“You mean we could beat the crap out of him.”
“Yeah, okay, we could beat the crap out of him. Anyway, it seems like there’s some potential for information there. Or we could break into Huevo R and D…”
“Huevo R and D is in Mexico,” Hooker said. “Not that Mexico is impossible, but the police probably have my plane grounded. We’d have to fly commercial. And that would be chancy.”
“How about residences. Does Ray Huevo have a house in the Concord area?”
“Oscar had a house on Lake Norman. I’m not sure how much he used it. I know Mrs. Oscar wasn’t in love with North Carolina. Sometimes I’d hear that Oscar was in town, but I never saw him out and around. I think it was…take care of business and get out of Hicksville. I don’t think Ray has anything here. There might be a corporate condo somewhere.”
“Am I missing anything?”
“The goons. Horse and Baldy. Huevo’s henchmen. We could try to get something out of them.”
“You mean like get them to confess to murdering two people?”
“Yeah,” Hooker said. “Of course we’d have to beat the crap out of them.”
“I’m seeing a pattern here.”
“My talents are limited. Basically, I’m only good at three things. I can drive a car. I can beat the crap out of people. And you know the third thing. It involves a lot of moaning on your part.”
“I don’t moan!”
“Darlin’, you moan.”
“This is embarrassing. Let’s get back to beating the crap out of people. Who would you like to take on first?”
“The spotter, Bernie Miller.” Hooker dialed a number on his cell phone. “I need some help,” he said. “No. Not that kind of help, but thanks, I might need it later. Right now I just need some information. I need an address for Bernie Miller, Spanky’s spotter.”
Hooker cradled the phone between shoulder and ear, listening while he rummaged around in the console and the door pocket. He came up with a pen and a crumpled Dunkin’ Donuts napkin, handed them over to me, and repeated the address. He disconnected and put the SUV in gear.
“Miller is recently divorced, so with a little luck, he’s alone in his house.”
“Who did you call?”
“Nutsy. He offered the use of his plane if I needed to get out of the country fast.”
Nutsy drives the Krank’s Beer car. He’s one of the older drivers and is a real good guy. He knows everyone and has probably forgotten more about racing than I could possibly learn.
“That address you gave me is on the lake,” I said to Hooker. “That
’s a pricey neighborhood for a spotter.”
“Maybe he can give you some financial advice while we’re beating on him,” Hooker said, cranking the engine over and putting the SUV in gear.
It wasn’t a long ride to Bernie Miller’s house in terms of miles, but I was having an anxiety attack and the trip seemed endless. It was midday when we cruised into his cul-de-sac. The house looked new. Probably not more than two years old. The yard was neatly trimmed, with sculpted flower beds and bushes that hadn’t yet reached lush status. A gray Taurus was parked in the driveway.
“So, how do we go about this beating thing?” I asked Hooker. “Do we just go up and ring the doorbell and then sucker-punch him when he answers?”
Hooker grinned at me. “Getting into this whole brutality mind-set?”
“Just wondering. Maybe that approach would be too aggressive for a guy with a gray Taurus parked in his driveway. Maybe that’s the approach we’d use if we were talking to a guy in a double-wide.”
“I used to live in a double-wide.”
“And?”
“Just throwing that into the mix,” Hooker said.