Mark for Blood (Mason Dixon Thrillers Book 1) Page 8

  My bar sat right on the main road — a small road, but a main one nonetheless — in a tiny town outside of Charleston. It was really a town outside of a smaller town outside of a suburb of Charleston, but for folks not from around here, ‘outside of Charleston’ seemed to give them the geographic satisfaction they craved.

  Thanks to the beaches and all the golf, our area would eventually be consumed by a metropolitan district, but the ebb and flow of modern society told me not to start counting down the date. Who knew when the trend of the throngs of people moving into the larger cities would reverse, and everyone would have the age-old desire to connect with their Americana roots and move out here to the sticks, like me?

  So I set my bar up the way I wanted it, did my business the way I wanted it, and lived my life the way I wanted it. Didn’t much care for how I was ‘supposed’ to run a business, and I certainly didn’t follow any trends. They build a drive-in theater out in the middle of nowhere, fine. I’ll serve beers to anyone wanting to make the trek.

  The couple was busy laughing at some inside joke, so I watched the door and cleaned, keeping a peripheral gaze on Hannah as she swiveled.

  Then she stopped swiveling. I was on her fast, like I’d been waiting for it. I had been waiting for it, but I’d forgotten to give the obligatory few seconds to not make it creepy.

  She looked up at me as I arrived, her eyes wide and surprised.

  “Sorry… I —“ I didn’t know quite what I was supposed to say. Couldn’t make a joke about watching her and waiting around for her to be done. Seemed insensitive. “You okay?” Good a thing to say as any, I guess.

  She nodded, frowning. “Sure, yeah. I guess deep down I knew it was something like this. Like it had to be about more than just the money.”

  Now it was my turn to frown. “I’m sorry, what do you mean? Isn’t that exactly why they offed him?” I kicked myself for saying it so nonchalantly, like I was a detective discussing a case with a fellow officer.

  “I’m sure, yeah. I mean ultimately that’s why they did it. But there are plenty of rich people, you know? Plenty of people who make more than him. More than us. So there has to be more to it. There has to be something at the heart of it, and that’s it. He was in a line of business —“ she said it with contempt, saying the word the same way I thought the word — “that has to be pretty under-the-radar. Something that would have safeguards in place, so they won’t be caught.”

  I understood her reasoning. “So they targeted your old man because they thought it would be easy enough to get him to sign over the business to them. No one would bat an eye, because no one knew to look there in the first place?”

  “Right,” she said. “I obviously don’t understand the details, or how the business stuff would work, but you can’t blackmail a Fortune 500 CEO too easily, I bet.”

  “Probably not.”

  “But if you’re doing the kind of business my father was in, it’s already got to be shrouded in secrecy. You wouldn’t be submitting a form to the IRS letting them know there’s been a change in management, and here’s how much they’re getting paid, and oh yeah we’re still just in importing.”

  She chuckled a bit at the thought of it.

  “Yeah, true,” I said. “Still, seems a bit out of line. To just kill him? Why not threaten him first? Force his hand? Once you’ve got his approval, what can he do? He can’t go to the authorities with it all, blow it all wide open. He’d be the one convicted.”

  “I know,” she said. “That’s why suicide makes sense. But it doesn’t. I can’t see him doing that.”

  I took it all in, thinking. I wasn’t a detective, and she knew that. But at the moment, I wished I was. Here was a woman worried, scared, and probably not a little bit angry with what her father had been involved with, and the fact that he was now dead because of it. She was trying to piece it together, and the only person she’d placed her trust in was a bartender.

  My skills weren’t in the deduction arena, but more the physical harm arena. The problem was, I couldn’t figure out who I needed to harm.

  “Okay,” I said. “Let’s talk this out real quick, then I can maybe figure out what we do next. Sound good?”

  She nodded.

  “Your old man was killed, made it look like a suicide. Whoever killed him wanted something from him, probably control of his business, or the portion of it that deals with overseas sex trafficking. Something under the table that would already have a circle of protection around it, making it difficult for anyone else to trace. You guys — you and Daniel — would think it’s a suicide, go to the funeral, move on. So far so good?”

