Read Online Blues in the Night by Dick Lochte - Free Book Online Page A

he heard someone clear his throat with a pointed ‘A-hem!’
    He jerked awake to see a man standing near the car, staring into his open window. The guy was in his forties, a British stereotype, complete with off-white silk suit, ascot and brush moustache. Smiling genially. Not at all threatening.
    â€˜Help you?’ Mace asked him.
    â€˜My friends and I would love for you to join us.’ A British accent, no surprise. He made a graceful gesture with a thin, pale hand, indicating a baby-shit-yellow limousine, the ugliest color Mace had ever seen, parked on the opposite side of the road.
    â€˜It’s hideous,’ the Brit said, ‘but the interior amenities are excellent. And one has the advantage, while seated inside, of not being able to see very much of the exterior.’
    The reflection of the sun on the limo’s windows effectively kept Mace from getting a sense of who the Brit’s friends were, exactly. The open rear door didn’t show much more, other than a foot or so of dark brown rug and tan leather seat.
    â€˜I’m pretty comfortable right here,’ he said.
    â€˜Aren’t you the least bit curious?’
    Mace was. But not enough to get into a limo with strangers, even if he’d had a gun, which he didn’t. ‘You’ll have to do better than that,’ he said.
    The Brit sighed. He stared up at the sun and winced. ‘We were wondering why you’re parked here?’
    â€˜Any reason why I shouldn’t be?’
    â€˜That remains to be seen,’ the Brit said.
    Mace reached out suddenly and pressed the Camry’s starter. The car came alive almost immediately. But before he could move it into drive, he felt cold metal pressed against his neck.
    â€˜Don’t be rude,’ the Brit said. ‘I must insist you join us.’
    Mace turned off the engine.
    The Brit hopped back to avoid the car door should Mace attempt to swing it into him. He held his weapon steady and professionally while Mace got out of the car. As the two of them walked across the road to the mustard limo, Mace was able to see enough of the back of the driver’s head and neck to tell he was a black man wearing a white shirt, a black coat and sunglasses. He faced straight ahead as if his only interest was in the open road.
    Before entering the vehicle, Mace looked in at the other passenger. He blinked, and then looked again. What he thought he was seeing was a huge cowboy hunched forward on the leather-covered rear seat as if in eager anticipation. But it wasn’t the man’s western gear – the well-worn Levis, boots, a battered and sweat-stained Stetson – that made him doubt his vision. The Hollywood cowboy’s face was a duplicate of the twenty-something Elvis Presley’s, complete with sleepy eyes, curled upper lip and droopy jaw.
    As Mace got into the car, the Presley lookalike drew back, pushing as far away as possible. Then, with his lip curling even more contemptuously, he performed a smooth quick draw from his elaborately stitched holster.
    Mace paused, staring at the six-gun pointed at his chest.
    â€˜Holster your weapon, Timmie,’ the Brit said.
    â€˜Why should I?’ The cowboy Elvis seemed to be mocking the man, imitating his accent. ‘You’ve got a gun.’
    â€˜I’m the elder. That means you have to obey me.’
    Timmie returned his six-gun to its holster and folded his arms, staring forward, pouting.
    Mace sat, trying not to brush against him.
    The Brit took the remaining seat and pulled the door shut. ‘All in, Sweets,’ he shouted to the chauffeur.
    Mace heard the locks engage. He saw no release buttons on the doors. It was probably why the Brit had put away his gun. As long as the driver was in control of the doors, Mace wasn’t going anywhere.
    Sweets put the limo in motion and the Brit asked Mace, ‘Might I take a peek at your billfold, old man?’
    â€˜You boys have a very classy