by Larry Enmon
Frank kept walking. “Which one, Dora or Ms. Mayor?”
“Both.”
They eased into their seats and left the doors open. Frank slid lower and propped a foot on the doorframe. “Yeah, I have to agree. That bitch is no good.”
“Which one?”
“Both.”
“If I ever had any ideas about voting the mayor into Congress, they’re gone now,” Rob muttered.
Frank leaned his head on the rest and closed his eyes. “Oh, I don’t know. I’m more inclined to vote for him now that I’ve visited his home.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
He glanced at Rob. “No. Being this rich makes him less likely to take a bribe.”
Dora took her time getting everything they’d requested. Frank’s soft snoring, mixed with traffic sounds and water falling from the fountain, almost caused Rob to doze off. When the door opened, he punched Frank, who sprang awake.
Dora walked to the car and handed Frank an envelope. “I’ve completed the forms.”
Frank peeked in the envelope and pulled out a key and wallet-size photo. There was a catch in his breath and he stared at the picture a little too long, his eyes wider than usual.
“Thanks,” Frank finally said.
Dora didn’t reply but whirled around and stalked toward the door.
Rob drove out the gate and looked in the rear mirror. “Well, now I can say I’ve visited an English castle.”
Frank still held the photo, eyeing it as he mumbled, “You mean a Scottish castle.”
“Huh?”
“Wallace is Scottish, not English. Remember William Wallace? Braveheart?”
“Whatever. You hungry?”
“Yeah, let’s stop at Sarge’s for a bite.”
Rob grunted. “We can’t go there. You’re banished for that remark about his food.”
“Sure we can. It’s already been more than a week. Besides, he was only joking,” Frank said.
“Joking about you being banished, or joking about kicking your ass if you set foot in there the next seven days?”
Frank lowered his head in thought. He touched the tip of each finger with the tip of his thumb, counting to himself. He looked up and grinned. “We’re good. Let’s go.”
Sarge, whose downtown bar was a cop hangout, still held a place of respect in the department even though he’d been retired for three years. A sergeant in the Vice Unit, he’d supervised Frank for several years and had been the first one to roll up on the scene when Frank had been stabbed during the Nelson Park incident. Sarge said he’d waded through a pile of bloody bodies and found Frank collapsed by the truck with a dead whore lying in the seat. If Sarge hadn’t given him immediate first aid and called an ambulance, Frank would have bled out then and there.
Frank pretty much ignored what supervisors said most of the time. He just didn’t care. He wasn’t rude to Terry or Edna, but he never got in a hurry to complete their commands. But when Sarge issued him an order, he promptly followed it to the letter.
On the way downtown, Frank didn’t talk. Just kept gazing at the photo of the girl, studying it for a long time. The look on his face seemed strange—not a Frank look at all. Instead of dropping it back in the envelope, he slipped it into his pocket.
4
Katrina awoke in a haze. She shifted her head from side to side and focused, realizing they’d removed her bindings and blindfold. Objects spun and blurred but began to take shape. She couldn’t sit up, and the room whirled a couple of times as she collapsed on the pillow. Where am I?
The last thing she recalled—the truck ride. They’d stopped and the tailgate had opened. With her eyes covered, she hadn’t seen a thing, but it was still dark. The sounds of crickets and frogs sounded in the distance. The air smelled good, like those air fresheners you hang from a rearview mirror. Muffled voices whispered around her as the men dragged her out and leaned her against the tailgate. Strong hands held her as a sharp sting punched her hip. More muffled voices, and they half led, half carried her to a place with soft music playing.
She didn’t recall the song, but it relaxed her. Her legs weakened as she shuffled into a warmer area. Doors opened and closed, and the warmth flowed through her like a wonderful sauna. Her head felt heavy, lolling from side to side with each step. The sound of one last door opening, and the floor dropped out from under her. No—going down stairs. Her legs weren’t working at all now. Her toes dragged across each step as she tried to regain her footing. She was so tired. More muffled voices as they laid her on a soft object. And that was where the memory ended.