  She nodded again.

  “But something doesn’t add up. You suspect it was not a suicide, which means there’s someone who is now better off because your father is dead. So, and this is the million-dollar question: who is that person? Who stands to gain if your father is dead?”

  She made a distressed face. “That’s just it,” she said. “I don’t know. I have no idea. I wasn’t privy to business information, financial records, nothing.”

  “But was there ever anyone at the house? Anyone who came by to meet with your father?”

  “Sure. He worked there, early on. Had the office off one of the wings. Huge space, well-appointed, the works. He was pretty gung-ho about that space, too. But there were people in there all the time. Day and night, even. But then he started working from the yacht a lot, like I said.”

  “Right,” I said. “So back to square one.”

  17

  THE SCENE AT THE BAR heated up, and I had to leave Hannah to her swiveling and drinking. She’d asked for another round, but specifically asked for it to be something mixed, so I scratched the idea of getting her into straight cognac. Oh, well. Maybe another time. Instead, I poured her another standby favorite: a traditional whiskey sour, just whiskey and lemon juice and simple syrup, complete with an egg white shaken in.

  She was initially repulsed by the thought of a raw egg white in her drink — one of the main reasons bartenders are a bit leery to give out their recipes — but I told her to trust me. She did, I made it, and she sipped at the foam on top. I watched her reaction from in front of the newer couple on the other side of the bar. Her face brightened just a bit, then she dug in for a real sip.

  Mission accomplished. I smiled a bit to myself as I served the other patrons.

  After the new couple had come in, a set of oldies walked to their usual seats on my left, gave me a head-nod wave, and took out a deck of cards. Sometimes they liked to play a little bridge on the weeknights, poker on weekends. What it would be like to be retired and have nothing to do all day but wait for the bar to open.

  I served them their drinks, loading up a tray for Joey to take over. Another party of oldies, this one with a couple of people I didn’t recognize among them, had walked in and chosen a booth on my right. I knew I’d need to wait on the newcomers, and I liked to do that personally.

  “Evening,” I said.

  “Sonny, it’s nearing six-o’-clock,” one of the geriatric members of the crew said, matter-of-factly.

  I half-smiled. “Yep, that is correct. I’m assuming that means you’ll be needing your night-cap? Shot of cough syrup chased down by whatever half-open beer I’ve got in the fridge?”

  There was a moment of looking around as the ninety-year-old processed my comeback.

  Suddenly he burst out laughing. He turned to one of the oldie regulars, man named Chesson, I think, and slapped his arm. “You weren’t kidding, pal, this kid is a riot!” I was immediately taken by their excitement and happiness, and started laughing along with them.

  Chesson looked up at me. He winked. “I didn’t tell him you were the only bar in town.”

  I laughed even harder, playing along. The guy had some out-of-towners visiting, I would make sure they had a great time. This was my element, my MO. I also didn’t counter with the fact that there were no less than three other bars in town, technically speaking.


  Caviar’s, a weird and off-putting name, was (I think) trying to tap into a nonexistent French nightlife appeal, but they closed at 9pm on weekends. I’m not even sure they served caviar. If they did, I’m not sure where they got it.

  Jake’s Sports Bar was the typical sports bar, minus whatever appeal typical sports bars had. I figured most sports bars featured sports, chicken wings, and D-cups, but I don’t think they even had a cable package and they certainly didn’t have anything better than a C-team running the place on weekends. Not sure about the wings — maybe those were killer.

  Finally, there was a place ‘downtown’ that I actually really liked. There weren’t too many nights I wasn’t here at my own place, but if I had an evening to kill, I didn’t mind spending it at the Wobbly Barstool. It was a dive bar, the kind of place that had the best hamburger in a 200-mile radius just because they refused to ever clean their griddle, and it had the cheapest beers in town. I’m not a huge beer guy, for different reasons, but there’s no other option at Wobbly Barstool. The owner, a nice guy named Steve, was also their cook and head bartender. I appreciated the effort he put in.

