For the Fight (Romantic Suspense) (Beyond Blood, #2) (6 page)

My heart was thumping with the information he'd given me. “Hecko?”

Burping, he thumped his ribs and crushed the can. “Yeah, I haven't seen him in forever. He and I had no reason to hang, what with Frankie gone. Wonder if he still has the same crazy green hair.”

This didn't
sound
like the man I was searching for, but... “Think I remember him,” I said casually. “Guy used to always hang out with Frankie at that place—that uh, shit...” I snapped my fingers rapidly, screwed up my face. “You know where I mean. I swear the name is right on the tip of my—”

“Tail End!” He clapped his hands once, grinning proudly. “Hell yeah! I haven't been to Tail End in forever. Bet Hecko does still hang there, even without Frankie. They had the best girls, but the cover charge was too rich for my blood when Frankie wasn't paying.” Something akin to sadness flashed in Juice's stare. Maybe he missed Frank, or maybe he just missed the money and special treatment.

My stomach was coiling, excitement budding with this new lead. Juice was too young to know about Frankie's past actions, or at least my comment had rung no bells. But maybe this other man—Hecko—knew something, or was even the man Marina was chasing. I needed to find Tail End and see for myself. “Listen,” I said, patting Juice on the shoulder. “You sound like things have been rough. And it blows that you and I got fucked over because of our buyer being chicken shit or fake or something.” Glancing deliberately at one of the woman who was lounging nearby in just a thong and a poor excuse for a bikini top, I waved her over. “Let me buy you a dance and cheer you up, kid.”

Juice perked up, wriggling like a puppy as the girl approached. She leaned in to give him a hug, whispered in his ear. Meanwhile, she peered at me over his shoulder. I slid her a fifty, winking.

The second the pair was moving, slipping into the shadows of a booth where Juice would forget he'd ever met me, and the girl no doubt already had, I was out of my chair and out the door.

Day one had gone well.

****

I
t wasn't hard to find. A mere mile away on foot, I'd gotten the directions to the Tail End Club from a Cash for Coin place that was, amazingly, still open at that hour.

The building was squat, the outside faded brick. The sign was a hat-tip to old sea-side bars from decades ago. The kind that crouched on the edge of a dock swirling with fog.

One bouncer sat in a chair outside. He looked asleep, but I fed him a twenty as I passed and his open palm closed around it.

The Tail End was only slightly cleaner than the strip club had been. I repeated the same cautious steps I had there: find the bouncers, test the back exit, look for anything suspicious. I took particular note of how secluded some of the tables were, and how far the corner of the bar was from the alley doorway.

Hecko wasn't here. Or, if he was, he looked nothing like Juice had described. No one had green hair. I doubted the guy could change much in a year, but who knew?

After my reconnaissance, the only thing I could do was stake out the club and wait. Across the street was a cracked, dirt colored motel. Gathering my bag from the bus station cubby, my next order of business was to rent out a urine-smelling room that faced the Tail End's front entrance. I paid in cash, and the man who gave me my key barely looked up from the toaster-size television on the front desk.

Sitting by the window, I peered side to side. The buildings to the left and right were coated in graffiti. The glass openings were broken, covered up in tape and wood planks. Nobody lived there. At most, a few druggies probably squatted inside. No one that would notice me here in my room or care. Good.

Locking the door, I fell back on the stained blankets. I hated the filth, and everything smelled like cabbage and an open sewer. I'd camp out in whatever festering hole I had to if it kept me from being finger-printed later. I would avoid every mistake. Unlike Kite, no mysterious, dark-haired woman who'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time would be able to blackmail me.

Marina. Just thinking of her had my stomach tightening. So much had happened, and all so quickly. I wanted it to happen even faster. When I was done with this mission, I planned to do something... nice for her. And for me. Mostly for me.

That night, I slept in my disguise and the same clothes. As I had every night since meeting her, I dreamed of Marina Fidel.

Day two began. I cracked my eyes and stared at the grey clouds. Anxious, I rolled out of the blankets and prayed I hadn't gotten infested by bed bugs.

Inhaling until my lungs hurt, I sat on the edge of my stained bed. I'd have to watch the bar all day and night. Luckily, I'd packed some food. Chewing on some jerky, I sipped a bottle of water and began the arduous task of the stake out.

