Mark for Blood (Mason Dixon Thrillers Book 1) Read online

  My ears perked up and my spidey sense started sending me signals. “Okay,” I said, “hold on. Your father gave you a portion of the business?”

  “Yeah, Daniel and I both have an ownership interest. But he never gave me any authority or even voting power. It was a ‘tax decision,’ he told us. But I’m pretty sure his plan was to bring Daniel in and have him run the business eventually. He was always by Dad’s side, under his wing.”

  I had finally reached the floor of my glass, and tossed the cubes into the sink behind the bar. Hers was nearing completion as well, so I listened to her for another minute, talking about her home life, her relationship with her father, and how her brother was the ‘chosen one’ to him. It all seemed rather normal, at least for a wealthy family, in my opinion. I didn’t know anything about wealthy families from firsthand knowledge, but I thought I had a decent enough idea from the people I’d met over the course of my life. Well-meaning parents, caught up in their business, slowly drifting away from their kids. Seemed to me to be nothing out of the ordinary.

  She eventually drained her own glass and handed it to me. “Thanks — tell you what,” I said. “It’s late. I have some tidying up to do in the back, and then I need to touch base with Joey. Can we do this again tomorrow? You want to give me your number?”

  “Sure. Do — do you think —“

  “Yeah, I think you’ll be safe. Actually, that was what I was going to have Joey do. He’s got a good head on his shoulders, and I trust him. I was going to have him drop you off at Marley’s and park it outside, then watch the house for the night. Kid can go a month without sleeping.”

  She seemed to like this plan, but I saw another question in her eyes. “What about you?”

  “Me? Hell, I’m old. I can’t go an hour without sleep.”

  She smiled, but I could tell she wasn’t convinced.

  “Look,” I said. “I haven’t been in the ‘hunting people down’ game for a long time, and even back then it wasn’t like this. I’ve never been a detective. These assholes always come to me. I verify they’re the mark, I take them down. That’s it. So I have some brushing up to do, a few errands to run, and I was hoping to make a few calls.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  “Okay. Let’s talk tomorrow. 5pm?”

  She nodded, and I offered her an arm as I walked her to the front door. I heard Joey banging around in the kitchen, back from his errand already.

  10

  JOEY WAS SHORT, BUT NOT in a tiny sort of way. He was stocky, like a boxer, but built like a horse. He’d even boxed a bit in the Navy during his short time there, which meant he was a solid scrapper. I had sized him up when we’d first met five years ago and thought he’d make a good sidekick, so I pitched the idea to him. I told him a little about what I did, explaining the tokens and the marks. ‘Find the token, take out the mark.’ Really wasn’t that complicated.

  He did his characteristic shrug and asked a few questions, and that was that. When the first mark came by, apparently hearing about us from a ‘business associate,’ Joey was the one to spot him. I was in the kitchen when he came back and tapped me on the shoulder. “Yo, boss,” he’d said, “I think I got a token. Guy came in from the city and slapped it down on the table saying it was so he could drink free. We don’t do that, do we?”

  I remember smiling and shaking my head. These idiots were always so bold and blunt about everything. Like they owned the world and it was their playground. “No, Joey, we don’t do that.”

  I told him the play — I’d go serve him, giving him what he wanted for the night, then lead him out back when he was hammered enough to not care. It went mostly to plan that first time, but Joey did a bang-up job. He was cool, collected, and professional, even when the mark started throwing punches (he wasn’t nearly as drunk as we’d thought). Joey gave him a solid sucker punch to the nose, sending him to the asphalt, and I finished the job.

  Joey ended up having to burn the shirt he was wearing — blood doesn’t really come out well, and you don’t want anyone asking questions — but otherwise he was no worse off. He had taken the mark out and turned him into fishbait, then came right back in and started cooking up some catfish he’d caught that morning. During our late-night debrief, I couldn’t tell which I was more impressed with: his catfish or his attitude.

  I increased his hours on the spot, and raised his take on what I brought in from the marks.

  It made a lot of sense to have him actually working at the bar while we waited around for the marks, instead of having him just stand around and look awkward.

  Joey was in the kitchen now, the morning after our frat boy debacle. “Hey, kid,” I said, getting his attention. “How’d it go last night?”

  He was groggy, and rubbed his eyes, but otherwise seemed fine. “Need a nap, but it was good. No one else staying there, so no one came or went. I saw both of them head into town this morning, but I stopped following them when they hit the grocery store.”

  “Good stuff. Yeah, I doubt any of that loser’s friends will be around. They probably had no idea what he was into.”

  “What was he into?” Joey asked.

  “No idea,” I answered. “But it’s always one of the three — pedophilia, pornography, or pimping.” All of the marks were the types who stayed under the radar with the law. They were upstanding citizens in every way except one, and that one was the only reason our paths ever crossed. Most of them were into the former two categories, either buying and selling photos and videos of underage women (or men), or buying and selling the women (or men) outright. They had networks and circles that traded this shit, but they were the ones I was told to bring down.

  Joey made a puckered face. “Ugh. Man, this world is messed up.”

