Matt Hilton - Dead_s men dust

"You busy with anything, Rink?"

"Got my heel planted on a weasel as we speak," Rink said.

"I take it you're speaking metaphorically?"

"Uh-huh," Rink said. "I just gotta?nish up a little one-on-one business with my client, then I'm all yours." "So what's the deal? Anything exciting?" "Nothing startling. Guy paid me to do a little eyeball on his wife.

He grew suspicious when she started doing too much overtime at work.

Thought she could be playin' away from home."

"Maybe she was just after more money," I offered.

"Yeah, you might say she was after a raise." Rink chuckled. "I got the goods on her last night. Filmed her giving head to her boss in the back of his limousine."

"So you just have to hand over the evidence and that's you?nished?" I asked.

"More or less, yeah. Anyways, what's up?" Rink asked. "You haven't rung for the sake of idle chitchat. That's not the Joe Hunter I know and love."

"I've got a job for you… if you're interested?"

"Uh-huh." It could've been agreement, but more likely he was waiting for more.

"Could be a long story," I told him.

"Fire away, it's your dime."

It was so still I could have been in a mausoleum. But habit caused a quick over-the-shoulder glance to make sure I was alone.

"I'm going to be coming out there," I told him.

"Out here? As in Florida?"

"Well, yeah, I was thinking of stopping over a day or so, but then I have to get myself to Little Rock, Arkansas."

"My old stomping ground?"

"It's why you're the man for the job."

"You think I'm a tour guide all of a sudden? Get yourself a map." Good-natured sarcasm was rich in his drawl. How anyone could dislike Rink is a mystery. What's not to like about a sarcastic curmudgeon?

"Local knowledge is half the battle," I told him.

"I ain't been home in eight years, Hunter. Don't know how up to date my local knowledge'll be."

"How much can Arkansas have changed in eight years?" I asked. "It's not like it's the center of American culture."

"Yeah, but it's not like it's simply rednecks in pickup trucks, either," Rink said, sounding exactly like a redneck in a pickup truck. "They're as cultured as anyplace else, Hunter. They know the difference between Paris, France, and Paris Hilton."

"It'll do you good to get yourself back there, then."

Rink chuckled. "So what's the deal?"

"Missing person," I said.

"That all? I thought it was going to be something exciting."

"There's more. The missing person is my brother."

"You mean John?"

"Yeah. He's?nally surfaced, only to drop off the face of the earth again." I gripped the phone tight. "I'm worried, Rink."

"You know what guys are like. He's probably gotten himself drunk, picked up a coupla hookers, an' is holed up in a motel someplace," Rink said. "Give him a day or two an' he'll be home with his tail between his legs."

"Maybe," I agreed. "And with John it wouldn't be the?rst time."

"You guys had a big falling out. Why you lookin' for him now?"

"He's in trouble," I said.

"Always was."

"I'm not doing this for him," I lied. "My sister-in-law asked me to?nd him. I promised her I would."

"Figures." Seems like Diane wasn't the only one who could read me from a thousand paces. Rink asked, "So is he skipping out on the alimony?"

"He has for years," I said. "But that's not what this is about. Yeah, there're kids involved, but it all goes a lot deeper than that."

"Pray tell," Rink said. It sounded like a car engine burst into life, the sound only slightly muf?ed by the intervening thousands of miles.

"You driving, Rink?"

"Just setting off. But you can keep on talking; I got a twenty- minute drive. Just ignore me if my language gets foul, but the I-75's a bitch even at this hour."

Rink maneuvered his Porsche through the Florida traf?c. My run-in with Shank and his goons was just another war story to us. The creative use of a seat belt as a noose won me kudos. So did the fact that two major assholes would be walking with crutches for a while.

I got around to the note from John's current girlfriend and the plea made by Jennifer. My promise to help.

"You always were a soft touch, Hunter," Rink said. "Never could turn down a damsel in distress."

"She's also my sister-in-law," I reminded him.

"Sister nothing. If you'd never met her before, you'd still be coming out here."

"Now you're starting to sound like Diane," I said.

"Your lady was right in a lot of respects," he pointed out.

"Even Diane would understand this time. It is my brother we're talking about."

"No argument from me, Hunter."

Even if I didn't crave the kind of action that keeps me alive, I couldn't turn my back on my brother. For all that the last time we spoke, I threatened to punch his face.

"You've missed him, huh?"

"Like a hole in the head."

It was a good place to lighten the conversation. "So how's the Sunshine State?"

"A contradiction in terms, my man. Rain's coming down in torrents. Third day in a row. They sure don't show that on no 'Come to sunny Florida' TV ads, do they?"

"I'll pack for the weather, Rink. But can you set me up with the necessaries?" Mentioning a key word-particularly gun-over the telephone is never a good idea. Especially since 9/11. Conspiracy theories aside, all kinds of enigmatic government establishments known for their acronyms are tapping phones for just such words. I know. I've been there. Last thing I wanted was to land in Florida, then get a one-way trip to Guantanamo Bay.

Rink said, "Leave it to me. You want I get you a couple of day passes to Universal Studios?"

"Best you do. Hopefully I'll have a little time for sightseeing; I don't want to be wasting time queuing." More code. Universal was a cipher. It meant the entire package: passport, Social Security number, driving documents, credit cards, the business.

"Sounds like we could be in for some fun, Hunter."

"Fun isn't the half of it," I said.

Tubal cain was in his element. driving a flashy car in the dark with the highway all to himself. Interstate 10 was one of his all-time favorite places, stretching all the way from Jacksonville, Florida, in the east to Santa Monica, California, in the west. A transcontinental artery with no less than three of the largest cities in the United States straddling its route. Houston, Phoenix, and Los Angeles were all ground he knew. But what appealed to him more than the cities was the transcontinental highway itself. It was a popular backpacking avenue across the states. Throughout its length there wasn't that great an elevation change, and even in winter the daytime temperatures were generally warm. He could almost guarantee a year-long stock of wandering lambs. George and Mabel-or whatever they were really called-were good examples of what could be achieved by one as enterprising as himself. Okay, he'd only gained a couple of thumbs for his collection, but consolation was his in the form of the scorched motor home he'd left behind. He'd spent some time in all the major tourist centers along the way, sampling the atmosphere of each before moving on. He'd thor oughly enjoyed the vibrancy of New Orleans, the Cajun?amboyancy of Lafayette, the history of San Antonio, where he'd used his Bowie knife in tribute to Colonel James Bowie, who'd met his death there. He'd sampled the culture, the music, and the southwest?avor of Tucson while hunting students in its universities. Forging westward to Santa Monica, he'd found easy pickings amid the crowds jiggling for elbow space on the world-famous pier.

Then there was Los Angeles itself, his current destination. A city he found best suited his way of life, where he could ply his trade and fear little consequence. What with all the gangs shooting and hacking each other up, his two previous victims gleaned from South Central