Blues Highway Blues (A Crossroads Thriller Book 1) Read online

The same camera-toting, concert-shirt-wearing crowd that had been wandering through the exhibits at a snail’s pace suddenly began to scream and run like they were Who fans in Cincinnati—and the band was beginning to play.

  In the midst of the chaos, Rabidoso reached into the exhibit, pulled out the urn, and casually let it drop as he picked up the disc behind it.

  Daniel dove to the floor, catching the urn before it hit. When he looked up, Rabidoso was standing over him, triumphantly holding up the CD. “Got it.”

  “I got it.” Moog snatched the disc and put it in his coat pocket.

  “Hey!” Rabidoso objected.

  “We gotta get out of this place,” Daniel called out before the mismatched partners could break into yet another sibling squabble.

  The three turned for the exit but only got a step or two before a security guard came charging in, his right hand readying the pistol holstered at his hip. “Stop right where—”

  Before he could draw his weapon or finish his command, Moog’s oversized fist silenced him. The guard dropped to the ground with a sickening thud and lay motionless as the three moved quickly past him. They ran down the hall toward the stairs, trying to blend in with the rest of the tourists frantically rushing toward the exits.

  At the head of the stairs, Moog noticed that the flow of fleeing tourists pouring downward was being interrupted at the bottom by five guys who looked like they’d just escaped from the Altamont exhibit. With their biker colors in full display, the gang pushed their way through the crowd as they made their ascent.

  The big man put a hand out to stop Daniel and pointed the group out. He thought he recognized two or three of them from New Orleans, but the leader of their pack was new. A guy with a tattoo across his face, a brute who was even bigger than Moog.

  “Oh, shit!” It wasn’t that Moog was scared—he hadn’t been scared of another man since he was eleven years old—but his grandmother hadn’t raised no fool. He turned and started looking for another exit. “Come on, let’s go this way.”

  When he noticed a pair of security guards running toward them, he called out, “There’s five bikers! They all have guns! They’re screaming crazy shit like they’re going to kill all the cops!”

  The security guards stopped in their tracks. The one who looked like Paul Blart’s fatter, older brother yelled at the crowd, “Everybody remain calm! Remain calm!”

  But the one who seemed like he could have played point guard for the Cavs stopped them in their tracks with an oversized palm in the center of Moog’s chest. “Stop your running,” he told them. “There’s an exit right over there.” He pointed them away from the crowd toward a door at the other end of the hall marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. Moog and Rabidoso did as they were told, but Daniel stood for a moment, struck by something undefined in the man. The guard just smiled. And laughed. “You best get your asses on the other side of it, mi key.”

  “But—”

  “Go! Now!” the guard shouted before diverting more of the crowd into the path of the bikers. Daniel understood—and turned and ran after his companions toward the door.

  Rabidoso was still laughing when he slid into the Lexus’s passenger seat. “Can you believe that shit?”

  Moog wasn’t amused. He forced himself behind the wheel and slammed the driver’s door closed. “Goddamn it! Do you realize what you just did?”

  “Yeah. I got what we were after,” the pint-size killer bragged. “And I did it in about two and a half hours less than it would’ve taken the two of you.”

  Sirens wailed in the near distance, louder and louder, their numbers increasing.

  “This place is going to be swarming with cops in a minute. They’re gonna be looking at videotape in an hour. And they’re fucking going to see us!” Moog shook his head. “If this goes bad because of you, I swear—”

  “You’ll what?” Rabidoso’s grin dared him to finish.

  Moog put the car in reverse instead. “We’re never working together again.” He pulled out of their parking spot. “   ’Cause one of us is never working after this.”

  “Good.”

  “Good.”

  The Lexus pulled out of the lot just before the Cleveland police arrived to cordon it off. As squad car after squad car sped past them, Moog drove at a very reasonable speed out of the city.

  “Are we not talking about the biker gang?” Daniel wanted to know. “Or are we going to pretend it’s just a coincidence they keep showing up trying to kill us.”

