Cap's Place: A Jack Nolan Novel (The Cap's Place Series Book 1)

by Robert Tarrant

  “Okay, okay, I hear you loud and clear. No choice but to start watering down the drinks. You want to tell Sissy or shall I.”

  Moe’s huge black face wrinkled in disdain, “Don’t start that poor struggling business crap with me. Save it for da tax man. Just pry open that money pouch of yours and gets us a new dish washer.”

  “Okay, I’ll make some calls soon as I get cleaned up.” With that I turned and started up the stairs.

  “Hey Boss, where yu been catting around this time?” yelled Moe in his usual in your face style.

  “Just because I wasn’t here when you came in this morning doesn’t mean I was out all night catting around.” I was proud of my light-footed sidestep of his jab.

  “Oh really? Funny, I didn’t see yu last night when I locked the door at three or when I unlocked it at nine this morning.”

  I turned on the stairs and faced Moe. “Was something wrong that you spent the night?”

  “No, not really. Just some bikers hanging around late. Didn’t want to leave Sissy here alone ’til I was sure they left without no problems. By the time they was gone and we got things cleaned up it was pushing three and I didn’t want to try to make it through white man’s land to go home. Just sacked out on the couch in the office.”

  “Moe, this isn’t Mississippi in the sixties.”

  Moe looked straight at me with those dark brown piercing eyes of his, “Really, well tell that to the two brothers ‘the man’ shot to death last week during a ‘routine’ traffic stop.” His emphasis on the word routine left nothing to the imagination regarding his opinion. Just in case, I didn’t get the point, “Might has been routine to the cops, but sure wasn’t to the two brothers who ended up dead.”

  “I saw something about that in the paper. Cops said the two guys were resisting arrest and trying to get the cop’s guns.”

  Moe looked up incredulously, “That what they sez when they don’t got no throw down to plant on the brother after they gun him down.”

  “I saw in the paper that questions are being asked. Like, why didn’t they use their taser?”

  “Shit Boss, the only time the man use a taser on a brother is to try to restart his heart after he done shooting him dead with the real guns. They figure if they can restart his heart they can pump out any remaining blood.”

  “Moe, Moe, don’t you think you’re becoming a bit cynical?”

  “Not cynical Boss, . . . experienced.”

  With that I turned and climbed the remaining stairs to my apartment. I couldn’t help but think that maybe it is still Mississippi in the sixties. At least from Moe’s vantage point it is.

  CHAPTER THREE

  PJ Johnson pulled the Crown Victoria, that literally screamed COPS, to the curb and parked in the “Tow Away” zone directly in front of the Simpson Building facing Young Circle. PJ reached into the backseat and retrieved her linen jacket as she stepped from the car. It was eighty degrees but she always felt self-conscious walking around with the forty-caliber Glock on her belt. That was not the case with her partner, Tim Donovan, who seldom wore a jacket and always had his Glock, a spare magazine, and handcuffs arrayed on his belt.

  As they approached the apartment building they embodied the sight that always drew a second look from people. PJ, 5 foot 7 inches and 110 pounds, making every effort to downplay a natural continence that screamed beauty queen. Tim, 6 foot 3 inches and 260 pounds, not all muscle, that screamed “hard-nosed Irish cop.” PJ and Tim had been partners for the last three years and it seemed to work well.

  The Simpson Building was an older three story manufacturing building that had been converted into upscale apartments. Bare brick walls and open beamed ceilings. Very chic. As they approached the door, they were met by two uniforms exiting. PJ recognized them as two of the young officers hired in the last couple of years but couldn’t remember their first names. Tim threw them a casual hand salute and asked, “Hey guys, what’s shaking in the world of crime fighting?”

  The taller of the two looked first to PJ and then back to Tim, “Nothing much. Somebody tossed an apartment on two. Talking to the vic it doesn’t sound like anything much missing but they really messed the place up. Certainly doesn’t warrant detectives though.”

  Tim chuckled, “Don’t worry, we won’t poach your burglary. We’re following up on the cabbie that got iced down by the beach.”

