The weathered wood siding had maybe been painted once in its fifty-plus-year existence, but only random streaks of lead-based paint remained. Plastered to the side of the front were painted wood letters, spelling out The Black Oyster, except the c, k, and t were missing so it read The Bla Oyser. Maybe that was German for something…
Pushing away my fears, and Cole’s strong warning to stay home and not do anything stupid, I got out of my vehicle and purposefully strode to the door. A sticky substance latched onto my hand as I gripped the iron door handle and gave the heavy wooden door a hard tug.
Inside, the offensive stink of stale smoke assaulted my nostrils, making my eyes water. Two hardened logger types glanced up from their drinks at a nearby table and gave me the once-over. A shiver raced up my spine as I tried to wipe my hand off on my jeans.
Country music filled the air, broken up by the sound of crashing pool balls at the back, but I walked straight ahead to the bar. The bartender was a man probably in his thirties, but with his ball cap and scruffy beard it was difficult to tell. His eyes raked over me, brazenly checking me out. For once, I was thankful for the colder weather, which had ensured that I was fully clothed.
“Hi,” I said as I stepped up to the wooden bar, covered in nicks, careful not to touch the surface for fear of some type of contagious bacteria that could be lurking there. “I’m looking for a man named Sting Ray. Is he here?”
The bartender looked me up and down again before giving a faint chuckle. “Who wants to know?”
I assume he meant me, but I didn’t feel like giving him my name. “I have business with him,” I tried to come off as tough and edgy, but let’s be real, I was way out of my element.
He snickered. “He’s in the back,” scruffy beard man motioned with his head. “Can I get ya anything?”
From this establishment? Heck no.
“Do you have bottled water?” Drinking from the tap here would be dangerous, but I felt I should buy something.
He snorted. “Nope.”
“Diet Pepsi?”
“Lady, this is a bar,” he drawled.
Yes, I was aware of that. And bars were supposed to have pop. Okay, apparently not this one. I dug my wallet out of my purse and pulled out a five. “Here,” I slapped it on the counter, then recalled the unknown bacteria I’d just touched.
Although that sticky scum from the door handle was probably worse. “Thanks for your help,” I mumbled and turned around to search for Sting Ray. Back in a far corner booth with ripped vinyl, I spotted a man with tan, weathered skin wearing a stocking cap. Even through the smoky haze and dim lighting I could see the hard glint in his dark eyes as he assessed me walking toward him.
“Are you Sting Ray?” I asked, annoyed at the slight wavering in my tone.
“Depends on who’s askin’.” He pulled a cigarette from a pack on the table and lit it.
Now probably wasn’t a good time to tell him that smoking was illegal in public buildings and had been for as long as I could remember. I had a feeling that none of the patrons in this place cared, to put it nicely. Bravely, I sat down on the edge of the ripped seat and did my best not to cough.
“I don’t think names are necessary,” I said. “After all, I doubt Sting Ray is yours.”
He smirked, then took a long pull on his cigarette. Up close, I could see his hygiene habits were seriously deficient. Greasy brown hair stuck out from underneath his beanie and his zip-up hoodie looked like it hadn’t been washed in over a year.
For a drug dealer, I expected some bling, maybe some leather, or at least athletic gear. Not this low-life drifter. “What can I do for you?” He exhaled a puff of smoke that wafted over me.
I coughed. “What can you tell me about Earl Henderson?”
His expression remained unmoving, and I studied him for some kind of flinch or twitch that would give him away, but there was nothing. Then he flicked the ash from his cigarette on the table. Classy.
“Don’t know him,” he said, unaffected, taking another pull on the cigarette.
“Oh really. I heard he was delivering packages for you,” I challenged, leaning forward in my seat (as much as it pained me to be any closer to the creep).
His eyes narrowed into a slithery glare. Maybe Snake or Python would have been a more fitting name.
“Look, I don’t care about whatever kind of operation you have going on. I’m trying to figure out who killed him.”
“It’s usually the wife,” he said, disinterested.
“Let’s pretend it isn’t. Do you have any idea what Earl might have been doing with a suitcase full of cash? I’m wondering if the cops might find your fingerprints on some of it.” I tapped my chin lightly, like I was considering the thought.
That got his attention. Snuffing out his cigarette on the table, he leaned forward. “What do you want?” he growled. I assumed he didn’t know the police already had the cash in question, or he might not be quite so cooperative.
“I want to know exactly what Earl was doing for you, and who may have wanted him dead,” I stated plainly.
“His brother brought him by a few months back, said he wanted to help out.”
The way he used the word help implied they were doing charity work. Sure, because everyone needs more drugs.
“He made deliveries for me a few days a week. I had no complaints.” He leaned back in the booth and glowered.
“What was he delivering?” I played dumb.
“What do you think, princess?”