She focused again and rolled to her right side. She’d had a dream—a weird one. In the dream, women undressed her, and a warm soapy thing lightly brushed over her whole body. It felt good. She’d stared at the overhead light fixture while they bathed her. The bare bulb, twisted into the ceiling, kept her full attention. The women sang softly, some religious song she couldn’t remember. They dried her and pulled a nightshirt over her head, all the time speaking in lyrical voices about how she would be okay. They lifted her and fitted something over her hips and between her legs, then smoothed the long gown past her knees.
One of them sat behind her, propping her up, as the other spoon-fed her a thick soup. She ate, but just wanted to go to sleep. Someone wiped her mouth and chin with a wet washcloth, and a cup touched her lips. She drank several swallows of cold water.
One of the women said, “That’s good, missy. Y’all should get some rest now.”
They gently laid her on the bed, and footsteps echoed up the stairs. The bare bulb flicked off, but a small table lamp still burned in the corner.
Katrina had never had such a strange dream. She pushed to a seated position, dangling her legs off the bed. Steadying herself with both hands until the spinning stopped, she drew in a long breath. Something pinched her crotch. She slipped her hand under the white cotton gown to readjust her underwear. It was gone. Instead she wore a diaper.
* * *
Sarge’s bar was long and narrow and a little too close to the Greyhound bus terminal, which meant that parking was always a bitch. It wasn’t a fancy place, but most cops didn’t want fancy anyhow. Who you were drinking with was more important than where you were.
By the time Sergeant Jimmy Bielstein had retired after forty-one years on the force, he had been a sergeant for thirty-five years in six different divisions. Half the department, from patrol officers all the way to the chief, had served under his tutelage. He had wanted to open a bar after retirement and envisioned a Cheers-like place with plenty of room in a nice downtown location. That’s not what he got, but he still made lemonade out of lemons.
By the time he’d worked on it almost a year, it had sucked up half his retirement. In the end, though, he’d succeeded in creating a police haven—a bar where law enforcement and others in the criminal justice community could relax in a friendly, nonthreatening environment. Cops from dozens of agencies, as well as jailers and court bailiffs, frequented the place because it was close to work. Defense attorneys could be found begging prosecutors for plea deals over a beer most days. It was a good location to grab lunch or a drink on the way home. It had a stellar reputation and—except for that one ugly episode with Billy Ray Moore a couple of months after opening—few problems with customers.
Billy Ray was from Etowah, Oklahoma. He’d decided that the state had gotten too hot for him—a couple of outstanding warrants for hijacking liquor stores and a third for aggravated assault, just because he’d pistol-whipped a woman who was taking too long emptying the register.
Billy Ray needed a vacation, so it made sense to head for the beach. Every cop in Oklahoma knew his car, so he kept it hidden in his little brother’s garage. He gathered his loot, bought a bus ticket to Corpus Christi, and set out for a week of sun and surf. No one would look for him in a Greyhound speeding south. He congratulated himself on a well-thought-out plan. And it was well thought out, until he reached Dallas. The bus came limping in on
a half-flat tire, and the passengers were informed it would take an hour to change.
Billy Ray, always an entrepreneur, must have seen this as a godsend. He had just enough time to knock over a place, flee to the terminal, and get lost in the dozens of passengers waiting for their bus. The perfect getaway, courtesy of Greyhound.
Not knowing Dallas, he strolled in increasingly larger circles for several minutes until he happened upon Sarge’s. It looked perfect—a quiet place, with well-dressed customers and a cash register near the door. He lit a cigarette and sauntered inside. Sarge rushed over to help him.
With the cigarette dangling from his lips, Billy Ray grinned. “Need a pack of smokes. What brands you got?”
“Sorry, but we don’t sell cigarettes,” Sarge said.
“Then I’ll just take what’s in the register,” Billy Ray whispered, brandishing a pistol.
Several patrons watched the holdup in progress. As their conversations died away, the rest of the customers stopped talking and gawked. Billy Ray didn’t help matters when he swung the weapon away from Sarge and pointed it at the assembled group. In his defense, no one was in uniform—just a bunch of off-duty cops and plainclothes detectives grabbing lunch.
