by R. O. Barton
“Trent’s ex-secret service, isn’t he?” I asked, not wanting to open my door and have the interior light come on, making an easy target of me.
Spain was looking down the street the other way, his suit coat was unbuttoned with his right thumb hooked behind his belt buckle. I wondered if he still had that .45 or his usual 9mm Beretta.
“Yeah. Trent said he didn’t like it worth a shit when Bench hired you to help them. Said it pissed him off so much he wanted to kick your ass.”
Spain chuckled, “I told him he had better bring his lunch when he decided to have a go at you. He gave me a weird look and told me he would probably be dead if you weren’t there. Said they all would have been.”
“How’s Stretch doing?”
He looked at me like I was speaking calculus.
“What?”
“The waitress that got hit in the coffee cup.”
“Oh, yeah, I forgot you know her. She’s okay, told me it was too bad the cup was empty. It could’ve had hot coffee in it and would’ve burned the shit out of her, then she would have found somebody to sue, maybe you.” He laughed at the thought.
Stretch was tougher than she looked, and she looked plenty tough. She always had some smart-assed remark; this meant everything was good with her.
“Just how well did you know Stretch?” Spain asked.
Standing beside my truck, I looked down at the backs of my hands, then turned them over to gaze into the palms, like there were answers in their shadows.
Over the years Margie and I knew her from different restaurants she worked where we’d go for dinner. We liked her. We could tell she liked us. She was attractive and funny. It was that kind of connection where everyone is attracted to each other, but no boundaries were being breeched.
I said, “Margie and I knew her from eating out. She was always the head of something, like bar manager or floor manager where she handled all the waiters and waitresses. Very tough broad. Looked a lot like Gina Davis, you know, the tall redheaded actress.”
“Yeah, I can see that,” he said, still searching the soggy streets.
“She took me home one night, back then, when I was really crazy, you know, afterwards.”
Shaking his head slowly, he whistled and said, “Damn, I bet she was hot. She’s not bad now, a little rough around the edges.”
“Yeah, she’s been doing that kind of work since I’ve known her. Those late nights will get to you. No one’s immune. She likes her beer too.”
I remembered that night. I had been trying to pickle my memories with Crown Royal and numb my pain with cocaine, and she took me home with her. My next recollection was of laying on her bed looking up at her face, which seemed about a mile away, so I asked, “How tall are you?”
She looked down at me and asked how tall I was, and I said “six foot even.”
She smiled at me, she had a great smile with a little overbite, and said, “I’m five-twelve.”
Sounded great at the time; at least I was taller.
That night, I found that tough broad exterior was just a wall. When she let it down, she was very soft and nurturing, a truly sweet woman. One of those surprises in life we live for.
“You know Spain, she’s really a sweet nurturing person,” I said.
“You’re shittin’ me, right?” he drawled. “No way that woman is nurturing. She said she would’ve sued your ass for being slow on the draw if that cup would’ve been full of hot coffee. I don’t think she was kidding. She wasn’t smiling when she said it.”
When Spain says more than a couple of sentences in a row, it’s like your grandmother telling you a bedtime story. I yawned and thought ‘she still loves me.’
“Spain, why’d you take the time to help me, you know, back then, when I was crazy? You didn’t really know me, but every time I got into trouble, it seemed like you showed up to keep me out of jail. Even when you were working undercover.”
If he noticed it took me twenty years to ask that question, he didn’t show it.
He pulled his braids from behind his back, laid them on his shoulders, and said, “I liked you because you always were kickn’ the shit out of some cowboy.”
I said, “About half the men in this town are cowboys or dress like one, including me.”
He smiled and said, “Well, there you go.”
We’d been standing beside my truck for too long, so I opened the door, the interior light came on like a stalag search light.
“If I were you I’d disconnect that light,” he said.
I got in my truck, opened the console, pulled out a folded piece of paper and handed it to Spain standing in the open door.
He unfolded it and leaned into the truck to shed enough light to read it by.
“I found that under my wiper a few weeks ago,” I said, scanning the street.
I knew what it said, in bold-faced type, ‘YOU ARE A WALKING DEAD MAN. YOUR ASS IS MINE. SOON’. It was signed E. T.
