The other man leapt out of the booth and hoofed it toward the gun. He shoved a small Latina woman out of her chair as he barreled by. Somebody by the front door screamed at the fracas. The big man was almost at the gun. I realized I wasted too much time on his partner. Heavy Forehead bent to retrieve the Ruger.
But I had a one-man cavalry. Prescott stood in a wide bowler's stance. He was a south-paw which meant he held the three-quarters full glass coffee pot in his left hand. With knees slightly bent he swung the pot backward then accelerated a looping underhand strike. The pot shattered, enveloping the man's face and torso in glass and hot coffee. He fell to the floor and rolled around screaming. Prescott stood over the man with a sneer on his face. The black pot handle shook in his liver spotted hand. His right eye carried a slight twitch to it.
“Stow it, scumbag, before I really give you something to cry about,” Prescott said giving him a swift kick to his ribs. “Kids today…goddamn disgrace.”
I fell in behind my ally and thanked him while simultaneously taking what was left of the pot handle from him. A wail ripped through the restaurant coming from the entrance. The bloody nosed partner to Heavy Forehead was three feet from us moving fast when he was stopped in his tracks and hauled backward. A muscled black man in jeans and a tight black t-shirt held the man by his collar and drove a solid knee into the small of his back.
As the man struggled to keep his feet the brother took the opportunity to put his free hand around the man’s throat and slam his head onto a tabletop two times rapidly. Nosebleed went unconscious; still the Good Samaritan slammed him a third time, breaking off a triangular chunk of table, then let him drop to the floor without giving him so much as a glance. A quiet came over the restaurant before applause broke out.
“Prescott Johanssen,” I said. “Meet my brother, Jake.”
Chapter Two
My planned meeting with Jake was for him to hand me another yoga video because he was always complaining of my lack of flexibility while he trained me. He also claimed the type of breathing used in yoga would aid me in remaining calm in the heat of battle. It turned out there was more to the meeting. Jake needed my help—a first in our relationship. He had me haul out my phone and enter a name into my contacts.
“Ok, done. Who’s Meredith Billups?” I asked.
“Mother of the security guard the tent gang cancelled. And,” he paused. “A friend. Call her. Help her.”
And that was all he said before climbing onto his Ducati motorcycle. I headed to my ride as the cops entered the far end of the parking lot. Prescott Johanssen said he’d handle things for us since Jake said we shouldn’t hang around.
I fired up the ol’ gal, my 1965 Mustang, and headed south on the 101 Freeway and eased into Hollywood. With the bulk of the morning commuters out of the way I was able to hold at 70 mph, my ride’s favorite speed. After circling down the Cahuenga off-ramp the surface streets took me to the L.A. Practice Joint, my place of business.
The Practice Joint was a business set up for bands to rehearse. I’d been there just under two years and although the pay wasn’t great I got a kick out of the owner Big Eddie Carruthers. He had his son Michael manage the place; nice enough guy who meant well but not really a strong leader. Big Eddie was the main reason I kept the job but the other perk was the connections. Up to thirty bands came through per week and over time I’d parlayed that into more than a handful of decent gigs. Drummers flake, quit, get road gigs and fall prey to drugs all the time and sometimes yours truly is in the center of the bull’s eye, ready to save the drowning band.
I unlocked the security gate and opened the inner door. The pungent aroma of the previous night’s marijuana, stale beer and sweat crawled up my nostrils. I walked down the dark narrow hallway to the keypad and shut off the alarm. Entering the office, I grabbed the phone on the third ring.
“L.A. Practice Joint, this is Lou.”
“Lou, ma’ boy. Eddie Carruthers, d’ya just get in?”
“Seconds ago, Big Eddie, how are ya?”
“Still with the Big Eddie stuff, huh?” he chuckled.
He once told me his football teammates called him that and that it was nice to hear it again.
“Listen, are ya in the mood for a promotion?” I could see his heavy jowl of a smile through the phone. His glasses would be dangling from the silver daisy chain since he’d just dialed a phone number. And even though he and his wife kept their apartment toasty warm he’d be in his favorite light brown cardigan.
“Promotions and cold beers are always welcome sir.”
“Heh heh my son has decided, yet again, to take his life down a different path. He’s going back to school—he says,” he paused to clear his throat. “Funny, in my day we went to school once then got on with it, that is if we didn’t get pulled into war.”
“It’s a different time,” I said, which seemed an appropriate statement.
“Indeed. Anyway, I’d like to make you manager, how’s that sound?”
“Sounds like a Dizzy Gillespie track. Will an increase in pay come with this amazing new title?”
“On to the numbers, I like that Lou. How’s fourteen bucks an hour?”
“I’d prefer twenty.”
“Not a penny more than sixteen and I’m firm on that.”
“You’ve got yourself a deal. And thanks Big Eddie. I appreciate it. Hello Evie,” I said hearing his wife’s quiet breathing on the other line.
“Congratulations Lou,” she said. I could picture her smiling crow’s feet at the corners of her gray eyes.
“Evie, you on the other phone? I warned you about that,” Eddie barked.
“Oh hush up you, what do you think we have two lines for?”
“Well it sure isn’t for—”
“Ok you two,” I said as referee. “Thank you both for the promotion but, if you don’t mind, I’ve got managerial duties to attend to.”
They got a kick out of that, thanked me then went back to their squabble as they hung up. I put the smart phone back on the desk and left it off the charging/music doc with a smile. This day was looking up.
Click here to learn more about Don’t Shoot the Drummer by Jonathan Brown.
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