Casey Daniels - Dead Man Talking

“Don’t try to talk,” Reggie said, at the same time Greer stuck a microphone in my face.

“We’ve got it all on tape,” she said, as breathless as I was, though as far as I could see, she didn’t have nearly the same good reason I did. “It will make great evidence. You are going to press charges, aren’t you?”

Absalom still had a hold on Sammi, who was red in the face and breathing hard. She looked over at the sidewalk outside the fence just as I did, and seeing that Virgil was gone, some of the stiffness went out of her shoulders. She closed her eyes, leaned back against Absalom, and a single tear trickled down her cheek.

And me?

Don’t get the wrong idea. I wasn’t about to go all Ghandi or anything. I would have loved to see Sammi out of my life and locked up where she couldn’t do me-or my clothing-any more harm. But I sure wasn’t going to give Greer the satisfaction of catching my revenge on tape.

I told her no with a shake of my head.

The excitement over, a very disappointed Greer stayed around just long enough to watch Delmar and Reggie help me to my feet. I brushed off the seat of my pants, and when Sammi opened her mouth to say something-I hoped it was an apology-I stopped her.

“We’ll talk later,” I promised, each word painful and rasping. I looked down at the mess that was my outfit. “I’ve got to get cleaned up. I’ve got someplace… someplace to go.”

And God help me, I headed toward the Porta potti.

After all, I had to shop for a used car, and while I didn’t want to look too prosperous, I sure couldn’t go looking like I did.

Porta potti aside, there was one consolation in the whole ugly incident: after tussling with Sammi, I was pretty sure that talking to Bad Dog Raphael was going to be a piece of cake.

Let’s make one thing perfectly clear: I hate public transportation. It’s smelly. It’s dirty. It doesn’t run on my time schedule, and as fate would have it, I ended up sitting next to an old guy who smelled like stale cigars and talked to himself.

But I will say this much for it-the bus I got on near the cemetery spit me out right in front of Bad Dog’s Big Car Nation .

Even if I hadn’t looked up the address, I would have recognized the place anywhere. It was hard to miss that car up at the top of a twenty-foot pole. Or the giant mechanical bulldog driving it, the one that was waving one arm to entice buyers in.

I was there to get an overall impression, both of the Big Car Nation and of its owner, so I stood on the sidewalk for a couple minutes and looked around. My ten-minute bus ride had kept me well within the Cleveland city limits, in a neighborhood where the McDonald’s across the street was built to look like a hacienda in a Zorro movie. There was a same-day check-cashing place to the right of the car lot, and on the left, a convenience store. It had bars on the windows and a security guard outside.

Bad Dog’s car lot took up the better part of one whole block, and aside from that monstrosity of a hacienda, it was the brightest spot I could see in the urban blight that surrounded me. There was a line of cars parked along the perimeter of the lot, and every one of them was washed and shined to perfection, their attributes screaming from their windshields in red and blue crayon: AUTOMATIC! LOW MILEAGE! NEW TIRES!

Beyond the cars was a cinder-block office. It had a door on one side with a welcome sign above it and another sign below that declared HABLAMOS ESPAÑOL. To the left of the door was a picture window, and inside, I could see a couple people scurrying around. Neither of them was Bad Dog.

Before I could take another step, I was corralled by a middle-aged man with thinning hair and thick glasses. He was wearing jeans and a powder blue sport coat that had seen better days. Then again, I was dressed in khakis that had a smudge of dirt across the butt and a shirt that had a hole in one elbow. If nothing else, my walk on the cemetery wild side was teaching me to be tolerant when it came to fashion disasters.

The man’s nametag told me he was Bud. He stuck out a hand. “You look like a little lady who could use some help.”

I was nice enough not to point out that no matter how thick his glasses, there was no way I looked like a little lady . Not to anyone. Instead, I started right in.

“I need a car,” I said, and I was sure to add, “A good one,” so that I sounded serious.

“Price range?”

I shrugged. “It has to be dependable,” I said. “And I don’t have a lot of money.”

“Dependable is not a problem.” His grin showed off crooked, yellow teeth. “How’s about you just come on in and fill out a credit application.”

“Shouldn’t we look at cars first?”

His grin got bigger. “See, that’s the mistake most folks make,” he said. “They get their hearts set on a car, then find out they can’t afford it. You don’t want that to happen to you, do you, little lady?”

I assured him I didn’t, and I followed him inside the cinder-block building, where I sat on a metal chair and filled out a credit application with the pen Bud took out of his shirt pocket. It leaked. When I was done, Bud trotted back in my direction. “You know, Bud…” I gave him a simmering little smile. “I was hoping to meet Bad Dog himself.”

Bud’s gaze went briefly to a door across the office marked PRIVATE. It was closed. “He’s a busy man,” he said. “I can help you just fine.”

I kept my smile firmly in place, even when Bud stepped a little closer. “I’m sure you can. It’s just that… well, I’ve seen Bad Dog on all those commercials, and it’s like… well, I feel like I practically know him. That’s why I came here in the first place. And then when I mentioned it at work… people told me…” I bucked up my courage and leaned in closer to Bud. He smelled like old socks. I held my breath and whispered, “Somebody said Bad Dog was in prison once.”

Before Bud could answer, a weird thing happened. A red carnation appeared right in front of my face. Surprised, I stepped back and slid my gaze in the direction of Bad Dog’s office. The door was open now, and Bad Dog himself was on the other end of that flower. Close enough to touch, and definitely close enough for him to hear what I’d just said.

I stepped back and looked Bad Dog over. It was, after all, what that bus ride and this nonsense about needing a car was all about. Even if I could come right out and ask if he had anything to do with Vera Blaine’s death, there was no way he was going to tell me. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t dig, just a little, and size him up while I was at it.

Like he was in the commercials I’d seen, Bad Dog was wearing an expensive suit and a smile that crinkled the corners of his dark eyes. That scar above his left eye should have been gross. Instead, it enhanced his dark and deadly image. His hair was the color of strong coffee. His voice was as rich as Dove dark chocolate. Oh yeah, Mack Raphael was suave, all right.

I told myself not to forget that if everything Quinn said about him was true, he was also unreformed and plenty dangerous.

“Thank you, Bud, I’ll take it from here.” Bad Dog dismissed the salesman with a curt nod then turned a smile on me as sleek as the Porsche my dad used to drive. “Red carnation. Get it? Bad Dog’s Big Car Nation?”

I smiled like I thought it was funny, and when he offered the flower again, I had no choice but to take it.

“I save them for the pretty customers,” he said. “For you…” He stepped back and looked me over as carefully as I had just studied him. “Maybe I should have brought out a whole dozen.”

“That’s so sweet!” I sniffed the flower because I figured that’s what I was supposed to do. “I knew you’d be just like you are in your commercials. So-”