Dead South (A Bryson Wilde Thriller / Read in Any Order) by R.J. Jagger Page A
Authors: R.J. Jagger
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shrugged.
“There are pieces missing, I’ll give you that. I’m going to call a man named Big Bob.”
“Big Bob?”
“He’s going to watch over you while I’m gone. I don’t want you more than ten feet from him at any time. Promise me.”
She ran a finger down his nose.
“Did you already suspect that?”
“Suspect what?”
“That I get noisy.”
He smiled.
“Actually, yes.”
“So you do think about it.”
“Big Bob,” he said. “Don’t leave his side and I mean it.”
He made a call.
Fifteen minutes later an undersized man in a loose suit and oversized Fedora opened the door and walked in, two inches shorter than Alabama, a hundred and ten pounds if he had rocks in his pockets.
A gun slung in a leather sheath near his ribs.
His eyes immediately fell to Alabama’s legs.
Then they came up.
“Bob, thanks for coming,” Wilde said.
Outside on Larimer a car screeched to a stop.
Three men got out.
One was Johnnie Fingers.
The other two were dressed the same.
Wilde grabbed the briefcase and Fedora in one fell swoop, gave Alabama a quick hard kiss on the lips as he ran for the door, and ducked out the back.
28
Day Seven
August 9, 1952
Friday Afternoon
Wilde didn’t get out of the city often enough. That little reality smacked him squarely between the eyes and punched into his brain as he maneuvered a topless Blondie farther and farther south into the untamed stretches of Colorado.
The scenery was a drug.
The sky ricocheted to infinity.
The sunshine massaged his face.
Jori-Rey sat next to him, her hair blowing, her sundress hiked up for the tan, her smile so incredibly easy, her every word a song, her every expression something to be memorized and stored away.
Wilde was hooked; no, not hooked, hooked hard and deep, way down in his soul where he hardly ever went.
He suspected it last night when he took her there on the couch as the storm rattled the windows and the lightning ripped the sky and every molecule in the universe fell into place.
Now, out here away from the clutter and the pressure and the buzz, it was even clearer.
She had the looks.
She had the body.
She had the depth.
She had the mystery.
“Wilde, are you okay?”
He snapped back.
“Yeah, sure, light me a cigarette, will you?”
She did, plus one for herself.
“I think I might be starting to figure out what’s going on,” he said.
Jori-Rey twisted her body in his direction.
“Go on.”
“We start with the basic premise that Rojo figures that I killed Sudden Dance,” he said. “Where he came up with that, I don’t know for sure but my gut tells me that my P. I. buddy, Nicholas Dent, has his fingerprints all over it.”
“How?”
Wilde took a deep drag.
“Maybe Dent did a background check on Sudden Dance and found out she was Rojo’s woman. Maybe he contacted Rojo and offered to give him information, for a price, of course.”
“So Dent ratted you out?”
“Right, but whether it was Dent or someone else, it really doesn’t matter,” Wilde said. “What matters is that Rojo came to the conclusion that I killed Sudden Dance. So, the first thing he does is send the boxer to Denver to kill me. When that didn’t work, he sent the two guys from last night. Now he’s tired of sending guys. Now he’s luring me down to where he is so that he can kill me with his own two hands and watch my eyes pop out of my head.”
“So all this is a ploy just to get you down to his lair—”
“Exactly. When we drop the briefcase off in El Paso with that lawyer Lester Trench, there will be men there waiting for me; maybe even Rojo himself.”
“Well then, you can’t drop the briefcase off.”
“We’ll see how to play it,” Wilde said. “I’m still trying to figure that part out.”
“We should just turn around.”
Wilde tapped ashes.
“This is the path to getting Maria back. You want her found, right?”
She put a hand on his knee.
“I do but not at this
“There are pieces missing, I’ll give you that. I’m going to call a man named Big Bob.”
“Big Bob?”
“He’s going to watch over you while I’m gone. I don’t want you more than ten feet from him at any time. Promise me.”
She ran a finger down his nose.
“Did you already suspect that?”
“Suspect what?”
“That I get noisy.”
He smiled.
“Actually, yes.”
“So you do think about it.”
“Big Bob,” he said. “Don’t leave his side and I mean it.”
He made a call.
Fifteen minutes later an undersized man in a loose suit and oversized Fedora opened the door and walked in, two inches shorter than Alabama, a hundred and ten pounds if he had rocks in his pockets.
A gun slung in a leather sheath near his ribs.
His eyes immediately fell to Alabama’s legs.
Then they came up.
“Bob, thanks for coming,” Wilde said.
Outside on Larimer a car screeched to a stop.
Three men got out.
One was Johnnie Fingers.
The other two were dressed the same.
Wilde grabbed the briefcase and Fedora in one fell swoop, gave Alabama a quick hard kiss on the lips as he ran for the door, and ducked out the back.
28
Day Seven
August 9, 1952
Friday Afternoon
Wilde didn’t get out of the city often enough. That little reality smacked him squarely between the eyes and punched into his brain as he maneuvered a topless Blondie farther and farther south into the untamed stretches of Colorado.
The scenery was a drug.
The sky ricocheted to infinity.
The sunshine massaged his face.
Jori-Rey sat next to him, her hair blowing, her sundress hiked up for the tan, her smile so incredibly easy, her every word a song, her every expression something to be memorized and stored away.
Wilde was hooked; no, not hooked, hooked hard and deep, way down in his soul where he hardly ever went.
He suspected it last night when he took her there on the couch as the storm rattled the windows and the lightning ripped the sky and every molecule in the universe fell into place.
Now, out here away from the clutter and the pressure and the buzz, it was even clearer.
She had the looks.
She had the body.
She had the depth.
She had the mystery.
“Wilde, are you okay?”
He snapped back.
“Yeah, sure, light me a cigarette, will you?”
She did, plus one for herself.
“I think I might be starting to figure out what’s going on,” he said.
Jori-Rey twisted her body in his direction.
“Go on.”
“We start with the basic premise that Rojo figures that I killed Sudden Dance,” he said. “Where he came up with that, I don’t know for sure but my gut tells me that my P. I. buddy, Nicholas Dent, has his fingerprints all over it.”
“How?”
Wilde took a deep drag.
“Maybe Dent did a background check on Sudden Dance and found out she was Rojo’s woman. Maybe he contacted Rojo and offered to give him information, for a price, of course.”
“So Dent ratted you out?”
“Right, but whether it was Dent or someone else, it really doesn’t matter,” Wilde said. “What matters is that Rojo came to the conclusion that I killed Sudden Dance. So, the first thing he does is send the boxer to Denver to kill me. When that didn’t work, he sent the two guys from last night. Now he’s tired of sending guys. Now he’s luring me down to where he is so that he can kill me with his own two hands and watch my eyes pop out of my head.”
“So all this is a ploy just to get you down to his lair—”
“Exactly. When we drop the briefcase off in El Paso with that lawyer Lester Trench, there will be men there waiting for me; maybe even Rojo himself.”
“Well then, you can’t drop the briefcase off.”
“We’ll see how to play it,” Wilde said. “I’m still trying to figure that part out.”
“We should just turn around.”
Wilde tapped ashes.
“This is the path to getting Maria back. You want her found, right?”
She put a hand on his knee.
“I do but not at this
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