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9:52 p.m.
Violet and John crouched, hidden in the bosky area on the east side of the Swallow, a two-story building that reminded her of an old country mill. The top floor had an outer deck, and a few people had congregated up there to drink, talk and make out. She’d seen worse.
Classic country music filtered into the night air along with the scents of marijuana, cigarette and wood smoke. Trucks and UTVs were scattered in the open area in no real order.
John had parked half a mile down behind some brush, and they’d hoofed it the rest of the way. She’d made a good call on the shoes. The ground was soggy and downright muddy in some areas. The trees rustled, and rain splattered on her face. She studied the patrons cycling in and out. Some looked to be there for a friendly time, but there were more sinister-looking faces and what might be some underhanded exchanges going on in the parking lot. But that wasn’t why they were here.
The only familiar faces they’d seen enter in the almost hour they’d been scoping out the place were Cecil Johnson and Amy Miller—Darla Boone’s roommate. She’d been zero help aiding them in discovering who Darla cleaned for, which was why Violet was almost certain the victims were Whiskey Girls, running drugs and possibly prostituting themselves under his authority. People benefited from it, or they were too afraid to talk for fear they’d disappear like Earl Levine and Bobby Lloyd.
“I really do not like this guy Whiskey. Let’s go inside. Shake the branches of the tree with our presence and see what falls out. Nonchalant.”
“Easy for you to say. You’re always nonchalant.” He playfully nudged her shoulder.
They strode through the parking lot, turning heads, then entered the establishment, noticing but ignoring the wide eyes, scowls and whispers as they slowly moved through the fog of smoke and couples slow dancing to “Anymore” by Travis Tritt.
“That takes me back,” John muttered as they scanned the crowded bar.
“To what? The womb?”
“Eew. I meant listening to it in my teenage years because old country was cool. Now you’ve ruined it for me.” His voice was pleasant, but his eyes were wary as they scanned the bar, the patrons, hoping to spot Whiskey. A man like him, John had a feeling they’d know him when they saw him. A few men in the corner had halted their game of pool to glare. Others scattered or looked away.
John led them to the bar with a nicked wooden top and non-fancy barstools. Violet sat next to Cecil Johnson. “Hello again,” she said. He didn’t seem to fit in either, but he appeared relaxed.
He pulled on his beer then set it down with a quiet click. “Hello again, Agent. Doesn’t seem like your kind of atmosphere. Official business?”
“I’m always on official business, Mr. Johnson.”
He turned his attention to John. “How you liking that wallet?”
“Very nice, thanks.” John leaned against the bar then paused as his sight landed in the corner booth.
“I never asked what you plan to do with your cross.”
Violet kept her gaze on John and the booth, then he turned. “I’ll be back.” He headed for the hall near the bathrooms.
Cecil repeated his earlier statement.
She shrugged. “I don’t know. What would you do with it?”
“I’d probably hang it somewhere I could see it often. Let it remind me of my sins so as not to repeat them. A sin repeated isn’t a mistake, you know.” He tapped his spindly finger on the bar. “Another, Donnie.”
“Another what, CeCe?”
Cecil eyed the bartender. “You know, Agent, some men play dumb. Some...they just are. Consequences of inbreeding.”
Donnie came across the bar, but Cecil was fast—lightning fast—and pulled back. “Tsk-tsk. You don’t want to do that, Donnie.” Their eyes met, and Donnie backed down.
Was he afraid of Cecil? Cecil didn’t appear tough, not compared to the bartender’s brawn, but his eyes...those intense blue eyes were cold. Piercing.
Cecil shifted on his stool. “Would you like to dance, Agent?”
She met his gaze. “No, thank you.”
“I see.”
“Nobody wants you here, pig!” a deep voice boomed. Violet swiveled as the old-school jukebox quieted, clicked, and Three Dog Night’s “Shambala” filled the smoky atmosphere.
She noticed the drunk in the far corner huffing and puffing. It appeared John had it under control, but she kept an eye on him in case it escalated.
