Hard Day's Knight (10 page)

We waited until Big Joe, as his bowling shirt announced him, was up to bowl, and right in the middle of his backswing I asked “Joe Arthur?” in my loudest voice. Since I was only about four feet from him when I did this, he jumped like a startled, albeit very overweight, cat and threw a perfect gutterball.

“Jesus Christ!” He yelled. He got as much in my face as he could from his height and bellowed, “What the holy crap do you think you’re doing? This is a league game! We’re in the running for the championship! What kind of crap was that?!?” He had some seriously foul breath, and I was really glad the whole garlic thing was an urban legend. If it had been real, his breath could have put me down for the count.

I flashed my badge. “Mr. Arthur we have a few questions to ask you about some missing children. Is there somewhere we could talk?” The whole trick to flashing a fake badge is to make it a real flash. You have to open and close the wallet before anyone can get a good look at the contents. I’d actually practiced in front of a mirror when we first started detecting. If you think that’s embarassing, I won’t tell you the inside scoop on how I learned to draw from a shoulder holster.

“I don’t know anything about any missing kids. And I don’t feel like talking to you. If you want to talk to me, talk to my lawyer first. And he’ll tell you I don’t know anything about any missing kids and don’t feel like talking to you. Right, Mason?” He pointed over to a scrawny, balding man drinking beer from a plastic cup at a table near their lane. The man, who I assume was Arthur’s lawyer, nodded like his head was spring-loaded and started over to us. “Now get out of my face and let me finish my game.” He turned back to the ball return machine, but I grabbed his wrist and turned him back to face me.

“I asked nicely first, Mr. Arthur. If I have to ask again, it won’t be nicely.” I spoke very slowly and kept my voice low. I didn’t need his buddies seeing me threaten him and deciding to start something. That wouldn’t end well for anyone, especially them. Arthur looked into my eyes and I put just enough mojo in them to show him I was not screwing around. “Now bowl this ball and then come meet us at that table.” I gestured to where Greg had settled in at a round plastic table with a pitcher of cheap beer and four plastic cups. “Bring your lawyer if you need to.” I let go of his wrist and went over to the table with Greg.

The guy Arthur had referred to as “Mason” beat his client over to our table and began a list of officious demands that I could tell had Greg re-thinking his stance against drinking from annoying humans. Me, I find pretty much everyone annoying, so I just drink from whoever I want to. I figure I still only drink from annoying people; it’s just that my list of annoying people is about six billion names longer than Greg’s. Mason had just gotten a good head of steam under him when I leaned forward, looked straight into his eyes and said, “Go to the men’s room. Sit in a stall. Fall asleep for two hours. Then go do that thing you’ve always wanted to do but have been afraid would be too embarrassing.” Mason got up with a decidedly glassy look in his eyes and headed for the crapper.

I leaned back in my chair. “Well, that’s one nuisance taken care of.”

“You’re evil. What do you think he’ll go do?” Greg asked.

“I figure either some sheep somewhere will wake up with a new boyfriend or our nebbishy friend there will be the newest attraction at The Runway before the sun comes up.” The Runway was a gay strip club out by the airport. Don’t ask how I know that. Let’s just say that some things can never be unseen, and there are some cases that don’t pay enough, no matter how high the fee is.

Joe Arthur, the Tire King himself, joined us at our table after picking up the spare. “Where’s Mason?” He asked.

“He went to the can. Something about an upset stomach.” I replied. Greg snorted a little beer out of his nose and I kicked him under the table.

“Alright, you got me away from league night. Now what’s this about?” Arthur asked. Obviously a man used to being in charge of conversations. I decided to put an end to that as quickly as possible. I reached into the briefcase Greg had brought in from the car and brought out a stack of photographs. Smiling faces began to litter the table in front of us, some of the pictures curling a little as they soaked up spilled beer on the table. I didn’t care. I wanted to watch Arthur’s face as he realized who these children were. Ten pictures – school pictures, family vacation shots, all pictures of happy kids, beaming into the camera.

“Do you know who these kids are, Mr. Arthur?” I leaned forward, forcing his attention away from the photos and to my eyes. He looked up and I could see that he was shaken. There was something going on with this guy, and I need to know what it was.

