Over Their Heads Read online

  OVER THEIR HEADS

  JB Kohl & Eric Beetner

  /

  Praise for

  Over Their Heads

  “Hard boiled pulp, hot off the press. The writing team of JB Kohl and Eric Beetner give the middle finger to polite crime writing and splatter the pages of Over Their Heads with foul mouthed, two-fisted action delivered in a hail of bullets. Neo-noir, transgressive fans will cheer. Drawing room mystery readers may need smelling salts. Don’t say you weren’t warned.”

  —Anonymous-9, author of

  Hard Bite and Bite Harder

  “Over Their Heads is a stripped down hot-rod of a novel. JB Kohl and Eric Beetner keep things fast and tight, with a gasp or a laugh on pretty much every page as an assortment of would-be badasses try to track down some missing drugs. It’s a comedy of errors, scored with the sound of gunfire.”

  —Jake Hinkson, author of

  The Big Ugly

  “Over Their Heads is a real tour-de-force from the writers that brought you One too Many Blows to the Head. A full-blown crime noir that will keep you on the edge of your seat!”

  —Bill Craig, author of the

  Marlow Key West Mysteries

  and the Decker P.I. mysteries

  Copyright 2015 by JB Kohl and Eric Beetner

  First Edition: June 2015

  All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  Down & Out Books

  3959 Van Dyke Rd, Ste. 265

  Lutz, FL 33558

  http://downandoutbooks.com/

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, events, or locales is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Cover design by JT Lindroos

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Over Their Heads

  Thanks

  About the Author

  Also by JB Kohl and Eric Beetner

  Other Titles from Down & Out Books

  Preview of Trey R. Barker’s Death is Not Forever

  Preview of Robert J. Randisi’s Souls of the Dead

  Preview of Matt Hilton’s Rules of Honor

  1

  CLYDE

  If Madeline didn’t go into labor we’d be eating steak tonight. In a restaurant. Because I would have enough cash to take her out for a change. I’d have money for dinner and clothes and a vacation and enough left over for the baby’s college and graduate school—anything else our kid could want.

  I rummaged through my sock drawer for a pair that matched. A wife at nine-and-a-half-months pregnant didn’t feel the best. In the past Madeline had been meticulous about organizing my sock drawer, folding and pairing them in neat rows. Those days were gone now, along with the days of creased khakis and starched shirts. My kind and beautiful wife had changed to someone pasty, swollen, and, yeah I’m gonna say it . . . bitchy.

  For now, at least, she was asleep, hand resting over her protruding belly, mouth slightly open. In these moments, before she woke up and started to cry over her swollen ankles and nag me about the long hours I spent at the rental lot, before she opened her mouth and swore at me and the dick that happens to reside between my legs, which was clearly responsible for getting her in this predicament in the first place, marriage vows or no . . . in these moments when it was just me digging in my sock drawer for a mate to the only one I could find, when I picked up my khakis from the floor and shook out yesterday’s wrinkles . . . I would watch her sleep and she was just my wife, the woman I fell in love with.

  I saw this movie once. It was one of those chick flicks I took her to on our last anniversary. Normally I don’t go in for that sort of thing, but it was our anniversary and that’s a time she tends to get sentimental and I’m almost always guaranteed sex. So I figure on those nights the least I can do is take her to a movie she wants to see, even if I have zero interest in it. I don’t even remember what the movie was about. Well, it was about a couple, that’s for sure, but the thing I remember is that the woman was pregnant. I mean hugely pregnant. And in one scene, the guy in that film bends over his just-about-to-pop pregnant wife and kisses her stomach. When that happened on the screen, next to me, in the theater, Madeline sighed and put her hand over her heart, and her breath hitched just the tiniest bit like it does when she is just about to cry or like when she watches those dog food commercials. That scene really got to her. I always remembered that moment, the moment in that movie when Madeline was moved by something so simple. We didn’t know it at the time, but she was already seven weeks pregnant and when we found out a week later and realized it was really, really real, I remembered that scene and played it out a hundred times in my head. I knew there would come a time when I’d lean over her and kiss her belly because it would make her happy. And, I don’t know, I guess I imagined myself whispering something profound and kind to her. So I had been biding my time, waiting until she was tired and heavy and hating being pregnant, because all the books told me that was exactly how it was going to be. I wanted it to be perfect. I guess the time never seemed perfect.

  Because today I watched her with my socks in my hand, and just felt . . . tired. So I turned and walked out. I tiptoed so she wouldn’t wake up and I shut the door behind me as quietly as I could. Hollywood and that damn movie could kiss my ass. And so could the goddamn actress with the rail thin legs and a belly with no stretch marks. Madeline was a real woman. Despite it all, despite being Misery’s Deity at the moment, she was a real woman, the mother of my child. She was mine. And while this filled me with pride and gratitude, mostly these days I was filled with fear.

  I toed through the pile of shoes at the front door, settling on a pair of bland loafers, and mentally ran over the day’s plans in my head.

