Out of the Past: A Reed Ferguson Mystery Part 1

Out of the Past.

A Reed Ferguson Mystery.

by Renee Pawlish.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS.

The author gratefully acknowledges all those who helped in the writing of this book, especially: Beth Hecker, Beth Treat, and Janice Horne. If I've forgotten anyone, please accept my apologies.

www.reneepawlish.com.

Out of the Past.

CHAPTER ONE.

"Put your hands up." The voice snarled, low and menacing. At the same time, I felt something jammed into my back, and I had a pretty good idea what it was.

I was playing pool at B52's, a bar near my condo. I'd just headed down a long hallway that led to the bathrooms, and now this.

"I said 'hands up'," the guy insisted. He leaned in close and I got a whiff of cheap cologne. The gun pushed deeper into my back.

I slowly raised my hands and pressed my palms to the wall, then glanced over my shoulder. " 'Put your hands up'. Isn't that a bit of a cliche?" I asked, stalling for time. There were two of them, one directly behind me with the gun, the other standing off to his right. "You could try something more original, like 'Stick 'em up', or 'Don't move.' Those are good."

A hand grabbed my hair and a second later my head connected with the wall near the bathroom door. My vision clouded with colorful stars.

"Ow!" I groaned. "Was that really necessary?" I resisted the urge to rub my forehead and instead kept my hands to the wall.

"A wise guy," he said.

"Ah, another cliche." I tried to turn around. "Really, gentlemen, you can do better."

He punched me in the kidney. I gasped and slid to the floor, clutching at my lower back. Okay, being a smarta.s.s wasn't getting me out of the situation. Why didn't I keep my mouth shut?

"Hey, Oscar, lighten up," the second heavy said in a voice like James Earl Jones as he grabbed Oscar's arm. "The boss is gonna be mad if you rough him up."

I moaned as I turned around and put my head between my knees. "Hey, I just came in to relax, play a little pool." Confusion mixed with the pain. I had to stop and think for a minute...let's see...my name is Reed Ferguson and I'm a private investigator. I love old detective novels and cla.s.sic movies, particularly film noir, with its dark detectives and femme fatales. But I wasn't working a case now, so why were these guys bothering me?

"I'm not looking for trouble," I mumbled.

"I guess it found you," Oscar said.

Oscar kept setting me up with the cliches, but this time this wise guy, namely me, kept his mouth shut.

I sucked in a few deep breaths as I contemplated Oscar's black wingtip Oxfords, then gazed up and surveyed the two men.

Their looks matched their talk cliched. Both wore dark three-piece suits and white shirts, thin black ties. Oscar was a white guy built like the Hulk, muscles everywhere that threatened to rip the seams of his jacket. The other was slightly smaller, with skin the color of mocha, and was disproportionately built with a huge chest that tapered into a thin waist and spindly legs. A couple of goons.

Oscar glared down at me. "Feeling better?"

Before I could respond he quickly pocketed the gun as a man in jeans and a green sweater walked around the corner. He glanced at Oscar, then at me on the floor.

"Hey, man, you okay?" he asked me.

"He's fine," Oscar said out of the corner of his mouth. "Leave us alone."

The man shrank away from Oscar, then turned and fled.

I took a few more breaths, working to keep from throwing up. "What do you want?"

The black guy held out a thick hand. "We need you to come with us."

I ignored his hand and edged my way up the wall. The spot where Oscar slugged me was burning. "You could've just asked."

I moved carefully past Oscar and back into the bar. It was eleven o'clock on a Sat.u.r.day night and B 52's was packed. It was a converted warehouse that was now a pool hall decorated with old plane propellers and advertis.e.m.e.nts from a time long gone, and I loved hanging out here. The New Wave sounds of the Talking Heads filled the bar, and people jammed into booths and tables in the main room, eating snacks and drinking beer.

