Playtime (15 page)

Then he looks over at the dash and sees the book of
matches he had taken from Renee's place sitting there. He snatches them up as
he drives, and looks down: Limbada's. Wasn't the dance spelled with an A? Right.
Down on the beach. Probably means exactly zero. 

 Still, what is he doing? Not exactly zero, but
real close. What would it hurt to take a drive down to the east end and sit and
have a beer in Limbada's. 

 The place is down on the sand. It is built on
wood pilings with the actual club about 12 feet up and a long ramp crisscrossing
the front of the building instead of stairs. The building is lemon yellow with blue
trim. He can hear the pulsing beat of the music while he is still in the truck,
driving up. The front of the building faces the gulf and has a long outdoor
porch where people are hanging out at tables or leaning on the railing. The
gulf is only about a hundred feet south of them with nothing much between. The
moon is full and flashing off the water. 

 Inside the music is so pulsing loud it is like a
force. People are moving, writhing all over the wooden floor. Quite a crowd.
Strobe light effects are pulsing also. The place is one huge heartbeat. It
feels jungle primal to Blaine. He is not sure he can stand this for long. It
doesn't look like an easy place to get a drink either, so he muscles his way up
through the crowd at the bar in the middle of the room till he finally gets the
attention of one of the guys in the center of the ellipse and hollers for a
beer over the noise. He grabs it and heads for the farthest corner from the sounds
of the band, but it is still very loud. They have those tiny, square tables all
over the place and a couple is getting up from one in the very corner, taking
their stuff with them, so he grabs that and scans the room. Armed cop over in
one corner, uniform on. Most of the bigger places did something like that in
the summertime. Just too much activity, too many drunks. Always something going
on down here on the beach.   

 Most of the bars were up on the seawall, only a few
down on the sand itself. Blaine used to come down here when he was a teenager. Hunting
for women, mostly. Seemed like there was always something wild and magical
happening. In those days the possibilities seemed endless. He remembers one
night at a club farther down on the sand, some promotional gig where you got in
free if you wore a costume, he had hooked up with a girl dressed as a cat,
wearing a black costume and mask. The costume ended at her thighs and
shoulders. Black heels. They had been so drunk they had wandered down here to
the edge of the gulf and shed their clothes in sight of some other people,
though they were quite a long distance away, and made love in the gentle water
lapping up to shore. A wonder they hadn't been arrested. She had kept the mask
on the whole time. Naked but for the mask. She had a beautiful body he could
still envision. Some things sear an image into your memory. After they made
love, they had a few more beers then had gotten separated in the large crowd.
He had never seen her again. Hadn't gotten her name. Never saw her face without
the mask. Woke up the next morning, for a second thought the whole thing was a
dream. Time of your life, eh, kid? 

 He doesn't see anybody familiar from here but he
can't see half the room, so after a bit he gets up and heads that way. It is
against the law in Texas to carry a weapon into any establishment that gets
more than 50% of its revenue from booze, even if you have a concealed carry
license, so he had left both guns in the car. He would never fire a weapon in a
crowd like this anyway. No telling who or what you would hit. 

 He beats his way through the pulsing mass. Gets
to the other side of the room, pauses and takes a swallow of beer. Thinking he
will go ahead and go: get out of this mess. At least he'd tried. Knew it was a
super-long shot. When he looks over into the far corner on that side and sees
the back of a guy's head that could be his guy. He stares for a second in
disbelief, but it still resembles him from this distance. Back of a guy's head
could be anybody, though. He works his way through the mess, getting closer,
and it still looks like the guy from this angle. He wishes he would turn his
head. But he doesn't. He is hunched over the table with a drink in his hand.
Blaine moves closer and sideways, trying to get a look at his profile.   

 He is about 15 feet out when the guy turns from
the girl sharing the table with him, a good-looking woman, and Blaine gets his
first clear look at him.   

 It is the guy from the bar. He's dressed in jeans
and dress shirt tonight, no suit, but it's definitely him. 

 The odds of finding him had been so long in
Blaine's mind that he had never really worked out a plan for what to do if he
did find him. Confrontation had been the idea, but he suddenly realizes that
would be stupid. If this guy has anything to do with Renee's disappearance,
confrontation is the last thing he should be thinking. 

 He spins around, puts his back to him and heads
the other way. What
had
he been thinking? Walk up to him and demand to
know where he had Renee? Kick his ass and force it out of him? That sounds
attractive, but unrealistic, and he beats a retreat to the front door.   

 Get out of here without the guy seeing him. Get
out to the truck and park it somewhere he has a good view of the front door.
Thank God there is only one way in and out of this place, which is that long,
wide ramp. Two, no, three doors, but they all exit out to that ramp.   