  “Damn right it is,” I countered, “but that’s why we do what we do. Keeps me sane. Hey, by the way — you find anything on him?”

  Joey frowned, then made a face. “No, I mean besides clothes and a wallet he didn’t have anything.”

  “What was in the wallet?”

  “Just a fake ID. Couple hundreds, three twenties.”

  I nodded. The deal was that Joey got to keep all that extra ‘stuff’ he found — I didn’t need it, and there wasn’t much we could do with it anyway. I considered it a tip for doing his job exceptionally well. “Good,” I said. “The regular payment will hit your account tomorrow.”

  It was beneficial that Joey was on my payroll as a bar hand and kitchen staffer; he worked his ass off, so I had no problem paying him what I did. The IRS typically left me alone, as we had long ago established a chain of trust funds and nonprofits that satisfied the grayer areas of their abomination we call the US tax code. I figured that since we used the same loopholes used by the fat cats in Washington, they’d rather let anything fishy slide than open up that can of worms.

  So far, so good.

  “Nothing else, though?”

  “No, boss, why? You —“ he stopped mid-sentence like he’d just figured it out, so I hushed him before he started getting antsy.

  “It’s not that, Joey. I’m just making sure we didn’t cut any corners.”

  “I never cut corners, you know that.”

  “I know that.” I waited for him to ask again about the token, but he seemed to get the point.

  We looked at each other for a second — the young, stocky cook and the old, grizzled assassin — then starting smiling like idiots.

  “We need to get some sleep,” I said.

  “Bullshit. I need to get some sleep, old man. You didn’t have to watch a bed and breakfast all night. What’s with her, anyway? You hoping to hook me up with her?”

  I squinched an eye closed and gave him my best Clint Eastwood. “The day I hope that is the day you fishbait me.”

  He laughed. “Well, she’s a looker. You interested?”

  “She’s been through a trauma, Joey. I’m just doing my due diligence.”

  He had a smug look about him, and I knew what he was thinking. />
  “And she’s married.”

  “No she ain’t.”

  “Well she’s got a boyfriend.”

  “Nope.”

  “Well I’m tired.”

  “Go get some sleep,” he said, still chuckling. “I got this. Get back before four if you can — I’d like to catch a nap before the evening shift. That okay with you?”

  “Of course,” I answered. “Thanks, Joey.”

  11

  I HAD A LAUNDRY LIST of things to take care of between my chat with Joey and his 4pm ultimatum, but there was one item that sat at the top of the list. I grabbed an antacid from the back room, washed it down with some orange juice, then pulled out my phone.

  I dialed the number I’d memorized years ago.

  It rang.

  Nothing.

  No answering machine, no message.

  Not surprising, considering the circumstances.

  I considered throwing the phone across the room, but it was my only one. And I would never get through using Joey’s. Instead, I grabbed a phonebook — the most useless object in the entire building — and chucked it over the shelf I’d set in the middle of the back room.

  But the chucking I’d wound up for was far less powerful than I’d hoped, and the phonebook flapped open, caught the air, and slammed against the five-gallon bucket of sugar on top of the shelf. Problem was the bucket wasn’t full, so it fell sideways easily and dumped its half-full contents of pure white sweetener onto the tiled floor.

  I thought of a string of curses that would pair nicely with the situation and instead let out a long, slow, sigh.

  Getting old sucks.

  I wasn’t even that out of shape. I knew the problem, and when I have a problem, there’s really not much I want to focus on until I’ve solved it.

  This problem was bigger and much more important than some spilled sugar.

  I need to find that token.

  I tried again, knowing what I would hear. Sure enough, no answer. “Dammit!” I slammed it shut— I still use an old-school flip phone because the thing just can’t be killed and, let’s be honest, I’m somewhat of a curmudgeon — and tossed it into a pocket. Heading for the back door, I grabbed my car keys off the hook and opened the door to the alley.

  My car was parked across the small access road that goes to the alley, the same one Hannah had been standing in talking on the phone last night. I made it a point to check out the spot where I’d taken out the mark, to see how well Joey had cleaned it up.

  As usual, there wasn’t even a circle of clean asphalt where the body had been previously. Joey had taken the time to do something he called ‘futzing up’ the area, moving leaves and sticks around to make it blend in once again with the rest of the road. He’d even tossed a crushed beer can onto the spot, for effect.

  And of course there was no sign of the mark. Once again Joey had performed his duties exceptionally well. Still, I glanced around once more, hoping that in the daylight I’d be able to see the sparkle of a token that might have rolled away.

  I found nothing.

  My car, a beat-up 1995 Toyota Corolla I refused to replace, sat waiting against the wall of the building next door. I hopped in, still frustrated, and started driving away.

  I needed this money, and I needed it yesterday. My mortgage was due, and while the bar itself brought in plenty, I had planned on paying off the balance twice as fast as the bank required. Not to mention I had a place to live — a small rental on the other side of town — that needed to be paid for.

