just for fun if the time dragged out. He’d love to see how far the old man would go to protect the blue-eyed looker.

Two short, deep, blasts of a ship’s horn followed by two high-pitched toots fought the wind for dominance. Two vessels signaled each other that they’d pass portside to portside on the Mississippi a mile away. Part of Rules of the Road for ship traffic that dated back to a time when a bell was the only means of making noise.

A tanker headed upstream. Little or no load on her and riding high in the water. In a couple of days, she’d be loaded and traveling back out to sea. If Lamech would give him the word, she’d be a perfect candidate. Not too big to board at sea and a smaller crew to contend with.

The needle hovered just under the halfway mark on the fuel gauge and presented a conundrum. Go or don’t go. Toward the north lay other options to fill his gas needs, but they held the same risks as bumping into Scott or the cop at the marina. Though, he wasn’t so sure the cop would recognize him. He wasn’t going to take the chance.

Then the northern option wouldn’t put Meshach in a public venue, and he’d be in complete control. If he had to, he’d trade boats with an unsuspecting fisherman.

Then again, maybe he had enough gas.

He started the boat motor and headed back to the camp house.