by B. L. Morgan
Johnny's was about a block from Dark Detective Agency, so I walked there. The city hadn't grown any prettier since I'd last seen it. Garbage was still laying in the street wherever people had decided to drop it or kick it. Drunks were standing about at the entrance to the alleys or sitting in the doorways to boarded up businesses.
If anybody walking past looked at one of the drunks too long, the drunk would give him the finger then belch or fart loudly.
The buildings were slowly collapsing. This was a dying city.
Johnny's Bar and Grill was a clean little hole in the wall where the local guy could quietly drink himself to unconsciousness without the worry of having his throat cut for whatever was in his pockets when he passed out. The main reason behind that was the guy behind the bar, Johnny Davis.
Davis was a small, black, wiry guy in his forties with a face like a piece of beef jerky. He always had a big knife in his back pocket that he could have out in a second and a half, and he always had his gun under the bar within reach.
Nothing ever happened at Johnny's Bar and Grill when he was there. And if anything did happen, he ended it real fast.
There were three people in the bar after I went in. One guy was sitting at a table mumbling to himself over his beer and the other guy at the far end of the bar was watching wrestling on a TV that was suspended from the ceiling against the back of the bar.
I walked in through the door and Johnny saw me instantly. “Oh, no,” he said, “Here comes trouble, everybody out, we gotta lock the doors.”
“I’ll dodge the stampede,” I said, “Just shut up and gimme a shot of Jack.”
“Gimme died,” he said, reaching for the bottle, “You don't need this. It'll make you ugly. Then again, it won't hurt you.”
I downed the shot and felt the fire inch down my throat.
I took the photos out of my pocket and laid them on the bar.
“I'm looking for a girl,” I say pointing to the photos.
“Little too young for you,” he says, “You fucken degenerate.”
“Chill out, Chuck! It's a job. I was hired by her mother to find her.”
“Yeah, so who you think you are this week, Columbo or Sam Spade?”
“The way I feel today, I'd say it's Barnaby Jones. Gimme another shot.”
He refilled the shot glass.
“You keep throwin gimme’s at me and I'll make ya like Ironside and you can be rollin your detective ass around here.”
Johnny looked closely at the photos. He had his face screwed up in a grimace like he was trying to recall a secret long buried in the deep, deep catacombs of his mind. Reminded me of one of the California Raisins.
After a long pause, he finally said, “I don't know the little girl at all, cute kid, but,” he pointed at the photo where Felicia was playing chess against some white kid with several people watching in the background. “Something about this here picture just catches my eye. Like something is familiar. I don't know what though.”
I picked up the other two photos and put them in my pocket. “Something familiar about that one, huh?”
“Yeah, but it probably ain’t nothing. If I can figure out why it hits me that way, I'll let you know.”
I picked up that photo and put it into my pocket. “Gimme another shot,” I said and turned and started toward the toilet.
“What I'll give ya,” Johnny said to my back, “Is a shot upside your dome with my size ten ham bone”.
Before I reached the door Johnny yelled, “You gonna take a dump you leave that window open. Last time you was here the guy after you came out of there lookin like he been breathin death.”
I gave Johnny the finger.
“You know where you can put that.”
I went in and took my eye-watering dump. And didn't open the window.
Sometimes the small victories in life are everything.
* * *
When I finally came out of the toilet the guy watching Wrestling From the Chase was gone and Gilligan’s Island was on the TV. The other guy was still talking to his beer and Johnny was sitting at a table with a quart bottle of Jack Daniels and two shot glasses.
He was watching Ginger pout her lips at the Professor who was more interested in his test tubes, but he still heard me walking up behind him.
“If you'd stayed in there any longer,” he said, “I'd have to charge you rent.”
Johnny had a newspaper spread out on the table in front of him.
I asked him, “You trying to learn something in your old age?”
“Yeah,” he said. “You ought a try it sometime, before your skull collapses from the vacuum in there.”
Johnny pointed to a particular story.
“Check this one out,” he said.
The story was a report of a man found in the alley behind a local strip club, Roxie’s, with his throat cut.
“Over the last two months, I've seen five of these in the paper. Always the same. Guy with his throat cut behind a strip club, a bar or nightclub, something like that. I think we might have our own serial killer right here.”
“Well,” I told Johnny, “I ain’t got time to be tracking no serial killer. It ain’t my business.”
“I'm just telling ya to watch your ass. Something is on these streets lately that ain’t normal.”
“I heard about Morris getting his brains blown out last night,” Johnny said, “That was normal.”
I was instantly alert and listening.
“He just fucked the wrong person over and he deserved what he got. But this shit,” he pointed to the story again, “This ain’t normal. Not for here. Not for anywhere.”
I wanted to change the subject fast. I didn't want anyone around me talking about Morris West since it had been my finger on the trigger when he had departed this world.
“Say, Johnny.” I said seeing that he was watching Mary Ann's ass real close on the TV, “You think the Professor ever fucked Mary Ann?”
