Blood of Cain (Sean O'Brien (Mystery/Thrillers)) (22 page)

“No! I’m getting off this bus.”

Bandini laughed. “Take your fuckin’ clothes off or I’ll rip ‘em off.”

“Go to hell. Stop this bus!”

“You’re not going anywhere.”

I heard him slap her hard, then the sound of clothes tearing. I pushed open the door just as Bandini had his pants down to his knees. The girl was recoiling on the floor, blood running from her mouth. I raised the pistol and said, “Back off.”

He looked at me as if a ghost had entered his bedroom. “You’re a dead man!”

“And you’re wearing your britches a little low to be a bad ass.” He fumbled under one of the purple pillow cases for a pistol. I kicked him in the center of his bare butt, the gun falling to the floor. He picked up a glass ashtray and threw it at my head. I ducked and drove my right fist into his jaw. The sound was like a dog biting into a drumstick. He tried to stand, his eyes rolling, blood seeping out of his lips. I grabbed his collar and pulled him to within a foot of me and said, “Listen very closely because I’m telling this to your face one time only. I hear you left a message for me. Bad idea not to deliver it in person. Makes me agitated. You sent your gorilla to ambush a friend of mine. You had him beaten up. Ice pick through the hand. Another bad idea.” I brought my knee up into his groin. The blow lifted him off the carpet.

He coughed blood and muttered, “Fuck you.”

I backhanded him hard across the bed, the stuffed lime-green alligator falling to the floor near the girl. I grabbed his bare feet and pulled him across the purple and gold bedspread, slamming his head against a dresser. “Bandini, you’re not listening. Here’s the deal. You touch Nick Cronus again and the crabs will be eating what’s left of you. If you send your knee-breakers out to hurt Courtney Burke, I’m coming back for you. Guess what … I’ll find you. I got on this bus. I can get to you anywhere. Is that clear?”

He stared at me through half closed, cold eyes, blood pouring from his loose teeth. “Is that clear?”

He nodded and spit blood. I said, “Now press the intercom and tell your driver to return to the main parking lot at the fairground.” I stepped back and picked up the Glock, pointing it between his eyes. “Now!”

He leaned over to pull his pants up, and walked to the speaker, looking back at me once more. “Don’t make me spray your brains across this lovely bed.”

He pressed the speaker button and said, “Eddie, head back to the fairground, main parking lot. I forgot something.”

“No problem, boss.”

I turned to the woman still on the floor, holding her ripped shirt over her breasts. I reached down and helped her up. “Come on, this is where you’re getting off the bus, too.”

“Thank you,” she said, standing.

The bus rolled to a stop. I kept the Glock in my hand, looked one final time into the burning eyes of Carlos Bandini, then I led the woman though the back of the bus to the exit door. I pushed it open and we got off. “Come on,” I said. We have to get out of here.”

We jogged through the parking lot, the sound of a helicopter in the distance. I heard the bus pull away. I turned to the girl and said, “You’re lucky. You might not have lived through what they’d planned to do to you.”

“Thank you. I’ve never had a man stand up and defend me.”

“You’re welcome. I have a couple of safety pins in my Jeep. It’ll help you keep your shirt closed. Looks like Bandini ripped most of the buttons off of it.”

I glanced over to where three carny workers stood in the shade, taking a break, smoking, drinking sodas and staring at us. “Let me give you a ride. Where’s home?”

“I can’t let you take me there. My husband’s home. Just drop me off at Big Lots down the street. I’ll buy a blouse and take a cab.”

I walked her to my Jeep. We drove for a minute in silence and then she said, “I don’t know what I’d have done if you hadn’t been there. What’s your name?”

“Sean O’Brien … and yours?”

“My real name’s Angie Houston.”

“Nice to meet you Angie.”

“I heard you tell Carlos Bandini to stay away from Courtney Burke. That’s the girl who’s been all over the news, right?”

I said nothing.

“She’s the one accused of killing Tony Bandini, the brother. If Tony was anything like that man back there in the bus, I’d say that girl did the world a favor. Is she like related to you or something?”

My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was Detective Dan Grant. “Sean, wanted to let you know I got the okay to submit the DNA samples for testing. I was thinking … the day we picked Courtney Burke up at your boat. Did she eat or drink anything? Maybe smoke a cigarette and leave the butt somewhere?”

“No, she didn’t smoke, and she didn’t eat or drink on the boat.”

