Dead in the Rose City: A Dean Drake Mystery (17 page)

He snarled at me. “What? Man, are you crazy
or something?”

“No, I’m not crazy,” I retorted. “I’m mad as
hell that a scumbag like you chose to rob a woman—especially
that
woman.”

“What’s it to you?” he asked defiantly and
perhaps a little curiously. “She your old lady or something?”

“Or something,” I told him with a creased
brow.

He grinned crookedly, scratching his head
through short, choppy black hair. “You can have the purse, man,” he
offered. “All I want is the money she got.”

“No deal,” I told him, hardly in the mood to
negotiate on his terms. “Hand over the purse with the money,
dickhead, and you can walk away on your own two feet.”

Under the circumstances, it seemed like a
pretty good deal to me. Of course, he saw it differently. He
whipped out a switchblade, releasing the blade and holding it out
in front of him like it was a magic wand.

“Can’t do that, man,” he said with a false
sense of security. He began swinging the knife at me like he fully
intended to rip me to shreds.

I sucked in a breath as I dodged the sweeping
blade. “I hope you know how to use that, asshole,” I baited him.
“Otherwise I’m gonna make you eat it—”

He grinned confidently, and began an all-out
assault to make contact with my flesh. I caught his eye hone in on
the cast that was still on my arm just above the elbow. It seemed
to inspire him into believing that he was dealing with a one-armed
man.

His mistake
.

I caught his arm during one futile swing,
twisted it like a pretzel, and forced him to release the knife.
Then I smashed the cast into his face, followed by a knee to the
groin. He went down and I was on him like mold on bread.

“Here—” he said, thrusting the purse up at my
face.

I took it. “You’re lucky I’m no longer a
cop,” I barked gruffly. “Otherwise, you’d be on your way to jail,
then prison for assault and robbery. Take my word for it, a little
punk asshole like you wouldn’t stand a chance in the joint.”

I resisted the desire to punch his lights
out. I was more interested in making sure Vanessa King got back
what was hers. I pulled him up, and bellowed: “Now get your ass out
of here, before I do something we’ll both regret.”

He took about two seconds to think about it,
and then ran off like his pants were on fire. He never looked
back.

Vanessa King was still waiting by her car, a
blue Subaru Legacy, when I returned to the parking lot with her
purse. She had corralled my cart and was keeping an eye on my
groceries.

I noted she was dressed in jeans, a
form-fitting blouse, and sandals. Her hair was in a short ponytail.
She wore no makeup, but didn’t need it. Her natural complexion had
a radiance all its own.

I handed her the purse. “Everything’s there,”
I assured her.

She flashed me a grateful look. “It’s D.J.,
right?”

The fact that she remembered my name said
something. I smiled, nodding. “At your service, Vanessa.”

She blushed. “Do you always come to the
rescue of damsels in distress?”

“Not always,” I admitted. “But don’t hold
that against me.”

“I’ll try not to.” She looked at the cast.
“How’s the arm?”

I flexed it. “Getting better all the
time.”

Vanessa flashed me a dazzling smile. “Thanks
for your heroics, D.J.”

“Any time,” I promised.

I gazed down into her eyes and she gazed up
at mine. For an instant, there seemed to be a definite two-way
spark.

“Well...” she cleared her throat, “you’d
better get home before your groceries wither.”

“You’re right,” I said reluctantly.

“Thanks again,” she said.

I was about to walk away when a new feeling
of confidence—at least as far as she was concerned—enveloped me
like a warm blanket. “Vanessa, how about letting me make you dinner
tonight?”

She hedged, as if obstacles were standing in
her way, and I added hopefully: “I’m a great cook! And”—I glanced
at my loaded cart—“at least you’ll know the food is fresh.”

A tiny smile played on her lips. “Sounds
tempting...” This was followed by a look of regret. “Unfortunately,
I already have a prior engagement tonight.”

My heart sank into the pit of my stomach and
the enthusiasm was fading fast.

Then Vanessa said: “How about tomorrow night?
The food should still be fresh.”

“You’re on,” I said, my wide smile betraying
my renewed optimism.

We set up a time; I gave her my apartment
number, then watched as she drove off. As far as I was concerned,
tomorrow night couldn’t come soon enough!