Inevitably, my mind turned to my plan.
I have to identify him first,
I told myself.
Once I do, I'll approach and ask him about Frank.
Depending on who Hecko was, I'd either spot a gap-tooth and recognize him as Marina's target, or he'd end up being someone that just knew Frank. It it was the latter, I planned to coax out of him any information about Frankie's past and his other 'friends.'

One of them had to be the second murderer.

The day crawled by, melting into night. My legs were cramping, I started to pace. This part of the process was the worst. I liked the hunt, and like Kite, I enjoyed the kill. But sitting in a wretched motel room and counting the cracks in the windowsill was not exciting.

Finally, as I'd been growing tired of trying to imagine what the bouncer down below was dreaming about, I saw my man. It had to be Hecko, though the green hair was muddier than my brain had conjured. Even from behind, I could see he was too young to be the killer. He was closer to Juice in appearance, he'd have been a child sixteen years ago.

It didn't matter. He would know something.

Opening my duffel bag, I gathered my ensemble. It was a meticulous process. I needed a whole other disguise. This time, I went with a knit cap that covered my ears. A fake beard hid most of my face, the contacts changed out for green ones.

Leaving the motel, the weight of the gun comfortable under my jacket, I gave the man in the chair another few bills and kept walking. If he'd been sitting up, studying me, he wouldn't have recognized me from my visit last night.

Hecko had been inside the bar for no longer than fifteen minutes. The three empty glasses in front of him and the fourth drink in his hand implied otherwise. The guy was a drinker, putting away the stuff with efficient practice. That was good. People let slip much more information when they were drunk.

He was alone in his corner of the bar, tucked onto his stool like he was holding out for a downpour to stop. There was no rain, the skies outside were calm, but how intuitive of him to know a storm was coming.

Nodding to the bartender, I ordered a gin and tonic and approached Hecko. He didn't see me coming, his body jerking in surprise when I put my arm around his shoulders. “Holy shit!” I cried out. “Is that you, Hecko?”

Spilling liquid on his lap, the guy shoved at me. “What the fuck, man? What are you doing?”

Leaning away, I lifted my glass high. “You're kidding! Don't tell me you don't remember me? I hung out with Frankie all the damn time!”

He was skeptical, and he should have been. But I was relying on the power of time and alcohol—mostly alcohol—to aid me in my statements. Hecko flicked blood-shot grey eyes to my shoes and to my face. “Did you? I don't...”

“Man, all the titty bars he would take us guys to,” I laughed loudly. Shaking my chin, I clapped Hecko tightly on the shoulder. He glared at my hand, but didn't push me off this time. “Fuck, I miss the guy. Still can't believe he's gone.”

What I really missed was not having to act so vulgar. Every swear was convincing on my tongue, but it left a sour taste in my mouth. Rust and blood and gin. This wasn't me, but I was spectacular at pretending.

He looked down into his drink, took a long gulp until the bottom was empty and I could see his face through it. Breathing out heavily, he slammed the container on the bar. “I do miss him, yeah. But I don't remember you—sorry, what was your name?”

“Cory,” I lied, swirling my glass. I let my hand fall back to my hip, hopped on the stool beside him. “I'm only a little offended that you don't remember me,” I said, winking. “To be honest, we never talked much. I was too busy throwing ones at the girls. I recognized you from the fucking doorway though. Your hair hasn't changed at all.”

His smile was hesitant, but real. “Frankie used to call me the Gecko.” Self-consciously, he scrubbed at his short clumps of hair. “He always told me to change it. I never listened.”

Sipping my gin and tonic, I watched his face closely. “Guy could be scary.” Hecko's eyes jumped to me, flashing. “But he meant well, most of the time.”

“Scary,” he muttered. His chuckle was cynical and empty. “Yeah. That's right.”

Sensing I was onto something, I waved for the bartender. “Another drink for my friend.” When the woman poured it, and when Hecko was nodding appreciatively and swallowing half of the caramel colored junk, I leaned close. “Honestly, Frankie did some messed up shit. You know?”

Holding the glass like it was a shield, the guy squinted at me. I saw the beads of sweat on his forehead, noticed him fidgeting. “Maybe. I don't know. He's dead now, either way.”

