The Sexiest Man Alive

by Juliet Rosetti

  He came and stood next to her at the stove, watching the fish cook. It wasn’t going to take long, maybe another three or four minutes. “Why are you here?” Mazie asked bluntly.

  “Because we’re old high school buddies and I thought you might be able to help me,” Johnny said.

  She turned to look at him, surprised. She had to look up because, even in her torture-device heels, he was a lot taller than she was, about the same height as Labeck. “Help with what?”

  “You remember the Yatts?” Johnny asked.

  “The Yatts? Sure. Criminals, hoods, very scary guys. Mothers used to make their kids behave by telling them the Yatts would get them. Are they still around? I thought that lot had been scooped up and tossed in prison years ago.”

  Johnny shook his head. “A lot of ’em are out now. There’s a huge tribe of ’em, all related, in southwest Wisconsin. The Yatts are the biggest drug distributors in the upper Midwest—coke, heroin, pot, meth—you name it, they sell it. But drugs are just part of their operation. They also extort protection money from small businesses, run teenage girls as prostitutes, and use their biker gang to terrorize towns out in the boonies. You’ve heard of the Skulls biker gang, haven’t you?”

  “Sure.” Mazie tested the fish, decided that the fillets were cooked to exactly the right degree of flakiness, and removed the pan from the burner. Where had she heard the Skulls mentioned recently? Why, from her mom, of all people. “Didn’t they just kill somebody?”

  Johnny nodded. “Two people were shot to death. Gang executions.”

  Mazie stared at him, wide-eyed. “Gang executions in Quail Hollow!”

  “Outside the town but in my jurisdiction. You got some plates?”

  Mazie nodded toward a cupboard and Johnny got down plates and put them on her kitchen table. She set the fish on the plates and turned to take the fries out of the oven.

  “Here, let me.” Johnny gently moved her aside. “You don’t want to get your pretty dress dirty.”

  “My mom said the Skulls killed Ricky Lee Tatum. Is that true?” Mazie asked.

  “You know him?”

  “No, but I went to school with his older sisters.”

  “Well, Ricky Lee did not grow up to be a nice guy. He’s been in a lot of nasty stuff—he beat up an old man for accidentally bumping his bike, he helped firebomb a bar, and he threw in with the Skulls a couple of years ago, became one of their drug runners.”

  “Why haven’t you arrested him?”

  “Oh, he’s been in and out of jail, but lately we’d just been keeping tabs on him undercover, hoping he’d lead us to even bigger fish—no pun intended.”

  “Who’s we?” Mazie set out ketchup, tartar sauce, rye bread, and cheese. There was no more beer, so she poured out the remainder of a bottle of supermarket pinot grigio, now slightly flat, into two glasses. His stomach audibly rumbling, Johnny sat down across from her.

  “We are the DEA guys, state cops, county cops, and the Quail Hollow PD—the low guys on the totem pole, but they need us because we know the locals.”

  He swallowed a bite of fish, rolled his eyes. “Mazie, this is incredible.”

  “Thanks—but you helped.”

  “I was always fascinated by the Yatts.” Johnny dipped a French fry in ketchup. “I was a pretend bad boy—you know, acting like a punk to impress the girls, but I still went home at night and did my school work. The Yatts, though—they’re dyed-in-the-wool baddies. They started out as moonshiners and bootleggers back in the 1920s, with stills all over the backwoods. Once Prohibition ended, the Yatts turned to bank robbery and livestock stealing. But they never made big money until the 1970s, when they started distributing drugs. By then a man named Reuben Yatt was running the business, connected with a crime syndicate on the Gulf Coast.”

  “That name sounds familiar.”

  “It ought to,” Johnny said. “He runs his empire the way the old Mafia ran their organization—by bumping off his rivals and using the motorcycle gang he started to terrorize people.”

  “The Skulls, you mean?”

  “Yup. Reuben’s got a whole slew of sons and grandsons, all of them in the family business—they call him Papa Yatt. Looking at him, you’d think Reuben was a dirt farmer from back in the hills. Big belly, bushy beard, likes to thump the Bible and quote neo-Nazi propaganda. He runs a dozen legitimate businesses and buys up properties in the Coulee County area, but that’s all a cover—a way for him to conceal his illegal operations and launder his drug money.”

