Between Black and White by Robert Bailey

Author:Robert Bailey
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Mystery, Private Investigators, Conspiracies, Thrillers & Suspense, Spies & Politics, Legal, Thriller & Suspense, United States, Thrillers, African American, Crime, Literature & Fiction
ISBN: 9781503953079
Publisher: Thomas & Mercer
Published: 2016-03-14T16:00:00+00:00

Thirty minutes later the men were seated inside the restaurant at the table closest to the band. Burns had ordered two dozen oysters, but he wasn’t eating them, having moved his chair to the neighboring table, where the group of bikini-clad college girls—four sorority sisters from Jacksonville State on a last trip to the beach before classes started—reveled in Peter’s stories from the Sundowners Club. Either that or they were just putting up with him because he kept buying them beers and shots and charging them to Rick’s credit card.

I’m going to have a three-hundred-dollar bill, Rick thought, putting an oyster drenched with cocktail sauce on a cracker and popping it in his mouth. He washed the concoction down with the remains of another Corona, his second, and leaned back in his seat. Taking out his phone, he went to check his e-mail and see if he’d missed any calls, but his phone was now dead.

Damnit. In his haste to leave Pulaski, he’d forgotten to juice up his phone and had left the charger on the dresser at the bed and breakfast. Stealing a glance at Burns, he made his way to the restroom, wondering if Darla Ford was really going to show, or if this was just one big hoax. A con played by a strip club bartender who had spent his whole life playing folks like Rick. Maybe, he thought, but what are my other options?

When he returned to his seat, the band was playing John Anderson’s “Straight Tequila Night,” but Rick wasn’t hearing anything. He looked at the barely touched plate of oysters, and he wasn’t hungry.

“Another beer?” the waitress yelled from behind him, and Rick gave her the thumbs-up sign. Blinking his eyes, he realized that the table of bikini-clad girls was gone, and there was no sign of Burns.

Rick turned all the way around in his chair, his eyes frantically scanning the crowd. Where the hell was Burns?

He stood and did a sweep of the bar with his eyes, still not seeing him, and then began to walk around the place, which was packed, his eyes darting to every corner, nook, and cranny. Nothing.

Rick lumbered back to his seat in a daze. “Have you seen the guy that came in with me? Hawaiian shirt, shorts, stubble?” he asked the waitress, who was setting a Corona down at his place at the table.

“The guy talking with the table of girls?” she asked, pointing to the now-empty table.

“Yes,” Rick said, nodding. “Did you see—?”

“I’m pretty sure he left.”

Rick just stood there, unbelieving, as the waitress walked away from him. He slunk down in his seat. Burns was gone. He’d driven the bastard to Destin, Florida, and now he was gone. And Rick had no idea where. Had he left with one of the girls at the adjacent table? Or had he just split the minute he saw Rick head to the bathroom?

Damnit. Rick held the cold longneck to his forehead and closed his eyes. The band started in on “Whiskey River,” by Willie Nelson, and Rick couldn’t think of a more appropriate song.

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