R. Jagger - A Way With Murder

He staggered to his feet.

“Fair fight,” someone shouted. “One at a time.” A hand shook River’s shoulder. “Is that good with you, mister? A fair fight, one at a time.”

River said nothing.

Instead he picked January up and got her to a booth.

Her eyes opened.

She was hurt but she wouldn’t die.

“Stay here,” he said.

Then he walked back.

On the pool table he spotted a bottle of beer, half-empty. He drank what was left in one long swallow. Then he held the bottle by the neck and busted the bottom off. Jagged glass was left.

He set it down on the edge of the table and shook the blood out of his left ear.

He squared off to the two men.

“Now, cut your dicks off, both of you. Use that to do it. Cut ’em off or I’ll do it for you. If I have to do it, I’m going to cut your eyes out too. First your dicks, then your eyes. Do you understand?”

One of the men tried to bust out.

The crowd closed in and pushed him back.

Day One

July 21, 1952

Monday Night

From his positionat the drums, Wilde watched helplessly as Alabama slipped off her barstool and made her way to the left. When she got to Robert Mitchum, she leaned into the bar, ostensibly to order a drink. Her ass was so close to his hand it might have been touching.

Wilde knew what she was doing.

She was being stupid-the exact thing he told her not to be.

Sure enough, now they were talking.

She was instantly fascinated with this stranger in a white shirt and letting her chest brush up against him to prove it.

She smiled her smile.

She tossed her hair.

It wasn’t clear if Mitchum was responding, but if he wasn’t yet he would be soon.

Alabama was hard to resist.

Even with all his strength, Wilde could hardly do it half the time.

Damn it, Alabama.

When the songwas over, Secret got mobbed, she got mobbed so badly that Wilde didn’t even try to squeeze in. One of the mob turned out to be Rex Sailwood, the owner of a local record label called Sky Records. He bought her a drink and chewed on her ear for fifteen minutes before she was able to break free.

“Don’t tell me,” Wilde said. “Sailwood’s going to make you a star.”

Secret was surprised.

“You know him?”

Wilde nodded.

He did.

“Is he legit?”

“Actually he is,” Wilde said. “He’s not as big as what you’ll find in Chicago or New York, but he can get a record made and played.”

She ran a finger down his nose.

“I’m going to take your advice and sleep with the drummer.”

Wilde frowned.

“Do you see that guy over there at the bar in the white suit? The one molesting Alabama-”

She did.

“Is that the guy you saw on the roof?”

“I told you, I couldn’t make him out.”

“Could it be him?”

“It could be but so could you. Why, is that him?”

“That’s our friend Robert Mitchum,” he said. “Alabama’s making a move against my direct orders. Short term, if we stumble into them, pretend you don’t know her. We can’t blow her cover.”

“What’s long term?”

He lit a cigarette.

“Long term, we need to be sure she stays safe tonight, which is going to put a crimp in those plans you have for the drummer.” He blew smoke. “To be more accurate, I need to be sure she stays safe tonight.”

Secret kissed him.

“You had it right the first time- We .” A pause, then, “We need to find out if he recognizes me.”

“That’s a dead issue,” Wilde said. “At this point he obviously will and we’ll never know if it’s from the other night or from the stage or from both.”

“We’ll know if he hunts me down,” Secret said.

Wilde nodded.

“Yeah that would answer the question.”

Secret punched him.

“Don’t be so laid back about it.”

“Trust me, I’m not.”

Day One

July 21, 1952

Monday Night

Waverly twisted and jerkedand did everything she could to get away from the grip that had her ankle. That did nothing but send her over the edge headfirst into the cold black waves.

Water filled her eyes and ears and nose.

She couldn’t breathe.

Panic gripped her body and made it jerk.

Her head stayed under.

Her lungs burned.

She wanted one thing and one thing only, to breathe.

Seconds, that’s all she had left.

Suddenly an arm came around her from behind. She tried to twist around and climb up the person but couldn’t break loose.

Her head came above water.

Air.

Air.

Air.

She sucked it in so fast that water came with it and sent her into a coughing fit. She got a second breath, a clean one this time. Then she was over by the finger, the solid finger, and held on for dear life.

“Boost yourself up.”

It was a man’s voice.

Bristol’s.

She tried.

“I can’t!”

“Yes you can, do it.”

She pulled again with all her strength. This time Bristol pushed from behind. Her chest got up onto the wood then she pulled herself until her whole body was safe. Face down, she breathed. Nothing had ever felt so good. Splashing sounds came from behind her. Bristol was muscling his way out of the water. Then he was out, standing over her, dripping even colder water onto her already freezing body.

He tapped a toe into her ribs.

“Get up.”

The finger rocked-someone was running down it towards them. Waverly looked in that direction and saw the black silhouette of Su-Moon charging. The woman flung her body in the air over Waverly, hitting Bristol and sending him into the water.

She pulled Waverly to her feet.

“Come on.”

That was last night.

Now it was Tuesday morningand she opened the copper designer door of The Bristol Group and stepped into the frantic offices as if nothing happened. Last night had been dark and her face had been down. It was doubtful Bristol got a good enough look at her to recognize her in a different environment.

She’d find out soon enough.

Most of last night had been for naught. The only thing of interest in Bristol’s boat was an architecture file relating to some kind of terminal and docking layout for a ferry company on the Hong Kong side of Victoria Harbour. Even that wasn’t of much interest, being noteworthy only in the fact that it was at Bristol’s house rather than at the office, and was three years old.

Why would he have a three year old architecture file at home in the bottom drawer of his dresser?

Sean Waterfieldspotted her and headed over.

“You look nice,” he said.

She lowered her voice.

“What do you know anything about a Hong Kong project?”

“You mean an architecture project, here at the firm?”

Right.

That.

He scratched his head.

“No.”

“It was three or four years ago.”

Three or four years ago.

He reached back.

“Wow, I hadn’t thought about that in years,” he said. “It wasn’t a project. It was something we bid on. It never materialized. Another firm got the bid.”

“Who.”

“I can’t remember. Why?”

A man’s face appeared.

“Are you the temp?”

Yes.

She was.

“I need you to make a donut run. Please and thank you.” He handed her money. “Two dozen assorted.”

Ten minutes later, picking out two-dozen from behind a glass display at Rudy amp; Summer’s World Famous Donuts, she had a nagging thought that she might not be able to take Bristol down if he turned out to be the dropper.