  “I had no idea this stuff was going on. Can’t he be arrested and sent to prison?”

  “We’re trying. We thought we were going to nail him for this murder. It happened in an old vegetable cannery just outside Quail Hollow. Someone—we think it might have been Papa Yatt himself—shot Ricky Lee Tatum and Cody Yatt to death there.”

  “Cody Yatt?”

  “The old man’s own grandson. Rubbed him out to send a message to any family members who were getting ideas about taking over the operation.”

  Mazie shuddered, unable to believe that such horrible things could happen in the peaceful community where she’d grown up.

  “There was only one non-gang witness to what happened in the cannery that night,” Johnny went on. “Tatum’s girlfriend. Her name is Shayla Connelly, she’s just eighteen years old, and she ran away the night of the murder.”

  “Connelly. Is she related to Sandy Connelly, the woman who works at the IGA store?”

  “Shayla’s her daughter.”

  “That’s a nice family. How did the girl get messed up in this?”

  Johnny shook his head, suddenly looking tired. “Who knows? She’s just a kid. She was only sixteen when she started seeing that punk Tatum. She dropped out of high school so she could be with him.”

  “You think Shayla saw Ricky get gunned down?”

  “Gunned down makes it sound like a gunfight, but those boys were shot in the back of the head, execution style. A 911 call came in from that location that night, a girl’s voice pleading for an ambulance to be sent.”

  “And that was Shayla? But wouldn’t they have killed her, too, if she witnessed—”

  “She lit out. Drove Ricky Lee’s car as far as the outskirts of Milwaukee, where it ran out of gas. From there she just disappeared. We’ve had every law enforcement official in the state keeping an eye out for her, but no luck so far.”

  “What does she look like?”

  Johnny considered. “Skinny little thing, not much bigger than you, brown hair, green eyes—even looks a little like you. You’re not related, are you?”

  “To the Connellys? Possibly. Maybe third or fourth cousins. Everybody in Quail Hollow is related to everybody else.”

  He gazed at Mazie, a glint in his eyes. “We could be kissing cousins.”

  She smiled. “That would explain a lot.”

  “Anyway, I need to find Shayla before the Skulls do because if they find her, they’ll kill her.” Johnny got up, picked up their empty plates, and carried them to the sink. “Shayla’s mom told me she thought Shayla might be with her cousin Brandi, who lives in Milwaukee. She didn’t know an address, just that Brandi worked in a bar and it had something to do with pigs. Pigtown or something like that.”

  “Not Piggsville?” Mazie asked.

  Johnny shrugged. “Dunno. I’m just a hick from the sticks.”

  “Well, there’s a place in the city called Piggsville. And there’s a bar there called the Hog Wild.”

  Johnny looked interested. “Yeah? Where is this Pigville?”

  “Piggsville. It’s sort of under the Wisconsin Avenue viaduct—”

  “Wait a sec.” Johnny fumbled in his pocket and took out a small notebook. “I better write this down.” He looked at her sheepishly. “Hate to admit this, but I got lost on the Milwaukee freeways. I was halfway to Sheboygan before I realized I was going the wrong way.” He looked at her expectantly, poised to write.

  “You need to get back on the interstate and
go west, but to get to the interstate from here, you’ve got to—oh, it’s too complicated to explain! I can show you instead, ride shotgun with you.”

  “No. I can’t let you do that, Mazie. I’m sorry, but it’s against regulations.”

  “Come on, Johnny—I’m really good at this kind of thing. I know how a fugitive thinks. After all, I was one myself.”

  “No.” Johnny pulled on his cop face: hard, determined, official. “Absolutely not. And don’t try to sweet-talk me into it, Mazie Maguire, because it’s not going to work.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Half an hour later Mazie and Johnny were in Piggsville. It was a tiny burg in the middle of Milwaukee’s industrial valley, shadowed by the enormous Wisconsin Avenue viaduct and squashed into about twenty square blocks between the towering silos of the Miller Brewery and a drainage canal. Its houses were mostly century-old brick bungalows, compact and sturdily built to withstand Midwest winters and the occasional car muffler that shot off the viaduct. Piggsville had a kind of land-that-time-forgot flavor, maybe because its streets all dead-ended at the canal and it was cut off from the rest of the city, accessible only by Forty-First Street.