  The shorter of the uniforms, “Heard about that, any leads?”

  “Not yet, but we’ve really just started.”

  As they walked toward their black and white parked in the alley along the side of the building the taller called back, “Just holler if you need anything.”

  The building manager, after being assured that the resident of 325 would not object to their entry, used his passkey and let PJ and Tim into the unit. PJ subtly ushered the manager back to the door and told him that they would stop in and see him as they left.

  When they were alone Tim mused, “Damn, impressive digs for a cab driver.”

  “You got that right. He must have gotten better tips than I give,” replied PJ.

  “I don’t think this stuff came from Rent to Own” observed Tim.

  “No, this is decent furniture and certainly high-end electronics. Looks like every gadget that Brookstone sells” observed PJ as she walked through the living room and into the bedroom.

  In the bedroom was a computer desk with both a desktop and a laptop computer. Additionally, three digital cameras and two auxiliary hard drives were set up and interconnected on the desk.

  “Something doesn't feel right about this,” murmured PJ.

  “You think?” was Tim’s comeback.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I took a quick shower, ran a razor across my face, and headed down the inside stairs to the bar. There are advantages and disadvantages to living above your business. The advantage is that the commute to work is manageable. The disadvantage is that you’re never away from the problems.

  Cap’s Place, or Cap’s to regulars, is your basic beer and shot bar located on the sliver of land between the Intracostal Waterway and the Atlantic Ocean at the north end of Hollywood. Cap’s abuts the Ocean Palms Marina so we get a mix of boaters and locals looking for simple bar food, honest drinks, and candid conversation augmented by the annual migration of “snow birds” fleeing the northern winter. Most people either come in only once or become regulars. With Cap’s what you see is what you get.

  Owning a bar was always Uncle Mickey’s idea of the perfect retirement job. By the time he finished his career with the Detroit Police Department he was looking for warmer weather and a kinder, gentler, environment in which to have his bar. He always said, “Familiarity breeds contempt and I have become far too familiar with Detroit.”

  To say the place was run down when he bought it is to be kind. It was a virtual dump. It had a sullied history and the city seemed not at all interested in seeing Uncle Mickey resurrect it. The real turning point came when Mickey got to talking to some of the Hollywood coppers at another local watering hole and they learned that he was a retired badge and was trying to resurrect the place with an eye toward it being a “cop bar.” From that day on, things seem to go better with the various city departments that needed to grant a myriad of permits and approvals.

  The former, aptly named, Dive Bar became Cap’s Place and Hollywood had another cop bar. The building faces A1A with the front door centered and two booths on each side of the door. Another six booths line the three walls of an alcove jutting out from the north side. The alcove is also home to our well worn pool table.

  The main area of Cap’s hosts tables arranged in a haphazard pattern depending on where they ended up after Moe last swept the floor. The bar runs along much of the south side of the main room. At the rear end of the bar is the back entrance, utilized by 90 percent of our patrons, and on the front end is a short hallway leading to the door into my office which is tucked in on the back side of the mirrored liquor wall behind the bar.

&nbs
p; The rear wall of the main area is the focal point of the entire joint. It is a wall of sliding glass panels that look directly out onto the marina. Outside, a narrow deck of weathered wood runs the length of the wall and often serves as a vantage point from which tourists who happen to stop in can gaze out at the marina and reflect on whatever it is tourists reflect on. About the only time regulars venture out onto the deck is to watch some unqualified novice attempt to dock a boat in one of the narrow slips. An auspicious occasion of this nature can attract any number of regulars and the necessary accompanying pitchers of beer.

  The motif of Cap’s can best be described as “traditional nautical bar,” with a heavy emphasis on bar. The small spaces of the walls that are not covered with tacky advertising from our numerous alcohol suppliers are covered by equally tacky remnants from a former life associated with the sea. Fishing tackle, buoys, boat bumpers. Mostly just nautical flea market junk.