“These are the kids that have gone missing. But I don’t know anything about…” I cut him off before he could go any further.

“I know that, Mr. Arthur. You’re not a suspect in these disappearances. But you were at seven of these children’s schools just days before they went missing. You were there for Career Day, right?”

“Yeah, some of them. Some of those Career Day things I sent Jake to.”

“Jake?” Greg leaned forward, suddenly very interested. I was, too. We hadn’t heard anything about a Jake before now. “Who’s Jake?”

“Jake’s the manager of my Pineville store. I sent him to the schools on the south side of town, cause they’re closer for him to drive. But what’s this got to do with me? I don’t know anything about any of this stuff.” But he did, I could see it in his eyes, and more importantly, I could smell it. Like I said before, we can’t smell a lie, not exactly. But we can smell the little sweat that comes with fear, and after a while you figure out what different kinds of fear smell like. For example, oh-crap-I’m-about-to-get-eaten-by-a-vampire fear smells completely different than yeah-I-really-raised-a-super-demon-and-I’m-lying-out-my-butt-about-it fear. This was somewhere between I-cheated-on-my-taxes fear and I’ve-got-corpses-buried-under-my-tomato-plants fear, and I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. But of course that’s exactly when my whole night went right to crap.

I sensed a disturbance in the force just as I heard Greg whisper “Oh, crap.” Alright, I didn’t sense a disturbance in the force. But I did hear a silence fall over the bowling alley and a smell a wave of fear rippling out from the main entrance. I looked over at the front door and saw the female detective from the night before talking to the shoe rental guy. He pointed over to where we were sitting with the tire king, and she started our way.

“Wow. Looks like an evening of coitus interruptus for Mrs. Tire King.” I muttered.

“Huh?” Arthur asked.

“Your wife’s screwing around on you. A lot.” I said. As his eyes got big and his forehead turned that interesting splotchy purple color I looked in his eyes and said, “Sleep.” He passed out cold and fell face-first onto the table, crushing his plastic cup full of Miller with his forehead. I turned him to the side to make sure he wouldn’t drown in cheap domestic beer, and tried to formulate a plan.

“What are we gonna do?” Greg asked.

“I was really hoping you’d have a plan.” I replied, my mind working as fast as it could, which really isn’t that fast, all things considered.

“I never have a plan. At least, not one you like.” He had a point there. Greg’s plans usually involved some expensive piece of equipment that only existed in comic books, or so many plot twists that by the time he finished explaining the plan, I’d already punched somebody.

“Well, there’s a first time for everything. But obviously tonight ain’t it.” I stood up as the detective got to our table. It was the same detective I’d seen at the hospital, and the look on her face dispelled any lingering hope that she hadn’t seen me looking out Tommy’s hospital room window. She was tall, with her curly hair pulled back in a severe ponytail. She probably had a killer body underneath the blazer she was wearing, but my attention stopped at her Sig Sauer .40 pistol in a shoulder rig. I’ll admit it; I have a bit of a thing for women who pack heavier ammo than me. She snapped her fingers in front of my face and brought me straight out of my happy place and back to the beer-soaked reality of the bowling alley.

“This would be an excellent time for you to explain to me who you are why you keep showing up around my investigation.” She said. The look on her face said she was a woman who brooked no BS, but I gave it my best shot anyway.

“I’m sorry,” I said, holding out my hand and dropping into the hick accent I grew up with. “I think you must have me mistaken for somebody else. I’m Jimmy Black, assistant manager at the Monroe location of Joe’s World of Tires. Can I help you with something?” I put a little sleazy twist on the something and ogled her chest, trying to make myself look like a slimy tire salesman. And there was a lot to be said for ogling her chest, anyway.

“Really?” She said, and raised one eyebrow like she knew something I didn’t. Then she went on to prove it. “There is no Monroe location of Joe’s World of Tires, and you’re no more a tire salesman than I am a private investigator. So why don’t you cut the crap, Mr. Black and tell me what you and your little friend here are doing screwing up my investigation before I haul you both downtown and book you on obstruction of justice charges.”

I knew going legit and getting P.I. licenses would come back to bite me in the ass. And the irony of that concept is not lost on me. Having failed with Plan A, I jumped straight over the as-yet-undeveloped Plan B and went straight for the mojo. I looked her in the eyes (surprisingly easy since she was almost my height) and said, “These are not the droids you’re looking for. Move along.”