 He makes it to the truck, which is parked off to
the side, out of sight of the doors, and moves it over where he can keep an eye
on it. Then he checks both guns, puts the .22 Mag back in his front jean
pocket. He keeps the .357 in the console for the time being.   

 What he needs to do is follow this guy, find out
where he is keeping her, if he's got her. Of course that is exactly what
Nielson had told him not to do. He thinks about it. The guy is out in public
now. If he had Renee at his house or something, then if the cops took him now
she would be safe. If she was somewhere that was connected to this guy. What if
he had her somewhere else? Somewhere they couldn't find easily. Someplace with
no obvious connection to him. Blaine remembers some movie he'd seen where the
kidnappers had this kid in a box in a hole in the ground. If it was a deal like
that, Renee could die while this guy denied any involvement. They could take
him, and that might sign her death warrant. If she wasn't dead already.   

 He pushes that thought away. Flips out his cell
and goes to his contacts, to Nielson's number. Pushes. Hears it ring and ring
and then, finally, a hoarse hello from Nielson. Woke him up. 

 "I found the guy in the sketch," he
says. 

 Nielson comes awake in a hurry. "I thought I
told you to leave this to us," he says. "Did he see you? Does he know
you've found him?" 

 "I don't think so," Blaine says and
fills him in on the situation, including where he's parked, and the fact he is
watching the door. 

 "Back off," Nielson says. "I'm
only 15 minutes away. Don't let him see you, just stay where you are. I'll be
right there. No confrontation, hear me?" 

 "OK," Blaine says. "Hurry up. He
could leave anytime." 

 "On my way," Nielson says, and the
connection ends. Blaine is thinking that he can take better care of himself
than Nielson gives him credit for. Nielson doubtless knows that he's got the
concealed carry license. Maybe that's what he's worried about.   

About 5 minutes later, the guy in the sketch comes
out the club door and down the ramp. He has lost the girl he was sitting with,
is by himself now. Blaine is parked far enough away he doesn't think the guy
can make him out, but scrunches down in the seat anyway. He flips out his phone
and realizes he will not have time to make a call right now. His guy is
climbing into some type of small red sports car, maybe a Miata. He hates those
little cars. They strike him as vehicles for women. He is off and gunning it
away on the sand before Blaine can make a move. He curses and starts the Dodge
and goes after him. Lucky for Blaine, it is still early enough for lots of
traffic to be out. The Dodge is not the most inconspicuous Crayola in the box.   

 He gives him quite a bit of room, falls in behind
him. It looks like he is headed for the ramp up onto the seawall, and a moment
later that is confirmed as he goes up. Blaine glances at the phone still lit on
the seat, then back at the Miata. He should call Nielson, let him know the guy
is on the move, but he is afraid he will lose him screwing around with the
phone. He drives on. 

 Suddenly Sketch jams the Miata up to about 50. He
is going 10 over the speed limit. Blaine thinks he has made him somehow. He
tries to hold back, remain inconspicuous, but he can see he is going to lose
him at this rate. He speeds up. Between a rock and a hard place, right? If he
loses him now he may never find him again. Now they are both doing 50 down the
seawall, and Blaine checks his mirror, looking for cops. With his luck, they
will stop him instead of Sketch, and that will be the end of this.   

 Then the Miata slows and swerves over to the
parking lane. Blaine is caught completely by surprise and roars by. As soon as
he is past, the Miata pops a U and is gone, headed the other way down the seawall.
Blaine pops a U himself, truck tires squealing, somebody blowing a horn at him
as he cuts past oncoming traffic. All chance of surprise gone now. He fumbles
for the phone again, gets it in his hand, and almost clips the Minivan to the
right of him as he roars by. Curses and throws the phone back down, refocusing
on the road.   

 He puts the pedal to the metal, closes on the
Miata, and Sketch swerves to the side of the road again. This time when he
stops, Blaine has time to get the truck over in front of him, blocking him, and
when Sketch sees who it is, he quits trying to back up and brings the little
sports car to a screeching halt. He screams and hops out. 

 Blaine hops out too, not sure what he's doing.   

 "What the fuck is wrong with you," Sketch
says as he draws up to him.   

 "Renee," Blaine yells, and then the
first doubts start running through him like electric currents because Sketch
shows no reaction at all. 

 "I guess I'm going to have to teach you a
lesson, shorty" the big man says, and his fists come up. Then he swings a
hard right at Blaine, and Blaine's old karate instincts take over and he ducks
under it, at the same time using a sweeping defensive move with his arm. Then
he kicks as hard as he can at the big man's leg. The leg tumbles right out from
beneath Sketch, and he falls out of sight over the edge of the seawall.   

