Chapter 23
Spike sat at the bar, hunched over in thought, an empty shot glass in front of him. His hand was characteristically wrapped around a half full bottle of beer. Spike was a big man and didn't look very friendly, thus the stools on either side of him were vacant. The lights of the room were dim, only the back light behind the rows of bottles in front of a mirror were sparkling and cheery, showing off the multitude of inebriating choices. The place smelled of decades of spilled drinks, a bar washed too many times with soda, and a slight scent of vomit. On the jukebox someone sang a country song about being left drunk on the curb by someone who didn't love him. Spike loved this kind of bar. He blended well.
Club One was an old bar at the end of First Street in San Jose. A small window at the front of the building contained a neon sign with the simple glowing word 'Bar' buzzing behind the glass like a trapped fly. It was the only hint that life existed inside.
Spike was staying in a nice hotel closer in to the city, but he didn't want to drink there. The bars down town were filled with snooty business people like that bitch, Susan Jenkins.
Spike glanced around. These people, though - these were real people. Hard drinking, hard fighting, meat and potato people, hands thick with callouses. Working people.
The front door swung open. Spike watched in admiration as a woman of about 40 with bright red hair, a short, very tight skirt and breast implants bursting over the top of a partially exposed push up bra in a too tight blouse, sashayed into the room with an exaggerated swing to her hips. The dim light favored her, cloaking lines from too many drinks and long sleepless nights that were claiming her beauty.
Now, there's a real woman, Spike thought.
“Hey, sweetheart!” Spike called to her. “Come on over here and sit down. Let me buy you a beer.”
Her face lit up as she walked over and stood by the stool, sizing Spike up.
“Well, aren't you the hunk of man.” she said admiringly. “Buy me a shot with that beer and you've got a date.”
Just then Spike's cell phone rang. “Yeah.” he mumbled into the receiver.
“It looks like we got him. The girl is open for the taking.”
“How did you find them?” Spike asked.
“He made contact and asked for a hand-off meeting for some stuff he needed. He got a bomb instead.” the voice responded.
“Man, you're good. How'd you do that?”
“What do you mean, how did I do that? How the hell do you think I did it? I had all communications filtered through my desk.
“This all happened early this morning. I've been trying to call you since noon.”
“I've been busy.” Spike responded shortly. He didn't want to say what really happened - that he had gotten royally drunk the night before and had slept most of the day, just turning his phone on when he had walked into the bar to drown his hangover.
“The girl was at the Cliff Hotel in Santa Cruz.” the voice said. “She is probably gone by now, but check it out anyway. See if you can get a lead on her if she isn't there. If she is there, you know what to do. How long will it take you to get there?”
“From here – I'd say a half hour, maybe a little more.”
“Well, get going. Find her and get the stick. Don't leave any witnesses.”
Spike slammed the phone shut and stood up, quickly emptying the bottle in front of him.
“Where you going, big boy?” the redhead asked as he rose.
“Gotta go. Work calls.”
“What about my shot and beer?” she said, pouting.
“I'll be back, and my bet is that you'll be here.” he said as he turned and walked out the door.
Spike entered the luxurious lobby of the Cliff Hotel with purpose, walked up to the man behind the counter and flashed him a good facsimile of an FBI identification, allowing the man to see the distinguishing letters across the face of the card before returning it to his pocket.
“I'm looking for a couple who has been staying here. I need to know what room that they're in.”
“And they're names, sir?” the man asked cheerfully.
“Susan Jenkins or Brad Wilson.”
“The man scrolled down a computer screen. “Sorry. No one by those names.”
“I'm not surprised.” Spike said. “Okay, she's about 5'8”, good looking chick with auburn hair and green eyes. Nice bod. He's over six feet, beard, longish hair and skinny.”
The man stared at the ceiling in thought before responding. “Well, agent, the closest we have to that would be a blond lady who matches that description, other than the hair. She was with a rather handsome man, whom I wouldn't call skinny, but rather athletic and sinewy looking.”
“Sinewy, huh” Spike said in near disgust. “Men don't use those kind of terms.”
The clerk drew his head back in surprise. “I beg your pardon, sir. You asked me a question and I answered it in a manner I considered appropriate.”
“Yeah. Well, can you tell me anything about them?”
“They were very quiet people, and courteous.” he paused, delicately touching the side of his mouth with his index finger in thought. “Oh! Yes. The had a service dog with them. The man walked with a slight limp.”
“A dog?” Spike said in surprise. There was no mention of a dog in the information he had been given. Maybe it wasn't significant. Maybe it wasn't them, but no point in taking chances.
“Are they still here?” Spike asked.
“No, sir. They were gone when the maid went into their room this morning.”
“Okay. Give me the key to the room. I have to check it out. Official business.” The clerk looked at Spike suspiciously. “Come on.” Spike said impatiently, the fingers from his extended hand pulling through the air in a 'give me' gesture. The clerk reluctantly handed him the swipe card.
“Don't trash it.” the clerk said to Spike's back as he walked towards the elevator. Spike ignored him.
Spike entered the room with his jacket pulled back, his hand on the grip of the holstered pistol on his hip. Spike was not a man to take chances. It's what had kept him alive all these years and made all of his adversaries and contracts, dead.
With his hand still on the butt of the semi-automatic, he checked the closet, bathroom and kitchenette before relaxing his stance.
First he studied the rug, walking slowly across it, bending down and looking closely. Near the door he found a couple of short black hairs. He picked them up and inspected them. Dog hair, he thought. It must be one those – what the hell are those? Water dogs. They like water. Fucking ducks that bark. Retriever!! That's it. A Golden – no, wrong color – a Black Retriever. Damned hippie brought his dog – probably killed too when the bomb went off.
Spike tossed the hairs aside and tore the bedding from the bed, then flipped the mattress and box springs. He pulled all the drawers out, inspected them carefully and left them open. The bathroom was spotless to the point of being forensic clean. He turned back to the bedroom and pulled a cushion from an easy chair. He scraped his finger along the inside edge of the chair, pulling out a 9 mm bullet.
Spike frowned. This is her, alright, and she's armed. I'll have to be careful when I find her. I'm not suppose to kill her until I get the stick. I'll have to aim careful if I have to shoot her first.”
Spike exited the hotel and stood under the columned canopy at it's main entrance, looking up and down the street, as if her scent was still there and he might smell it, or he could get a ghostly image of the night before, watching her walking either up or down the street, following the image until it ended at the real person. He envisioned putting his hands around her throat and squeezing until she passed out. He thought of taking her deep into the woods of Santa Cruz and how he would convince her to tell him where the stick is. Spike took a deep breath of salt air and smiled for the first time that day.
He crossed the street to the Austin-Healey, unconcerned. She was an amateur. She would make a mistake, and when she did, he would be ready for her.
All content - poems, posts & images - are ©2010 by John Evans. No permission is given to post, share, copy, print, e-mail, reproduce, distribute or link to. All Rights Reserved. Please contact John Evans at JohnEvansPoet.Com for licensing inquiries.
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