“True, and bless his soul,” I said, saluting to a man I didn't give a damn about. “But come on, Frankie was no saint. Neither was that guy who worked with him.”

There. The riptide of fear roamed across Hecko's face. “What are you talking about?” he hissed at me, acting dumb but failing.

I put my drink down heavily, swaying as if I was growing drunk. “Come on, Hecko! You're young but you
knew
Frankie, right?”

“Of course I knew him.” He looked side to side.

“Then you know what I'm talking about. The big motherfucker who was missing a tooth, used to pull the insurance shit with him.” I was pushing hard, trying to shake out what Hecko knew, what was true or what was just wind I was fumbling at. I was making a lot of assumptions, but it was intentional. If this guy knew Frankie like it seemed, he'd slip and give me something I could use.

Shuddering, Hecko's brows hooded his eyes. He bent towards me, furious and with foul breath. “Would you shut the fuck up? Don't bring him up here, I'm not supposed...” He trailed off, eyeing me with sudden paranoia. “Did he send you?”

My stomach prickled. Here was what I wanted. “Maybe. Why do you think he sent me?”

Like a falling star, Hecko crumpled. He didn't look pleased, he grabbed his glass and finished it with a cough. “No. Forget it. I'm not doing this.”

Controlling my smile, I broke the tension with a laugh. “Ah, fuck. Sorry man. I shouldn't be bringing up that bad stuff here.” Once more, the bartender approached. I ordered two more drinks, keeping my eye on Hecko the whole time. “Forget it. My bad. Let's just cheers to Frankie and clear the heavy air.”

The glasses were pulled close to me. I moved with speed, a dexterity born from necessity and determination. Hecko never saw me slide the packet from my sleeve, never spotted me tapping the powder into his drink. I would have tried to ply him with more alcohol, but I knew it was pointless. He had sealed the topic. Hecko didn't trust me.

It was a wise decision.

My teeth glinted, I handed him the glass. Together, we clinked them with reverence. Dedication to a man long dead, a man I had helped kill.

The moment Hecko took his greedy gulp, I counted the seconds. I knew how much of the poison I had given him. It would be crawling into his bloodstream, twisting his guts and muddying his mind. In three minutes, he'd be a dizzy mess. A pliable mess.

Tapping my finger on my knee, I waited him out with a smile. The first hint of his cheeks turning pasty made me move. “You look like you need some air, let's go out for a smoke,” I said, sliding my hands into the gloves in my pockets. I was going to need to make sure I left no fingerprints from here on out.

He grunted, grip shaking on the glass. I was pleased to see he'd finished it. Not that it mattered, it'd be emptied and run through a hot wash enough times, it'd be useless for evidence. I doubted that would matter, regardless.

Hecko stumbled, I hooked my arm around him for support. The bartender was staring at us. I crooked an apologetic smile and mouthed, 'too much to drink' at her. She nodded, turning her back.

Busting through the alley exit, I made a soothing sound as Hecko groaned. His ability to stand on his own was fading. Outside, there were two men smoking. As if on cue, my green haired friend bent away from me, vomiting on the filthy concrete. “Easy buddy,” I said, shaking my head knowingly at the men.

They chuckled, flicking ash and stamping out their cigs before giving Hecko and I some privacy. They thought they were being polite. They didn't know they were allowing me to drag my prey off and out of view.

“Come on,” I whispered, listening to Hecko's pained babbling. “This way. Over here. Let's get you set up.” Dragging the man around a corner, I ducked into the long alleyway I'd spotted from my motel room. It was a shade lighter than tar-black, my eyes adjusting just enough to see shapes. I didn't need much vision for my plan, though.

Hecko coughed, pushing against me feebly. The poison had done its job. He was conscious, but disoriented and frail. Crouching on the opposite side of a dumpster that smelled too much like rotten eggs, I knelt beside him. “How are you feeling?” I asked.

“What... what's wrong with me?” he groaned, unable to see me—or anything—in the dark.

Firmly, I pushed a hand onto his throat; held him against the cold wall. I put enough pressure to frighten, to keep him from squirming. Fear was as useful a tool as cyanide. “Listen to me, Hecko. Trust me, you will
want
to pay attention.” My thumb dug in harder. Under me, through the glove, his pulse was rapid. How strange it must have felt for him, to have a heart throbbing so madly while his limbs refused to obey.