Читать книгу The Shroud - Dale Fowler - Страница 11

JIM’S EATING A peanut butter and jelly laden piece of toast watching Winston go through his hunger act. The dog stares at Jim licking his broad mouth containing an even larger tongue. Winston’s bowl is full of dog food, but Jim is convinced Winston has no intention of living life as a dog. He neither acts nor eats like an English Bulldog, but Jim can only blame himself for indulging the dog’s self-image. The toaster spits out another slice of bread and Jim spoons a pile of PBJ to the warm surface feeding it to Winston, his fourth.

The dog reminds Jim of his favorite personality in history, Winston Churchill, although he didn’t think the dog earned the name in hindsight. The only trait shared is the round, ugly face even a mother pays little attention to, and of course, both English. Jim isn’t too sure about the English part; Winston was a gift from Slick Rollie meaning his paperwork is probably forged. He is sure about one thing, Winston is definately never going to be much of a watch dog, throwing a kink in the original intent when Slick dropped him off.

After Winston swallows the toast ignoring any hint of chewing, Jim picks up his five pound hand weights hitting the road for a three mile run. Like everything else in Jim’s life, he attacks the run with focus and drive. It’s not a jog, but an all out race from beginning to end.

A mile and a half into the run he notices two motorcycle cops brandishing a radar gun at the bottom of a hill. Jim runs by smile in hand, a lot of tickets will be handed out before the morning is over. As he crests the hill, a speeding refurbished 73 Mustang approaches a block away. The Mustang is a neighborhood car Jim has admired from afar and tries to slow it down using a hand motion. The attractive blond woman driving the Mustang flies past, annoyed at the attempt to get her attention. Jim shrugs his shoulders at her petulance, she better be really attractive to talk her way out of the ticket awaiting on the other side of the hill.

Jim makes the turn around the next intersection and starts his run back to the house. In passing a convenience store he notices a picture of Dr. Benders on the front page of the L.A. Times revealing a headline proclaiming his death. Next to the Times is the USA Today profiling a similar headline and photo. Jim stops briefly to pan the story recognizing his name but not sure where it came from. A subtitle fills in some of the blanks mentioning the DNAand forensic work Dr. Benders developed for the criminal bagging industry he’s a part of. After catching his breath, Jim makes the return run home even faster than the first two miles getting him to the convenience store.

Jim goes into the backdoor and Winston thinks he’s in line for more PBJ toast but Jim walks by and picks up his iPad to Google the Doctor. His work on the Shroud of Turin briefly catches Jim’s eye bringing him back to his grade school days filled with abuse and Christianity shoved down his throat. He loses interest quickly and jumps in the shower.

Getting out of the bathroom he hears the phone ringing and hustles over to answer. On the phone is Duke MacAfee, an acquaintance Jim knows through his pool playing friend Wayne Davis. Duke is a computer wizard that works under Wayne at the Geek Squad and sometimes runs the same bars as Jim.

Jim rubs the water out of his hair on a towel and answers. “Hello.”

“This is Duke...got some bad news about Wayne.” Duke tees up a negative picture.

Jim responds. “What’s going on with Wayne?”

“He got the hell beat out of him two nights ago, he’s in Washington General.” Duke relays.

“I was with him two nights ago...left him around 1:00...he was okay then.”

Jim’s mind drifts back to the bikers that night.

“Not sure what time it happened, but he’s in the hospital suffering broken ribs, arm, and jaw. The doctor’s put him in a medically induced coma hoping to get the brain swelling down.” Duke confides.

“Who did it?” Jim’s tone left little doubt his intent.

“Haven’t heard... the cops interviewed several at the bar, but who knows what good that’ll do?” Duke confesses.

“Thanks, Duke. I’ll do some checking on my own. We’ll get to the bottom of it.” Jim shuts his cell off and immediately dials a close friend and L.A. Detective, Ted Fox.

“Ted, hey man, I need a favor.” Jim asks.

“I don’t loan money for abortions.” Ted deadpans.

“I’m serious, smart assed cop...got a friend assaulted at the Diamond Club two nights ago. You met Wayne Davis a couple of times; he’s in bad condition at the hospital. Find out what the department knows, okay?” Jim implores.

“Isn’t he that skinny geek? Can’t believe he got into a fight.” Ted questions.

“Yeah, that’s him...loud mouth bigger than his biceps.” Jim confirms.

“No problem, be back shortly.” Ted hangs up.

Jim dresses and heads to the Diamond Club. There’s not much doubt in his mind what probably happened. Wayne runs his mouth after a couple of beers, but no one deserves to be in a coma lying in a hospital bed. His instincts are taking over; protect those unable to fend for themselves. Jim will right the wrong, even if it gets him killed in the process. He has little choice in the matter.

The Diamond Club is a strip joint featuring a multitude of options. Food, naked bodies, and pool are on the menu. Like most of the men walking through the doors, Jim likes looking at attractive women having nothing to hide; but the food is surprising good and draws a large lunch crowd. He settles onto a seat at the bar confident he’ll catch the manager in due time and orders a beer. His cell goes off.

“Talk to me, Ted.” Jim answers.

“Don’t have much... the club staff said two biker types left after a few games with Wayne. A little pushing and shoving but no flying fists between the three. Wayne leaves forty-five minutes later... gets pounded in the parking lot... of course no witnesses. All we have are two thirty-something biker heads displaying countless tats and leather jackets... that’s got it narrowed down to 400 thousand or so in L.A.” Ted lays out the limited facts to work around.

Jim sees the manager walking toward the bar. “I’ll be back to you shortly... thanks for the info.”

The manager walks over to a patron at the bar and shakes his hand. Jim gets up and walks to him but waits on their conversation to be over. Drake Wilcox sees Jim and leaves the customer behind.

“Come over here,” Drake relays. “I knew you’d be in sooner or later.”

Drake leads Jim to his small office at the end of the bar closing the door behind.

“Told the cops all I know,” Drake explains. “I’m sorry for Wayne, how’s he doing?”

“Drake, Wayne’s in a coma. You know who these guys are... tell me now.” Jim’s voice did not waver.

“I like you guys, you’re great patrons, but I have to protect my business. These dudes are Hells Angels.. .will firebomb my place.” Drake pleads.

“They won’t come after you on this... I’ll be in the crosshairs, promise you.” Jim assures.

Drake is visibly uncomfortable. “I don’t know their names... the truth. They hang out at the Sims Hideaway Bar on Lawrence. Do what you have to do... keep me out of it.”

“I saw them that night... all I need is their home stadium. Thanks.” Jim turns, leaves the office and goes out to his car.

He hits Ted on the cell. “You know the biker club over on Lawrence, Sims Hideaway Bar?”

“No, but can find it.” Ted answers. “Got the feeling it’s going to be an interesting night.”

Jim smiles to himself. “Depends on your point of view. Meet me there at 9:00 tonight.”

“Do we need backup?” Ted questions.

“Nope,” Jim says matter-of-fact. “We’ll stay low-profile on this one.”

“It always starts out that way.” The cell goes dead.