Читать книгу Operation Bob Dylan’s Belt - Linn Wyllie - Страница 7

There’s only one way to deal with a tequila hangover. Forget those old wives’ tales. It’s whisky. Real made-in-America sour mash Tennessee corn whisky. And in this whisky connoisseur’s considered opinion, there are only two up to the task: George Dickel and Jack Daniel. You need not ask how I know. Your liver may hate you for it, but at least you’ll feel better.

Mr. Brain was showing off. He wanted to contrast and compare the whiskies for me. Again. Both whiskies are sour mash, with a slightly different recipe, but Dickel mellows thorough an oak charcoal rick at ninety proof, and Daniel mellows through maple at eighty. Both are simply fine sippin’ whiskies.

It was time to do battle with the nagging drum solo in my skull. The bar and pub was downtown, and during Clearwater Police Department’s late afternoon shift change, it was frequented by PIs and off-duty cops, sheriffs, and other wannabe types who worked in the law enforcement field. And at the lunch hour, it was attorneys, judges, bailiffs and legal assistants who cluttered up the place. Drinks were always a good pour, and the food was fast. And good. And it was convenient to the Pinellas County Courthouse. And to my office.

I found a stool and slid onto it.

“Well. It’s Jake Randall comin’ in, then, init? You look like shite, laddie. Jealous husband kick your arse?”

That’s what passes for a greeting at the Fort Harrison Pub in downtown Clearwater. It was a famous bar and pub, right on the corner at Fort Harrison Avenue and Court Street. It was currently owned by Gavin Connor MacFarlane, a Scot who lived in one of those fabulously expensive waterfront homes on Edgewater Drive on the way up to Dunedin. Everyone calls him Mac. Mr. Brain has no clue why. He thought Gavin—which means white hawk in Gaelic Scottish—was a suitable moniker. Anyway, Mac bought the Fort Harrison Pub years ago from a Turkish Muslim who had owned it forever and had eventually died. Before that it may have been a transplanted Cuban who originally owned the original frame shack back in the early 1900s. Like O’Keefe’s down the street, it was part of Clearwater’s history, like the Columbia Restaurant’s bar across the bay in Ybor City was famous in Tampa; or Old Ebbitt’s Grill in Washington, DC; or The Merger in San Antonio, Texas; or T. P. Crockmeir’s in Mobile, Alabama. Or even Mozie’s Saloon in Gruene, Texas, home to a hundred years of Texas cowboys. Or dozens of other famous centuries-old American watering holes with a long and vibrant history.

Fort Harrison Avenue was named for the actual US Army fort that was established in the early 1800s on Clearwater’s high bluffs overlooking Clear Water Harbor. That’s how the old maps of the area described the bay. Locals always called it Clearwater Bay. The fort was strategically located directly across the bay from a natural pass formed by Dan’s Island—now known as Sand Key—and the south end of Clearwater Beach. Beyond that pass—Little Pass as it was called when I was kid growing up here—was the open Gulf of Mexico. Army cannons of the day could easily reach the pass and beyond. So the pass was well protected from any who may venture there. Anyway, nobody ever changed the basic name of the bar and pub. It had been a Clearwater landmark forever. The company was good, and the drinks were reasonable. You could even get good wings and a decent hot-pressed Cuban sandwich here too.

I replied to Mac’s sardonic welcome.

“Nah. No such luck. Boy’s night out is all. Me and Mark-boy.”

“Aye, and you’re looking the worst for it, me boy.”

I nodded resignedly. Mac was short on diplomacy, long on factual observation. I guess I must have looked like I felt. I needed hydration. What I wanted was an ice water. What I got was a Jack and Seven-Up. My usual. Mac didn’t even ask, just set it front of me. I nodded thanks, sipped my drink, and looked around. Mid-afternoon was always slow and the place looked it. Shift change for the police department wasn’t for a couple hours yet, and the legal types were already back at work.

