by R. O. Barton
It was time to make one of those decisions based on the information available in the present moment. You could never tell when one would be a pivotal decision. I decided I was hungry, that sounded safe enough. I checked my multipurpose blackjack, and saw there was just enough time to give the office the once-over before going downstairs to catch some Sashimi prior to the big shootout.
After straightening up a bit, I threaded my custom-made Bellioni holster on to my belt, reached under a pillow on the futon, pulled out my 1911 Colt .45, and slipped into the holster. I decided to keep my black cherry, chip toed Lucchese cowboy boots on and not change into running shoes. They put me up over six-one, which would tower me over Spain’s five-seven, maybe intimidating some extra points for me during the impending shootout. I put on my Abercrombie and Fitch lamb skin brown leather jacket, donned one of my LSU caps, set the security code and went downstairs.
Chapter 6
When people asked where you’re from, most usually reply by telling them the town they grew up in. Well, I grew up all over the world. I’m an Air Force Brat. My traveling dysfunctional family didn’t move to the States for good until the summer between my sixth and seventh grade years. Before that, it was just visits that went along with either duck season, summer fishing, or when my sister, brother and I lived with my mother and abusive step-father, also an Air Force Officer.
When my father regained custody of my brother and I, leaving my sister with my mother and step-father, he was a Major. He was a firm believer in the aphorism ‘children should be seen and not heard,’ so I didn’t have much opportunity to say the words ‘Dad’ or ‘Father’. He was referred to as ‘The Major’.
A year before the Major retired, we moved to Alexandria, Louisiana, his home-town. I did my junior high, high school and college in Louisiana. So, when people asked me where I am from, I said Louisiana. Most of the people who have known me for years associate me with Louisiana. The truth of the matter is, I’ve lived in Nashville and the surrounding area for over 20 years. That’s longer than I have ever lived anywhere, but I am wearing an LSU hat.
Alexandria, known locally as just Alec: the land where the rednecks met the Cajuns met the Army boys from Fort Polk, met the Air Force boys from England Air Force Base, all of which bordered the beginnings of some of the most perilous swampland in Louisiana. One of which was one of my personal stomping grounds, a place called the Devils’ Raceway. All in all, a very volatile and dangerous place. I had the scars to prove it.
I had a friend, Max Young, who ended up as a drill instructor at Fort Polk, sixty miles west of Alec. Every time a group of recruits would go out on their first leave, he would give the same speech. He told them that although they have been taught many ways to kill a man with their bare hands, not to think for one minute they were going to go into Leesville or Alexandria and whip up on any of the local boys. He informed his newly trained killers that the local boys grew up in a war zone, most carried guns and all carried knives, and ‘they will kill you!’. They didn’t always listen.
Chapter 7
As I reached street level, I paused in the shadow of my entrance alcove. It was good to check the street, get a feel for the pulse, the movement, or lack of it. I’m not paranoid, just cautious. Not everyone loves me. The octopus is still alive; he may be missing a few tentacles, but he’s still alive.
I stepped onto the sidewalk, turned left, and walked the twenty feet to the doorway of Pok’s. The tourist traffic wasn’t too bad, so I was allowed to pause and check out my favorite hangout and eatery.
Directly in front of me was a display case containing Japanese art, sake services for sale and a nice selection of sake. The bottles were displayed around the varying services. It created a nice feng shui entrance to the establishment. You could see over the top of the display. You could turn to the left and go to the sushi bar or turn right and move into the radiant ambiance of the Red Dragon Restaurant. There were more than a few red dragons on display. Pok liked red dragons.
Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, so I turned to the left.
The sushi bar was a rectangle island with the far end being under the stairway to my place. It was almost full. There were couples and small groups scattered around leaving only a few unoccupied stools that faced the raw fish display cases. This didn’t concern me, because down the far end on the right, against the wall facing the window to the street was my chair. It was unoccupied because of the ‘reserved’ sign sitting on the bar in front of it. The only reserved sign in the building as far as I knew.