“What are you babbling about? Are you on drugs?” I looked over at Greg, who was as flabbergasted as I was.

“Huh?”

“You are on drugs. Great, just great. Not only do I have a P.I. sticking his nose in my case, I have a stoner P.I. sticking his nose in my case. Get up, you two are coming with me.”

I looked at her again, and really tried to focus my will on hers. “No, we’re not. You will leave here and forget you ever saw us. You came in, Joe Arthur was passed out drunk, he has nothing to do with these disappearances and you left. That is all.”

She looked back at me just as hard and said “You are a pain in my butt, and you are going to jail for interfering with my investigation.”

Since my vampire willpower wasn’t working, Greg stepped in for the save. “Sorry to disappoint, but we’re not going anywhere with you. I’m sorry we’ve run into this misunderstanding, but it’s just not going to happen. Now why don’t you get in your car, go back to the station, and forget you ever ran into us this evening.” Greg tried his best mojo on her with equally disappointing results. I’d never ran into anyone who could get past both of us before, but this chick evidently had a will of cast iron.

She reached around to her belt and grabbed a radio, clicking it on as she brought it to her lips. “This is Detective Law, I need a wagon at Lucky Strikes for two passengers.” She put the radio back on her belt and looked at us. “You two are going to spend the night in a holding cell while I figure out exactly what I’m going to charge you with. Unless you have a really good story and start sharing it with me right now.”

Greg and I looked at each other helplessly. This was so far outside the norm as to be really confusing. We’d been bespelling humans for fun and foodstuffs for the better part of two decades and nothing like this had ever happened before. We shared a look that said “you wanna hit her or you want me to?” and I had just decided to deck the pretty detective in front of about seventy witnesses when her radio crackled to life.

“Law.” She answered. She listened to the voice on the other end, which of course Greg and I could hear as well thanks to our super-duper hearing, so we had the benefit of both sides of the conversation.

The disembodied voice said “Detective, we have another abduction. Marjorie Ryan was last seen leaving a school dance with three of her friends forty-five minutes ago. Her friends all arrived home, but Marjorie did not. We’ve established a perimeter between the school and the home, and we have a chopper in the air. What’s your twenty?”

“Lucky Strikes bowling alley. I was just about to question a potential suspect. Obviously he’s not our guy, I’m on my way, should be there in fifteen.”

“Do you need a hand?” I asked.

“No. As a matter of fact, you two are still under arrest. No way do I need you mucking around my crime scene and getting in my way. So gimme your right hands.” She reached behind her and grabbed a pair of handcuffs. Greg and I looked at each other and I shook my head.

“No way, Detective. You don’t have enough to charge us with anything, and you’re not going to handcuff us and leave us here.” I thought if mojo wasn’t working then maybe I could appeal to her sense of reason. “Look, my partner and I have a lot of experience in unusual cases. We could probably be helpful if you’d just let us.”

“Okay, maybe you would be useful.” She seemed to relent, and reached out to shake my hand. Without thinking, I took her hand, and just like in a thousand bad cop movies, she slapped a cuff on it. The she reached over to the swivel chair mounted to the scoring station and locked the other cuff around it. “Now stay put. You, give me your keys.” She said to Greg. He reached in his pocket and handed her the keys to the Pontiac.

“I’m gonna get those back, right?” He asked, looking like a whipped puppy.

“Sure. You can pick them up at the station downtown tomorrow morning. I’ll be sure to have them there by nine.” With that, she turned and headed for the door. I sat down with my arm twisted uncomfortably behind me and looked over at Greg, who took the other seat.

“This would be a very good time to tell my you have a spare set of car keys.” I said, glaring at him.

“Under the back bumper, bro. No worries.”

“Okay, then I won’t have to strangle you in your sleep.”

“I don’t breathe, it wouldn’t do you any good.”

“It would make me feel better.”

“Yeah, I can see where you might be a little disgusted with yourself for falling for the old handshake/handcuff switcheroo.” He looked unbearably smug sitting there. I hate it when he’s got the right answers for things, it messes with the natural order of the universe. “So, how you planning on getting out of there?”