A Killing Night (8 page)

I went down the street to my truck and for some reason noted the deep shadow cast by the intracoastal bridge. I flashed back on Fulton Street where we played summer basketball in South Philly in the shade of the I-95 overpass as kids and where we would then hang out and smoke stolen cigarettes in that same darkness. Simpler times, I was thinking, when I made the corner and came upon two men breaking into my truck. The sight deeply soured my mood.

The larger of the two was standing at my driver’s door, his weight leaning into the panel, his attention on something inside. The other one was up in the truck bed, actually sitting on the far rail, elbows on his knees like he was waiting for something. They were either the laziest car thieves I’d ever seen or weren’t car thieves at all. I glanced quickly behind me and then stepped out into the street.

The smaller one saw me first and hissed and nodded to his friend. When the big man turned I saw the baseball bat in his hand and I could feel the adrenaline start to simmer in my blood.

“You guys looking for a ride to the game?” I said.

The big one turned and squared up. The other stayed seated up top and sniggered, nonchalant, like it was no big deal, like the chickenshit backups always did. I wouldn’t have to worry about him unless I went down, then he’d come in with the steel-toed boots for the cheap shots.

“They said you got a smart mouth,” said the bat man.

I stepped up closer, within ten feet, about the size of a small boxing ring, where I felt more at home in a possible ass-kicking.

“They were right. Maybe you’d like to give me their names, I’ll send them my apologies,” I said, stepping two feet closer.

“Only message they need is that you’re gonna lay off dealing with the cruise ship workers,” Bat Man said.

I checked the one up in the truck bed. He was still seated.

“What? You two shit-heads make a left at Haymarket Square? Busting unions with a stick?” I said, taking one more step and rolling my weight onto the balls of my feet. The bigger one choked up on his bat at the “shit-head” slur. “I’m impressed with your sense of history, boys.”

A frown of stupidity barely flickered across the big man’s face while I assessed his one-handed grip on the middle of the bat. He’d be quicker when he swung it, but the blow wouldn’t have nearly the impact. From the corner of my eye I saw the other one stand up. He was looking down, but behind me, and then I heard O’Shea’s voice.

“Yo, Max. You forgot your change ole buddy,” he said, wading right in. “And boy, it looks like you need it. What, the meter run out, fellas?”

The smaller man fought his cowardice and started to jump down to even the odds but it was dark and he misjudged the distance to the street. When he landed it was on the side of his heeled boot and his ankle went over like a crushed aluminum beer can and he yelped in pain. When Bat Man turned to see his partner go to one knee, I charged him.

I went low, head into the sternum, my elbows out, legs driving. His big body gave for two feet and then slammed to a stop against the door of my truck. Immovable object. I heard him whoof when we hit, but he was solid and didn’t go down. I tried to grab a fistful of shirt for leverage and that’s when I felt the whip of the bat across my shoulder blades. If he found the back of my head I was done.

My face was still pushing into his chest and when he stretched his arm free for a better aim, I flexed my knees. He must have swung down at the same instant I drove my full six-three up. The top of my head hit something blunt and square that gave in with the crackling sound of someone chewing ice. The bat blow landed low on my back without consequence, but a shard of white pain shot down from my head into my spine. I almost lost consciousness, but there was no almost for Bat Man. He slid down the door of the truck into a heap with me on top of him.

When I blinked my eyes to clear the spinning flecks of light in them I heard the repeating sound of someone kicking a wet sack of leaves and breaking the sticks inside. After too many blows the noise stopped and someone took me under his arm and helped me stand.

“Whooo-wee, Max. Aren’t you some trouble, man.”

O’Shea was breathing hard, but the other man was curled into a pile, maybe not breathing at all.

“Shit, man. That was some rock ’n’ roll,” O’Shea was saying. “I haven’t stretched those muscles since I left the street.”

I staggered a couple of steps but wobbled and felt the pavement start to tilt.

“Whoa, big guy,” O’Shea said and helped me to the curb behind my truck and set me down. The top of my head felt like it grew in pain and size with every pulse of my heart and I was still blinking spots out of my eyes.