“All right. Another thing, we ran the plates on that bike. It’s owned by a guy named Samuel Nichols, AKA the Pirate, hence the skull and crossbones. He’s got a long rap sheet. Did a dime stretch in Raiford Prison for manslaughter. Former member of the Outlaws. He’s a gun for hire, no doubt. If Nick will press charges, we’ll find this guy and pick him up.”

“Nick can’t positively ID his face. And I don’t think Nick wants to go through the legal system.”

“Okay, then anything he might think of doing outside of it is illegal. And that goes for you, too, Sean.”

“Thanks, Dan.” I disconnected. After I dropped Angie off at Big Lots, I’d head to a bar.

A place called the Lone Wolf Saloon.

I manually set my GPS for the Lone Wolf Saloon. I didn’t think any GPS voice recognition programs would recognize it as a trendy bar featuring its own craft beers. The bar was located about twenty minutes east of Daytona Beach. I drove on Highway 92 through scrub woodlands, and under canopies of live oaks, the branches stretching over the blacktop and casting the road in deep shade, the limbs interlocked like fingers laced in prayer.

I called Dave and asked about Nick. He said, “We just got back. Nick’s in his boat, knocked out on Vicodin. The puncture wounds in his hand didn’t require stitches. He actually didn’t need a tetanus shot. He had one after he was cut diving inside that sunken German U-boat with you. So, he’s on some meds, and was ordered to stay off his feet for a day or two.”

“Good.” I told Dave about my encounter with Carlos Bandini and what Dan Grant had let me know about the biker who goes by the name of Pirate. I added, “Bandini’s a poster child for the criminal sociopath. He hires freaks of nature like Pirate to bully anyone who is in his way. I think his revenge for the death of his brother isn’t so much motivated because he feels loss as it is that he feels anger, and he wants to send a message. Courtney Burke is in his crosshairs because she was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“As was Nick when he overheard Bandini’s employees in the Tiki Bar. You think you put the fear of God in him? Think he’ll return?”

“You have to believe in God to fear a divine consequence. Narcissists like Bandini only fear a tangible foe more deadly than themselves. I hate having to go there—to become that adversary, and I may have to go even further to deal with Pirate.”

“Sean, just dial it down, okay? You walk in a biker bar and start pulling this guy’s chain and you could wind up being attacked by a pack. Maybe Bandini didn’t go ballistic after you left him with his pants down, bloodied and bruised, because you managed to represent that rival—that image even more dangerous than what he can muster.”

“Maybe. But I have a feeling that Bandini will keep swinging because his brain is wired that way.”

“How far are you away from the Lone Wolf Saloon?”

“Seventeen miles.”

“If I don’t hear from you within an hour, I’m calling the national guard. You’re going to war, and you’re one man. Call me, damnit.”

“Take care of Nick.” I disconnected.

***

The sign next to the road read:
Bar-B-Q Tonite–Wet T-shirt Fri Nite
. I pulled onto the gravel lot where more than twenty motorcycles were parked near the Lone Wolf Saloon, a low-slung, ramshackle bar built from cypress wood, oak, and red brick. The aged building sat among tall pines and palmetto palm trees. Neon beer signs, Budweiser, Miller, and Pabst Blue Ribbon smoldered from behind dirty windows and a large porch with sagging patched screens the color of charcoal. The wind changed and from the far left of the building, hardwood smoke drifted across the parking lot, the smoke escorting the smells of charred pork, fat dripping on hot coals, and beer.

I spotted the motorcycle—the Harley with a Robin’s egg blue gas tank, the skull and crossbones on both sides. It sat further away from the other motorcycles. I walked across the lot, towards the left side of the saloon, the hot sun winking off flattened beer cans and paper pieces of exploded fireworks lodged between the gravel. Coming from the back of the building, I heard loud voices, laughter, and amiable cursing mixed in the smoke and humidity.

I rounded the corner of the building and saw two sweating cooks turning ribs and pork shoulders over pot-bellied grills as bikers sat in lawn chairs or stood in small groups talking and telling jokes. Blake Shelton sang a country song from the outdoor, all-weather speakers. A fifty-something biker, with a ZZ Top gray beard down to his belt and faded blue tats over both arms, tossed a horseshoe into a sawdust pit with a steel pole in the center.

