A Bad Day for Romance (22 page)

“Of course I do, Stella. If I wanted to I could tell you the state of Wayne’s prostate and Lexie’s old Girl Scout troop crest, ’cause I’m just
that
good. Though I expect all you probably want to know is that them two don’t live together and, far as I can tell, haven’t since practically six months after they were married. I got leases, Visa statements, phone records… all of which you probably won’t even need when I show you
this
.”

She tapped away on her phone and held it up. Stella had to squint—but there was no mistaking the big, muscular, bearded man posing in front of a shop whose awning read “Wayne’s World Gun and Bow Outpost.” In the shop window was a headless mannequin making a hook ’em horns sign with one plastic hand—while the other clutched a bow nearly as tall as its clavicle.

Wayne, assuming that was the man in the photo, was dressed in a leather vest with several heavy chains looped through the pocket. He aped the mannequin’s pose with an SSK .950 that Stella happened to know was the biggest centerfire rifle on the market.

“I don’t suppose you’re showing this because the man has mighty expensive taste in sidearms,” Stella mused.

“Hey, what you do at this point is up to you, I suppose. I think I’ve kept Ian waiting long enough, ’specially since I didn’t untie him all the way when I left. Here, gimme your phone.”

“What for?”

Chrissy didn’t wait, but dug into Stella’s purse herself and tapped it a couple times.

“There, I got the address queued up and ready. Guess what? Wayne’s World is in Paxton, only about thirty minutes if you hit the gas a bit.”

“Wayne… Lexie’s husband… who might not have been real happy she was seeing Bryant?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, Stella, come on, time’s a wasting. Get out there and get a confession out of him. What I’d do, I’d go straight to the hard stuff because you got to get back here in time for dinner. Kam’s relatives are putting on a party for everyone who’s staying around—Mrs. Rangarajan’s having Indian food brought in all the way from Kansas City.”

“Oh, I’ll be back long before that,” Stella said, taking back her phone.

After all, she had to be back before Goat had a chance to suspect she’d done exactly what she’d promised not to.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

WAYNE’S WORLD TURNED OUT TO BE
located between a doughnut shop and a vacuum repair business that appeared to do sewing machines on the side. Stella was torn between checking out her competition and getting a little something to eat, since she hadn’t had a chance to get anything before hitting the road, and she and Goat had probably expended about eight thousand calories each the evening before.

The doughnut won out, but Stella called the shop while she made her way through a couple of iced crullers.

“Stella’s shop,” Jelloman’s booming, gruff voice barked.

“What happened to ‘Hardesty Sewing Machine Sales and Repair, how may I help you?’ ”

“Stella!” Jelloman hollered. “Aw, man, am I glad you called. What the fuck is stiffening, and where do you keep it?”

“Who wants to know?”

“Nadine Schleusner. I got her over by the button rack, but she’s getting a little restless. Man, these ladies of yours, they drive a hard bargain.”

“Oh no,” Stella said. “Nadine try to haggle with you?”

“She says you and she got an understanding,” Jelloman said defensively. “She says you always give her twenty percent off.”

“The only
understanding
we have is she can take her cheap ass over to Jo-Ann in Coffey if she don’t like the price,” Stella said. “Put ’er on.”

“Nah, I can handle it,” Jelloman said. “Everything good there? I hear they put off the wedding until Monday.”

“Yeah, that’s partly why I was calling,” Stella said. “Any chance I can talk you into covering one more day?”

“Sure, no problem. I got an old Harley Evolution engine I’m putting together for a guy, but he don’t need it until later in the week.”

“I owe you,” Stella said, relieved. “But listen, I got a sort of professional question for you.”

“I just got some real nice Big Buddha in,” her friend said in a much quieter voice. “Medical grade. Do wonders for BJ’s back.”

“Thanks, but no thanks,” Stella said hastily, though she wouldn’t be surprised if a little pot would make BJ feel a lot better. “What I wanted to know is, you ever run across a guy named Wayne Griffin?”

“Can’t say as I have—how come?”

“Well, he, uh, looks like he might run with the bike crowd. Big guy, beard, tats, leather…”

“
Stella
,” Jelloman said. “That’s
profiling
. Bike culture ain’t about what you wear. It’s who you
are
.”