This was also where Pok did his magic. There were never fewer than two sushi chefs working, and I’d seen as many as five in the center of the action. But, Pok worked just that portion of the island.
It may have had something to do with the fact that’s where his platform was. Pok is very short. He may have had the platform built there because the stairway to my place made for less head room or maybe because that was the only place I would sit. Pok loved me.
I’d helped a drunken tourist out of his restaurant, and now he thinks I could do no wrong. Of course the tourist, being drunk and all, didn’t want any help, didn’t in fact, really want to leave.
I felt more comfortable with my back to the wall, with a view of the rest of the restaurant, and I could see out the window onto the street. Some call that the gunfighter’s seat. I just call it the best seat in the house, any house.
As I walked around to the right and towards my seat, Pok spied me and gave me his million dollar smile (he’s probably made that since opening this place two years before). He’s a sweet guy.
.“Hey, Mista Tucka.”
“Hi Pok, how’re you doing?”
“Mee? I’m goood. You want sake?” he asked, while making a rice ball for sushi. Pok was from Tokyo. He’s about four and a half feet tall, muscular and perfectly formed. He looked like a little Arnold Schwarzenegger, only better looking.
“No thanks, Pok. Let me have some green tea and the small Sashimi plate,” I said.
As I sat down in front of the reserved sign, some of the patrons sitting around gave me curious glances. I sometimes have that effect. It must be the scar.
After he wiped his hands on a towel, he stood like a western gunfighter, elbows out, palms towards his hips, and slowly swayed back and forth. He pretended to draw his imaginary six-shooters and said, “You working tonight?” Then blows the make-believe smoke from both index fingers. Pok watches a lot of TV, including the news.
Needless to say, this morphed many of the glances into stares.
Between the glancing and staring, I felt like a dart board. I tried not to make a face.
“No, I’m not working tonight Pok, just hanging out with some friends,” I said.
He looked disappointed. I think he would have been ecstatic if I told him I was going out to whack somebody.
“I got yu favrit Sake, de one from Cororado.”
“No thanks, Pok. Just green tea to start, but I’ll have a Haake Beck with the sashimi.”
Green tea was supposed to have the good kind of caffeine, whatever that meant. After such an exciting order, I must not have been so interesting, and the dart slingers retired.
Pok started shouting in Japanese, and a beautiful woman scurried out of the back.
It always amazed me, how oriental women could look graceful, even when hurrying. I loved oriental women. It must be my upbringing.
Her name was Lei. It’s pronounced lay, but I’m not going there. It’s been too long.
Lei came directly to me and seemed to ignore everything Pok was saying. He hadn’t stopped jabbering since she appeared. Nevertheless she had eyes only for me. FANTASY! She was somewhere in her mid to late twenties and had been working here since the beginning.
She carried a tray with a hot rolled-up, white hand towel and a pair of plain wood chopsticks. There was a wooden bin behind the bar with over a hundred ornately lacquered chopsticks in their own numbered cases for regular customers. I preferred the
wooden ones; the food doesn’t slip out of them so easily. Pok and I sometimes got a conspiratory silent laugh out of the regulars dropping food because of their fancy slick sticks, but it was smart marketing on Pok’s part.
She stopped next to me, stood with her feet together, slightly bowed her head and presented the tray.
“It is so good to see you, Mr. Tucker,” she said, with just a hint of accent, that I found attractive.
“Lei, it is always a pleasure to see you,” I said, as I took the towel and started to wipe my hands.
She set the chopsticks on a napkin on the bar, then slowly raised her head to make direct eye contact with me. It was so un-oriental of her.
I looked down, then looked up quickly and nodded to her. I wanted her to know how much I appreciated her lovely brown eyes.
She blushed and showed a modicum of even white teeth, “No, Mr. Tucker, it is my pleasure.”