  So for a town of 400, it was a bit surprising that there were already two bars up and running when I moved in. Caviar’s came after, and I had a feeling it wouldn’t last a decade. But the others were well-established when I set up shop, and I got the impression they weren’t too keen on an outsider coming in to steal their business. I made it a point to make friends with their owners — worked with Wobbly Barstool, didn’t so much with Jake — but whatever.

  I wanted this place, and I wanted to do it my way. If they didn’t like it, they could close.

  Guys like Chesson, his friends, and the other oldies, they liked tradition. They liked the same thing, all the time, no matter what. When I’d first opened, I drew them in not because I was something new to them, but because I was something old. I don’t pipe in loud music much. I’ve got a jukebox, and the dancing floor, but both are hardly ever used. I keep the jukebox set on a low volume, so anyone who sticks a quarter in it gets pissed they can hardly hear their selection. I serve cocktails, the way I was taught by my granddad over a quarter-century ago. Simple, easy, no frills. I’ve got beers, too, more than just the crappy mainstream variety, even though those are the only ones that sell.

  I finished with Chesson’s group, wrote everything down — the oldies aren’t impressed by memorizing their orders, they’re impressed when I get them right — and took it back to the bar to get them started. Hannah was still there, still swiveling.

  Whatever she was feeling she was going to be feeling for some time.

  “How you doing?” I asked.

  She just nodded.

  “Your brother coming by later?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “He’s still getting some last-minute arrangements done for the funeral on Sunday. Flowers today, I think.”

  I was surprised he had been gone this long, considering it was well past typical business hours, but I didn’t press. “You staying in the bed and breakfast tonight?”

  She looked up. Her eyes were asking a question, but her mouth was a straight line. I suddenly felt like I was nine years old, getting scolded by Grandma for sneaking a bite of a cake that was resting on the countertop. I really didn’t mean anything by, other than making small talk, but I could tell she was actually wrestling with the question.

  “I, uh…” she started, then stopped. She looked up at the ceiling. Then down at the top of the bar, finding a spot I hadn’t yet cleaned and beginning to try to chip off the crusty part with her thumbnail. Obviously letting her mind wander. “I think, you know, it would be hard to tell Daniel…”

  I started laughing, bringing my head down and trying to conceal it. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m just — I’m just making talk. You know, passing the time.”

  “Yeah?” She had that line on her mouth again, but this time her eyes matched. “Really.”

  “No, really. I’m just making sure you’re okay there with him, at Marley’s. He seems so, you know…”

  “Preoccupied?”

  “Yeah, preoccupied. With the funeral and all.”

  Her hands stopped fiddling with the crusty mark on the bar top and came to rest on top of one another, idle. Calm.

  She’s made up her mind.

  I turned to help the couple getting ready to leave, the ones who had a couple martinis each to loosen themselves up before the movie. I longed for their ease, their ability to swoop in, pay some money to an unknown agent who would deliver them an elixir of relaxation, one that could carry them innocently through the next few hours.

  “I’ll come over, if that’s what you’re asking,” she said.

  It was loud — she’d had to raise her voice a bit to reach over the oldies’ conversations — but it wasn’t frantic. Controlled, but not thoughtless. I turned around.

  As I turned, I caught the eye of the man who had paid the tab, the male half of the couple. He gave me a knowing look, then nodded slightly. Satisfied, encouraged.

  I kept turning, pretending I hadn’t seen him. I raised an eyebrow. “What’s that?” I asked.

  “I’m not repeating it,” she said.

  “I have a little trouble hearing, these days,” I said.

  “Oh, bullshit.” She was smiling now. “You heard me. First and last time I make the offer.” She paused, looking around, a bit of horror creeping onto her face. “You do have a ‘place,’ right? One that’s not here?”

  18

  I DRIFTED TO THE LEFT, away from Hannah a bit, leaving her grinning to herself. I didn’t want her to think I was too eager. I wasn’t sure exactly what she’d meant by it, anyway. Could be what I was thinking, could be she just wanted to feel safe. I tried to rationalize against it. If she wanted to ‘feel safe,’ she should go to a police station, see if they’d hole her up in a cell for the night. That was ridiculous, so I stuck with the first option.

