Shark's Instinct (Shark Santoyo Crime Series Book 1) Read online

  “Yeah, I got it,” said Two Tone, stepping closer. “And you can rely on me. Whatever you need, just ask.”

  “I need you to keep an eye on Paper and Blue Street. I tuned him up, but I’m not convinced that he took the message to heart. I’m also not convinced that maybe he didn’t know something about Big Paulie.”

  “I know what you mean” said Two Tone. “That kid is ambitious. I’ll keep an eye on him for you.”

  “Thanks. Now seriously, the bowling is giving me a fucking headache.”

  Two Tone laughed. “We’ll blow. Don’t worry, I got your back.”

  Marko came over after Two Tone left. “Big Paulie wasn’t the only one who was dirty around here,” he muttered.

  “What makes you say that?” Shark asked.

  “I can smell it,” said Marko. “No one trusts each other. Everyone’s up to something. I wouldn’t trust either Paper or Two Tone as far as I could throw them.”

  Shark raised his glass in salute, but didn’t say anything.

  “About the girl,” began Marko.

  Shark waited. He wasn’t sure how many of these conversations he could take.

  “She’s held a piece before.”

  “Well, sure. There was the raccoon incident.”

  A corner of Marko’s mouth lifted in wry amusement. “Yeah, I got the whole story on that.”

  “I thought you might,” said Shark. “You seem to know how to be friendly. What was the gist?”

  “To sum up a long, ridiculous story of teenagers, hormones and beer gone wrong, it was a .22 and it wasn’t shot by her. She was who they called to fix the situation. Chalk it up as further proof that the suburbs are an alien fucking planet. But no, I meant an actual piece.”

  “How could you tell?”

  “She knew what to expect—noise, kick, that kind of thing. And she asked real questions. Not just how does it work, but what to do when.”

  Shark turned that over in his mind. “I’m not sure if that makes me less worried about Friday, or more.”

  Marko snorted. “Tell me about it.”

  13

  Peregrine: Al

  Peri headed for the bus stop outside of the bowling alley and glanced over her shoulder. She didn’t see anyone watching. She read the message again.

  Can you come get him? We don’t need any more fights.

  Peri rubbed her head. This week was a total cluster fuck. God, she so didn’t need this. She flipped to the Lyft app and checked who was available. Kara was free—must be second baby nap time. But Kara wouldn’t appreciate this particular errand. She found Otto and pinged him. He accepted and she flipped back to her messages.

  Be there in twenty.

  Otto pulled up five minutes later, and she glanced over her shoulder at the bowling alley. Two Tone was coming out. She got in Otto’s car and made driving motions. He complied.

  “Hey Peri,” he said when they were out of sight of the bowling alley. His Ukranian accent had gotten remarkably lighter in the past few months. She could tell he’d been practicing. “Where are we going today?”

  “The Double Wide.”

  “Again?” Otto looked irritated. She didn’t blame him. Last time, there had been puke.

  “You know I’m good for it,” she said.

  “That’s not the point.”

  “If I had another option, I’d take it,” said Peri and he nodded.

  “My grandfather was the same way,” he said, turning sympathetic. “Only he liked to uh… znimaty rechi? Pew, pew. With a gun?”

  Peri waded through the sound effects. “Shoot people?”

  “Shoot things. But that was the old days.”

  “Well, fortunately he hasn’t gotten that far. So far he just punches the shit out of anything in his way.”

  Otto drove out of the suburban enclave of houses and planned shopping areas that she lived in toward the wilds of strip malls and unplanned urban sprawl. Otto didn’t like this neighborhood. There were a lot of Ukrainian bars in the area and he avoided them like the plague. He didn’t want anything to do with the Ukrainian mob that ran most of the immigrant businesses in the neighborhood. It was her impression that all Otto did was drive and go to church.

  They pulled up at the Double Wide. The D and E were burned out, so the bar sign just read ouble Wid. She wished Al would at least pick a classier bar, but this one was close to their gym, so she supposed it was convenient. His Bronco was parked in the lot.