  The bar came with an apartment upstairs that Mickey and Aunt Jean remodeled and lived in. The apartment is not large, but they did a great job in updating and remodeling it. When you enter from the rear outside stairs you come into the living room running across the back side with an open galley kitchen and dining area. Just like downstairs, the east wall is all glass affording a great view out over the marina and to the horizon on the Atlantic. A second door leads down an inside stairway that comes out in the hall near the office.

  A short hallway leads to the two bedrooms. The bedroom and attached bath on the back side is larger with a sliding glass wall looking out over the marina and ocean. This was Uncle Mickey and Aunt Jean’s “master suite.”

  The front bedroom is very comfortable with its own bath and an unobstructed view of the traffic on A1A. This is where I stayed when I joined Uncle Mickey. I continued to stay in the front bedroom for about a year after Mickey died. Eventually, I moved across the hall.

  I don’t think an apartment above a bar was Jean’s dream retirement home, but she liked to be close to Mickey so it seemed to work out. I never knew if it was that she was so nuts about Mickey and hated to be away from him or if she just felt that she needed to keep a close eye on him. A couple of years after they got things running, Jean was diagnosed with cancer. Six months later she was gone. Mickey never seemed to recover.

  After my world imploded, I came to Florida to get away from everything familiar and ended up staying with Mickey. Just like Moe, I just sort of hung around and became part of the ambiance of Cap’s. Less than two years after my arrival, Mickey suffered a heart attack. The doctors said he was dead before he hit the floor. I think he died of a broken heart. He was a crusty old guy on the outside, but he worshipped the ground Jean walked on and I don’t think he ever recovered from the loss of her companionship.

  Mickey and Jean had no children of their own and thus I found myself the heir to Cap’s Place. Mickey’s will left no room for debate. I certainly wished I’d paid more attention to how Mickey ran the place but, what the hell, he didn’t know anything when he started either. We still get a smattering of local cops but without Mickey behind the bar to prime the “war stories” we don’t see them as regularly as in the past.

  When I got downstairs I intentionally avoided the kitchen. I didn’t want to hear from Sid about the dishwasher. I went directly to the end of the bar to see Sissy.

  Sissy Storm was Mickey’s right hand behind the bar and now she is both hands most times. She was aptly named as she looks like she should be a stripper. Legs a mile long with a tight body and the “South Florida enhancement” on top. She would be stunning even if her face wasn’t so striking. Sissy has angular features with high cheekbones, large almond shaped sparkling blue gray eyes, and naturally full lips that can only be described as luscious. Her auburn hair is shoulder length and sways to the rhythm of her hips as she patrols her domain behind the bar.

  With her ample attributes, Sissy commands the attention of every male whose path crosses the threshold of Cap’s. This male attention is quite humorous to the regulars who know Sissy is gay. I would never have guessed, but Mickey told me shortly after I arrived. It’s a real treat to watch those not in the know throwing their best lines at Sissy in hopes of achieving something that is unattainable. I stopped at the end of the bar and waited for Sissy to break off her conversation with a couple sitting at the other end and amble down my way.

  “Hi Jack. How you doing today?” Sissy asked as she leaned on the bar from her side. “Want a coffee to clear the cobwebs?” One of Sissy’s many traits that I really like is that she is not only an incessant coffee drinker, but she brews a really great cup and there is always a relatively fresh pot behind the bar.

  “Sure, that sounds great, but I don’t really have cobwebs this morning. I slept like a baby last night.”

  Sissy ambled back to my end of the bar with a steaming cup in her hand and scolded in her low husky voice, “You mean that you awoke with your head on some mother’s breast.”

  “Sissy, Sissy, give me the benefit of the doubt.”

  “Oh, sorry Jack. My attitude keeps getting clouded by your actions.”

  “Hey, Moe mentioned that you had some bikers hanging around late last night,” I said hoping to change the subject.

  “Nothing serious. Three Disciples playing pool in the back corner. They weren’t really any problem. You know Moe, always over protective.”

  “How did you know they were Disciples? They weren’t wearing their colors were they?’ I asked trying to mask the concern in my voice.