  “Did you see that big motherfucker?” Rabidoso laughed. “I wouldn’t have believed it, man,” he said to Moog, “but he scared the shit out of you. You were like a little fucking girl when you saw that horse.”

  Moog told his partner to fuck off, but he didn’t call him a liar. Then he looked back at Daniel. “Ain’t nothing to talk about. I got a job to do and I’m gonna do it.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Daniel was starting to worry that even if he stayed with Moog and Rabidoso he might not make it back to Vegas alive. “Your boss has pulled the plug on both of you.”

  Moog didn’t want to hear it. “I don’t know what you did to those guys. Maybe they’re still pissed about how it went down in New Orleans. I don’t know. But Mr. Preezrakevich ain’t gonna do me like that.”

  His partner didn’t say anything at all.

  When Cleveland’s skyline was shrinking in the rearview and Moog was reasonably certain they’d left the police back at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, he slid the disc into the player. “All right, Music Man, do your thing.”

  Daniel leaned forward on the seat and readied himself.

  The track started with a funkified bass line that whoever was laying it down would have termed “sexalicious” or “orgasmatastic.” It percolated and throbbed on its own before being joined by a drumbeat that sounded like a factory working overtime. They completed the sound with two wha-wha guitars that rolled and tumbled to the rhythm like two lovers trapped in sweat-soaked sheets.

  When the vocals joined in, it wasn’t the singer Daniel had come to know (and grudgingly appreciate) from the previous tracks, or at least it wasn’t just him. This time the vocals came as a harmony of two or three voices. Daniel thought it might just be an overdub effect, but it was probably an extra vocalist who’d been added to the project.

  Cash money

  Some people will sell their souls for it

  Some folks will give up their dreams

  Some people will trade you their flesh

  But it’s never what it seems

  Cash money

  It’s all some people want

  “It’s all I want,” Rabidoso interrupted.

  Moog flashed him a look. “Will you shut up.”

  Cash money

  It’s all they think they need

  Cash money

  In my pocket

  Cash money

  But it don’t own me

  Some people they don’t care who they hurt

  Some people they will steal just what they can

  Some people they will take another’s life

  But it don’t make them a man

  “Makes me a man,” Rabidoso joked again. “Who comes up with this shit?”

  “If you don’t shut up, I’m going to push you out of this car,” Moog threatened. “And we’re going eighty.”

  Cash money

  It’s all some people want

  Cash money

  It’s all they think they need

  Cash money

  In my pocket

  Cash money

  But it don’t own me

  ’Cause you can’t buy your way to heaven

  And you can’t bribe the hands of fate

  True love, it’s not for sale

  And you can’t buy more time when it’s too late

  Cash money

  It’s all some people want

  Cash money

  It’s all they think they need

  Cash money

  In my pocket


  Cash money

  But it don’t own me

  Danny, spent your whole life trying to earn a buck

  Daniel couldn’t help but bristle whenever the track began to address him personally.

  How’d that end up for you

  With a woman that didn’t give you love

  Made you do those things you do

  But now you get yourself a second chance

  That trip of yours is at its end

  You got just few more stops

  And then it’s all yours again

  Cash money

  It’s all some people want

  Cash money

  It’s all they think they need

  Cash money

  In my pocket

  Cash money

  But it don’t own me

  The funk bubbled and brewed on and on and then came to a sudden end as everything broke down in a crashing cacophony. And then silence.

  The answer was clear to Daniel. “Philadelphia.”

  Moog didn’t need to work the tracks out any longer. Daniel had proven himself and that was good enough for the big man. He nodded, pleased that something was working out. “We’re on our way.”

  “How you get Philadelphia out of that shit?” Rabidoso asked, his question suggesting there was no good answer.

  “It’s Philadelphia soul,” Daniel explained.

  Rabidoso changed his mind. “I don’t even want to know.”

  “Now that’s some good shit, right there,” Moog offered enthusiastically. “The O’Jays. The Spinners.”

  “The Three Degrees.” Daniel was quick to contribute. “Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes.”