He waved the gun and said, “You sons of bitches just keep your seats and no one gets—”
And those were his last words. Sarge had opened the register with one hand; his other gripped the short, double-barreled shotgun he kept under the counter, loaded with double-ought buck. He pulled both triggers. The blast tore through the quarter-inch veneer counter paneling and blew Billy Ray against the opposite wall. But that only started the excitement. Likely already dead, Billy Ray leaned against the wall for a few seconds, loosely holding the revolver.
The patrons later used this as justification for what happened next. Seven customers stood and fired. Forty-two shots rang out in seconds. Those present described it as sounding like a prolonged firing squad. Billy Ray got hit another thirty-six times as he slid down the wall, leaving a bloody trail in his wake.
“An amazing demonstration of marksmanship,” one officer later stated. No exaggeration there. That many shots fired, with that many hits, under stress, in a small area—remarkable. Perhaps having a drink under the belt settled their nerves, improving their accuracy.
Forensics later determined a big sheriff’s deputy scored the best. All five rounds from the .44 bulldog hit her target. Not an easy task, because the damn thing kicked like a horse. Sarge noted that after shooting, the deputy ejected the spent casings, reloaded, and holstered her weapon. She reclaimed her seat and then waited for the patrol units to arrive as she calmly finished her beer.
No one at the scene could hear very well for the next week, but all recovered and none held it against Sarge. Officers from four different police agencies were involved, so the subsequent investigation was a mess. Sarge had to shut down for three days because of the investigation and to make repairs.
Meanwhile, newspapers in New England had a field day with the story, which confirmed their collective opinion of Texas. With everyone exonerated, the Dallas police chief made a heartfelt plea to Sarge.
“Please, do something to avoid this in the future.”
Sarge agreed, and a week later posted a simple sign on his new glass door: “Police Welcome.” Not exactly what the chief had in mind, but what could he say? Sarge had broken him in as a rookie twenty-eight years earlier.
All of this did have one positive effect. Ne’er-do-wells went blocks out of their way to avoid the bar where the crazy, gun-happy cops drank.
When Rob and Frank walked through the door, the familiar bar scent welcomed them. Mostly the place smelled like beer. Rob sucked in a lungful and headed toward the twenty-five-foot bar that dominated the space. A well-stocked, mirrored wall displayed the liquor bottles behind the bartender and provided the joint with the illusion of width it only dreamed of. There was plenty of standing room behind the stools, but only enough space for a half dozen small booths in the back on the way to the restrooms and a tiny storage area.
Sarge, standing behind the bar, looked right at Frank and without a word spun around and examined a wall calendar. Rob had figured as much. Sarge wanted to make sure Frank’s suspension had expired. Old ways die hard.
Sarge turned with a grin. “What’ll it be, boys?”
“Two cherry Cokes. Two sandwiches,” Rob replied. He wished he were ordering a beer, and Frank probably wanted his usual red wine, but Sarge had his rules.
The worst kept secret in law enforcement circles was, if you worked plainclothes and strolled into Sarge’s on duty and asked for a cherry Coke, you’d get bourbon and Coke. Request a vanilla Coke, you’d get vodka instead. If you were on duty, Sarge cut you off after only one. The officers understood the rules, and they didn’t want to face being suspended by Sarge. He had a philosophical explanation for serving alcohol to on-duty officers: “If a man can’t have one drink with lunch, what’s this world coming to?”
Rob and Frank grabbed a couple of stools at the bar while Sarge poured their drinks. Sarge didn’t speak to Frank, and Frank didn’t speak to him. Rob eyed both of them with a grin, curious to see how Frank would handle his awkward return.
Sarge slid the two glasses across the bar and Rob sipped his.
“Perfect, thanks.”
Frank sipped his drink, and Rob waited for either him or Sarge to acknowledge the other. More customers drifted in, and Sarge kept busy making sandwiches and refilling glasses. Just when the tension reached a peak, Frank made his move.
“Hey, Sarge. How can you tell when a family of pink flamingos has moved in next door?”