 Blaine runs to the edge and looks over, expecting
to see him laid out on one of the rocks that are strewn at the base of the wall
down most of its length. But there is only soft sand at this spot, and he is
already struggling to his feet. Blaine drops down on him like a swooping hawk,
and before he can get set, is swinging on him. He hits him with a three punch
flurry: head, body, head, but the big man blocks most of that. Then he raises
his hands at Blaine, yells "Stop." 

 Blaine says, "Stay the hell away, or I'll
hit you again," and the guy pauses, staring. He is breathing like a
freight train. "Where is Renee?" Blaine says. 

 "I don't know any Renee," he says. It
sounds like truth to Blaine, but he can't be sure.   

 "The hell you don't," he says. "That
cocktail waitress you were ogling in the club that night." 

 "You're going to need to be a little more
specific," the guy says. "I look at a lot of girls. What do you care?
Did she run away from you or something?" 

 Blaine doesn't see a trace of recognition in his
eyes. He is either a very good liar or doesn't know anything about the whole
deal. The trouble is that, from what Blaine has read, most of the guys who
would do this sort of thing
were
very good liars. He can't let this guy
just walk away. 

 "We'll let the cops settle that," he
says. He sees a flicker in the big man's eyes. He doesn't like that. 

 "I don't have any business with the
law," he says. He has caught his breath now and gets up, brushing sand off
his pants, looking down at Blaine. 

 "You do now," Blaine says. 

 "Bullshit," the big guy says, and turns
to walk away. 

 "We can do this the hard way," Blaine
says, "or the easy." The big man turns, listening. "My girl is
missing. You are the last guy I saw hassling her. Do you mean to tell me you
don't remember me or her?" 

 Big man is staring at him. Something seems to
click. "The fancy joint," he says, "right off the beach." 

 "Yep, the fancy joint." 

 "I remember now," the guy says. "I
was two or three sheets to the wind. Renee is that cocktail waitress, the
really hot one." 

 "Yes, the really hot one." 

 "You got up in my face." 

 "That's right," Blaine says. "I
can do it again." 

 The big man is staring at him like he has put a
puzzle together. "Why would you think she would be with me?" he says.
When he says it like that, Blaine thinks he has been grasping at straws all
along. A guy in a bar hits on his girl. That's all he really knows. "Guys
hit on girls in bars every day," Sketch says. "Twice a day on Sunday.
That's all I'm guilty of." 

 "Okay," Blaine says. "Be a good
citizen then and come see the cops with me, clear this all up." 

 "Screw that," big man says. "In my
mind, it's cleared up now. I'm getting out of here." He turns again and
starts to walk off. Blaine pulls the .22 Mag out of his pocket and thumbs the
hammer back. 

 "Halt," he says. "I am making a
citizen's arrest."   

 The big man turns again and looks at the tiny .22
in his fist. "Are you kidding me?" he says. "Is that a real gun?
I've never seen anything that small." 

 "I bet that's a lie," Blaine says, and
they both laugh, though Sketch's seems forced. He has the gun leveled now in
both hands, aimed straight at the big man's head. He doesn't like any of this,
but he's not letting him go. That is not happening. 

 Suddenly from the top of the wall comes a shout:
"Hadrock, put that damn gun down. Right now." He looks up and it is
Nielson. The cavalry has finally arrived. "Right now," Nielson roars
again. "Last chance." He has his own weapon out and leveled at
Blaine. Blaine drops the gun on the sand. 

 "This is him, Nielson," he screams. He
looks up and a couple of uniforms are behind Nielson, joining him, guns drawn.
He sticks his hands high in the air to show he has no weapon now. He knows the
way their adrenaline is pumping they will fire at any suspicious move and check
stories later. He looks over at Sketch, and he has his hands in the air too. He
is no dummy. Not his first police encounter, either, if Blaine is any judge. He
breathes a sigh of relief. He has brought him to the cops. That part of the
battle has been won. 

Some three hours later he is sitting at Nielson's
desk with him. They had taken him through the process, snapped his picture,
booked him on some misdemeanor charge to cover their asses then let him go.
They had done the same with the big man on the booking part, and Nielson tells
him they are going to have to let him go, also. 

 "Why?" he asks. 

 "Because he's a citizen, and we don't have
any reason to hold him," Nielson says. "He's spent a lot of time the
last few days around different people, and they verify it. From the timeline we
have, it is very doubtful that he could have grabbed her. We've got nothing on
him." He taps a piece of paper on the desk. "We're not even watching
his house," he says, gets up and stretches, walks over and looks out the
window. Blaine is leaning over looking at the paper, which is angled sideways. Jackson
Irons on Swordfish he reads, and has leaned back and is watching Nielson when
he turns around.