* * *

Unfortunately, Vanessa King wasn’t the only
person I had on my mind. The woman who pretended to be Catherine
Sinclair—the one person on earth who could clear me of the real
Catherine Ashley Sinclair’s murder—was still nowhere to be found.
And she seemed in no hurry to come out of hiding.

Then there was Jessie Wylson. There was the
very real possibility that someone had decided to do away with him
and save the taxpayers the cost of prosecution. In the process, I
was nearly blown to bits. Someone owed me a debt and I wouldn’t
rest until I saw it was paid in full.

After eating dinner alone, I made a return
engagement to Nightmares. I fully expected the worst, but hoped it
didn’t come to that.

The joint was in high gear on this night with
patrons spilling out the door, along with funky R & B music. I
doubted Jessie Wylson was around, assuming he hadn’t been taken
out. He had become too hot even for a place like Nightmares.

At the bar, the less than cooperative
bartender from my last visit was the first to speak to me directly.
“You back?” He leered. “What you want, man?”

“A beer would be nice,” I said, climbing onto
a stool. “Or is my money not good enough here?”

He looked at me with the type of distrust
normally associated with a traitor. Surprisingly, he chose not to
make a scene and filled a mug with beer.

“Thanks,” I said as he slid the drink in my
direction.

“Finish it and get out,” he ordered.

I took a load of foam and melted it in my
mouth. “I’m still looking for Jessie, man,” I said
straightforwardly.

“You won’t find him here,” he snorted.

It was obvious that the direct approach was
not working, so I decided to try something else. “Look, I’m just
trying to make an honest living like everyone else around
here.”

“Call it what you want,” he said tersely.
“The answer ain’t gonna change.”

I swept my eyes across the crowd for effect,
before landing back solidly on his face. “Truth is,” I lied,
“there’s a
ten grand
reward for information leading to The
Worm’s arrest. I’m not greedy. I’d be willing to give up, say,
twenty percent to anyone who could point me in the right
direction—”

For just an instant it looked as if I had
piqued his interest. Then he regarded me with that same distrust.
“Your blood money ain’t good in here,” he snarled. “I told you, I
don’t know the man—”

“Right,” I muttered. “You did.” I finished
off the brew. Setting my business card on the bar, I told him,
holding out hope: “Give me a call if you suddenly remember you know
Jessie Wylson. Two thousand dollars isn’t exactly chump change,
especially when you don’t have to work too hard to get it.”

I let that thought simmer with him as I
vacated the premises. This time I managed to get out of there
without having to kick ass. Or getting my own ass kicked.

Before I got too far, a mean looking dude
around my height, but outweighing me by about fifty pounds,
confronted me. He was minus one of his front teeth and had greasy
hair that was a hodgepodge of tiny braids mopped across his
brow.

He said in a gravelly, deep voice: “Heard
you’re offerin’ a two thousand dollar reward for The Worm.”

Word traveled fast. “That’s right.”

“I can tell you what you wanna know.”

His eyes never blinked.

Neither did mine.

“I’m listening—”

He put his hand out like he expected
something. “You got the money?”

I couldn’t help but crack a smile. “I don’t
make a habit of carrying two thousand dollars around with me, man.
You tell me where I can find Jessie Wylson and, if it checks out,
you’ll get your money.”

He stared at the thought as if to add up two
thousand greenbacks, then said: “I need somethin’ up front. You
know what I’m sayin’?”

I knew exactly what he was saying. I just
wasn’t sure I was buying what he was selling. But I knew I couldn’t
afford to be too choosy about whom to trust. Up to a point.

“How much?”

“All the money you got,” he said.

If I didn’t know better, I might have thought
this was an attempted robbery. Something about him made me go along
for the ride. I handed him one hundred hard-earned dollars. “You’d
better deliver,” I warned him, hoping I never had to back up the
threat.

He grinned at me with that missing tooth
standing out like a swollen thumb. “I heard that the cops wasted
Worm,” his gravelly voice said. He put the money in his leather
jacket.

Nate had already alluded to this possibility.
“Can you prove it?”

He jerked his braids. “You can’t prove The
Man did nothin’ he don’t want you to prove.” Another grin. “The
dude’s probably been chopped up into a million pieces by now, and
used as fertilizer in some redneck’s backyard—” He grinned at
me.

