Page 23 of Givin' Me Fitz!
“What the hell are you two doing here? Don’t you have jobs to do?” I crooked my right eyebrow, glancing from one to the other.
“We’re on our lunch break. Hammer and Boyd showed up and said they’d relieve us, so we came to get something to eat. Arlo’s making us burgers. What’s up?” Spider smirked at me as if I was getting pissed for no reason.
Hammer and Boyd were old-timers in the club, both patched in under my father. Hammer—Henry White—had been an enforcer back then. He’d developed a bad ticker not long after Dad retired and had a heart attack that he’d barely survived. He mostly hung out to have something to do while his wife worked as a cocktail waitress at a small casino off the strip. I was cool with it.
I had no idea why Spider thought Hammer and that crabby old bitch, Boyd Townsend, could provide proper security if something popped off.
“We’ve got a missing guy. Tim Walton. I came to get Hobie to go with us to the kid’s parents’ place to see if he’s there.” I glanced around the large club room, not seeing Hobie. He hadn’t said anything about taking the day off, and I was concerned.
“Anybody seen Hobie around?”
“He left about an hour ago,” I turned to see T-Roy standing in the doorway to the back door.
“Where was he going?”
T-Roy shrugged. “Not my day to watch him.”
I flipped the smartass off as the front door opened and Gilly Tate—Gilbert, the server at The Roundup—came inside with two brown paper bags. The smells reminded me I hadn’t eaten breakfast.
I turned to Spider and Ders. “Take your food with you and get back to Tumbleweeds. Tiny and I are gonna go look for this Walton kid. Never leave Hammer and Boyd in charge of one of our places again.”
They both nodded. I didn’t trust Boyd in the least, though I was sure Hammer was a decent guy. The idea that they could provide security at a pot dispensary was fucking stupid.
“Sorry, prez. We’re on it.”
The two of them left, and I turned to Tiny. “Let’s go. We’ll be fine.”
We took my truck and headed out to Searchlight where Tim Walton’s family lived. It was a small town near the border of Arizona, and there were a lot of dicey areas that far out in the desert. It was rumored that a religious encampment had established itself fifteen years prior, after being run out of Arizona. That was all Nevada needed—more crazies.
I didn’t give a shit about crazed religious zealots, but I turned to Tiny. “What kind of shit will we find here?”
“What do you mean?” He glanced in my direction, but I could see he was holding something back.
“I mean, are we gonna meet some unreasonable motherfuckers with machine guns? Does your family still live out here?” I took the exit and turned left onto West Cottonwood Cove.
The town had a population of about four hundred and fifty people. There wasn’t much—a small casino, a convenience store, a fire station, a motel, and a fast-food restaurant. Not a hotbed of activity.
Tiny directed me toward the center of town. Funnily enough, I’d lived in Southern Nevada my whole life and had never ventured to Searchlight. I was guessing it was because there wasn’t shit out there as far as I could see. And I’d be right.
We turned onto East Encinitas and came upon a nice mobile home community with desert landscaping and tidy patios with nice seating groups. “Stop here. It’s just up there.”
Tiny pointed toward a double-wide trailer with an attached double carport and a white fence toward the end of the community. There was a car and a truck under the carport and another truck parked on the other side of the home.
I turned off the motor as directed. “You recognize those vehicles?”
Tiny nodded. “I know that one’s Tim’s old truck.” He pointed to a rusty brown Chevy parked by the trailer. “I think the others belong to his parents.”
“You think he’s in there?” I reached into the glove box and pulled out a can of pepper spray. I already had a gun behind my back, so I was prepared to do whatever was necessary once we knew what was going on. If I didn’t need to use deadly force, so be it.
“I don’t think he’d just leave his truck here and go off somewhere. He worked in housekeeping at a dive motel for months to buy it, so it’s pretty important to him.” Tiny opened the passenger truck door and stepped out, so I followed. Tim was his friend, and I was only there to back him up.
I stepped to the side where I wouldn’t be seen from the front door. Tiny walked onto the porch of the beige trailer and knocked. And again. Finally, an older woman opened the door wearing a housecoat. “Dean? What are you doing here?”
“I’m looking for Tim, Mrs. Walton. He didn’t show up for work today, and I’m afraid he might get fired if he doesn’t come in tomorrow.” Tiny stepped back and lifted a finger to point toward the back of the structure.
I slid along the side of the trailer to the back door that was open, probably to let the heat out. The screen door was closed, but I was guessing the air conditioning wasn’t top-notch in the metal box where they lived. I glanced through one of the windows, seeing an old man with a shotgun next to a recliner. I needed to get Tiny out of there before the couple became suspicious and did something irreversible.
There was slow pounding against the wall at the end of the trailer, so I hurried around the corner and stepped on a large rock to see into the window. There was a curtain that wasn’t completely closed, and when I peered inside, I saw the young redhead I recognized. He was tied to a bed and steadily whacking the wall the bed was pushed against.