  My retirement account was a joke at this point. I had taken the bulk of it out to afford the downpayment on the bar, and the rest of it was my collateral for the improvement loan I had taken out for the repairs and to flip the place into what it was today. There was still plenty more to do, but there would be time for all of that, I hoped. Some day.

  I drove in silence, refusing to allow any music through the speakers that might accidentally improve my sour mood. Sometimes you just needed to be pissed, and this was one of those moments. I wanted to feel that I’d messed up, instead of just knowing it. I’d never not gotten a token before I’d taken out the mark, so I was already in uncharted territory. The fact that Hannah and her brother were hanging around while I helped her look for whoever killed her dad was just icing on the shitstorm cake.

  I knew the real reason I wanted to help her. It was her. She was… what was she? I didn’t know her, but I felt like I wanted to. I needed her in my life right now, even if I didn’t fully understand why.

  Best of all, I was sane and lucid enough to know that my feelings for her were exactly why I shouldn’t have anything to do with her. Still, I knew I’d wrap my life around hers as much as she’d let me, even after knowing her for mere hours. I really am a desperate fool.

  I finally gave in and turned on the radio, hoping something there would jumpstart my thoughts onto a different path, but an old Johnny Cash crooned out into my ears and solidified everything I’d been churning through.

  First things first, I told myself. Get that money.

  I made it through the one-street town and up into the backcountry, heading northwest on 174, away from the coast. About two minutes up the road I pulled the Corolla off and drove along the shoulder for a half mile, going slow, until I found it: a small opening in the stretch of trees that perfectly masked a tiny old dirt road. I turned onto it, making sure there weren’t any cars in the rearview mirror or coming over the road in front of me, then kept driving.

  The old Corolla had been through hell with me, but I’d rebuilt it twice and had a friend in town who helped with smaller repairs when I got too busy to do them myself. It was a solid, reliable, easy-to-fix piece that got me where I needed to go, but every time I drove this path I felt my knuckles tighten up. I always thought that I’d be walking home, leaving the old ride dead somewhere along this road, the engine finally used up and the suspension wasted.

  Surprisingly I made it through the trees yet again, and brought it to a stop just in front of a massive boulder. The rock was one of many that had somehow been strewn around here from something during a previous epoch in time, and the whole of them together formed a natural opening in the forest, large enough to walk around in yet small enough for the trees to pull back together high above my head.

  I hadn’t found this place — the boss did, I assumed — but I liked it. To me it wasn’t only a place to find my money, but it was a place of solitude. I likened it to Superman’s Fortress of Solitude, except a bit warmer most of the year.

  Sometimes I came out here even if there wasn’t money waiting for me. It was nice to get away from things, even though the town I lived in now would have no trouble making their city’s slogan ‘the place you go when you want to get away from things.’ My fortress was even more away from things.

  I don’t know how the path had ever gotten there, but I’d never seen anyone else on it. I assumed it was cut by a moonshining outfit from years ago, using these rocks as a perfect hideout as they made their liquor. Still, there wasn’t a water supply anywhere nearby that I knew about.

  I took a minute to smell the air and enjoy the perfect calm of the woods. It was still, but not quiet, the sounds of small mammals and the godforsaken seagulls penetrating the walls of my fortress and into my head as I stood there. Finally, I started walking.

  Past the huge boulder, around two more smaller ones, and toward a fourth that sat at the back of the line, along the perimeter of the circle. I came to the side of it and knelt down. Feeling around in the leaves, I looked for the loosely packed pile of dirt that meant I’d found it.

  When I did, I started digging. The dirt was loose like it always was, the only sign that someone had come through here and tampered with a bit of Mother Earth. About a foot down, I found what I was looking for. The top of the metal box was rusty, but it worked well enough to keep out the majority of the moisture and crap in the ground.

  I pulled it up to my lap, greedily hurrying as I reached for th
e small padlock and began to unlock it. I knew as soon as it was resting on my thighs that there was something wrong.

  I finished unlocking it and swung open the lid, hoping that I was wrong and that the weight was throwing me off.

  It was empty. Even the silk bag that kept the money out of the weather was gone.

  “Shit.” I didn’t yell, but I didn’t need to. Inside, I was screaming.

  I said it again a few times, all while looking down at the empty box.

  What happened? I hadn’t found the token, but there was no way the boss would have known that and come back to remove the money. There was no way he could have known that I didn’t have the token on me now.

  “Shit.”

  I flung the box into the hole, kicked a bit of soil on top, and stood up, brushing my palms off on my jeans. This is not good. I didn’t even bother making it look natural. It didn’t matter now.

  I’d left the Corolla running, knowing I wouldn’t be long, and I always did like the idea of making sure I had a fast getaway plan. As unlikely as it might be out here, I didn’t want anyone getting the jump on me.

  Getting back into the Corolla once again, I took the phone out of my pocket and dialed the number a third time. I shut the door and listened to the ringing over the sound of the engine.

  This time I didn’t even make it through a full cycle. The ringing cut off after two and a half rings, and I knew the boss was sending me a message.

  You screwed it up.

  I knew he was right. I screwed this up.

  12