  ONE: Get to work, open the rental lot. If I was honest, this was my favorite part of every day. I liked the lot. It was mine. I had named it after myself, hadn’t I? Clyde McDowd Rentals was, in a way, my first kid. And now, after marriage and with a real, actual kid on the way, it was the one thing that was entirely mine. It was clean, organized, filled with files and the smell of the pink cleaning solution the janitor used late at night. It was white tile floor and fluorescent lights. It was the roar of airplanes taking off and landing at Richmond International. It was business men and families. And somewhere along the way, it started to bring in a lot more money than it should have. Which is why I really, really needed to be at work on time today.

  I looked down at the scuffed loafer I had pulled from the pile of shoes. How could one couple own so many shoes? Even my shoes were something Madeline picked out for me. The house. The carpet. The paint. The towels in the bathroom. But Clyde McDowd Rentals? Not so, baby. Not so. I drifted into the kitchen and sank into one of the rickety wooden chairs at our vintage table and pulled on a sock.

  TWO: Check to make sure the Chevy Tahoe was ready to go. The ceiling seams needed to be perfect, the packets had to be laying right, behind a soft, thin layer of sponge. I always put a pack of Winstons in the glove compartment for the driver. Never hurts to kiss a little ass, just in case. I froze with the sock halfway on. Shit. I forgot the Winstons.

  THREE: Stop and pick up Winstons.

  The mattress in the bedroom groaned as Madeline pushed herself up. The giantess hath awakened, I thought, not unkindly. Hell, if Madeline had been her normal, petite, good-humored self, she would have laughed too. And some day, I was sure I’d tell her my vision of her at nine months pregnant�
�an angry, towering woman crushing all in her path, and she would laugh and punch me in the arm and say she loved me.

  I’d tell her about all of this one day and not just how grouchy she was. I’d tell her about everything I’d done for her, about everything I sacrificed, the risks I took, the plans I made for us, for our family.

  Today was not going to be that day.

  Today I shoved my feet in my shoes and popped a piece of bread in the toaster. I heard her approach from the other room and pasted a smile on my face. She opened the door and shuffled into the kitchen, her legs swollen, beautiful dark hair cascading down her back. My smile became a real one. No matter what, it was easy to love Madeline. All of it for you, I thought. “Want coffee?” I asked.

  She didn’t answer but reached to the cupboard above the coffee pot, stomach resting on the counter, hands fumbling for filters and coffee beans. “Let me do that,” I said. “You sit down. Put your feet up.”

  “It won’t help,” she said. “Nothing does. I’m a house.” She turned to look at me and I caught a glimpse of the clock on the stove at the same time I caught the look on her face. 7:45 on the clock. Worry on her face. Car lot opened at 8:00. I had been told to expect the driver any time after 8:10.

  Christ on a cracker.

  “You’re not a house,” I said, moving to hug her. She allowed the touch and rested her head on my shoulder. Her hair smelled like that really good shampoo she uses. 7:46.

  FOUR: Move Chevy Tahoe to the back part of the lot under the maple that tended to shit sap on cars all day long. No one ever wanted to drive a sap-speckled car. It was another reason I put the Winstons in the glove box.

  Madeline lifted her head from my shoulder and tried to smile. Then she burst into tears. I walked her to the table and sat her down. 7:47.

  “I don’t know,” she said, her face in her hands. “I just don’t know. I feel like this is it. Like this kid is coming out of me today. I’m so tired.” She slumped forward and rested her head on her forearms. “I am not up to this today. My back hurts. And why didn’t we find out the sex?”

  Because you didn’t want to. You said it was a good thing to be surprised. You said we wanted to experience the wonder of birth like they did in the old days. “We just didn’t,” I said. I ran a hand over her hair and kissed the top of her head. Then I pulled the filters from the cupboard, poured water in the coffee pot, and spilled coffee beans on the floor. 7:50.

  Madeline looked at the beans. “I can’t clean that up. I can’t bend down and clean that up.” She sniffled and started crying again.

  “You don’t have to, babe. I’ve got it.”

  “Those are expensive beans, too.”

  FIVE: Close shop doors at 5:00 p.m. and wait for instructions. At some point this evening, I would receive directions to the envelope containing a debit card and access to an account with my money. It was safer than cash and smarter, and I had done it a few times before already. This time was big, though. This was the last one, the one that would set us up forever.

  I swept up the beans and tossed them in the trash. 7:52. I was late. There was no way I’d make it there in time.

  I buttered the toast and spread peanut butter on it. Then I set it in front of Madeline and kissed her on the forehead. “I’ve got to make a call. I’ll be right back.”

  I knew I should offer to stay with her, to sit and hold her hand and stroke her hair and reassure her. If she only knew that this was all for her. I stepped out onto the front stoop and auto dialed Brent’s cell.

  There was fumbling as he picked up and a frazzled, “Yeah.”

  “You at the office?”

  I heard him clear his throat. “In the car in the Starbuck’s drive-through. Want anything?”

  “Need you to open.”

  “Sure.”

  “No. Listen. I need to you to open. This is important.”

