Bad Juju & Other Tales of Madness and Mayhem by Jonathan Woods Read Free Book Online Page A

Richter?” I asked.
    “My men will pick him up or the sharks will have a feast. We knew he’d taken the money. We just needed to flush him out of his hiding place. That was your job. There was a tracking device imbedded in the handle of my .45.”
    “Now you’ve got Tony’s murderer and the money,” I said.
    “When I arrested you at the airport, I didn’t have all the facts.” Ariel pulled my lizard-skin clutch from beneath his seat and clicked it open. His fat fingers extracted the photo of Tony giving it up the ass. “Looks like a valid defense to me,” he said. “But you still owe me a handjob.”
     

 
     
     
    Down Mexico Way
    It’s only eight in the morning, but already hot as Hades. Jack Niles stares helplessly at the cleavage of the bikini-clad bar girl, Ginny, as she leans over the beer cooler, filling it with longnecks. A skinny Mexican kid is vacuuming sand from the pool. Otherwise the pool area’s deserted.
    Everyone in the all-suites hotel is sleeping late. Ordering room service. Catching a lazy fuck or a few more zzzz’s. The kids watching cartoons in the other room.
    Jack’s hand plays nervously with a cheap plastic lighter, depressing the starter mechanism a dozen times in rapid succession. All but once the flame blossoms from the metal nozzle. Out of a hundred flicks, how many times will it fail? he wonders. How many times did the space shuttle soar into the sky like a brilliant bird before the Challenger exploded in an inferno of burning metal and flesh? These days, only two things get Jack’s blood up. Probability and chance.
    The probability that out of the hundreds of companies listed on the NASDAQ, the SEC would pick his to investigate. Whether he has a chance of avoiding jail time.
    Lighting a cigarette, the first of the day, he leans with his back against the bar, watching the Mex kid work the long aluminum pole that maneuvers the pool vac.
    A man in floral trunks comes out through the glass doors from the lobby and crosses the empty concrete deck. Choosing a chaise lounge at random, he drops his towel and a paperback. Then continues purposefully around the pool toward the bar pavilion where Jack waits in the shade. The newcomer’s skin exudes the rich walnut tan of a beach habitué.
    As he comes up to the bar, his eyes meet Jack’s with curiosity; then shift to Ginny. She gives him a cute bar-maidenly smile.
    “Tequila Sunrise, sweetheart?” she asks.
    “Sure thing.”
    Up close, Jack can just about count the hairs curling out of the man’s ears. His eyes are gray and sad like a rainy December day in Dallas.
    “And bring my friend here a fresh whatever-it-is he’s drinking.” He nods at Jack. “Bill. Bill Oaks. No relation to the dead protest singer.”
    “It’s a tad early for me,” says Jack, crushing out his cigarette.
    “Lighten up, pal. You’re on vacation, right?”
    An avalanche of ice cubes plunging from a plastic bucket into a bin area behind the bar drowns out Jack’s reply. Ray, the other daytime bar person, sets the bucket down and looks at Jack and the other guy.
    “Bill. Meet Jack the gambler. He never drinks before noon.”
    “Surely an exception can be made.”
    “My wife doesn’t like morning drunks,” says Jack. “And she has the money.”
    Bill sips his Tequila Sunrise. Ice tinkles. How many ice cubes in a Tequila Sunrise? wonders Jack. Jack’s mind races like the wheels of a pickup stuck in soft sand; he can’t concentrate on anything.
    “Say,” says Bill. “Aren’t you the CEO of that software company that went belly up in Dallas after the FBI raid? Some kind of SEC investigation?”
    Jack’s eyes glaze over. “Can’t talk about it.” He holds his palms aloft. They’re like two soft white wings. “Lawyers,” he adds as an afterthought.
    The raw clank of coins colliding overrides the ice-striking-glass sound. It’s Ray, jiggling the tip change in the pocket of his knee-length Abercrombies.
    “Twenty says you can’t guess how