“Heard about the Boot Hill shootout you were in. Killed some nasty blokes from the Sandbox, I’m told. Now that’s some good work there, init?”

Sandbox. So named to refer to the Middle East. Troops in Iraq came up with that. He was referring to an incident that occurred after my last case. That was about a week or so ago.

I was in a shootout with a couple of bad guys. Killed them both. My fifteen minutes of fame.

I didn’t know then that that little gunfight would fuck up my life forever.

But it did.

It started out as a simple stakeout of an OSHA claimant. A normal run-of-the-mill case. My client is the insurance company. I was parked in the apartment complex where the claimant lives, watching his activities. Same old boring stakeout scenario. Sit in the car, drink coffee, watch the guy, pee in the jug. All night. Finally about midnight, the guy comes out of his apartment and goes to his car. I flick on my video camera. He opens the hood, checks the engine’s dipstick, and begins to add oil. Now that’s no big deal unless you’re claiming to have been blinded in a workplace accident. My video camera on the dash clearly shows him opening the hood, checking the dipstick, reading the label on the oil container, and filling the engine. Not bad for a blind guy at midnight.

But behind him, way farther back in the parking lot, a very different movie was being shown. It caught my attention. Two guys were struggling with a bound and hooded young thing and were trying to shove her into a van. My bit for my insurance company client was done. I had the evidence of fraud on video. That was the extent of my job. I turn the video over to the corporate types, and they pay me. They can do with it as they please. Rarely does it go to court, but if it does and I’m called as a witness, I get paid a flat rate for that. So I didn’t care. This one was a quick and easy job. And this job was done.

I was free to go home and go to bed. It was a compelling option.

But the abduction going on behind the fraudster had my undivided attention. Two physically fit males shoved the girl into the side of the van, and one perp got into the driver’s side. Perp two was having trouble with the kicking and thrashing girl. I saw him punch her in the face a couple times. Shoved her into the van. Then he closed the van’s slider and got into the cab on the shotgun side. The van roared off.

Well now. I’m an ex-cop, and to me that looked like a crime in progress. I put the Jeep in gear and slowly followed them out of the parking lot. They took their time, not speeding or doing anything rash, so I dropped way back. In the wee hours of the morning, it wasn’t hard to keep them in sight. They drove around the residential areas aimlessly for a while and finally headed for the Clearwater Municipal Cemetery.

No good can come of that. Abducted girl. Midnight. Old cemetery. Not good.

That cemetery dates back to the very beginning of Clearwater, and it was nearly full. Had been for decades. It’s what you’d think an old cemetery should be. A whole city block, with large oak trees, paved walkways, ancient marble and granite painstakingly carved headstones dating back a century and a half. A couple of huge ornate mausoleums. A perfect setting for a scary Halloween movie. Names on the headstones were founders and early movers and shakers in Clearwater. Some of my kin are buried there, and my family still had a plot. And unless you’ve got flowers for a grave or a prayer for friends or relatives residing therein, there’s not a lot of good reasons to be there. Especially so in the wee early-morning hours.

I just hoped there wouldn’t be a Halloween-style movie being shown here tonight.

I hoped wrong.

I killed the headlights on the Jeep when the van turned into the main cemetery driveway. Slowed down and crawled to the curb and watched. They were just about in the very center of the relatively small cemetery. The van had stopped next to an ancient grandfather oak. They thought it might provide some cover, I suspect. Perp two was pulling the still hooded and slightly more subdued young thing out of the van’s cargo area. They were near an old mausoleum, and I could guess what they were up to. I left the Jeep on the street and stealthily headed in their general direction. There are no lights in the cemetery, and the street lights on its perimeter cast scant, faint illumination there in the interior. I made my way over to one of the oak trees, maybe twenty-five feet away from the side of the mausoleum. Perp one had pulled the girl’s top off and had his pants down around his ankles. He was trying to flip her over. She was having none of it. They were clearly about to take turns on her. I watched for a moment to see how far they were going to go. Mr. Brain was deciding how to handle it. If it became a worst-case scenario. Then I heard them speaking a foreign language. It sounded like Arabic or Farsi maybe. I dunno. Guttural. Hard consonants. Just great. What the hell had I wandered into?