  “I’ll keep the motor running,” Otto said.

  She nodded and got out of the car. She checked the Bronco first. He wasn’t inside, but the door was unlocked. Although, that wasn’t a sign of anything. He’d never replaced the stereo after the second time it got stolen. There wasn’t anything else to steal unless someone wanted empty pop and booze bottles.

  The overall feeling of the Double Wide was claustrophobia. The room was dark, with an occasional spots of light from dangling pendants over tables. Booths ringed the wall and the backs were high, making it hard to see into them. The tables on the floor were crowded and the bar stools were crammed in close together making it nearly impossible to get in and out without bumping into someone.

  Al was in the middle of the bar, his head on the brown wooden top. At least at this hour the room was mostly empty.

  “Hey Peri,” said the bartender, a dumpy bald man with an impressive moustache. “Thanks for coming.”

  “No problem, Spud,” said Peri.

  “I tried to get his keys earlier, but that was a no go.”

  “I wouldn’t recommend it,” said Peri, “unless you want to get shot or punched.”

  “Which I don’t,” said Spud. “You want me to help you out to the car?”

  “No, we’re fine,” said Peri. Usually getting him out of the bar wasn’t the problem.

  Peri moved the bar stool and leaned down so her face was nearly on the bar and looked at her uncle. He was sleeping peacefully with a little drool coming out into his beard. His hair was the same color as hers. She knew that when he stood next to her that most people assumed he was her father. And if he was sober she generally didn’t mind that assumption. Unfortunately, he was rarely sober.

  He really did look sweet when he was asleep.

  She took a deep breath, mentally preparing for deeper and louder. “On your feet, Marine!” Al jerked upright. “Now, you asshole, now!”

  On instinct Al was upright and on his feet, but swaying. At six feet something and wearing cowboy boots he towered over her.

  “Focus Alvin!” she barked. “Down here.” He blinked and looked at her. “Keys, Alvin! Hand them over.”

  Al’s hand was in and out of his pocket before the thought had fully registered in his mind. “Those are my keys,” he slurred, his hand slowing even as he pushed the keys toward her.

  Peri took the keys out of his hand and pocketed them. He swayed and leaned heavily against the barstool, looking around.

  “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

  “Taking you home,” said Peri. “Let’s go.”

  Spud cleared a path and Peri pulled the staggering Al outside and tucked him neatly into Otto’s car. He was asleep again by the time she buckled his seat belt. Hopefully he stayed that way for the drive home.

  “You follow me?” asked Otto and Peri nodded.

  She climbed into the Bronco and got the wood blocks out of the back and strapped them to the gas and the brake. She could never get the seat far forward enough to drive without them. With jerky stops and a few stalls Peri followed Otto back through the strip mall jungle to Al’s apartment—a duplex across the street from a convenience store.

  She had just shut off the Bronco when her phone pinged again.

  We need to talk ASAP. Can you meet tonight?

  Peri blinked at Isabella’s message. So much for Engl
ish homework. Could this week get any worse?

  Yes. Beach house? What time?

  10:30?

  Peri sighed and tugged at her braid. Seriously, this week could not get more fucked up.

  Sure. See you there.

  Otto waited while she unbuckled Al and pulled him to his feet.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to help you up the stairs?” Otto asked.

  He’d done it before, when she’d been desperate and Al had been really out, but Peri had hated it. She hated asking for help—particularly for Al. She glanced up at Al, his arm over her shoulders. His eyes were open and almost focused.

  “No,” she said. “We got this. Just wait here.”

  Otto nodded and politely began to check his phone, pretending not to watch as she began the long process of getting Al up the stairs to his apartment. By the time they reached the front door, she was sweating. She leaned Al against the door frame while she unlocked the door. He seemed to have sobered up a bit. He thought so too because he took a few steps through the door without her and nearly fell. She grabbed him and maneuvered to the kitchen table where she could get him into a chair. He resisted the push toward sitting and stood with one hand on the chair back, looking around his apartment.

