Tara Janzen - Loose And Easy

He swung out onto the street, sliding the Folton Ridge folder inside his jacket, then turned and locked the ’Cuda. Kevin Harrell was still standing on Wynkoop, eyeballing the Faber Building, like he could get it to ignite if he just gave it his all.

Fat chance. The guy didn’t have those kinds of chops.

Knocking a Faro out of the pack he’d bought off Rick, Dax checked the street in both directions. Another cop car was parked on Wynkoop, which seemed excessive even on a busy Friday night, and which he hoped to hell didn’t have anything to do with Easy and Otto Von Lindberg.

It shouldn’t. She’d finished with Otto two hours ago, should be finishing with Nachman right now, and then be on her way back into town. When he’d gotten to Denver, he’d called and left her a message to call as soon as she did the same. Phone reception could get sketchy up in the mountains, but once she made it back to the interstate, it should be all systems go.

Walking down toward Wynkoop, he stuck the cigarette between his lips and reached for his lighter, and at the corner he took a moment to fire up the Faro. There were plenty of people on the sidewalk, but he was the only one staring straight at Kevin Harrell across the street, and it didn’t take the guy long to feel it.

When he was sure he had Mr. Harrell’s attention, he took one more long drag off the cigarette, holding the guy’s gaze, hard and steady. Then he exhaled, taking his time.

Yeah, pendejo, take a good look at your midnight cowboy over here.

Dax wasn’t shy about his looks. He wouldn’t have given a dollar for them either, but he knew the value of a well-cut jacket over a hand-tailored dress shirt, a pair of 501s that fit like a glove, and a pair of custom-made cowboy boots.

Finished exhaling, he dropped the Faro on the sidewalk, crushed it with his boot, and headed into the Faber Building.

It was a come-on, sure enough. One he didn’t think Harrell would be able to resist. There was a reason the jerk had gotten rough with Easy that day back in high school, trying to prove how tough he was, trying to prove his manhood. It was because he had plenty to prove, and nothing he could prove, not in a month of Sundays. Big old brawny Kevin Harrell was gay.

Dax didn’t hold personal sexual orientation against anybody, but he sure as hell held Kevin Harrell’s treatment of Easy against him. Besides the incident in the locker bay-and, yeah, suddenly, he remembered exactly who John Ramos was, which only reinforced the wisdom of having Esme stick with the guy-well, besides that incident, there had been some verbal harassment that had even included Esme’s mom, his aunt Beth.

And now here was the idiot, leaving himself wide open on the off chance he was going to get lucky.

Lucky, hell.

Dax used his key on the building’s outside door, and used the doorstop just inside to keep the door open. He was going to make this as easy as possible for Harrell.

Once inside the door, he stepped back in the shadows and waited.

It didn’t take long.

Harrell no sooner stepped inside the door than Dax spun him around hard and slammed him into the wall even harder. In the instant Harrell was stunned, Dax cuffed his hands behind his back, and in the next instant, he had a 1911 jammed up against the back of the guy’s neck, right on the old brain stem.

“Come on, asshole. Get up the stairs.” Dax jerked the guy’s hands higher up behind his back. “I’d just as soon drop you as talk to you, so don’t fuck with me, Kevin.”

“You… you broke my fucking nose,” the guy blubbered between gasps for air.

Tough.

Dax moved him even faster, getting them out of the stairwell as quickly as possible.

Harrell stumbled, shaking his head, and Dax damn near lifted him off his feet, keeping him upright. “Move.”

At the door to the B and B Investigations office, Dax forced Harrell to his knees.

“Stay put.” He kept the automatic pistol pressed against the guy’s neck with his left hand, while he unlocked the door with his right.

“You… you asshole. You broke my…my nose.”

Yeah, yeah.

“Get inside.”

Harrell lumbered to his feet and stepped inside the office. Dax closed the door behind them.

“Have a seat.” He shoved Harrell toward the client chair in front of Burt’s desk.

The big guy dropped into it with a groan.

“Who the hell are you?” Harrell asked, looking up from under a fringe of streaked blond bangs.

Dax had a hard time with questions like that one. The urge to overdramatize was damn near irresistible. Really great lines came to mind, like “Your worst nightmare,” or “The last thing you’re ever going to see.”

He refrained.

“Esme Alden’s cousin.” That was his business with Kevin Harrell, the high school thing. “That makes me Burt Alden’s nephew.” And the FranklinBleak-wanting-to-beat-the-crap-out-of-and/or-killUncle-Burt problem. The two items were more than enough reason for Dax to get in Harrell’s face. Those two reasons, and that Bleak had sent this goon and Dovey Smollett to snatch Easy off the street. He’d break them all for thinking that was a good idea. He knew more than enough about Bleak to know sometimes the people he made a point of getting up close and personal with never made it out of the meeting alive.

Like he said, he’d break them all before he let them get their hands on his bad girl-and it wasn’t because he was such a family-orientated guy. He had relatives, everyone did. But Easy? She’d struck a chord with him a long time ago. Skinny? Geezus, she’d been a skinny little kid. She’d also been smart, controlled, self-possessed, and self-contained-all that at eight, and he’d noticed. Out of all the ragtag bundles of energy and mischief that had made up the cadre known as “the younger kids” in his family, she’d stood out.

And then three years ago, fresh diploma in hand, she’d come and asked him for a job. To date, he’d never had a regret for taking her on. Not even with that damn Bangkok thing hanging over his head.

“Burt Alden owes my boss money, a lot of money,” Harrell said belligerently, as if the fact gave him the moral high ground.

He was mistaken. Dax owned every last inch of the high ground, and he wasn’t giving any of it up.

“You put your hands on my cousin once,” Dax said calmly, leaning back against the desk and sliding his pistol back into his shoulder holster. “Don’t do it again. Ever.”

He reached over and hit “play” on the answering machine.

“Do you understand?”

Harrell’s hard brown gaze didn’t waver. “I understand you’re gonna be in deep shit with Bleak, if you don’t let me go right now, you asshole.”

The first message was Aunt Beth, and Dax pressed the skip button. The next message was a good one, from Thomas in Chicago -but he wanted a callback. He didn’t leave the name.

Geez, Dax thought. What was it with these old guys? Why couldn’t Thomas have just left the damn name?

“What were you doing out on Wynkoop?” he asked, picking up a postcard lying on the desk. It had a picture of an angel on the front, and Johnny Ramos’s name and some loopy-looking girl handwriting on the back. He stuck it in his back pocket. “Waiting for Esme? Waiting for Burt?”

“Fuck you.”

“Burt’s a problem. I’ll grant you that, but we’re going to take care of it.” Uncle Burt’s dentist came on line next, and Dax hit the skip button. “On the other hand, if I ever hear of you waiting anywhere for Esme ever again, I’ll fuck you, and not the way you’re hoping, Kevin.”

Some static ran on the answering machine, and Dax let it play, in case there was a message in it somewhere.