Chapter 11 Luisa
Two days later, Holly and I are inside my SUV, following the blue GPS line on my navigation screen down a Westlake back road, in pursuit of our only viable lead: a harebrained, half-baked scheme for a makeover and a phony angel investor.
We learned the pool shark’s name is Eli—as in Elijah, a biblical name that means “man of God.” And as I turn off the highway by a roadside marquee advertising Live Bait & Tackle and HOT Boiled Peanuts, I’m praying this man has God’s luck on his side, because I can’t believe we’re trusting a country grifter to get us into a country club.
I really need to rethink my life choices.
After Ginny proffered the pool shark’s name, I ran a thorough search on Elijah Denvil Sweet Jr., age twenty-seven, of Westlake, Georgia. I was glad that my degree in investigative reporting was still useful, given the student loan repayments that would keep coming every month into perpetuity.
Granted—if I’m being honest with myself—my extraordinary sleuthing skills might also be the reason I’ve never gotten past a third date.
Because at some point, an investigative journalist ends up researching everyone.
This is how I found out that Lying Liam was still married—not divorced, as he insisted even after I confronted him.
Delinquent Daniel had an outstanding arrest warrant for public urination.
And Mama’s Boy Marcus, age thirty-five and gainfully employed, still lived in his parents’ basement for no good reason other than that his mother did his laundry.
Elijah Denvil Sweet Jr., though? Nothing.
Beyond his home address and current place of employment, there was not much else available.
Which could only mean one of two things: He’d gone through the trouble of expunging his online history, or he had intentionally avoided having a traceable history in the first place.
Either scenario begged the question why.
A red flag in and of itself. A flag I’m choosing to temporarily ignore, because short of a heavenly intervention, there’s no other feasible plan.
I shift my SUV into park in front of Happy Hooker, Inc., then turn to Holly, one eyebrow raised.
“What?” she says. “It’s charming.”
Strands of multicolored Christmas lights hang across the porch, and a U.S. flag waves over a sign that reads You might be a Redneck Fisherman if… Number one on the list: You made a homemade hot tub with a trolling motor.
“What the hell is a trolling motor?” I ask.
“It’s for fishing boats,” Holly says, clearly feeling proud to know this. “I used to fish Crystal Lake with my neighbors. Good old-fashioned rod-and-reel. Bream mostly, but sometimes we’d catch a nice-size bass or a crappie—”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I break in. “Let’s go in before I realize what a huge mistake this all is.”
We get out of the car and make our way toward the shack.
Most of the porch is taken up by an ice machine and a giant wooden sign listing the types of bait for sale—a truly disgusting array including live crickets, leeches, and nightcrawlers.
Holly flings open the screen door, and we step inside.
It must be our lucky day, because our angel is sitting behind a very crowded counter, grasping several live worms in his left hand.
Our eyes meet and we stare at each other for a beat, his brow furrowed in confusion.
“Didn’t I see you in Ginny’s bar a couple of times?
” he asks in that deep, husky, brooding voice that reminds me of a woeful country song.
His eyes cut behind me, past the window to the parking lot, then he snaps his fingers beside his face.
“Hoity-toity SUV girl,” he exclaims in recognition.
In one slow gaze, he surveys the country-girl fishing outfit I painstakingly put together for our little outing.
My stomach inexplicably flutters as his eyes travel down my body.
Once again, he seems to recognize my efforts to blend in.
I’m reminded that chameleons, even when deeply camouflaged, can recognize each other.
“Nice getup. Very authentic,” he sneers. “You lost or somethin’?”
“Hi there,” Holly exclaims brightly, no doubt trying to save me from his jabs. “We were looking for you.”
“We have a proposition for you, Elijah,” I say curtly, getting right to business.
He narrows his eyes, then dumps the worms into a plastic container.
“It’s Eli,” he says, brushing dirt from his hands.
There’s a slight trace of grease under his clipped fingernails, which are framed by ragged cuticles.
This man works with his hands, I realize.
“Elijah’s my deadbeat dad.” Then, breaking into an utterly charming smile, he adds, “Whatever you have in mind, it’s not my thing.
” He throws both hands in the air in mock surrender. “No judgment.”
I roll my eyes. Holly’s cheeks have turned tomato red. Did he think we were making that sort of proposition?