“Lei, if I was 20 years younger, I’d ask you to marry me. I would take you away from this horrible place,” I said, with a wave of my hand to include the restaurant and Pok.
Pok was smiling like he was part of my joke.
Lei turned as red as the dragon on the kimono she was wearing, and as she short-stepped by me, whispered in my ear, “You no too old, you too scared,” then disappeared behind the red door to the kitchen.
I almost dropped my towel. Pok started laughing very loudly, the way only oriental people could do and get away with it.
“She like you, Mista Tucka, ” Pok whispered with a wink and a grin. “She think you soo handsome. Yes, she say this to me.”
Stricken with a sudden case of aphasia, I did the smart thing. I looked around the room for buried treasure.
A few minutes later Lei returned with my tea. I deduced she wasn’t ignoring Pok. My neck was getting hot, and I felt like I was walking in a field of land mines.
“Thank you, ma’am,” I said, as I looked at the ceiling for more buried treasure. In my peripheral vision, I saw her look up at the ceiling, then I heard her giggle.
“I will bring your Haake Beck with your sashimi. Is that right?” she asks, not budging.
I realized I must show bravery. Pok was watching. I must not lose face. I would impress them with my witty repartee.
I turned my head, looked deep into her brown eyes and said, “Yes ma’am.”
Pok was laughing loudly again. Lei looked at me with a smile that somehow let me off the hook, then they both got the giggles.
I liked this restaurant.
From the restaurant I detected movement aimed in my direction and saw a familiar face coming. It was Paul Macino with a very attractive woman in tow. He held his hand out for the shake and with a big smile on his round face said, “Tucker, it’s great to see you.”
“Paul, how’ve you been?” I asked, turning my stool to face them.
“Great, just great,” he said, pumping my hand so hard water should be coming out of my ears any second now.
“I want you to meet my fiancé, Troy,” he said, with his left hand on the small of her back.
As I stood, her hand came up to replace Paul’s hand in mine.
“Good afternoon Troy, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” I said, looking into big emerald eyes, surrounded by short cropped blonde hair.
“Mr. Tucker. Please sit. We don’t wish to disturb your meal. It’s just that I’ve heard so much about you and what you have done for Paul and Ryan. I believe Paul brought me down here in hopes of running into you,” she said.
Her accent sounded native Nashvillian and she reeked of old money, looked to be about 35, but was probably closer to 45. She wasn’t a pumper. She was a holder.
“It’s not Mr., it’s just Tucker,” I said, as I sat back down.
She knew how to wear makeup. I had to look hard to see it. It could’ve been misconstrued for staring.
“Is that your first name or your last?” she asked, with a mischievous glint in her eyes.
“Both,” I said, giving Paul a glance. He looked constipated.
“I didn’t put her up to that, I swear,” he said.
Paul was in his early sixties but aging well. He owned a string of successful auto parts stores across Tennessee.
“That’s true. He always refers to you as Tucker, and Ryan says Mr. Tucker. I asked him one day what your whole name was and he didn’t know. I’m just naturally nosey,” she said, as she tossed her head like her hair was longer and in her eyes. She was still holding my hand.
I felt my eyes squint with amusement. In the silence that followed, I could sense Paul becoming uneasy. My squinting escalated.
I could see that Troy was having a blast, her bright eyes were dancing as she moved the toe of her right shoe back and forth, pivoting on the spike of her high heel.
She didn’t mind holding my hand. I didn’t mind either. It was nice. She had a great manicure with pale pink polish, and the nails weren’t so long as to be in the way.
“Well, Tucker,” she said, with delight, “We expect to see you at our wedding in June.”
I gave her hand a light squeeze and said, “It would be my pleasure to attend your nuptials, and may I say that Paul is indeed a fortunate man.”
I liked her. There was an easy elegance about her.
“Paul said you were a nice man, although I had my doubts after you making the news. But I see Paul’s perception of you is accurate.”
Her expression altered, like a small embarrassing memory just came to mind.
