Dan dragged his feet off the beer crate and sat up, a move both his head and his body protested. He bent forward, resting his elbows on his knees and his forehead in his hands.
Boar's Head, Shamrock, cocaine.
He stared at the floor, thinking as hard as his aching head would let him think.
Boar's Head, Shamrock, cocaine.
Suddenly, Dan sat up. Shamrock never went anywhere except work and his room down on Ashworth Avenue. He certainly couldn't have hidden all those bags in his little room. Besides, that was the first place the cops and the smugglers would've tossed.
Which brought him right back to the High Tide. And if Shamrock had hidden the cocaine here at the High Tide, where the hell else could it be but in the one place no one ever wanted to go except Shamrock Kelly–the crawl space under the floor Dan was staring at right now. The crawl space was filthy and it stunk and you had to crawl on your hands and knees just to get around. Christ, Dan himself had only gone down there once or twice in all the time he'd owned the business. Dianne hadn't been down there at all. Every so often there'd been a drain backup or some other problem that had to be taken care of. The only one who'd take care of the problem–in fact, volunteer for the duty– was Shamrock Kelly. If he had the dope, the crawl space was the perfect place to hide it. The man came to work so late that even the drunks who splashed out after the bars closed were long gone. No one would've been around to see him hauling the bags from his car to the back door of the restaurant.
Dan eased himself out of the chair, locked the office door, and limped over to the access hatch in the far corner of the room. He grabbed the handle of the wooden trap door and opened it, then gently lowered himself the few feet to the cellar floor. It seemed to take years before he located the string for the single overhead light bulb and pulled, flooding the crawl space with light. And there they were. Against the back wall. Duffel bags stacked neatly one on top of the other.
He crawled over on all fours. He opened the zipper on the closest bag, took one look at the kilos inside, and zipped the bag closed. Then he retraced his steps, unlocked the office door, and sat back in the chair.
Now what? Hand the stuff over to the two state cops and try to convince them that he had nothing to do with its theft and the murders? That the coke just happened to be hidden all this time in the cellar of this restaurant, right below his feet? He almost didn't believe it himself. Even when they had the coke, they'd probably still make life hell for him. Big time.
Besides, he had the smuggler to worry about. How could you protect your family from people like that? In the long run you couldn't.
And Peralta? Dan had to handle him, but that could come later. He owed the man.
So it wasn't hard for Dan to see that handing the stuff over to the smuggler was what he had to do. At least that would keep his family alive. The rest he'd deal with when the time came.
Unfortunately, he'd experienced firsthand what coke could do. His stomach backed up into his throat when he thought about releasing all that shit on the streets. But his children's lives were at stake. His first obligation was to them.
The beating he'd taken must have rattled his brains a bit, because as he sat there on the chair all banged up, his feet up on the empty beer case again, an idea gelled in Dan's head: ask the smuggler for money to get the coke back. Crazy? Maybe. But if this worked, he could use the money to buy back the High Tide or open a new bar. And when his wife saw that he was getting it together again, he might win his family back. It was worth a shot, especially since it was the only shot he had.
Sure the smuggler would probably try to kill Dan before handing over the money, but they'd probably try to kill him anyway.
He'd have to come back tonight after the restaurant was closed and move the coke, but now he had some arrangements to make. Dan got out of the chair, walked out of the office, and right out the High Tides' back door. Outside it was late afternoon and Ocean Boulevard was crowded with people and cars. All the noise made his head throb. His body ached and he had a limp, but he moved along at a good clip.
The first thing Dan did when he got back to the cottage was pull the shotgun out from under his bed and sit down in his chair. He snugged the shotgun in his lap like a child's security blanket, called the beeper number the smuggler had given him, and punched in his phone number. He sat there waiting for the return call, surprised that he felt fairly calm. In about ten minutes the phone rang. On the fourth ring he answered it, told the man on the other end he'd found the missing coke, then listened to the rant.
"Listen, you cocksucker. If you don't hand over my fuckin' product, I'll come over there and cut your cock off and shove it in your mouth."
Dan didn't feel so calm anymore. He squeezed the shotgun grip and took a deep breath. When the voice on the other end stopped yelling for a moment, Dan told him what he wanted and how he wanted it done. And even though his voice was shaking, he got it all out. And that was something.