  Hog Wild was a two-story wooden building with neon beer signs winking in its windows and its doors wide open to the night air. Mazie and Johnny could hear the thump of its jukebox as soon as they stepped out of the car. Mazie figured they’d be in and out in five minutes. It was nearly midnight, the temperature had cooled into the low sixties, and Mazie was glad she’d changed into jeans and a hooded sweatshirt.

  “Ready?” Johnny asked. He pulled on a baseball cap. Protective coloration. In blue-collar Milwaukee, no guy was ever seen without his cap, indoors or out. He slid an arm around Mazie’s waist and she looked at him, startled. “We’re a couple, right?” he said, winking. “We’ve got to blend in.”

  Mazie didn’t object. Johnny’s arm felt good. She slung her own arm around his waist and they walked up the steps and into the bar. Inside, they were assaulted by country music from the jukebox: songs about women who left you, buddies who wrecked your truck, and dogs who died on you. The pool table was getting a workout, the bar was two-deep, and boilermakers were the drink of choice.

  The bartender was a bald, heavyset man with drooping handlebar mustaches that appeared to have been dyed with shoe polish. Red-faced, he was hustling to keep up with his customers’ demands. Johnny found a spot at the bar, pulled Mazie in next to him, and draped his arm around her shoulder. The bartender came over, using the towel tied to his waist to mop his sweaty brow. “What’ll it be, folks?” he asked.

  “Two drafts,” Johnny said.

  “Comin’ right up.”

  The bartender moved to the taps.

  “How come you’re allowed to drink on duty?” Mazie asked Johnny.

  “I’m not on duty,” Johnny said. “I’m doing this on my own time. Anyway, how would it look if I came in a bar and ordered a ginger ale?” He turned casually, resting his elbows on the bar and surveying the crowded room. “No sign of Shayla,” he muttered. “But I’d like to bust those kids in the corner for fake IDs.”

  “How are you going to find out if this Brandi works here?”

  “Cunning and—”

  “Brandi,” the bartender yelled. “Where’s the ice? You were supposed to bring up a new bag an hour ago.”

  “Hold your damn shirt on.” A young woman who’d been clearing off tables ambled up to the bar holding a tray loaded with dirty bottles and glasses. She was in her early twenties, Mazie guessed, with a skinny build, straggly blond hair, and a lot of eye makeup. She wore a bar apron over a T-shirt and leggings and clearly resented being yelled at in front of the customers.

  “Could be her,” Johnny said. “She’s about the right age.”

  The bartender brought their beers and Johnny paid for them. Mazie took a sip of her beer, trying not to make a face. Johnny reached over and ran his thumb along Mazie’s upper lip. “Foam,” he said, smiling. His touch left Mazie wanting more.

  “Mind if I leave you for a minute?” Johnny asked. “I want to talk to Brandi.”

  Mazie gave him a playful shove. “Go!”

  She watched Johnny move across the room. He had no trouble striking up a conversation with the barmaid. Mazie doubted he ever had trouble getting women to talk to him. There was something about Johnny that made people trust him. Brandi, on the other hand, did not strike her as trustworthy in the least. She had shifty eyes and she was nervous as a cat in a roomful of Dobermans. Twitchy, rubbing her arms, playing with her hair—an addict in need of a fix?

  Maybe while Johnny was occupied, she ought to do some investigating of her own, Mazie thought. She found the ladies’ loo, a closet-sized room whose walls were painted a sickly shade of green evidently bought at a paint closeout sale. Peering into the dimly lit mirror, Mazie freshened her lipstick and reapplied her eyeliner, telling herself it had nothing to do with wanting to look good for Johnny.

  Emerging from the toilet, Mazie looked around. She was in a narrow service corridor that ran behind the bar room. To her right, a screen door opened to a delivery dock piled with empty beer kegs and liquor cases. To her left a roped-off stairway, hung with a smudged sign reading PRIVATE, led to an upper floor. Operating on the theory that respecting signs never gained you anything, she tiptoed up the stairs, which creaked alarmingly and opened at the top to a hallway with rooms on both sides. On tenterhooks, Mazie turned the handle of the first door. It opened to a dark, musty-smelling room used to store old bar equipment. The room across from it held a bare bedstead and a dresser missing its drawers.