  Moog nodded his big head. “Yeah, that’s some good shit right there.”

  “Chubby Checker and ‘The Twist’ came out of Philly,” Daniel added just for the sake of thoroughness.

  “I did not know that,” the big man admitted.

  “What are you, going to school now?” Rabidoso challenged.

  “I’m not getting into this with you right now.” That was all Moog had to say on the subject. “And you can always learn something new. You oughta try it sometime. Ain’t nothing to be proud of, going through life ignorant.”

  It’s a little over four hundred miles between Cleveland and Philadelphia and Moog and Daniel spent most of the trip calling out and trying their best to sing along to the songs they’d each grown up with.

  Somewhere along the way, Rabidoso turned back to Daniel and motioned at Moog. “He’s not your friend, you know. He’s not going to save you.”

  “Man, what are you talking about?” Moog protested.

  “I’m just setting him straight. You’re singing songs together like this is American fucking Idol, but we both know when this is all over you’re going to kill him. Just like I’m gonna.” He looked over the seat, focusing his reptilian eyes on Daniel. “Only you’ll do it quicker. A lot quicker.”

  “Yeah, well, don’t you go drawing any conclusions about just who I’m going to be killing at the end of all this.” Moog’s stern look underscored his point. “I might just surprise you.”

  “I might surprise you too.” Daniel’s voice came as a surprise to the killers, who looked back at him, unnerved.

  Every city in the world has a nickname or two, but there is no greater municipal misnomer than Philadelphia being called the City of Brotherly Love. At last count there were a little over a million and a half Philadelphians—and all but a handful are looking for a fight.

  Moog pulled the car to the curb and surveyed the block. “You’re sure this is where we wanna be?”

  “Two-twelve North Twelfth Street.” Daniel confirmed. “This is Sigma Sound. If the song was considered Philly soul, then it’s a good bet it was recorded right here.”

  “That’s good enough for me.” The big man slid out from behind the wheel of the Lexus and closed the door.

  Rabidoso climbed out of the car but was less impressed with the plan. “I say it’s enough of this bullshit. He’s just running us around. Let’s stuff him in the trunk, take him back to Mr. P., and see what we can get out of him.”

  Before the big man could respond, a voice called out, “Cowboys suck!”

  Rabidoso, proudly wearing his Dallas jersey, wheeled around to find a group of four men on the opposite side of the street. “You suck!” he called back, following it up with “Chinga a tu madre!” Satisfied he’d settled the matter, he turned back to Moog. “We need to stop all this musical shit and—”

  Hardness is a measure of the degree to which an object resists changing its shape when it is put under some pressure or force. The ice ball that whizzed across Twelfth Street had been compacted to a degree of hardness that could’ve been tested by a Schmidt hammer. When it struck Rabidoso—just above his right ear—the impact was enough to drop him to the ground like he’d been shot.

  A burst of uproarious laughter went up across the street as all four Cowboy-haters doubled over in high-pitched hysterics. “Suck on that!” one of them yelled and then rejoined the other three in more laughing. And a cheer. “E-A-G-L-E-S! Eagles!”

  Rabidoso was quick to get back to his feet as a matter of pride, but it was clear he was still a little stunned. He touched his right ear and calmly noted the thin trail of blood trickling from it.

  “Don’t do this,” Moog warned, but even the big man knew this was not the time to engage the psychotic hit man.

  Rabidoso rubbed his blood between his fingers, as if the feel of it was arousing to him. “La concha tu madre!” he screamed, as his tiny cowboy boots marched purposefully across North Twelfth Street.

  “Don’t do this,” the big man called after him, but he didn’t make any attempt to interfere. “Just let it be.” Rabidoso didn’t stop and Moog hadn’t expected him to.

  As the pint-size assassin approached the four Eagles fans, their laughter died to a Greek chorus of “Ooooooohs” and “Look at this! Look at this!”

  The biggest of the four stood up straight and puffed out his chest. He made his challenge sound like a single word, “Whatthefuckyouwant?”