Among those standing, I looked for the tallest man. Within a few seconds, eyes were drifting my way. I wasn’t a regular. Wasn’t wearing a sleeveless denim jacket or leathers. I was a different species edging myself on the perimeter of their little savanna, about to sip from their watering hole. I stepped over to a rough-hewed bar and bought an iced-down bottle of Corona from a blonde female bartender wearing short cut-off jeans and a tank shirt. I gave her a five-dollar tip. She smiled and said, “You here for the barbecue? We have some of the best in Florida, they’re barbecuing gator, too. It’s real good.” She moistened her full bottom lip.

“Matter of fact, that’s one of the reasons I’m here. My old friend Sam Nichols said I should drop by today. I was going to come by during Bike Week, but the place was a little crowded.”

“Oh my God. We must have had a zillion customers that week. It’s second to the Daytona 500 week.”

I smiled and sipped the beer.

“What’d you say’s your friend’s name?”

“Sam Nichols. Some folks know him as Pirate.”

She grinned and wiped her hands with a small white towel. “Yep, Sammy the Pirate.” She looked around. “Don’t see him out here. He was inside earlier. Saw him shootin’ pool when I was stocking the bar. He’s so big, I can’t miss him. Plus he always wears that yellow pirate’s bandana, kinda like Hulk Hogan wears.”

I smiled. “Got to use the toilet. Good talking with you.” I picked up my bottle of beer, didn’t lock eyes with any of the Vikings, stepped around the banana plants, walked back down a dirt path to the parking lot and entered the Lone Wolf Saloon.

A rustic bar ran almost the entire length of the far wall. I quickly did inventory. Less than a dozen bikers scattered at tables. Four guys sitting at the bar. One bartender. Two waitresses, showing a lot of skin, working the tables. A Mexican cook stood in a kitchen area beyond the bar, filling tacos and grilling burgers. To the far right were three pool tables, pockets of soft light falling in sharp cones from the lamps above each table.

I watched shadows move around the tables. Fur. Ink. Denim and black motorcycle boots. Every few seconds a body leaned into the cones of light and made a shot. The orange tips of cigarettes glowed, smoke funneling through the lamps like indoor chimneys.

I stepped to the bar and waited, standing because if I sat, the Glock might show a slight bulge under my shirt. In a place like this, I wanted to lower the risks wherever and whenever possible.

“Hep you,” said the bartender in a South Georgia accent. He had a scruffy sleep-deprived face and pupils expanded as large as his irises. He wore a T-shirt with an image of a red-eyed wolf and a caption that read:

Lone Wolf Saloon

Who’s Afraid of the Big, Bad Wolf?

I said, “Sure, you have a Corona?”

“Comin’ up.”

I watched him pop the top on the bottle, and I glanced over to a discolored mirror behind the bar where I saw eyes drifting from tables over to where I stood. My guess is that they thought I was an undercover cop.

“Be three bucks,” said the bartender.

I handed him a five. “Keep the change.” I made small talk with him for a minute as I casually glanced around, never making eye contact with anyone, watching the pool tables each time a player leaned into the light to make a shot.

The yellow bandana.

A giant of a man wore it. He had to go at least six-six, shoulders like a water buffalo. When he lined up the cue ball to make a fresh break, I could see the muscles move like waves under his brown skin. He wore a hoop earring—arms covered in multi-colored tattoos. Dirty blond hair curled and matted like grapes from where the bandana tied behind his head.

I watched him call a shot, line it up, and sink the eight ball. He grinned, playfully punching the other player on the arm. “Gotta split.” I overheard him saying. “My old lady’s coming back from Utah. Been gone a fuckin’ week visiting her mama out West. I got the worst case of blue balls, bluer then that number two ball.” He laughed, placed the stick in a rack and left. He walked past me, the smell of testosterone and body odor followed him out the door.

I gave it a few seconds, listening for the sound of a Harley engine starting. I inhaled deeply, turned and walked across the floor of the bar. He stood outside on a wooden deck elevated off the ground a foot or so. He lit a cigarette with a Zippo lighter, the smell of lighter fluid in the breeze. I walked up to him and said, “Hey, man, you got a light?”

He looked at me oddly, his bloodshot eyes searching my face. “Sure.” He fished in his pants pocket for his lighter. “Where’s your smoke?”

“Here.” I reached inside my shirt and retrieved the icepick he used on Nick. “You left something behind. Thought I’d return it.” Before he could fully register what I said, I drove the icepick into the center of his left shoulder. Between the rotator cuff. All the way in to the wooden handle. To the bone. The cigarette toppled from his mouth.