Sarge threw the bar towel over his shoulder and leaned both hands on the bar, staring at Frank. “I don’t know. How?”
Frank smirked. “They put little statuettes of Mexicans in their front yard.”
Sarge broke into uncontrolled laughter. He was a big German, and his bush of gray-speckled blond surfer-style hair shook as he hooted. He didn’t laugh like most people. It was more of a long, loud wheeze, like maybe a heart attack coming on. He slapped the bar and his blue eyes sparkled.
“By God, Frank, that’s funny.” He kept wheezing while pouring more drinks.
With exaggerated slowness, Rob glared at Frank. “That’s the most racist, ethnically insensitive, and politically incorrect thing that’s ever come out of your mouth.”
Frank shrugged. “Sorry, I forgot how sensitive you Mexicans are.”
Sarge wheezed louder from the other end of the bar.
Rob looked straight ahead. “Cracker asshole,” he mumbled.
More loud wheezing from Sarge.
The quickest way back into Sarge’s favor: telling him a politically incorrect joke. He loved them, especially if someone within earshot would be offended. Rob had figured out this ploy years earlier and played along with Frank. Actually, Frank was the least prejudiced officer he knew. A person had to care to be prejudiced. Frank just didn’t care.
Sarge finished their sandwiches and pushed them across the bar. He’d been around long enough to know he’d never get any on-duty cops in the place if he couldn’t offer them some cover. Since he kept a sliced honey-baked ham behind the counter, it could never be said his place was just a bar. An officer could drop in anytime for a ham sandwich and special Coke.
Rob crossed himself before starting, and he and Frank ate in silence as more customers drifted in. Rob finished first—he always did—and Frank spent another ten minutes nibbling. Finally, Frank wiped his mouth and sighed.
“Hey, Sarge?”
Sarge broke off his conversation with another customer and sauntered over. “Yeah?”
Frank leaned closer to Sarge and spoke in low tones. “You know you have the makings of the perfect ham and cheese here.”
Rob lowered his head and, under his breath, whispered, “Shut up, Frank.”
“You have great ham, good Swiss, a sweet slice of tomato, and crisp lettuce.”
Rob m
oved closer and, as if wiping his mouth, whispered again. “Shut up, Frank!”
“But the mayo and yellow mustard do nothing but confuse the taste buds.”
Rob gave up and looked down, brushing his trousers clear of crumbs, trying to ignore Sarge’s growing anger. This will not end well.
Frank moved his hands around his plate to demonstrate. “Now, on the other hand, if you substituted the mayo and yellow mustard for Dijon mustard, you’d enhance the flavor of the cheese and contrast the sweetness of the ham and tomato.”
Sarge gawked at him and his jaw dropped. “Is that a complaint?”
Frank seemed to wake up to the thin ice. “No.” He shifted on his stool. “Just a suggestion.”
Sarge’s face reddened. “Mr. Know-It-All, huh?” He turned to the customer sitting beside Frank, then back to Frank. “So, did the CIA teach you that?” He looked at the customer again. “You know that’s where he learned to cook, don’t ya? From the CIA.”
The customer glared at Frank and leaned in the other direction, as if maybe Frank had a communicable disease.
Frank must have felt the need to explain. He whispered, “It’s the Culinary Institute of America—CIA.”
The customer went back to his lunch and ignored them both.
“I only make one kind of sandwich. You don’t like it, pack a lunch!” Sarge said as he stormed to the far end of the bar.
“Well played,” Rob mocked.
A flash in the mirror drew Rob’s attention. Big Mike was entering the bar—a giant detective who worked auto theft. He swaggered past Rob and Frank and headed for the john. A couple of minutes later, he ambled out in their direction. As Frank downed his last swallow of Coke, Mike bumped his arm in passing. The glass emptied in Frank’s lap.
Mike paused and laughed. “Oh, I apologize. Didn’t see you there.”
Frank dabbed the stain with his napkin and didn’t answer. Mike laughed again and strolled to a stool at the other end.
Rob said, “That son of a bitch did that on purpose.”