  The place reeked of PineSol, but was still a cluttered mess. His jackets always fell off the coat rack. His shoes piled by the door. Envelopes teetered in towers on the kitchen table. On top she could see the renewal for his private investigators license—it even had a stamp on it—which showed real effort for Al. She reached out and pocketed it. She’d mail it for him in the morning; otherwise it would never get done.

  “OK, Al,” she said with a sigh. “Let’s get you into bed.”

  He put an arm over her shoulder and allowed himself to be pivoted toward the bedrooms.

  “I miss Chris,” said Al. “He was a lot easier to lean on.”

  Peri found herself staring into the living room where her father’s flag sat in a neat triangle shaped case above the fireplace, his medals placed precisely on top of the flag, glinting softly at her through the glass. She felt herself flush with hot anger. She stepped away from Al and he staggered, looking at her in surprise.

  She pulled back and punched him in the stomach. He doubled over gasping, putting his face down at her eye level.

  “We all miss Dad,” she hissed. “But I’m what’s left. So lean on me or don’t, but shut the fuck up.”

  Al stared at her. Then he straightened up, squared his shoulders and walked into the bedroom by himself. Peri wanted to cry, but refused to. Instead, she locked the door and went back to the car.

  “Everything good?” asked Otto, as she got in.

  “Yup, everything’s fine,” said Peri.

  14

  Shark: The Beach House

  Shark spread his sheets of paper across the kitchen table of the condo. He’d started on the computer, but found that it was hard to compare across so many accounts. He was starting to be familiar with the ledger: the red cover, the neat, square handwriting that suddenly became illegible in parts. He was getting the hang of Abernathy’s system.

  His phone rang. He recognized Peregrine’s number. It was just after eleven. “Isn’t it a bit late to be calling on a school night?”

  “Ha ha,” she said drily. “You got a minute?”

  “Sure. What’s up?”

  “I’m out here at The Beach House, and I’ve run into a bit of a situation.”

  “Number one,” Shark said, “how can you be at a beach house? We’re nowhere near a beach. Number two, what kind of situation are we talking about—dead hookers or what?”

  “Not a, the. The Beach House is a dive bar off exit 148, and seriously? Dead hookers? That’s the first thing that springs to mind when I call? What is wrong with you?”

  Shark ran a hand over his hair, smiling at her teasing tone. “It’s been a long day.”

  “At least you didn’t have an Earth Science pop quiz on erosion. Anyway, there are no dead bodies. There’s just something out here that I think you’re going to want to know about. Can you come out for a bit?”

  He glanced at his watch. “Give me about twenty minutes.”

  “Ask for me at the bar.”

  He’d plugged The Beach House into his phone and been rewarded with relatively simple directions. But corresponding Yelp reviews hadn’t sounded promising for anything but food poisoning. The exterior seemed to confirm this. The parking lot was a mix of motorcycles, semis free of their loads, and one or two cars and standard trucks.

  He entered through a fishnet-draped door, where a bouncer was camped out, reading a comic book and consuming curly fries by the fistful. His massive bald head, covered in a light sheen of sweat even in the winter chill, glinted a reflection of the bar lights.

  Shark stepped around him. There were three Vagos at one table and a motley collection of quiet drinkers. The Vagos were all sporting prison tats and at least one of them looked familiar, but without an invitation, Shark kept moving. He was pretty sure the familiar one had spotted him too.

  The bartender was dressed in classic Chicana style with her hair in victory rolls and a red rose behind her ear. She gave him a serious once-over, but made no comment on her conclusions. “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “I’m looking for Peregrine.”

  “La halcónita,” she said. “I should have known. This way.”

  She exchanged a nod with the bouncer, then led Shark down a hallway, past the bathrooms, to an unmarked door. She knocked twice and opened the door.

  Inside a tidy storeroom was a man taped to a chair, his pot belly, covered in a hideous Hawaiian shirt, protruded from between straps of silver duct tape. He was sweating and stared at Shark with wide panicked eyes. He could be heard audibly breathing through his nose. Understandable, since Peri had also duct taped his mouth.