Johnny continued watching Mary Ann, even licked his lips a couple of times. “You see,” he said, “That's the difference between white men and black men. The Professor thinks it's more important to be doing that experimenting shit than he does to be laying the meat to those young healthy fillies. If I was on that show, they'd have to change the name to Fornicator's Island. I'd be fuckin MaryAnn, Ginger, and Mrs. Howell, too. You white guys think up a show and there ain’t nobody fuckin nobody. That's what's wrong with the world, not enough fuckin. If everybody was fuckin all the time they wouldn't have time to be fightin all the damn time.”
“I'll drink to that,” I told him and we clinked glasses and downed another shot.
The door banged open and we both watched as three young black gang bangers walked in.
CHAPTER 6
LARRY, DARRYL, AND DARRYL
As the three walked directly toward the table where we sat, my hand moved instinctively to the pistol I had holstered inside my jacket.
All three wore Chicago Bull's jackets that were black with the red bull on the back. Two looked to be about sixteen, medium sized for kids that age. The other might have been nineteen. He was about six feet tall.
“Oh, shit,” Johnny says to no one in particular. “Here comes Larry, Darryl, and Darryl. Better close the door.”
“What the fuck you talkin about old man,” the one who looks nineteen says. “You know I be Mike and this is Jamal and Terry. Who the fuck is Larry, Darryl, and Darryl?”
I tell him, “Just a joke son. Get your head out of your ass, you might see it when someone's shittin ya.”
He turned to me, “Ain’t no one talkin to you white boy. You just sit there and shut the fuck up! And I ain’t your son, motherfucker!”
I slid my chair back from the table so I could draw faster.
Johnny spoke pointing in the young guy's face, “Slow down boy. This is my place and I'm the only one that can call that sorry piece of shit a motherfucker in here.”
I looked at Johnny, “Thanks a lot buddy,” I told
him.
“Always trying to help ya there, John,” he said.
“Yo, motherfucker,” the sixteen year old called Jamal said. “We came in here to get some drink,” he said drink like he was trying to clear this throat on the word.
“A lot of mothers been fucked around here,” I told Johnny.
“They all were,” he said. Then to the kid he says, “I done told you boys before, I ain’t selling you no liquor.”
The trio was getting really agitated. The two who had spoke were breathing heavy and they were trying to stare holes through both our heads. The other one who I picked as being the most dangerous was glancing around the room looking for what he could use as a weapon.
Johnny spoke again, “You young fuckheads must think you're some tough motherfuckers’ right?”
The guy who had been mumbling into his beer got up and silently walked out the door. I guess he wasn't as stupid as he had been acting.
“That's right,” nineteen-year-old Mike hissed through his teeth, “Ain’t nobody around here as bad as us.”
“Well,” Johnny says, “You think you're so fuckin bad, you walk your ass back in that john back there,” he motioned over his shoulder. “My man just took a shit back there and his stink will scare the hell out of anything alive. Anybody tell you that a white man's shit don't stink, my man here is living proof that they lied.”
“And I didn't open the window,” I said.
“Lads,” Johnny says using a very fake Scottish accent, “Don't go in there. It's a fate worse than death that waits ya.”
The silent sixteen-year-old Terry spoke, “Mike, these motherfuckers are crazy. We might as well leave them the fuck alone.”
“I'm crazy too,” Mike says cocking his head to the side trying to look deranged. “And I say when we leave these motherfuckers alone.”
“Are you this crazy?” I asked Mike and slowly pulled my thirty-eight out of my holster and laid it still in my hand on the table.
All three of them stepped back and a flash of fear went across the faces of Mike and Jamal. Terry’s eyes had narrowed, a small grim smile played across his lips. No fear there.
“Are ya fast Mikey?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said with a small quiver in his voice, “I be a fast motherfucker.”
“Well, you’re so fast,” I said, “I was gonna lay it on the table and let you try to beat me to it. But hell, let's see if you‘re fast enough to beat me to it when it's under my hand.”
I let the gun drop to the table, but kept my hand on top of it.
“Come on now,” I said, “Go for it and stop me from pulling the trigger.”
I could see the sweat spring up on Mike's forehead.
It was already dark outside and cool, but in here the heat was rising.
“He's bluffin,” Jamal said almost whispering.
Johnny stood up slowly, his right hand out in front of him toward Mike in a halt gesture.
“Hold on man,” he said, “Hold on, don't ever call this man's bluff. This man here,” he nodded towards me, “Was in the Special Forces in Vietnam and he's still addicted to killing. Don't call his bluff. He can kill you in more ways than you can shake your dick. He likes it too. That's why he was a washout as a pro-boxer. He couldn't stop when he had to.”
“I'm out a here,” Terry said and was backing toward the door.
“You ain’t goin no-where,” Mike yelled at him.
“Fuck you man,” Terry told him. “This ain’t worth this bullshit.” Terry turned and walked to the door.
“You're a punk motherfucker,” Jamal said to him.
Terry gave him the finger and left.
“Looks like your troops are deserting.” I said, “Now I'm getting tired of this.
When I count to three I fire.”
Mike took a big step backward and put both hands in the air.
“Come on,” he said to Jamal. At the door he stopped and glared at me.