“Got some blood coming off that scalp, Max,” O’Shea said. “Old Sammy Sosa there get the bat on you?”

“Head-butted him,” I said. I reached up and patted the wet hair over the throbbing spot and came away with a dark stain on my fingers. “Guy must have a glass jaw.”

“Yeah, well, you might be right ’cause it’s in pieces over there now,” O’Shea said, rocking back on his heels and looking. “You didn’t learn that at Jimmy O’Hara’s boxing gym.”

I held my eyes closed for a moment and when I opened them a red film faded and my vision started to clear.

“Yeah, and you didn’t learn that, either,” I said, looking out at the lump in the street. “Is that guy still breathing?”

“Shit, yeah. He won’t be doing it easy for a while, but he’s breathing. Whattya think, I’m a killer or something?”

I could not tell if that was a mocking tone in his voice, but I could hear the distant wail of sirens.

“Shit, somebody called it in, Maxey ole boy. Time to go,” O’Shea said.

He got up and looked around for witnesses.

“Easy, Colin. They’re a couple of leg breakers who were sent to scare me off a case,” I said. I wasn’t yet even close to being able to stand.

“Yeah, OK for you, Max. But in the current state of things with your local law, I ain’t takin’ the chance of a night in lockup. That detective bitch of yours gets me in, I’m stuck for the long ride.”

The siren was louder. I thought I could actually feel it on the back of my eyes.

“You gotta get her off me,” O’Shea said, backing away. “You know I’m stand-up from the neighborhood, Maxey. Get her off me.”

The sound of him trotting away into the night was then overwhelmed by the siren that wouldn’t quit and blue lights whirling onto the walls, and I had the sudden urge to wretch.

I was in an office at the Oakland Park P.D., sitting in a metal chair, holding an ice pack to my head. I had refused medical treatment at the scene while paramedics loaded Bat Man and his friend into the ambulance. The big man had been able to walk with help. The other one was put on a stretcher. Neither of them was able to talk so mine was a one-sided explanation: Two guys tried to mug me with a baseball bat. Things got a little crazy.

I showed the officer my license, gave them my keys so they could check out the truck and registration. I repeated my story three times: I had a couple of beers at Archie’s. I came out to find two guys trying to break into my truck. I tried to chase them off and they turned on me.

I almost thought I was going to walk away with one of those “We’ll be in touch” deals when a shift sergeant by the unlikely name of Dusty Rhodes showed up. He talked with the patrol guys and surveyed the scene.

“How ’bout we take a ride into the station Mr., uh, Freeman,” he said, looking at my license. “Let the nurse take a look at that wound and see if maybe your head clears a little.”

So now I was stuck in the sergeant’s office, my head was somewhat cleared, but my story wasn’t gaining any more credibility.

“So you take on both these boys, uh, one with an extensive record of aggravated assault, battery on a law enforcement officer and attempted manslaughter,” Rhodes said, reading from a sheet of printouts, “and the other one with possession with intent to sell narcotics, simple assault and some damn thing here that looks like conspiracy to be an asshole.”

He shook his big, block-shaped head.

“And all by your lonesome?”

He was a veteran, a grizzled and old Southern shit kicker who didn’t like things that stepped out of their logical order. I wasn’t going to walk without giving up something. I told him I was an ex- cop from Philadelphia.

“I see,” he said. “So this wouldn’t have nothin’ to do with some drug deal gone squirrelly?”

I told him I was a private investigator and showed him my license.

“I see,” he said. “So you maybe worked with someone locally who could speak for your good standing, Mr. Freeman?”

I told him to call Detective Richards with the Broward sheriff’s office. He looked at his watch.

“And Sherry is gonna vouch for you?”

“Yes,” I said.

“I see.”

He left the room and I shifted the ice pack, wondering immediately if I’d suffered brain damage. Then I rationalized. Favor for favor. She wouldn’t mind. I looked at my own watch. After two in the morning.

In a few minutes Rhodes came back in with a cell phone in his hand.

“The detective would like to speak with you,” he said, but stayed where he was after handing over the phone.

“Yes, Detective,” I said.

“Are you OK, Max?”

