tattooed in a row along the left side of his neck. Though they weren’t as repugnant as Mike’s Nazi tattoos, their placement on his neck irritated me to no end. At least Mike’s were coverable. Now I had to pretend I didn’t notice every time someone looked at me and stared. Or looked at me and then away, for fear of getting caught staring. Or stared at me when I wasn’t watching, making me think people were staring at me when I wasn’t looking. No deep psychological inferences to be made there.
It occurred to me that some of the people I passed on the beach last night might have noticed the tattoos, even in the dark. If they learned there’d been a mugging on the beach it wouldn’t take any effort at all to drop a tip to the police. And if whoever they took away in that ambulance lived they’d have a great description to give the authorities. It all depended on where my ride had been standing in relation to the meager light coming from the street.
“Worry about it when it matters,” I said, and noticed my voice was a little raspy, as if from talking all night. A little thin and high. An irritating voice, just like his irritating tattoos.
The fridge was completely empty. Nothing in the freezer, either. The pantry had some coffee, but I needed something more substantial.
I retrieved the wallets I’d felt in my pockets the night before and searched them on the counter by the stove. One of the IDs looked like it could have been the old man—Andrew McHugh, from West Virginia. The other was a sandy haired guy named Stuart Barnes, from Michigan. I found a five and two ones in Stuart’s wallet, but Andrew’s was empty—both of cash and credit cards. The other wallet, also empty, belonged to a slight, blond-haired man with a big, smug grin on his face and Japanese characters tattooed along his neck. Kevin Richards of Odessa, Texas. Not even a driver’s license, just a state issued ID.
“Dammit,” I said. “This isn’t happening.”
Trying not to panic, I grabbed the purse from the bedroom and opened it next to the wallets. Her ID showed a smart looking woman in her seventies with a lust for life that matched her husband’s, but again I couldn’t find any credit cards or cash. Kevin had probably sold the credit cards for easy money or used them up to their limits.
I closed my eyes and did my normal inventory. I didn’t think I had any particularly scary addictions—nothing that would leave me half-dead for a week of detox, like heroin or crack. Digging a ditch should have tired me, sure, but I felt wiped out. If Kevin were an addict, I suspected either amphetamines or cocaine. Anything else and I’d be climbing the walls right now.
All I had was the $7 from Stuart. And if he had died, I couldn’t use his credit cards without about a hundred police officers parachuting in to arrest me. I just assumed it was Stuart’s blood I’d seen on the knife.
As for the amoral asshole, Kevin, he possessed exactly one pair of cutoff blue jeans, a ratty Ché t-shirt and some brand-new athletic shoes for those extreme athletes whose quest for a competitive advantage is never more than a knife wound away. The shoes even had little air pumps on the sides, I kid you not.
I made a thorough search of the house looking for hidden money, Travelers Cheques or food. I checked the car and came up with a sealed bag of red licorice from the glove compartment and immediately wolfed it down. I also found their rental agreement. The McHughs’ had the place for five weeks, with a departure date of August 22nd. I’d left Mike Nichols back in Tennessee on August 8th. Since any amount of time could have passed in the Great Wherever, I had no idea how long I had before a new couple showed up wondering what I was doing in their vacation house.
I had to deal with my immediate problem first: I needed food and money.
I took the Grand Marquis and drove exactly ten blocks before running into a little intersection with more than enough
It occurred to me that some of the people I passed on the beach last night might have noticed the tattoos, even in the dark. If they learned there’d been a mugging on the beach it wouldn’t take any effort at all to drop a tip to the police. And if whoever they took away in that ambulance lived they’d have a great description to give the authorities. It all depended on where my ride had been standing in relation to the meager light coming from the street.
“Worry about it when it matters,” I said, and noticed my voice was a little raspy, as if from talking all night. A little thin and high. An irritating voice, just like his irritating tattoos.
The fridge was completely empty. Nothing in the freezer, either. The pantry had some coffee, but I needed something more substantial.
I retrieved the wallets I’d felt in my pockets the night before and searched them on the counter by the stove. One of the IDs looked like it could have been the old man—Andrew McHugh, from West Virginia. The other was a sandy haired guy named Stuart Barnes, from Michigan. I found a five and two ones in Stuart’s wallet, but Andrew’s was empty—both of cash and credit cards. The other wallet, also empty, belonged to a slight, blond-haired man with a big, smug grin on his face and Japanese characters tattooed along his neck. Kevin Richards of Odessa, Texas. Not even a driver’s license, just a state issued ID.
“Dammit,” I said. “This isn’t happening.”
Trying not to panic, I grabbed the purse from the bedroom and opened it next to the wallets. Her ID showed a smart looking woman in her seventies with a lust for life that matched her husband’s, but again I couldn’t find any credit cards or cash. Kevin had probably sold the credit cards for easy money or used them up to their limits.
I closed my eyes and did my normal inventory. I didn’t think I had any particularly scary addictions—nothing that would leave me half-dead for a week of detox, like heroin or crack. Digging a ditch should have tired me, sure, but I felt wiped out. If Kevin were an addict, I suspected either amphetamines or cocaine. Anything else and I’d be climbing the walls right now.
All I had was the $7 from Stuart. And if he had died, I couldn’t use his credit cards without about a hundred police officers parachuting in to arrest me. I just assumed it was Stuart’s blood I’d seen on the knife.
As for the amoral asshole, Kevin, he possessed exactly one pair of cutoff blue jeans, a ratty Ché t-shirt and some brand-new athletic shoes for those extreme athletes whose quest for a competitive advantage is never more than a knife wound away. The shoes even had little air pumps on the sides, I kid you not.
I made a thorough search of the house looking for hidden money, Travelers Cheques or food. I checked the car and came up with a sealed bag of red licorice from the glove compartment and immediately wolfed it down. I also found their rental agreement. The McHughs’ had the place for five weeks, with a departure date of August 22nd. I’d left Mike Nichols back in Tennessee on August 8th. Since any amount of time could have passed in the Great Wherever, I had no idea how long I had before a new couple showed up wondering what I was doing in their vacation house.
I had to deal with my immediate problem first: I needed food and money.
I took the Grand Marquis and drove exactly ten blocks before running into a little intersection with more than enough
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