“This ain’t over,” he snarled at me with as much menace as he could.
“You better hope it is,” I snarled back.
CHAPTER 7
CHESS AND FISTS IN THE DARK
Johnny poured us another shot.
The Jack Daniels was tasting good. Fogging my brain.
Gilligan’s Island went off and we watched a succession of stupid sitcom
repeats. Sanford and Son, All In The Family, Happy Days. Laughing at some of the jokes whether they were funny or not and saying how stupid some of the others were.
We got hungry so we ordered some pizza from Dominos. Pretty sad pizza but it does fill a hole in the stomach.
The guy who delivered the pizza looked like some kind of a body builder. Big shoulders, big arms! He looked nervous as hell too. He kept glancing around the room like he expected someone to rush out of a dark corner.
People, who don't live here, don't like coming here.
So we watched TV, ate pizza and sometime during the night I talked Johnny into playing chess.
No paying customers came in, so Johnny didn't really have any excuse not to play me.
For a while he refused anyway, reminding me that it had been less than a month since I had pulled my gun on a guy who I was playing chess against.
What it was, was that the guy had thought I was a lot drunker than I was and he tried to steal one of my pieces, my Bishop, right off the board, right in front of my face, while I was looking at it. Then he told me I was lying when I told him to put the Bishop back.
So I pulled my gun and took the side bet we had. And Johnny had told me to never play chess there again.
But that was then and this is now.
I offered to let Johnny hold my gun while we played so he knew I wouldn't pull it on him.
“Naw, you better keep that gun,” he told me, “Cause if I get to thinkin about how that john has got to smell since you didn't open up that window. I know I'd have to shoot ya in the foot.”
So we played chess for a while and I tried my little tricks on Johnny and kept control of the board the whole time, slowly penetrating his territory and tearing holes in his defenses. After a while I was glad I hadn't given Johnny my gun cause he was pissed off.
If he wouldn't of shot me, I think he would at least shot the board.
Finally he declared, “I've had enough.”
“You've been cheatin me all night,” he said, “I'd kick your ass for it but I'm too tired. Guess I'll do it tomorrow.”
My watch said it was a quarter to one.
Where had the night gone? So we shook hands and I told him I'd catch him later and started walking home through the misty dreary wet streets.
* * *
It was slick and wet and I was buzzed and wanting to get home so I could lock the door and drink some more and let the darkness take me. Maybe for the last time.
I passed the bums sitting in the doorways. I passed the black alleyways. Shuffling on. Half unconscious.
I stepped past the corner of a building near the blackness of an alley.
“Hey,” a voice said in a hoarse whisper.
I turned and the fist flew out of the dark. Smashing me above the left eye. A streak of light, the force of the punch spun me. The world tilted. The ground rushed up at me.
I found myself on my hands and knees.
“Yo motherfucker,” a voice said, Mike's.
I was kicked hard in the stomach. It folded me up.
“You not such a bad motherfucker now.” Jamal’s voice.
Another kick from the other side partially blocked with my arm.
I coughed. They laughed and tried to kick me again. Me in a ball blocking with arms and legs.
I farted.
“Oh shit,” Jamal said and laughed.
I threw up into my hands, thick chunks of pizza mixed with whiskey.
“You're a sick motherfucker,” Mike said and tried to kick me again.
I threw a handful of vomit in his face. He threw his hands up instinctively to wipe it off.<
br />
I caught his foot in the bend of my arm and twisted it sideways while standing to a crouch then straight armed him to the chest. He flew off his feet.
I threw a side thrust kick to Jamal’s stomach from the crouch but missed. Instead I smashed his dick and balls with my foot.
He staggered back, bent at the waist, hands on balls. I grabbed his head and slammed it into my knee. Felt his nose crunch. He went down.
Mike was up and coming at me.
“Just you and me motherfucker,” he said trying to bounce like Ali. But he was square to me so I knew he didn't know what the fuck he was doing.
He telegraphed a jab but was still fast enough, to catch me a glancing blow on the right side of my face.
I caught his wrist with my right hand, locked it to my neck and slightly twisted it. Then threw a hard short left upper cut to his elbow. It popped. Mike screamed and went to his knees crying like a two-year-old.
I kicked him hard in the face. He gargled from his back then rolled to his stomach and laid there moaning.
I felt in my holster. Put my hand on my gun. Not tonight, I thought. Then left them where they lay.
CHAPTER 8
JOE BRIGGS
Monday morning. The phone ringing and I float up towards consciousness like a deep sea diver when his tanks are running low.
I turn over and try to sit up. The first time I fail. My ribs on my left side feel like they are made of broken glass. My stomach muscles don't want to work. They feel like they've been ripped out with a garden trowel.
The phone is across the room on my desk.
I look at it from where I lay on my couch. I can barely open my left eye. The phone looks like it’s a thousand miles away. The phone rings. Sending vibrations of pain through my head. I‘d shoot the damn thing if my gun was within reach, but it was on the floor in my holster by the door along with my jacket, followed by a trail of shirt, shoes and pants to the couch.
The phone keeps ringing. I curse at it but it keeps ringing.