Read Online KNIGHT'S REPORTS: 3 Book Set by Gordon Kessler - Free Book Online Page B

dolla’ question.”
    “We need to find him.”
    “Now y’talkin’!” he said. “Let’s he’p y’up.” He held out a big, weathered hand.
    After assisting me over to a stool at the counter, he went to a small refrigerator, pulled out a bag of frozen vegetables and then slapped it onto the back of my neck.
    “There, boy — hope tha’ makes up fo’ the bell-ringin’ I give ya.”
    I held the bag to my head. “It does.”
    “Wha’s the plan?”
    “I hoped you had one.”
    “Wull, near’s I ca’tell, young Billy’s down’n the Honey Island Swamp, somewheres. Don’t knows where, ‘xac’ly. He done tol’ me tha’s where those missin’ kids gone. Say a sheriff’s dep’ty come by to enlis’ in the Ma-rines. Wanted t’get ‘way — t’save ‘is ass. Tol’ him ‘bout those kids bein’ ‘napped an’ Sheriff DePue was in the middle o’ it. Say couldn’t trus’ nobody — Sheriff had people everwheres. Then, nex’ mornin’ that dep’ty turned up dead.”
    “Missing kids?”
    “Yessah. There been dozens gone amissin’ o’er the las’ few weeks — pro’ly nea’ fi’ty o’so. Ain’ seed nuttin like’t ‘n all m’six’y-nine ye-a’s.” He held his chin for a moment. “How ‘bout w’go an’ take a drive-by, look see we cain’t find young Billy. I knows some people, knows some people, mi’ know.”
    I nodded and stood with the frozen veggies clenched to my head. “Let’s go.”
    After another Walter Brennan laugh, he went back to pull the shades and lock the front door. He turned the sign on the glass pane over to closed .
    “Now Ella Fitzgerald, you’s gonna stay righ’ ‘ere ‘till we get back. An’ don’t ya be havin’ them lil’ yappers afore our r’turn , mon chéri!”

 
     
    Chapter 10
    Hoodoo High
     
    After Black Zack shut out the lights in his Jazzy Brass horn shop, he dropped a broom across the doorway before he headed to the back room.
    “What’s that about?” I asked.
    He said, “Keeps them evil spirits out — don’t need no witch comin’ in messin’ with Ella Fitzgerald an’ her soon t’be yappers.”
    I grabbed the Mach 10 and my wallet and followed him into the back room, past an old, worn out cot and a restroom, and then through an outside door. Parked behind the shop was a blue, well-maintained ‘52 Dodge pickup with what looked like hay bales stacked in the back.
    “Nice ride,” I said, admiring the old split-window Mopar truck.
    “Thanks. Don’t pay n’mind t’them alfalfa bales. They’s f’my couz’s goats.”
    I held my comments as I went around to the passenger side. Another golden retriever sat beside the door. This one had its mouth full of tennis balls.
    Zack got behind the wheel and unlocked and opened the passenger door. He saw the dog. “Don’t pay n’mind t’him, neither. Him’s Satchmo — baby-daddy to Ella Fitzgerald’s soon a’comin’ yappers. Neighbor lady Ann Monett’s dog. She gots some hot stuff, know’d wha’I’mean? Her ol’ doggie there’s sweet as k’be — get’s some kinda kick outa stuffin’ his mouth with them tennis balls. His record’s five.”
    The dog wagged his tail as I patted his head and stepped around.
    I got in and Zack started the engine.
    I asked, “What about a woman called Poodoo? Is she a friend?”
    Zack looked at me questioningly.
    “A goon named John Poppy mentioned her.”
    “That murd’rin’ bastard lay a han’ on P’doo, I swear I kill ‘im!”
    “Poppy won’t be laying hands on anybody ever again.”
    The Brennan laugh came again. “You’s kill’m, boy? Hot damn — good wook!”
    He put the floor shift into gear, and we headed out over the curb and into the street. With the punch of the button on a CD player hanging under the dash, the rhythmic beat of Ram Jam’s “Black Betty” began.
    “We gonna meet up with Poodoo time come later. She’s on t’sumpin big.”
    “What do you think’s happened to Billy?”
    “Last I know’d, he’s a