  I listened as Brent ordered a Venti Caramel Macchiato and then came back on the line. “You sure you don’t want something?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Right. Open the lot. Got it.”

  “Shut the fuck up and listen to me, Brent. There’s a Chevy Tahoe near the front. I need you to jockey it to the back under the maple tree. Got it?”

  “Chevy. Maple. Tahoe. That’s a shitty tree. What do you got against that car?”

  I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Just do it. Don’t fuck up. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  I could almost hear Brent shrug through the phone. I had no idea what was worse. Having Madeline pissed at me or trusting the car arrangements to Brent. It’s like asking how do you want to die? Fire or drawn and quartered?

  2

  BRENT

  What the hell was up his ass? Clyde used to be such a great boss. I guessed it was the kid that had him on edge recently. I mean, I took the job because the hours were good, the pressure was low and the policy on smoking was lax.

  I watched all those Hertz and Enterprise jerks running around in their matching shirts and scripted sales pitches and I thanked sweet Jesus that wasn’t me. Still never thought I’d be renting cars out at the airport. Beats digging ditches, as my dad always said.

  I tried to understand what Clyde was going through though. A baby. That’s heavy. And him being a business owner. Entrepreneur. Sole breadwinner. I know I’m not ready for that yet.

  I kept feeling like something had been up for a while now, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. He would get all sweaty about once a month, giving orders on certain cars like this Tahoe now. When he told me his wife was pregnant I put two and two together. Lately, seemed like they added up to five.

  Not my business, though. We were friends, sure, but his life was his and my life was mine. To each his own, as my mom used to say. They said a lot of stuff, my parents.

  I opened the rental counter only five minutes late. Not bad for me. I’d almost finished refilling the brochure holders and the maps to Colonial Williamsburg, when the first customers of the day came in.

  A family on vacation, cranky from the flight which must have left wherever they came from while it was still dark outside. I’d be cranky, too. A mom with short, sensible hair and twenty extra pounds around the middle. A dad with a bald top and a ring of sad looking wisps circling the rim of his skull. He toted about eighty extra pounds around his belt line. Eight a.m. and already sweating like a hog.

  They pulled enough bags for a two-week trip and two kids who looked like puberty had run them down in the street driving a Sherman tank. A boy and a girl. They looked to be in the midst of a contest for which one could grow the most pimples. A dead tie so far, from what I could see.

  “Morning. How can I help you?” I said. First one of the day gets my special “helpful guy” treatment.

  Dad stepped in front of his depressing family and took charge. One look at him and I could tell the only time in his life he got to take charge of anything was with a pudgy, given-up wife and two kids destined to live out the rest of their lives waiting for their awkward phase to end. Congrats, Pops, you’re king of the royal family of kill-me-if-it-ever-happens-to-me.

  “We have a reservation. Griffin.”

  All business, this guy. Better than the chit chat of some jerk who got off an eight-hour flight and needed to vent about the shitty flight attendants and sub-standard food.

  “Okay,” I said. “Let me pull up your reservation.”

  I typed his name into the computer and his page came on screen. Another good thing about being with a small, independent rental company is we can pretty much count all the rentals on two hands in a day. There’s never a lot of searching for lost files around here.

  “Here we go. Minivan, right?” As if I needed to look that up in the computer.

  “Yes. Minivan. For two weeks.” His wife fanned him with a folded up map. I hoped his face didn’t turn any redder or I’d start to worry about the old guy having a heart attack in the lobby. The two sad sack kids stared blankly, the boy mouth-breathing throug
h thick braces.

  “That’s mileage included,” he sort of asked, sort of stated.

  “Yes. Mileage included.” I’m sure it made him feel like a real provider, a real hunter/gatherer to this family of Cro-Magnons.

  “Dad, I’m hungry,” the boy said.

  “Yeah, me too,” the girl followed up. Really? These lard-asses hungry? You don’t say.

  “We’ll get breakfast as soon as we’re out of here and on the road,” he said in that typical annoyed dad way. I bet he couldn’t wait to get behind the wheel so he could threaten them with the old, “If you don’t knock it off I’ll turn this car around and . . .” But if they were at an airport I doubted he was gonna drive them all the way home. Mileage or no mileage included.

  “Where y’all from?” I asked while the rental form printed.

  “Detroit,” he said, clipped and sharp to let me know that was all the information I would be getting out of him.

  I nodded. I figured I didn’t need to tell him what a shithole he lived in, so I left it there.

  “Here we are,” I said. I read him all the particulars; he declined the insurance. They all do. Anyone renting from us was a cheap bastard, so they all turned down the insurance. I got his info and offered to do the walk through of the van with him.

  “I think I know how a minivan works,” he said.

  “It’s more just to check for any damage to the vehicle so you won’t be liable upon return. And there may be a few things in the newer models you may not be familiar with.”

  “Da-a-a-ad,” the boy said, his impatience showing like the big red zit on his nose.

  “That’s fine, just tell me what spot it’s in and we’ll get going. We still have a drive ahead of us to get to the beach.”

  “I don’t know why you wouldn’t let my dad pick us up,” the wife said.