Riptide (Sam McRae Mystery #3)

Chapter 28

The Pirate's Den was a ramshackle building with weathered driftwood boards stacked into makeshift walls. I parked the scooter in the lot and climbed the wooden ramp to the entrance. A pirate's skull-and-crossbones sign welcomed me. Cute.

I pulled open the door and stared into a void. The bar was so dimly lit, I had to step inside and let my eyes adjust before I could see a thing. It took a while. Eventually I made out a bar running along the back wall, old-fashioned lanterns hung on wrought iron posts, wooden beams, starfish, shells and other beachy doodads hanging from the fishnet on the walls. A few customers emerged from the dark.

Now what? Should I shout, "Ahoy?" Blow a foghorn?

I chose to move toward the bar, where a tall steroid addict was wiping the counter.

"Excuse me, sir," I said, drawing him aside to speak out of earshot of the local drunks. "I wonder if you could help me."

Goliath glanced my way. "What'll it be, lady?"

"I'll have a ginger ale. Has Dwayne Sutterman been in today?"

He stopped wiping. He turned and gazed down at me. "Who wants to know?"

I pulled the fifty-dollar bill from my wallet and waved it in his face. "Does it really matter?"

My eyes had fully adjusted to the gloom, so I could see him squinting, brow creased in apparent thought.

"So, can I have my ginger ale, please?" I asked.

"Lady, ginger ale only costs a couple of bucks."

"I know. But I tip well." I folded the note and tapped it on the bar. "If the service is good enough."

He tossed the rag aside, rattled some ice into a glass and hosed my drink into being. He produced a small napkin and placed it on the bar before setting the glass on it. He even gave me a straw.

"How's that?" he asked.

"Nice," I said. "But not worth fifty bucks."

He exhaled. He actually seemed to shrink a bit.

"Okay," he said. "You didn't hear this from me." He leaned closer. "Dwayne was in here earlier. Word is he's going down to the docks today. From the looks of it, he might be taking a long trip."

"Uh huh. And which dock?"

He gave me the name of a marina and a dock number. A place less than half a mile from the Pirate's Den.

"Thanks, man." I gave him the fifty. "Who says there's no such thing as good service, anymore?"

*****

By the time I reached the marina, it was almost 11:30. Most of the watermen were out, so it wasn't hard to spot Dwayne's boat, The Wet Dream.

If the boat was Dwayne's idea of a wet dream, I had to wonder. Given its small size and relative state of disrepair, I thought The Rusty Bucket would have been more appropriate.

I strolled down the pier toward The Wet Dream. Dwayne must have disappeared down the hatch or whatever it's called. I stood watch over the floating piece of shit. Surely, he wasn't expecting to get far in this thing, was he?

I don't know a damn thing about boats, but The Wet Dream was skuzzy, with slime growing like moss along the sides. Were those tiny shells clinging to the hull barnacles or what?

Dwayne popped out of the hatch, like a stripper from a cake. Surprise!

I took a moment to recover. "Hi, Dwayne."

He scowled. He was good at that. "How the hell did you get here?"

"On my scooter." Well, he asked.

"I mean, how did you know I was here?"

"I was told."

"Who told you?"

"Does it matter?"

"Yes."

"Can we skip the repartee? I'm not telling you." Dwayne continued to scowl. A world champion scowler, that guy.

"Where are you going?" I asked.

"Out to sea," he said. "Fishing. Crabbing. Whatever."

"Really? You're leaving a bit late, aren't you? Most fishermen go out early. I bet they're out there, reeling in their catches as we speak."

"I can leave whenever I want," Dwayne said. "I don't have to punch a clock. I don't have to account for my time."

"I don't know much about crabbing, but I don't see any equipment on this rattrap that even remotely resembles what you'd need to do any serious crabbing."

Dwayne crossed his arms. "What do you want?" he asked. His jaw worked hard enough to make my head hurt.

"What was your part in killing Curtis Little?"

Dwayne tossed his head back and laughed.

"Who killed Billy Ray?" I asked.

Dwayne shook with laughter. Apparently, I'd missed my calling as a stand-up comic.

"I know you're part of a larger scheme. Something involving drugs. When they arrest Karla Dixon, she may not know the details, but I'm sure she'll lead the cops to you. Do you really think you're going to escape in that dinky little boat?"

Dwayne stopped laughing, but he grinned at me and wiped his eyes.

"You have no idea," he said. "You don't know who you're dealing with. You're in way over your head."

"Who is Maria Benitez?"

His grin vanished. He went below and slammed the hatch.