  “No, no, nothing like that. I recognized two of them from years ago when I worked at the Back Room in Lauderdale. Don’t remember their names but remember that they came in up there with the Disciples,” she replied.

  “Hope we aren’t going to have to deal with that again,” I muttered as I took another sip of hot coffee and remembered the period shortly after I arrived down here when Mickey had to dissuade a couple of groups of bikers from making Cap’s a hangout. Mickey had enlisted the aid of his cop buddies to make the stretch of A1A in front of Cap’s a frequent vehicle inspection checkpoint with special emphasis on motorcycles. Word quickly spread and we didn’t see any more bikers. I’m not certain I have the same rapport with the local coppers.

  “I really don’t think it was any big deal Jack. I heard them talking and I think they were just killing time waiting for someone whose flight was delayed to arrive at the airport. Besides Moe, Justin was hanging around late last night. I was never worried,” Sissy responded as she took a rack of clean glasses from Sid who had carried them in from the kitchen.

  “Hey Boss, I need to talk to you about the dishwasher,” Sid stated as he stood at the end of the bar with his hands on his hips and a look befitting a funeral on his pockmarked thin face.

  “Already talked to Moe and I’m on the case Sid.”

  “Good, because otherwise we’re going to have to go to paper and plastic,” he snorted as he turned and headed back to the kitchen.

  Turning back to Sissy, “Late for Justin to be around last night. No charter this morning?”

  “No, the opposite. He said that they were going out at four so he napped in the afternoon and was hanging out here until time to go down and get the boat ready.”

  I took another longer drink of the now cooling coffee and reflected. My guts had always told me that Justin was much more than a fishing boat deck hand, but what that was, I didn’t know. I had mentioned it to Mickey once and he just shook his head and said there were some things better off unknown. Whatever the hell that meant.

  I muttered to Sissy, “I can’t exactly put my finger on it, but seems to be more to Justin than meets the eye.”

  “How do you mean?” Sissy inquired with definite interest.

  “I don’t know. He just seems to be much deeper than the average deck hand. Don’t you think?” Of course I can’t say that I know all that many deck hands.

  Sissy thought for a long minute, “In a way I know what you mean. When you can get him ta
lking, which isn’t often, he seems to know about things you would never expect.”

  “Really, what do you mean?”

  “The other day we were watching CNN when he was in for dinner and they were babbling on about some little country way over in Europe or Asia. Some place I had never even heard of before. Justin started telling me all about the history of this little place I had never seen on a map.” She paused and rolled her eyes, “Not that I spend my spare time studying maps of the world.”

  I quipped, “Who knows, maybe he was a college professor before he became a deck hand.”

  Sissy cocked her head to one side, “I suppose it could be something like that, but he doesn’t seem like the book work type. More action type of guy.”

  “You mean like me.”

  With an obvious scoff, “Sure. Exactly what I was thinking.”

  “Too bad about his drinking problem. I hear he just disappears for days or sometimes weeks when he is on one of his drinking binges.”

  Sissy shot back, a bit too defensively, “Justin’s been dry for a long time now.”

  I finished my coffee, set the cup on the bar and started for the office, “I better go make some calls about replacing the dishwasher before I have a mutiny on my hands.” Just as I was rounding the corner toward the doorway of the office, I stuck my head back around and called out, “Hey, thanks for the coffee.” Sissy, halfway back down the length of the bar, turned with that radiant smile of hers and toasted me with the empty coffee cup she was carrying toward the dish rack and said, “My pleasure sir, always a pleasure.” The sparkle in her eyes was magnetic. If only she wasn’t ..... Yeah, and if only pigs could fly. I broke off the micro-daydream and turned back to the office to search out a dishwasher.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  It was one of those sunny rainy days in South Florida. One minute the sun is beaming down and the next it’s pouring down rain. Thirty minutes after the rain ends the pavement is dry again. Dry unless it’s flooded. We were in the midst of Hurricane Season and the newscasters had been droning on about an approaching storm system for the last few days. I had dodged the rain storms all afternoon attending to my never ending list of errands and was content to sit at the end of the bar and savor my burger and Landshark.