I had no idea if this man was simply a con
artist, an addict, or a person who had large ears. Either way, I
was willing to chalk up the hundred as a business expense. It
wasn’t worth the hassle of taking him on, not to mention his
support group who were well within shouting range.

I told him dryly: “If you ever find out for
sure where The Worm’s remains are scattered, the bartender knows
how to reach me for the rest of that reward money.”

That sly grin again. “Yeah, okay, man.”

I had a feeling this was the last I’d ever
hear from this braided crazy dude.

I drove back to my neck of the city,
wondering more and more if Jessie Wylson had sold his last drugs.
And if he had, who had administered the lethal dose to him? Other
dealers? Vincente? The cops?

It gave me something to think about.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

In the morning, I jogged and listened to some
Aretha Franklin tunes over some coffee, toast, and Cream of Wheat.
My date tonight with Vanessa King was already sending chills up and
down my spine. I wondered if she had that effect on other men or if
it was just me.

I went to Alfonzo’s hoping to find Ben
Vincente. He was seated at the familiar table with his bookends,
Clarence and Dirk. A buxom waitress happily led me to the trio.

“Vinny, he says he’s a friend of yours—”

Vincente tilted his head in my direction. So
did Clarence, who immediately stood up and went for his piece.

“I wouldn’t if I were you, asshole,” I told
him, making sure he saw my Glock.

Vincente motioned for Clarence to sit down.
He did so begrudgingly.

“Good boy,” I said smugly.

Vincente eyed me warily. “What can I do for
you, Drake?”

“Two things,” I said. “First, I want to know
who set me up.”

He sighed tiredly. “I don’t have a clue what
you’re talking about.”

I wasn’t in the mood for games this morning,
least of all from him or his brutes. Through clenched teeth, I
said: “Someone told me I could find The Worm at a trailer. Only he
wasn’t there. Instead, it was rigged to explode. Who tried to take
me out?”

The air had gotten increasingly tense. I
could imagine Clarence or Dirk getting trigger-happy. I watched
them like a hawk.

“It wasn’t me,” Vincente insisted.

My nostrils flared. “Was it Jessie
Wylson?”

“I don’t know, man,” he muttered hastily.
“We’ve been outta touch lately.”

I whipped out the Glock, placing the barrel
to Vincente’s temple. “You’re going to have to do a lot better than
that, Vinny, if you want to leave this restaurant with your head
still planted on your shoulders.”

He was beginning to sweat, and with good
reason. “Okay, okay,” he sputtered. “It was The Worm that set you
up. He knows you’re looking for him. I wouldn’t put it past him to
do whatever he could to stay alive.”

“So Jessie Wylson is alive?”

He gulped nervously. “Yeah, as far as I
know.”

“I heard The Worm was dead,” I said, pressing
the gun against his head. “If you know differently, Vinny, I
suggest you convince me. Fast.”

“I just spoke to him on the phone last
night,” Vincente said. “He wanted some money. I told him to kiss my
ass.”

“Why am I having trouble believing you?” The
barrel made a dent in his temple. “I thought you said he was your
cousin.”

“He owes me ten grand,” muttered Vincente in
a strained voice. “I wasn’t giving him any more money, cousin or
not.”

I jammed the gun harder into his head. “Where
is he, Vincente?”

His face was chalky white. “I don’t know,
man. That’s the truth! The Worm keeps moving around like there’s no
more tomorrow. He’s afraid of his own shadow and everything
else.”

“Are the cops after him?” I shot a venomous
look at Dirk and Clarence. Both glared back in hostile fashion, but
seemed content to sit back and watch this round.

Vincente paused before saying: “There are
rumors The Worm is on their hit list.”

“Why?”

He slouched. “Some cops are on the take. They
don’t want damaged goods to mess up their action.”

“What cops are we talking about?” I
demanded.

“I don’t have names. Too dangerous—”

I placed the barrel against his nostrils, and
said belligerently: “Believe me, Vincente, it can’t be any more
dangerous for you than it is at this exact moment. If you know
something you’re not telling me, I think you better speak up or
forever hold your pieces.”