  Rabidoso didn’t utter a word, but the answer was simple enough. He reached into the waistband of his jeans.

  Maybe the four men across the street had assumed their target was too small to stand up to their bullying. Maybe they’d miscalculated that any fighting would be limited to punches—and kicks, once the little guy was down on the ground. (It was Philly, after all.) But apparently none of them figured it might turn into a gunfight, because they all seemed genuinely surprised when he pulled out his 9mm and started firing.

  Crack. Crack. Crack.

  It all happened so fast that by the time Daniel, still standing by the Lexus, realized why the men were falling down, there were already three bodies on the ground.

  Moog started across the street and then thought better of getting directly involved in a multiple homicide. He turned back toward the car, shouting to Daniel, “Get in the car! We gotta get out of here!”

  The fourth man—the only one still standing—looked into Rabidoso’s eyes but only saw the devil looking back. He turned and ran as fast as he could, leaving his fallen friends behind.

  Rabidoso chased after him, stopping every four or five strides to fire another shot.

  Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack.

  The first two went far and wide, but the third and fourth hit their target and brought the man down like a whitetail on the Monday after Thanksgiving. He crumpled to the slush-covered street, twitched once or twice, and then went still.

  Rabidoso stopped running and walked calmly to where the man had fallen. He stood over him for a minute, savoring the terror contained in the man’s tearful whimper, “Jesus Christ, man. Please! I got a wife and kids, man! Please don’t do this!”

  Rabidoso crouched beside the man and looked him over. “You’re worried about leaving them behind? Your wife and your kids?”

  Blood and mucus streamed from the man’s nose and mou
th as he gagged out a weak, “Yes.”

  “I tell you what—” Rabidoso reached for the man’s wallet and met no resistance pulling it free. “I’ll tell you what, Anthony Esposo, 1411 Carning Street. I’m not a complete monster. I understand you’re worried how your wife and kids are gonna take care of themselves if I kill you here and now.”

  “Thank you,” the man offered for what he mistook as mercy.

  “So, you die easy now, ’cause when I’m done here I’m going straight to your fucking house to kill that cunt and your little fuckers!” The man started to squeal. Rabidoso put a single round in his head. Crack!

  Back on the sidewalk, one of the bullies was crying and screaming in pain. “Jesus Christ! Jesus Christ!”

  Moog knew there was more killing yet to come. He started up the car and yelled with urgency to Daniel, “Get in the goddamn car!”

  Daniel stood dumbstruck by what he was witnessing. Moog’s voice jarred him from his stupor and he ran back to the Lexus, pulled open the door, but then froze again.

  “Get in the goddamn car,” Moog ordered. “We gotta get—”

  Whatever hope they’d had when they come to Philly, it was all gone now. Hope was the fifth victim of Rabidoso’s rampage. After a multiple homicide, there was no way they could roam the city looking for musical clues to the secret location of his money. There was only one possible destination now: Vegas.

  If he even made it to Vegas. Daniel had just witnessed four murders. Was Rabidoso going to let him live?

  No, if there was any chance of saving himself or his son he had to go. Now.

  Behind him, Daniel heard Moog screaming, “Erickson! Get back here!” Then several more cracks as Rabidoso finished what he’d started. There was a brief moment of silence, suddenly shattered by the mournful wails of approaching police sirens in the distance.

  Daniel didn’t pay attention to any of it. He just ran.

  He ran, but he knew he couldn’t run fast enough or far enough. There would be people looking for him now. Lots of people. All sorts of people. He had to find a place to hide. And a way out of the city. His mind raced, searching his surroundings. The seafood delivery truck he noticed parked at the back end of the alley off Race Street seemed to offer both.

  After his last ride in a truck, Daniel didn’t bother to ask the driver for permission to come aboard. Instead, he slid open the back door and climbed up into the empty cargo hold, taking a seat with his back against the far wall. Uneasily, he waited for the driver to complete his delivery and then get him somewhere far, far away.