  Peregrine was sitting on a chair beside the door, her feet up on the shelving, playing vintage PAC-MAN on her phone. The bartender waited, arms crossed disapprovingly.

  So far Shark had only seen Peri in jeans or stretch pants with her ubiquitous All-Stars and some sort of sweatshirt. Forgettable clothes. Tonight, she was wearing a white tank top over a black bra, and a plaid shirt buttoned high at the neck. She’d paired them all with cuffed, but skinny, dark sweats and black Nike high-tops. She’d braided her hair down tight in French braids, which made her hair look darker, and her make-up was what he would call chola inspired. She easily looked twenty-one.

  “What the hell are you wearing?” he blurted out.

  She glanced down at herself as if she’d forgotten. “It’s called blending in.”

  “It’s called giving me PTSD flashbacks to Celocita Anchondo.” He hadn’t said that name in about a decade. Funny how it brought out the old neighborhood accent. “If I wake up screaming I never touched your sister tonight, I’m blaming you.”

  “Sounds like you earned it to me,” said the bartender, laughing. “Peri, holla’ at me if you need anything.”

  “Thanks, Luciana.”

  The door closed and left them alone with the guy in the chair. Peregrine rose and made room for Shark.

  “So,” Shark said. “Want to tell me about why I’m here?”

  “Well,” said Peregrine, “I’m here to meet a client.”

  “Another one?”

  “Don’t get me started. This week has been a total disaster. Next week had better be slower, because I’m so far behind on my homework it’s not even funny. Anyway, my client’s running late as usual. But while I was waiting, I overheard this guy,” she gestured to the man in the chair, “trying to offload his boat and some other large-ticket items.”

  Shark took another look at the guy in the chair. He was fifty something. Gray hair. Brown eyes. Looked absolutely terrified.

  “And I care because?”

>   She tugged at one of her earrings, looking uncomfortable. “Well, it’s none of my business. It wasn’t like I’m trying to know these things. But, you know, I see shit.”

  “What are you trying to say?”

  “His name is Fred Abernathy.”

  Shark considered his next move carefully. “And what do you know about Mr. Abernathy?”

  “Don’t get mad,” she said. “I don’t actually know anything about him. I read the name on that ledger you were looking at when I first met you in the bowling alley.” At the mention of the bowling alley, Mr. Abernathy began to hyperventilate. “And considering how many items he was trying to liquidate, it seemed like he was trying to get out of town. I thought you might be interested. So I…detained him.”

  Shark wanted to smile. She looked so cute and innocent, as if she were confessing to having borrowed five dollars without permission, not kidnapping and illegal imprisonment. Smiling wouldn’t have the effect he wanted on Abernathy, so he played it straight.

  “Why don’t you wait for me out in the bar?” he suggested, although he didn’t mean it as a suggestion.

  She shifted uncomfortably. He sensed that he was pushing her boundaries, but considering that she’d taped an accountant to a chair, he really wasn’t sure which one.

  “Sooo, Luciana is letting me use this room as a favor.” She paused as her phone burbled an incoming text alert. “Finally,” she muttered. “So if you could keep in mind that I have to continue doing business here, that would uh, keep me from having to pay some kind of rent.”

  “I got you,” he said.

  She nodded, but still looked uncertain, even as she edged toward the door. “OK, well, I’ll be out front.” He watched as the door swung shut behind her, waiting until he heard the latch click.

  Shark dragged the chair over and placed it in front of Abernathy. He took his jacket off, draped on the chair back, sat down. He’d started wearing sunglasses as a teenager because he’d become tired of the comments on his pale eyes—or to be more accurate, the comments about his pale parentage. One of the reasons he continued to wear them was that they enhanced the moment when he could take them off and give someone the look. He could do it without the sunglasses, but it was a bit harder. He had to think through someone. But Abernathy was barely there to begin with—thinking through him took two seconds.