  Not hoping for much, she opened the last door on the left. It contained twin beds with floral spreads, two cheap particleboard dressers, a goosenecked floor lamp with a tasseled shade, and a rolling rack jammed with women’s clothes on wire hangers. Picking her way across a floor strewn with wadded underwear and scattered shoes, Mazie moved to the dresser. The top was invisible beneath a layer of makeup, perfume bottles, nail polish, jewelry, fast-food wrappers, and CDs. It looked so much like her own dresser when she’d been a teenager that she got a déjà vu sensation. Snapshots were crammed into the edges of the mirror frame. Scrutinizing them in the dim light, Mazie recognized the skinny blond woman who appeared in most of the photos as the barmaid Brandi. This must be Brandi’s room—maybe the bar owner threw in free rent as a perk. Judging from the shoes carpeting the floor, Brandi spent her entire salary on footwear, most of it dressy heels, the type you could buy for thirty bucks at discount stores. Mazie picked up a slingback in synthetic black leather and searched for the size. Eight and a half. Ditto for a sequined sandal. But a Puma trainer, worn at the heel and ripping at the seams, turned out to be a six, a size for a small foot. Shayla Connelly was small, according to Johnny. With growing excitement, Mazie began rummaging through the clothes jumbled across the beds, looking for evidence that Shayla Connelly was here.

  A thump came from the room across the hall, the noise a toilet lid made when it was dropped back into place. Mazie moved swiftly to the door of a room she assumed was a bathroom. It was locked. But a light was on inside and she could hear someone moving around.

  “Shayla?” Mazie whispered.

  Silence.

  “Shayla, if that’s you in there, my name is Mazie,” she whispered. “Mazie Maguire. Maybe you’ve heard of me? I’m from Quail Hollow, too. I know what it’s like to be on the run. Could you open the door, please?”

  Nothing. Mazie had the sense of someone standing just on the other side of the door.

  “Shayla—I can help you if you let me.”

  No response. Mazie racked her brain, trying to come up with the right thing to say to a frightened eighteen-year-old. “I’m with Johnny Hoolihan. You must know him—everyone knows Johnny. He’s a good guy—he’ll see to it that you’re taken care of—”

  A rumbling noise came from the street outside. It sounded like an eighteen-wheeler shifting into low gear on an uphill grade. Da
rting back to the bedroom, Mazie peered out the window that overlooked the street. Four huge Harley motorcycles roared down the street, veered toward the Hog Wild, and slowed to a stop on the sidewalk, parking so they blocked the bar’s door. The engines cut out and the riders leaped off. They wore helmets emblazoned with glow-in-the-dark, grinning skulls and bandannas that hid their faces. This had to be the Skulls! Moving with military precision, they whipped out semiautomatic weapons, glanced at one another, nodded, and then stormed into the bar.

  Behind Mazie, a door banged open. She whirled around in time to glimpse a small figure, ponytail wildly swinging, pelting down the hall. Mazie dashed out in pursuit but stumbled over a shoe on the floor, losing precious seconds. Scrambling back to her feet, she hurtled down the hall, took the stairs at a gallop, jumped the last three steps, and hit the ground floor running. The girl had gone out the back; the delivery dock door was just swinging shut as Mazie reached it.

  Suddenly an earsplitting noise blew out of the bar room—a barrage of gunfire, as though war had abruptly broken out in the quiet streets of Piggsville. It sounded as though an enormous machine was spitting nails at supersonic speed, a stuttering, rhythmic noise Mazie had only ever heard in violent action movies. Glass shattered; bottles exploded; people yelled and shrieked. Expecting to feel bullets ripping into her any second, Mazie crashed through the screen door, rolled across the platform, and dropped to the concrete below, surprised to find that she was still in one piece. Inside the bar, the firing stopped, leaving in its wake an ear-ringing silence even more terrifying than the weapons chatter. Johnny was in there, maybe hurt or dying.

  But looking for him now would be insane, Mazie realized; the most helpful thing she could do was to phone the police. Keeping low, she nipped across the back parking lot and into an alley. A mat of slick leaves sent her skidding out of control and she fell, banging against a row of trash cans. A figure carrying a gun—a Skull—appeared silhouetted at the loading dock door, peering out into the alley. Mazie wriggled farther into the shadows, willing herself to disappear. Was he going to come after her?