“Okay, you’re right,” Stella said, backpedaling fast despite the fact that most of Jelloman’s biker friends looked like they could be his shorter, less intimidating cousins and dressed about exactly the way he did. “Thanks again for watching the shop and everything.”

“It’s nothing. You’d do the same for me. Love you.”

“Love you, too,” Stella said as she hung up, thinking that if the day ever came, she might be even more out of place dealing weed out of Jelloman’s front parlor than he was selling notions from her shop. But that sort of detail didn’t matter when your friends needed you.

“Okay,” she told herself, when she’d finished licking the icing off her fingers and drained her coffee. She tossed the cup into the trash and went back to the Jeep, where she sorted through the tubs in the back for a few objects, which she slipped into her purse. Then she thought for a moment, weighing her usual practice of using only as much firepower as necessary against her tight schedule.

Stella had a double-edged policy that involved always being overarmed for any given situation, and walking away having used less than was called for, a skill she’d honed over the years. When she’d first started out, she’d relied mostly on threatening her parolees with guns; the threat of being shot seemed to be the only way to get the attention of the men whose bad behavior had caused their victims to hire Stella in the first place. Now, she was able to achieve even better results with judicious application of specialized tools and rare martial-arts moves designed to deliver maximum pain with a minimum of evidence.

“Oh, hell,” she muttered. Just this once, she could sacrifice style and flair and just get the job done quickly, and make it back in time to perhaps enjoy a leisurely hour or two in the sack with Goat before they had to dress for dinner.

She unlocked the steel box bolted to the floor of the jeep and chose the Ruger. It felt heavy in her purse, especially after she dumped the contents of her public-interrogation kit in, too. These were the tools she employed in a situation where a gentleman had to be kept quiet and calm—for instance, in the back room of a public place of commerce.

She patted her hair in place and fixed a pleasant smile on her face before entering the shop. A little bell affixed to the door tinkled, and the man from the photo looked up from a powerful-looking crossbow he was showing to a customer.

“Nice morning, ain’t it?” he said in a deep and pleasant baritone. He had an engaging smile that lit up the shop, which was nicely merchandized, the cases and racks of weapons and accessories set off with artificial plants and beautifully lettered signage. “I’ll be with you right quick.”

Stella browsed while Wayne showed his customer—a twitchy skinny lad with pale hair sheared close—the various features on the bow. “Pick it up,” he suggested. “See how it sets with you.”

The young man tried it out, aiming the unloaded bow at the front window.

“Whoa there, my friend, not like that,” Wayne said, adjusting his customer’s grip so the bow was resting on the heel of his hand. “Try it like that and you’re liable to shear off the tips of your thumb and fingers.”

“I knew that,” the boy mumbled. “I was just getting it set right.”

“Course the biggest injury is when folks leave the rope cocker around their neck,” Wayne continued as if the boy hadn’t spoken. “Saw a guy take his own head off.”

The young man set the crossbow down on the counter with a clunk. “You’re shitting me.”

“No, I’m afraid I’m not. Folks loop it around their neck after they cock the bow and forget about it, which is fine, unless they accidently catch it in the draw. And then…” He made a slashing motion across his throat—and a very convincing wet gagging sound. “Leaves a hell of a mess.”

“Uh, okay, thanks,” the boy said, backing away from the counter. “I’m just going to think about it for now.”

“You do that,” Wayne said gravely. “Thanks for coming in. Say hi to your dad.”

He waited until the door shut behind the young man before chuckling.

“Am I mistaken, or did you just sabotage your own sale?” Stella asked.

“Aw, he’s a nice kid, he just ain’t ready for this piece yet,” Wayne said, setting the bow carefully back on the display rack. “Now, what can I do for you?”

Stella launched into her cover. “I’d like to buy a gift for my boyfriend,” she said. Rule number one of extorting information from folks was to keep their suspicions unraised as long as possible, which meant making yourself unremarkable. So, for this outing, Stella intended to play the part of the nice middle-aged lady she appeared to be on the outside. “For our anniversary. He’s been wanting some new arrows. He’s got a…” She dug around in her purse and pulled out a crumpled receipt from Wendy’s and pretended to examine it. “Diamond Core compound bow? Does that make sense? I wrote it down. Anyway I guess his old arrows are just worn to nothing and he wants these new ones.” She peered at the paper again, batting her eyelashes, and exhausted the last of her bow hunting knowledge. “Carbon Express?”