I carry a Kimber Ultra Carry chambered in .45 ACP. Always. As I watched the scene unfold before me, I pulled Mr. Kimber from my holster. Kept it pointed down with my arm straight along my right side. Finger off the trigger. Thumb on the safety. I stepped into the gravel driveway behind and slightly to the side of the van. Its engine was still hot and making little clinking noises as it cooled in the night air. My alligator boots made a crunching noise on the gravel alongside the paved drive as I walked up. Perp two saw me first and immediately pulled a pistol from his waistband and aimed it at me.

“Hey! Who the fuck are you? What you want?”

His English was passable, but noticeably accented. Even in the dim light, I could see him clearly. Definitely not a native son.

“Evening, gentlemen.”

I nodded in the direction of the now topless girl.

“It’s OK. Y’all go ahead. I’ll go last. I’ll just wait over here until it’s my turn.”

“What? Your turn? You get no turn! You got no business here. You get out of here.”

His pistol came up higher. Face high. My face. Nine millimeter, I guessed. I’d had guns pointed at me before. Lots of times. But I don’t intimidate easily. I scanned the scenario. Perp one was trying to get his schlong back in his pants and grappling to reach his own pistol.

Perp two was nervously glancing around. Looking at perp one, then back at the girl, then back at me. The girl looked dazed. Out of it. She was pushed back on the steps of the mausoleum, her top still off. She didn’t even try to cover herself up. Dazed. She looked to be of a lighter complexion than these two.

“Sorry, boys. I can’t do that. I need you to put down your weapons. Raise your hands so I can see them, and step over here with me. Leave the girl alone.”

Perp two was the excitable type. He was starting to jitter around erratically. Waving his pistol at me. Saying something unintelligible under his breath. Amateurs do that when they’re rattled. And scared. I knew he would fire at me any second.

My arm came up with Mr. Kimber. I always carry in condition one, which means I’m cocked and locked with a round in the chamber. It’s how you carry single-action autos.

My thumb clicked the slide safety off. It made an audible click. Perp one got his pants up and came up with his own pistol.

Pointed at me.

“Put your weapons down, and step away. Last chance.”

“Who the fuck are you? What are you doing here?”

Perp one made that demand. And perp two had asked the same questions. Asked and answered. Amateurs.

Perp two fired first, but he was unfocused and the shot went wild. I hoped it hadn’t hit anybody’s house in the neighborhood. I went into a crouched Weaver stance and double tapped him center of mass. He dropped like a stone.

Perp one fired a half beat later, and he was wide. His second shot just grazed my left shoulder. I swiveled and fired at him. Two rounds of .45 ACP slammed into his open polo shirt, and he dropped.

The girl was wide-eyed and panting. Hyperventilating. The gunshots echoed in the still night air. Lights began to come on in the surrounding neighborhood.

I walked over with Mr. Kimber’s sights still trained on the bodies that now lay on the ground. No one was moving. I kicked the guns away from dead hands. The girl’s head was lolling, her eyes distant and unfocused. She seemed fine for the moment, just dazed. Probably drugged her. She barely knew what happened.

I holstered Mr. Kimber and picked up the blouse that lay next to her on the mausoleum steps. Draped it over her shoulders. She looked up at me uncomprehendingly but pulled the blouse around her.

“You’re gonna be OK now. It’s over. Help is on the way.”

I dialed 911.

Dispatch answered on the second ring. I gave her the scenario.

“Shots fired. Casualties. Two shooters down and neutralized. Officer, uh, no, make that one good-guy civilian is armed but unhurt. One female abduction, possible rape victim. Incapacitated. Probably drugged. West driveway entrance, Clearwater Municipal Cemetery. Need ambulance and paramedics.”