  I was feeling pretty high on life by the time I’d gotten my mind around the idea that she, of all people, might be wanting to come over for the night. I couldn’t help but smile a bit, then I turned up to watch Joey.

  Joey was hard at work keeping the oldies happy, and I even saw him engaging some of Cresson’s out-of-town friends in conversation. They seemed to be enjoying his company, but he was a professional — he waited for a polite moment to duck out, thanked them for coming in, and came back to the bar and kitchen to continue serving the other guests. He waited for a lull in the orders, then walked over.

  “Remind me to give you a raise sometime,” I said.

  He tossed it right back. “That’s the fifth time you’ve said that, boss. Where’s my money?”

  I Clint-Eastwooded him until he broke.

  “Fine,” he said. “You know, I love working with you because I can tell you’re going places. So trendy, so up-to-date. I’d do this job for free. Maybe even consider —“ he stopped when he busted out laughing.

  I spite of his poking fun, I couldn’t help but compliment him. “You really are a hard worker, Joey. I appreciate that.”

  “It’s good work, honestly. I worked in a kitchen up in the city. Man it was rough. All hours of the night, you know? At least here it’s about half a day, maybe less.”

  That was true. I employed Joey at the bar between thirty and forty hours a week, but we were closed Sundays, and he didn’t come in on Mondays. Too slow of a day. The other hours, the ones he got paid nearly double for, totaled about fifteen to twenty hours.

  Still, I tried to do my best to make sure he wasn’t ever working nonstop that many hours. I’d done it, plenty of times, but it was no fun. Come in, do your work, then get some sleep. Maybe have a little fun on the side. That was how I wanted things here, and that was mostly how they were.

  He knew, though, that the ‘extra’ component of his paycheck — the portion paid in cash — was something that required a little more, a little bit different set of skills. It came with a slightly different set of
expectations.

  “I’m going to need you more,” I said out of the corner of my mouth as we side-by-side threw back a couple shakers of whiskey sours ordered by a couple locals. He was fully capable of making the drinks himself, but I wanted the regulars to see me making a drink, and I had a hankering to shake the crap out of something anyway. “I’m going to need you a lot these next few days. Any big plans?”

  “Getting married, but other than that, no.”

  I nearly dropped my shaker. I swung around to find his big-ass wide toothy grin jutting out at me, mocking me.

  “I’m kidding. You’re too easy, you know that?”

  I wasn’t too easy, and I knew it. But Joey seemed to have me all figured out, which was part of the reason I liked him. Trusted him. You didn’t want a guy like that against you. He knew how to dig in at me when I was most vulnerable — a very rare thing to be vulnerable at all, but there were moments.

  “It’s her, isn’t it?” he said, finishing his drink and pouring out the top of the strainer, just like I’d taught him.

  “Yeah,” I said. Let him figure what that means.

  “She invite you over for the night?”

  I sniffed. “Nope.”

  He turned to me and stared, forgetting all about his drink. “No shit, boss. You caved?”

  I looked at him, admittedly a bit confused. “What are you talking about?” I tried to feign innocence, suddenly focusing so intently on my whiskey sour I was sure it was going to blow the minds of whoever had decided to order it.

  “You caved, right? You invited her over. You can’t invite them over, boss. You should know that. It’s a cardinal sin. They have to invite you.”

  “Joey,” I said, trying to summon my best fatherly voice, “this wasn’t a casual bar conversation, featuring a typical run-of-the-mill dame and lad. This isn’t a college drinking game, either. This is complicated.”

  He wasn’t buying it. He had turned back to his drink, now shaking it out into the chilled old fashioned glass. I didn’t like drinking whiskey sours out of snifters — focused the wrong aromas toward the wrong places — and I liked the texture and long-term appeal a few well-placed small cubes brought to the mix, so I had trained him to use lowball glasses for nearly everything. Old-fashioned glasses, rocks glasses, same thing. It was a go-to around here. I was a David Embury believer, so my style was simple, tried-and-true, basic. Typically an 8-2-1 ratio for a lot of mixed drinks, don’t stir the fruit juices, that sort of stuff.