Wayne Donald Griffin chuckled good-naturedly. “I think I know just what your boyfriend needs,” he said, going down the glass display case to the end that held an impressive variety of arrows and bolts. He dug his keys out of his pocket and bent down to open the locker—and Stella launched herself around the counter with the speed she’d practiced on a thousand sprints around the track at Prosper High on weekends. She’d already grabbed the grip of the Ruger when she pretended to put her shopping list away, and now she had it poked into the sweet spot in the hollow under Wayne’s ear, and was crouched down with him, out of sight of any potential customers, before he’d got the key fitted to the lock.

“Not one sound,” Stella said quickly, giving the gun a little jog for emphasis. Wayne immediately dropped the keys and put his hands up against the glass where she could see them. To his credit, his moves were smooth and calm.

Stella was pleased to be dealing with a fellow professional. Amateurs were messy; men who understood the potential for damage a gun could do were far more likely to treat them with respect. The odds of Wayne doing something stupid like trying to disarm her were very low, particularly because Stella had him in a position where such an attempt could only end in his brains decorating the floor and case and cash register.

That is, if she was willing to shoot him, which of course she wasn’t, but she was counting on Wayne to give her the benefit of the doubt. Just to add a little credibility, she fast-talked him through the scenario she thought he was most likely to buy into.

“You and I are headed into the back room, where we’ll make you comfortable. You’re going to give me your keys. We’ll turn the Closed sign around and get you settled, and then I’ll let my partner in. You’re taking a long lunch today, my friend.”

“I ain’t got but a few hundred in the register,” Wayne sighed.

“It’s not your cash we’re after, as you know very well,” Stella said. “You got a mighty nice inventory here, and my friends over in St. Louis are going to be pleased to give us top dollar for it once we get those pesky serial numbers filed off.”

Wayne just nodded, though he managed to look aggrieved enough that for a moment Stella felt guilty until she remembered she wasn’t actually helping herself to anything she hadn’t paid for. “Upsy-daisy now, nice and slow,” Stella said, in the coaxing voice she reserved for Chrissy’s son, Tucker, who was currently in a stage where his fascination with his mother’s vacuum cleaner often required Stella to lie on the floor with him so she could peer properly into its underside—an exercise that had done its part to strengthen her knees, something she appreciated as she and Wayne slowly stood up together, his hands never leaving the merchandise case. Several years ago, when Stella had been carrying an extra thirty pounds and hadn’t bothered to strengthen any muscles except the worrying and fretting and self-pitying sort, she wouldn’t have been able to pull off such a move without an entire symphony of popping and crackling.

“The door,” Stella prodded gently. She walked right behind Wayne, gun pressed lightly into the base of his spine, and to his credit Wayne neither sweated nor trembled as he locked the door and turned the sign and put down the blinds.

“Thisaway,” he said, holding his hands up without being asked as he led her through the open door into his office.

Stella took a look around. It was as neat and organized as the rest of the shop, a genuinely inviting man cave that made up for its lack of a window with the warm glow of a banker’s lamp. A nice big monitor took pride of place on his desk, and shelves of books and trophies shared wall space with file cabinets and stacked boxes of merchandise.

“Chair’ll do,” she said, quickly assessing its potential for what she needed. “Get comfy, but keep those hands up a minute more.”

She dug in her purse for a pair of restraints. As she bound his wrists, she took care not to pinch or abrade his skin, a professional courtesy she did not afford most of her parolees. Binding a fellow, if you did it properly, could deliver all kinds of promises of the pain to come; it was often as effective as the flogging or clamping or singeing that followed in convincing gents that they had gone down a very wrong path the last time they raised a hand to their women. But Wayne had not yet proven himself guilty, so Stella held off on the hurting.

When she was done, Stella pulled up the spare chair and laid out the rest of her tools in a neat row on the desk. There was a padded steel clamp with adjustable wing nuts, a pair of smaller clamps on a chain, a studded leather paddle, and a rubber filament flogger. She couldn’t help noticing that Wayne wore a very nice cologne; his hair had an enviable gloss and was well cut. Overall, Wayne was a very nicely groomed and put-together man; it wouldn’t do to make such comparisons, but Stella had to guess that he had Bryant beat in just about every department you could judge in a short acquaintance. Wayne’s expression was more incredulous than afraid, which might make the process a little tougher, but Stella had no doubt that once she got rolling he’d soon come around.