She sounded legitimately concerned.

“Yeah.”

“The sergeant says this mugging was down by Archie’s and he’s not convinced you were alone.”

“Yeah.”

“You were meeting with O’Shea?”

“Yeah.”

“Did that bastard have anything to do with this?”

The intense anger in her voice took me aback.

“No. They were breaking into my truck.”

“So one guy is still spitting teeth and the other had his ribs kicked in. Doesn’t sound like you, Max.”

“OK, sure. Maybe we can meet up tomorrow,” I said, looking up at Rhodes and trying to look positive.

“Max, if that son of a bitch was setting up another girl…”

“Yeah. He’s right here. Thanks. Call me tomorrow, I’ll be home,” I said and handed the phone back to the sergeant.

He left the room again and when he returned he had copies of my driver’s license and P.I. license in his hand and a young patrolman at his side.

“We will be in touch, Mr. Freeman. Even though I suspect them other boys ain’t gonna say much more than you when they’re able,” he said, handing me back the originals.

“Officer Reyes will give you a ride back to your vehicle.”

I thanked him and dumped the ice pack into his trash can before standing.

“To be honest, sir,” Rhodes said before stepping out of the way, “I don’t like a stink in my backyard that I don’t know the source of. So I hope this one blows away ’fore I step in it.”

“That’s honest enough, Sergeant,” I said, and left with my escort.

CHAPTER 8

T
he new bartender’s name was Marci and once he learned her shift he started hitting it regularly. He always tried to get the seat at the end of the bar, so he could use the mirrors. By now she would notice him coming through the door and have an open beer waiting.

“I’m impressed,” he said the first time she remembered his brand. She’d given him that quizzical look, like she wasn’t sure what the compliment was for. They liked compliments, he knew, unless they were rude.

“That you’d remember,” he said, tipping the bottle. She smiled and he liked the shape of her mouth.

There was a knot of people at the middle of the bar, voices already cranked up with liquor, the one guy telling stories, impressing the others. He sipped his beer, looking up at the television for a minute and then watching Marci’s legs when she went to the far end to wait on one of the old farts down there nursing their shots. He made sure he didn’t let her notice him staring at her when she bent over the bar to hear a customer better and gave them all a better look at her cleavage. She wasn’t dumb, he thought. Girl knows where the power is.

She came back his way, noticing the empty he’d slid into the trough.

“So, how was your day?” she said.

“Good. Kept busy. Met some new people. Made some money. No complaints,” he said, being pleasant. They liked upbeat.

“How about you?” he said. They liked it to be about them.

“I went to the beach,” she said proudly. “I swore that when I left Minneapolis I’d hit the beach every day.”

He filed Minnesota away in his head. Long way from home.

“You, uh, do something different?” he said, waving his fingers around his own head but looking into her eyes. She gave him the quizzical look again.

“No. Oh, the ponytail?” she said, pulling the blonde whip of hair over her shoulder. “You like it?”

“Yeah, I think so,” he said. “Shows off the new tan.”

She smiled again and when someone motioned to her from down the bar she kind of bounced away, pleased.

He drank his beer, played it cool. An occasional customer would nod at him in recognition and he would nod back, but always turn away. He was only here to get to know one person. He wasn’t here to make friends. He looked straight ahead, used the mirrors to watch the rest of the room. The storyteller down the bar had taken over, rooster in the house, he thought. The two women in the group were already a drink over their limit and he was working to impress them. That’s when the brothers arrived.

He heard the motorcycle come rapping up outside, the driver giving the throttle an extra twist of rpm’s to announce himself. The first one in entered with a grin, hair blown back, T-shirt and jeans, neither of them black. He worked his way past the group at the middle of the bar and took the stool next to the quiet man. The second one entered with an amphetamine smile. He went straight to the rail.

“Hey, little blondie, come on down here with a bottle of Jack,” he said, loud enough to make sure everyone noticed.

Marci took a shot glass with her. The head of the middle group turned too quickly and took in the character: Big guy, hair ruffled up from the wind, wearing the requisite black vest over black T- shirt. No jewelry but the poorly done, single-color prison tattoo was a dead giveaway to the quiet man, but he sipped his beer, watched the smaller, calmer brother next to him in the mirror and listened.