It was second nature for me to call 911 or backup in a shooting, but Mr. Brain had to remind me that I wasn’t a police officer any more.

He was right.

I gave my name and phone number. Left the Jeep out on the street so it wouldn’t be in the way.

Several minutes later it looked like a midnight parade on Myrtle Avenue. Blue and red and white lights everywhere. Clearwater PD and EMTs, Fire Rescue, several ambulances. And a couple reporters who had been monitoring the police radio frequencies.

Lights started to come on in neighboring houses. People still in sleepwear were wandering out.

Exciting night.

A few minutes later I was giving Detective Ralph Hamilton, Clearwater PD, my story. We have known each other for years, and we’ve even solved a couple of cases together. He took my statement. It was pretty straightforward. I witnessed the abduction in the apartment building parking lot, followed them to the cemetery. Caught these morons literally with their pants down. About to have non-consensual carnal knowledge with the obviously unwilling female. They wanted to shoot me for interrupting them, but that didn’t work out too well. There wasn’t much in the way of conflict of fact. Several witnesses in the neighboring houses were already outside and were more than happy to give statements. They all verified my account.

Sometime later two gurneys, with dead bodies strapped to them, were rolled into back of ambulances. The girl was treated at the scene, then she too was on a gurney and loaded into an ambulance. But she’d go to the Morton Plant Hospital ER. The two perps were headed for the city morgue.

Then it was all over. The EMTs, fire rescue guys, and cops all finally drove away, leaving the neighborhood to gossip and recount the night’s excitement. And then ultimately go back to bed.

The Clearwater Police Department got the collar, but I got recognition in the paper next morning. Above the fold. Local hero saves damsel in distress. Shoots two bad guys in a foiled rape attempt in a dark Clearwater cemetery. It was a story made for going viral, which it did. It was offbeat, kinky, and macabre all at the same time. The press did a fine job with that, too, and the tongue-in-check references to Wyatt Earp and the O.K. Corral were rampant. But I got in print with full photos and biography.

It was a boost for my business reputation. And to Mr. Brain’s esteem.

It didn’t do jack for my bank account.

Mac had referred to it as the Shootout on Boot Hill. Gun fight in a graveyard. I get it. Very funny. The name stuck.

“Thanks, Mac. Lucky night, that’s all.” I sipped my drink.

“Luck is for old ladies and young lads, me boy-o. Men need to be ever watchful. You watch yourself or you’ll get that tight arse of yours shot off one fine day.”

“Never happen. I’ll die quietly in bed.”

“Aye. And probably with some fair lass who’s not yours.”

I just grunted and shook my head. Never verbally spar with a died-in-the-wool Scotsman. You’ll just look outclassed, and it annoys the Scot.

The whisky was doing its job. I was feeling a little better. Mr. Brain seemed like he was starting to function again.

The drummer in my head was on brushes now.

But the tinnitus hadn’t let up much.

I eyed the pub’s décor again. The Scottish flag, blue with the white cross of St. Andrew, hanging over the bar. Mac’s own MacFarlane clan tartan made up the backdrop for the very rare and expensive bottles of Scotch whisky stored in the ancient glass-front oak cabinet. It brought a little old-world charm to a very new-world Clearwater.

There was a reason.

Mac lived in Dunedin, just up the road on Ft. Harrison Avenue from the pub. It’s almost a Clearwater suburb. The name comes from Dùn Èideann, the Scottish Gaelic name for Edinburgh, Scotland’s capital. And Mac’s home town. So naturally his pub ended up being Scottish themed. That was just perfectly fine by me.

All was becoming right with the world. I was ready to head home. I figured I would have one more drink, then stop on the way home and pick up some takeout for dinner.

Chinese BBQ ribs and some wings. Pork fried rice. I could live on that. Maybe an avocado salad and some salsa and Melba toast for her.

We could eat light at home.

Open a nice wine.

Maybe just catch a movie on TV.

Lounge back. Nice and easy.

I just hoped Rebecca Lynn would be willing to be there too.