“It’s not like that,” I say, glancing at the laptop and various accounting reports laid out on the counter beside him. “I’m a journalist.” I pass him my business card. “I’m working with a family a few miles from here. They’re about to lose their home, and we need your help.”
Eli’s phone dings. He reads the screen and scowls. “Sorry, I’m not your guy. Now, if you’ll excuse me, these ain’t gonna count themselves.” He gestures toward a few dozen containers in the fridge behind him.
Holly shoots me a panicked look, then marches past me, disappearing behind an extensive display of fishing rods, hooks, weights, and sinkers. Where the hell is she going?
“We’ll make it worth your while,” I say, briefly distracted by a list of Carp Juice Flavors set next to an extra-large jar of hard-boiled pickled eggs and another of pickled pig’s feet. “Think of it as contract work,” I add, moving closer to the counter, forcing him to meet my gaze.
He studies me intensely, turning my attempt at assertiveness into a moment of surprising intimacy. Oddly, a pang of panic settles in the pit of my stomach. It can only be yet one more sign that this plan is insane, but given our nonexistent options, I push on.
“We’ll pay you to pose as an investor in a development right here on Westlake,” I tell him, my tone pragmatic, professional. “All you have to do is record the deal.”
“Y’all are barking up the wrong tree,” he blurts out, his accent dropping into a thick backwoods drawl.
An enormous tabby cat jumps from his lap, momentarily pausing our conversation, and heads across the room, along rows of coolers and bins, all presumably crawling with live bait, above which hang about a dozen cricket cages.
The cat yowls as he brushes past Holly, who is ambling back with a Happy Hooker trucker hat over her head and a heavy-looking golf bag behind her.
In the same breath, she asks, “How much for the hat?” and “Are these your golf clubs?” She waves a driver in the air.
“Would you happen to play golf?” She raises both eyebrows at me with a silent Told you he’s our guy!
Eli grabs a pencil from inside a mason jar. “Twenty-five for the hat. And we don’t take Amex.” Then he scribbles something on an inventory sheet. “There’s a few public golf courses round here. I caddy sometimes. Tips are good. Hustles are better.”
“What do you mean, ‘hustles’?” Holly asks.
“What’s it to you?” he says, cutting an impatient glare to a wall clock hanging above a sign that reads It’s Fish O’Clock Somewhere.
Holly slips the driver back in the bag. “Looks like you could use some new clubs.”
“Those suit me just fine,” he replies, nonchalant.
Eli types something on the laptop, then sets one of the blue containers from the fridge on the counter beside him. The lid has about three dozen tiny holes punctured through it, and a round sticker that reads Not Your Ordinary Happy Hooker.
“What the hell is that?” I ask.
“What? You ain’t never been to a bait ’n’ tackle before?” Once again, he leans into his backcountry lilt, the one he seems to turn on and off at will.
“I haven’t had the pleasure,” I say snarkily, watching him intently as he removes the container’s lid with a flourish and drops the contents into what looks like… a roasting pan?
“Up in here, ma’am, we got some grade-A, top-of-the-line, big catch, fishing worms.” Thick, pinkish worms crawl out from under a handful of dirt.
“And if worms ain’t your thing, we got minnows, leeches, shrimp, shiners, goldfish, baby catfish, bream.
We go through damn near twenty-four-hundred crickets a week in summertime.
” I ignore the sneering tone behind his facetious country-boy sales pitch, grateful when the store’s phone rings and he turns to answer.
We’ve already wasted enough time. We need to get to the point of this little visit.
I adjust the bill of my trucker hat, then mirror Eli’s stance.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned in years of field reporting, it’s that quickly earning a source’s trust requires making eye contact, matching their inflection, and adjusting my posture to set them at ease.
Coincidentally, these are also the same qualities that make for a great con artist. Eli, with his pool hustles, his secrets, and his untraceable history reminds me of every other trickster on the face of the planet—including my own father.
A growing list of indisputable facts makes it clear that Eli cannot be trusted, which, paradoxically, also makes him perfect for our scheme.
But it doesn’t mean I have to like it, or him.
It does mean, however, I’ll have to keep him at arm’s length at all times—or risk losing my objectivity.
If things get icky, we bail. I refuse to repeat my mother’s mistakes and fall prey to a scammer.
“Thanks for showing us around,” I say, “but we haven’t got all day. Are you interested or not?”