The group turned back to their conversation while the speedballer downed two shots of Jack Daniel’s and pointed Marci down to where his brother was putting down the money. He then insinuated himself on the gathering in between.

“Well ain’t this a boring party,” he squawked and draped a meaty arm over one of the women’s shoulders.

“Christ, this isn’t gonna last long,” said the brother, maybe to himself, maybe to the quiet man who was looking ahead into the mirror. The brother went to put money into the juke and the volume of some overplayed rock song obscured the conversation going on down in the group. The quiet man snuck a look at Marci, who caught his eye and rolled her own. When the music stopped the argument seemed to ratchet up, like it was trying to fill the void. Suddenly the speeder and the rooster were facing off.

“You’re a fucking liar, man. You didn’t do no three years in fucking Starke,” the big brother was yapping.

The rooster had turned but was leaning back, both elbows still against the bar.

“I’ve been inside,” he said. “And I don’t give a shit if you don’t believe it.”

“And I’m calling you a lyin’ bitch,” said the speeder, lowering his voice and sneering the words. “I’m out three months and the only way you was inside was as somebody’s bitch.”

The quiet man was watching the speeder in the back mirror now, waiting to see if a blade was going to come out of a back pocket. Marci stepped up on a beer case behind the bar and said: “Come on guys, settle down, all right. Settle down, we’ll have one on the house.”

The rooster hadn’t moved his elbows. Dumb ass, thought the quiet man.

“See!” yelped the speeder. “Proof’s right there. Nobody inside gets called somebody’s bitch and then just stands there.”

The guy strutted away from the group, point made, and came over to his brother, who was keeping his head low. “Shit, Bobby. Thought that bitch was gonna bend over for me right there,” Speeder said, sniggering and taking one of his brother’s shots off the bar.

The quiet man could see him in the mirror and tell he was still excited by his low-life conquest. His shoulders twitching, eyes jumping.

“So, who we got here, brother Bob? This a friend of yours?”

“Yeah, he’s a old friend. Drinkin’ buddy, right?”

The brother’s voice was nervous. He’d probably spent his whole life trying to avoid getting sucked into his shit-head sibling’s trouble.

“Well, hell, drinkin’ buddy. How bout linin’ up some drinks, then?” the speeder said, leaning into the quiet man and putting a pale forearm on his shoulder.

The stench of dried sweat came off him, mixed with the sweet sting of gasoline and exhaust. When the speeder removed his arm to turn and ogle and insult another woman passing through the bar the quiet man caught Marci’s eye and he ordered a single shot of Maker’s Mark. When she set it in front of him, he reached into his pocket as if to pay but brought out his police badge folder instead. He turned the shield face up and put it next to the shot, the silver of the official department seal glinting in the overhead lights.

Brother Bobby saw it first and looked at the side of the quiet man’s face. The quiet man was still staring straight ahead and in a low voice he said: “Tell your fucking convict brother if he touches me again he’s going back in the slam and the trip won’t be pretty.”

Bobby found the quiet man’s eyes in the mirror and got up from his stool.

“Come on, Davey. Let’s get outta here, man. This place is a dive,” he said to the speeder, putting his body in between his brother and the bar and moving him toward the door.

“Come on. This is dead, man. We’ll go down to the Riptide and score some shit and some real women who want to party.”

Bobby was working him fast, not giving his brother a chance to object or latch on to anything else to spit his bile on. When the rip of the motorcycle engine sounded and the screech of tire on asphalt faded, the entire bar seemed to exhale.

When Marci turned back to the quiet man the badge was gone and he was sipping his whiskey. She took the bottle off the back counter and said: “This one’s on the house.”

He finished the shot and set it down and she poured.

“Thanks,” he said. “That’s sweet of you.”

She had that quizzical look on her face.

“You’re a cop?” she said softly.

“Shhh,” he answered, putting a finger to his lips.

She smiled and turned away, tossing that tail of golden curls over her shoulder. He sipped the new whiskey and smiled to himself and whispered: “Got her.”