Slow Curve on the Coquihalla by R E Donald

Author:R E Donald
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Mystery, Thrillers & Suspense, Thriller & Suspense, Crime Fiction, Crime
Publisher: Proud Horse Publishing
Published: 2013-11-19T06:00:00+00:00

– – – – – SEVENTEEN

The rusty yellow Volvo rattled to a stop in the parking lot at The Goal Post and the driver's door swung open, adding another dent to the side of the multi-colored K-car parked beside it. Sorry slammed the door shut, then bent to examine his reflection in the side mirror. Hunter had given him a hundred bucks for expenses while he sussed out this Bilodeau guy, and he just might have to buy some foxy chick a drink. As part of his cover, of course. It had been a while since he'd been out to a bar with that much cash in his pocket. Hell! It'd been a while since he'd been out to a bar! He preened his moustache, turning his head from side to side, then licked his finger and straightened his eyebrows. He stood back and patted the snarling grey wolf on his teeshirt. Satisfied, he blew himself a kiss. As he walked across the parking lot, he flexed his wrist as if his fingers were curled around the throttle of his Harley. The hooded black cobra slithered along his forearm, sexy as ever. He chuckled out loud. Sexy as ever.

Just as he was reaching for the door handle, the door swung outward and there stood the blonde hag Hunter had brought by to spend the night. Behind her, with a hand on her rump, was a big man, middle aged, wearing jeans and a light colored plaid shirt. A small paunch strained the two buttons above his belt buckle, and a baseball hat sat back on his head exposing a tall, pale forehead.

"Hey, Sorry. Hi!" she said in her smoke and whiskey voice, grinning. "Remember me? Carla. I was at your place last week, with Roy Rogers, remember?"

"Right. Carla," said Sorry. "Roy Rogers. Right." Hunter had told him not to let his target know that he had any connection with Hunter, and this big-mouth blonde could easily blow his cover.

Carla reached behind her and grabbed the guy following her, pulled him up beside her, wrapping both her arms around one of his like she thought he might make a run for it. "Sorry, this is Skip," she said.

Skip didn't look too friendly. "Let's go," he said to Carla, heading on through the door and letting it close behind him.

"Gotta go!" she said to Sorry, then lowered her voice to a whisper. "Guess what Skip does for a living? You know what they say, eh? Lonely truckers make good ..." She flashed her gold tooth roguishly, "... lovers!" She winked and followed old Skip out the door.

Sorry heaved a sigh of relief. He hoped they were leaving for good.

It was just after eight o'clock, a time at the Post when plaid work shirts and steel-toed boots start to give way to clean jeans and cowboy boots. A band was setting up on the raised stage, and a few "test, test"'s burst sibilantly through the speakers. The room welcomed Sorry with the familiar smells of smoke and beer.

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