R. Jagger - A Way With Murder

She was Mercedes Rain.

“Secret’s a blues singer,” Wilde said. “I was thinking maybe you’d let her sit in on a song.”

The woman looked at Secret.

“Sure, but if she sings anything like she looks, I’m going to need a new job.” To Secret, “How about, Lady Sings the Blues? Do you know the words to that one?”

“I do but …”

“Okay, we’ll open up the second set with you,” Mercedes said. To Wilde, “You want to take the drums on that number?”

“Sure.”

“Done then,” Mercedes said.

“No, not done,” Secret said. “I’m not a singer. I’ve never been on a stage in my life.”

“Then this will be your first time,” Mercedes said. “Good luck.”

Wilde grabbed her hand,pulled her through the crowd to the bar and ordered a white wine for her and a double Jack for himself.

Secret was confused.

“Why do you think I’m a singer?”

“Because I heard you.”

“When?”

“When I went to the bathroom this morning.”

She reflected back.

“You were singing to the radio,” he said.

Her face focused.

“You heard that?”

He downed the Jack, slammed the jigger on the bar upside down and said, “Apparently I did. Why’d you think I brought you here tonight, to get you drunk and take advantage of you?”

“Well, the thought crossed my mind.”

He ordered another Jack and said, “In that case, it looks like you were 10 percent wrong.”

She brought her mouth close to his.

Dangerously close.

Almost brushing.

Her breath was hot.

Hotter than sin.

“You’re an evil man,” she said.

Day One

July 21, 1952

Monday Night

With every second that passed,Waverly’s throat got tighter and tighter. No menacing silhouettes were coming down the dock but one could spring out of the cold black thickness at any second.

“Su-Moon, hurry up.”

“I am hurrying up.”

A moment passed.

Waverly kept her eyes fixed on the wooden planks that disappeared into the eerie weather.

A distant light washed through the darkness, faint and vague, bringing a luminescence to the rain.

It wasn’t close but it was something.

Did headlights pull into the parking lot?

“We need to go,” she said.

“One more drawer.”

“Make it quick, I might have seen headlights.”

“Hold on, I found a file.”

A moment passed, then another.

“What are you doing?” Waverly said.

“This is weird.”

“What’s weird?”

“Quiet, let me read.”

Waverly’s chest tightened.

Breathing got difficult.

Suddenly what she feared would happen did happen.

A dark shapecame down the dock, hunched against the weather, walking fast but not so fast as to lose a grip on the slippery wood.

“He’s coming!”

There was no time to get off the boat, the figure was that close.

Waverly stepped inside, closed the door and made sure it was locked. Su-Moon already had the candle blown out. Waverly met her there.

“What do we do?”

“Can you swim?”

“No.”

The room had a door at the back wall. They opened it to find a narrow swim platform.

They stepped onto it and shut the door behind them.

The rain assaulted them.

It was a billion frozen needles.

The boat rocked, ever so slightly but enough to indicate that someone had stepped onto the front deck. Waverly checked around the edge of the boat, which stuck out ten feet past the edge of the finger. They couldn’t reach it, not without getting into the water.

A narrow fixed ladder led to the roof.

They headed up, laid flat on their stomachs and got motionless.

Lightning arced across the sky.

The marina lit up.

The water was choppy.

Waverly suddenly had an image of it swallowing her down and sucking the last breath out of her lungs.

Day One

July 21, 1952

Monday Night

Ten miles down the roada small prairie town popped up. On the main street of that town was a hillbilly-looking bar called the Coyote’s Breath. A couple of dozen pickup trucks were parked in the vicinity together with a smattering of cars and a handful of motorcycles. One of those pickup trucks was white with a black tailgate.

River drove by slowly.

The place had no windows but the door was propped open.

The interior was long and narrow. A bar ran down the right wall. The stools were filled with rough-looking drunks fondling brown bottles.

“Did you see ’em?”

January shook her head.

“No, but I can smell ’em.”

River did a one-eighty, circled back and scoped it a second time before pulling over at the end of the drag three blocks down and killing the engine.

“I’m not sure exactly how to do this,” he said.

“Let’s forget it.”

He grunted.

“That’s not an option.”

She tugged on his arm.

“If you go in there you’re dead,” she said.

He kissed her and said, “Stay here.”

“River, no!”

He already had the door open.

“I’ll be back.”

A louder and louderthunder pounded in his chest as he headed up the street.

He had no gun.

He had no knife.

He had no club.

When he got to the door he took a deep breath, crossed his chest and stepped in. A jukebox somewhere near the back was spitting a hillbilly twang from crumby speakers. The air was thick with smoke and stale beer. The floor was scuffed linoleum, buried with butts and peanut shells.

River got onto the bar, grabbed a bottle of beer and smashed it on the edge of the counter.

Every face turned.

“Who owns that white pickup truck with the black tailgate?”

Noise broke out.

“Looks like we got ourselves a girl,” someone said.

“A fag is more like it.”

“Hey, baby, you want to choke on a big one?”

River gavethe closest guy a warning look.

“I said, who owns that white pickup truck with the black tailgate?”

Eyes turned to two men in the back standing next to the pool table with cues in hand.

One of them said, “Why the hell do you care?”

“Is it yours?”

“That’s none of your damn business.”

River hopped down and headed for him.

The bodies separated in front and closed in behind.

River got face to face with the man.

Their eyes were the same height.

He was a lot bigger close up.

“Is that your pickup truck?”

“Maybe. What’s your problem, girlie?”

“You forgot to do something,” River said.

He looked around. The faces were quiet. “I forgot to do something,” he told everyone. Back to River, “So what did I forget to do exactly?”

“You forgot to cut your dick off,” he said. “That’s the proper etiquette after you rape someone. You cut your dick off and give it to ’em for a souvenir.” He tossed the broken bottle onto the pool table. “You can use that.”

Someone said, “Jesus, Jackson. Did you rape someone?”

“Hell no. He’s making it up.”

“Do it,” River said. “Do it now. Do it now or I’ll do it for you.”

The man stepped back, slowly with a confused smile on his face, as if pondering the next thing he would say. Then he exploded in a motion that brought the thick end of the cue swinging with full force at River’s face.

River jerked.

He was fast.

The stick was faster.

Day One

July 21, 1952

Monday Night