I debated running, but I wouldn't get far in the crowd, and I didn't want anyone else to get hurt, so I nixed the idea. I'd ridden over with my friends Ace and Deuce Smith, and they were in the back room playing pool. I wondered how long it would be before the Goofball Brothers realized I hadn't returned from the bathroom. I refer to them affectionately as the Goofball Brothers because they were lighthearted and fun, but a few clowns short of a circus. Which meant I could be gone for a long, long time before they'd notice.

This thought had just raced through my mind when I heard Deuce's lazy drawl.

"Hey, Reed, you leaving?" He was coming from the bar, carrying two mugs of amber beer.

"Uh, yeah, I need to go." I was torn. I could ask Deuce for help, but that might get him s.n.a.t.c.hed with me. And since he was still recovering from a recent kidnapping, I didn't think putting him in harm's way again was a good idea.

I gave a slight nod of my head at the thugs. They weren't my type, socially speaking, and even Deuce should realize that this wasn't a friendly encounter. If he sensed I was in trouble, he could get Natalie Bowman, the regular bartender, to check up on me.

"These guys want to play pool with us?" Ace, the other Goofball Brother, approached.

Yep, a few clowns short. I should've known the brothers wouldn't get it, which was probably best. I didn't need to watch out for them as well.

"I'll see you tomorrow," I said. Even though we didn't have plans, maybe they'd think we did, and come looking for me.

"We don't have any plans tomorrow," Deuce said.

Man, they were killing me.

"Keep moving," Oscar said, nudging me forward.

"See you later," Ace called after us.

The Goofball Brothers were no help, and my girlfriend, Willie, was working the late shift at Denver Health Medical Center, so no one would know until sometime tomorrow that I'd been abducted. Great...

"Can I get my coat?" I asked. I was not only stalling again for time, but I really wanted to get my coat. It was the end of January, and Denver was in what we locals called "Stock Show weather", a bitter cold where the temperature never crawled out of single digits during the week of the National Western Stock Show.

Neither thug answered me, and we kept moving toward the door. I was sandwiched between them as we walked out of the bar. They guided me to a black full-size SUV parked across the street. On my first investigation a few years ago, I'd been similarly forced into a black SUV by guys I wrongly a.s.sumed were the FBI. Was this the case again?

"Get in," Oscar ordered me as the black guy trotted around the car to the driver's seat and got in.

I hesitated.

"Relax," Oscar said. "If we wanted to kill you, we already would have."

"Oh, I feel so much better," I muttered as I slid in and Oscar sat down beside me. I was now squeezed between the two, my shoulders curled forward.

"Where are we going?" I tried for cheery, even though my stomach was a knot and my lower back screamed.

"You'll find out soon enough," the black guy said as he started the car. It roared to life and he pulled into traffic, headed south.

"I know his name." I jerked a thumb at Oscar. "What's yours? James Earl Jones? Darth Vader?"

The right side of his mouth twitched.

"It's Tyrone," he finally said.

We drove in silence for a few minutes, weaving our way through downtown Denver. My shoulders began to cramp. I sighed heavily. Oscar turned his head and glared at me. I tried to shrug but couldn't. Tyrone soon turned onto Broadway and we left the high-rises behind. We crossed Colfax and four blocks down, he pulled into a spot on the corner but kept the engine running.

"Now what?" I asked.

"See that over there?" Oscar said. He pointed across the street at a row of large two-story brick buildings.

"Yeah?" I said.

"The brown one, with the neon blue lights," Tyrone clarified.

The building he indicated had two large, recessed windows and an arched doorway. A predominantly college-age crowd lined the sidewalk, waiting to get in. Their attire was somewhat casual, the guys in pants or jeans and dress shirts, a few in tee shirts. The women seemed to be going for provocative, wearing tight jeans or short skirts, and even from my vantage point, the cleavage was obvious. Hardly any of them wore coats, even though it was cold enough to see their breath, but I guess that was the price they paid to be seen and ogled. They all looked to be at least ten years younger than me, and I suddenly felt old.