“To be truthful,” she whispered. “Paul wanted to invite you and I said not until I’d met you.”
“So this is an inspection, and I passed?”
Now I understood Paul’s uneasiness.
Paul groaned and started looking around for my buried treasure.
As I stood, she very naturally let go of my hand, allowing me to put my left arm around Paul’s shoulder while I shook his hand. Paul’s a standup guy and was exceedingly generous concerning the little matter I handled for him.
“Congratulations, Paul. It looks like you’ve got your hands full.”
From the look on Troy’s face, I couldn’t have said anything more fitting.
Paul let out some air and in a relieved tone said, “You got that right.”
Troy looked me dead in the eye and smiled.
“See you in June,” she said, spun on her heel and left without a backward glance.
Paul, still shaking my hand, looked like he was going to apologize.
I said, “She’s great, Paul. You’re a lucky man, and I’m more than a little envious.”
“Yeah, she is a bundle. Thanks, Tucker, for everything. Now I can send you an invitation.”
“I’ll look for it. Don’t worry about the inspection. I don’t blame her,” I said.
He shook his head and seemed like he wanted to say something else, but Lei came back with my sashimi and Becks.
“See ya,” he said, and hurried after the bustling Troy.
As I sat back down to eat, through the window I could see them walking on the sidewalk and thought back on how I’d met Paul.
Paul’s son, Ryan was working at Davis Dodge, moving cars and trucks around the lots and being an all-around gofer. He’d landed the job at Davis Dodge on his own. Ryan was 18 and loved trucks and music, in that order. One day while moving a truck, he backed it out of a parking spot on the back lot, and ran over Ray.
Ray was a black gentleman, 62 years of age, who had worked at Davis Dodge for more than ten years. He was well liked and was affectionately known as Uncle Ray by all who worked there.
When I said Ryan hit Ray, that was an understatement. He not only backed into him, but ran completely over the old gentleman with the rear wheels of a double axle three-quarter ton Dodge Ram pickup. Uncle Ray didn’t survive.
Ryan was arrested, taken downtown and charged with vehicular homicide, and subsequently, I got a call from a distraught Paul Macino.
Paul said he got my name from a patrolman who wanted to r
emain anonymous. Patrolman Anonymous had said that I may be able to help Paul because I had some friends down at the department. Paul also said he got the impression the patrolman didn’t care much for the arresting officer.
I didn’t know what I could do. Not being a private investigator, I was at a loss, and told Paul the same. He literally begged me to help him and had already arranged for me to see his son.
I heard the ache in Paul’s voice and not knowing what else to do, I went to see Ryan.
When I arrived at the jail, it was obvious Ryan had been crying. I thought the cops had been grilling him. But after talking with him, I found he was frightened and completely devastated over having killed Uncle Ray. Ryan didn’t seem at all concerned about what was going to happen to his self. He swore he looked in all the mirrors and looked behind him at least twice before backing out. He’d said, “There must be a blind spot or something in the truck.”
As I left the interview room that had been set up for us, I ran into the arresting officer. A splotchy red-faced porcine man named Poteet.
Poteet wasn’t happy to see me. Although I didn’t know him, he seemed to know me and didn’t like me. I asked him why an 18-year-old boy was charged with negligent vehicular homicide for accidentally backing into someone.
He informed me, “It wasn’t any of my fuckin’ business. But if I really wanted to know, the kid had a reputation for playing loud music in the vehicles he moved. And if he hadn’t been playing the loud fuckin’ music, he would have seen the old fart, and besides, he backs out too fast. He’s just a spoiled rich punk who doesn’t give a fuck about anything but himself.”
I saw why cops were sometimes called pigs. Poteet was a real jewel. Yes, sir. A jewel shaped just like an asshole.
Through Spain, I got copies of the arrest report and pictures taken at the scene. I got the feeling Spain was Patrolman Anonymous. When I called him on it, he denied any connection, but did say Poteet was getting ready to retire and might be trying to go out with a bang.