"Okay, it's a nightclub," I said. "So?"

"That's Vinyl, one of the hottest clubs in SoCo."

I think he was waiting for me to ask what SoCo was, but I knew it meant 'South of Colfax', so instead I said, "Aren't they a little young for you?"

He scowled at me.

"You force me from B 52's to bring me here? What's the deal?" I asked.

"Just wait," Tyrone said, throwing Oscar a look that said 'shut up'.

And so we did. After five minutes of watching young people enter Vinyl, I sighed and exhaled loudly. Five more minutes pa.s.sed, and I sighed even more dramatically.

Oscar elbowed me. "Knock it off."

"Hey." I grunted and tried to shift away from him, but only succeeded in rubbing shoulders with Tyrone.

"Cool it." Tyrone nodded. "There she is."

Oscar glanced at his watch, then directed his attention across the street. "Right on time."

"There who is?" I asked.

"Her." Tyrone pointed to a woman walking toward Vinyl. "In the pink dress."

'Dress' was generous. The woman wore a one-sleeved mini-dress that looked like it had been painted on, and it barely covered her thighs. She'd pulled her long, highlighted brown hair into a ponytail, exposing tanned shoulders. And even though it was frigid outside, she didn't have a coat. She must've been cold, but she didn't act like it. And she certainly enjoyed the attention, putting more sway in her hips and running a hand through her hair as heads turned. She walked to the front of the line, talked with a bouncer for a moment, then disappeared inside the club.

"Let's go," Tyrone said as he shut off the engine.

They both got out and Oscar leaned a forearm on the hood of the car. He opened his coat so I could see his holstered gun. "No funny business."

I slid out, eyeing them carefully. "What's this all about?"

Both men b.u.t.toned their coats, then positioned themselves on either side of me.

"You're about to find out."

CHAPTER TWO.

We crossed the street and approached the door. A few of the people in line hollered about us cutting in front of them, but a cold-eyed glance from Oscar shut them up. The bouncer stood tall as he blocked the entrance, but Tyrone and Oscar both had at least a few inches and a good thirty pounds of muscle on him. Tyrone leaned over and murmured something in the bouncer's ear, and he nodded and stepped aside.

As we entered the bar, the pounding ba.s.s beat of house music a.s.saulted us. The main level was a large room with high ceilings and painted metal beams. Overhead lights bathed the dance floor in neon pink and blue, and young people moshed in a synchronized frenzy. Oscar, Tyrone and I were conspicuous, so much older and not dressed like anyone else. Young people inspected Tyrone and Oscar cautiously, and as we moved into the room, bodies parted around us.

"She should be easy to spot." I had to holler to be heard over the music. "It's not like anyone else was wearing pink."

"Where'd she go?" Oscar asked as he looked around.

Tyrone shrugged as he stared into the crowd. "Let's try downstairs."

We made our way around the edge of the dance floor and down to a lower level, where hip hop played, then up to a second level dance floor, but still no luck. The woman in pink wasn't there.

We finally ended up on the rooftop. It had an indoor/outdoor patio, complete with s.p.a.ce heaters and fire pits, but it was still cold. "Situation" by Yaz finished and "Don't You Want Me" by Dead Or Alive began. This must be the 80's music area, I thought. For a moment I forgot I was being forced here against my will. I love 80's alternative bands like The Smiths, The Psychedelic Furs, New Order and Depeche Mode, and I could've sat in a corner for hours, listening to the music while I nursed a cold Fat Tire. When I was in college, I loved to visit The Rathskeller, locally known as "The Rat" in Boston, a dive bar that hosted some great bands, including some of my favorites. As I reminisced, a girl who couldn't have been more than twenty sauntered past, wearing a tight black mini-skirt and lace spaghetti-strap blouse. I shook my head. No one dressed quite like that when I was in college.

"Are you going to tell me what's going on?" I asked the thugs for the umpteenth time.

"All in good time," Tyrone said.

"There she is." Oscar tipped his head.