“Shit, Tucker, what did you think when you got this?”
“I didn’t think it was from a short little alien with a glowing finger.”
“Why didn’t you report this?” he asked.
Sometimes Spain has no sense of humor.
“And what would’ve happened if I did?”
Spain looked up from the note, folded it, put it in his pocket, and said, “Yeah, I see your point. He’d never come at you by himself, and there is no proof as to who wrote it.”
“That’s the way I figured it.”
“You think he’s going to make a run at you?”
“Yeah, I’ve felt being watched for a while now.”
“Well, watch your back. After what you did to those last two, that’s where it’ll come from.”
I closed my door, extinguishing the light, and started the truck. He rapped on the window.
After the window was down, he looked hard at me and said, “You doin’ okay today?”
It was the first reference as to it being the twentieth anniversary of Margie’s death. Somehow the term anniversary wasn’t appropriate.
“It’s been a bit reminiscent. Thanks for taking my mind off it for a while.” I said, nodding toward Gun World.
“If you change your mind about meeting that personal trainer, give me a call.”
I nodded and pulled away. Today was not the day to contemplate meeting a new woman.
Chapter 15
Brad Spain was looking at the taillights of Tucker’s truck when he picked up his cell phone and dialed the number written on the paper on the seat beside him.
It was answered after only one ring.
“Hello, Brad,” said the voice on the other end.
Spain thought ‘I’ve got to block this number,’ and said, “Yeah, well, I did what I could. I don’t know if he’ll call or not. Tucker doesn’t think of himself as a detective, so I don’t know.”
“Thanks for setting that up tonight. It was very informative,” the voice said.
“I told you he was good, didn’t I?”
“Yes, you did.”
“Well, what did you think?” Spain asked.
“You were right.”
Spain looked at the rear window of Tucker’s truck, but couldn’t see an outline of the man through the tint.
“He’s the man for the job, but you need to get him interested.”
“Are you saying Tucker doesn’t respond to money?”
“I’ve never known it to be a dominating factor in his life,” Spain said. “I’ve seen him turn down high-paying gigs because the client was an asshole.”
“All right then, thanks for your help, Brad.”
“Thanks for the loan of your Colt for the past few weeks.”
“It didn’t do much good, did it?” the voice laughed.
“Not tonight,” Spain said, just before breaking the connection.
He put on his left blinker, flashed his headlights at Tucker’s taillights, then made his turn onto I-440 that would take him home to his wife.
He thought about Tucker and what an influence the man had had on his life, and how Tucker was completely oblivious to it.
In the months following December 11th, Tucker had, on occasion, revealed to Spain different periods of his past. Tucker being full of grief and guilt along with enough brandy and cocaine to amputate an appendage, would talk in a monotone drone with a thousand yard stare, while the anger crept out of his pores. Sometimes it would be after Tucker had lost it in some Nashville late night spot and had taken his anger out on some usually deserving bully. The police would be called in and Spain would intervene, leading Tucker away in handcuffs, not to jail but to someplace where he could talk him down. Tucker hated bullies, and when one showed his ugly side in his presence, the bully found out what ugly really meant. It seemed that Tucker felt guilty about beating the shit out of someone (once literally) who needed it, as if he knew beforehand it wouldn’t be a fair fight. But, Spain thought it was Tucker’s survival guilt. This guilt would sometimes cause Tucker to tell Spain about his shady past.
During one of these confessionals, the anger coming off of Tucker scared him, giving him second thoughts on his previous decision to remove the handcuffs. But, through it all, what he’d observed on the night of December 11th, through the following procedural investigation of Tucker’s personal life, his own personal experience with Tucker, and perception of the man over time, led him to one general conclusion: he liked the man. In his line of work, that didn’t happen often; in fact, it didn’t often happen in his personal life.
He’d watched Tucker pull himself from a deep hole that he himself prayed he would never get a glimpse of. He had seen the man transform his life, personal and business; change himself into more than he was before his downward spiral into that fissure fate had bestowed upon him late one bloody night in December of 1982.
Tonight was the first time Tucker had confided anything of his new personal life. He was a virtual chatterbox compared to his usual self. Spain felt as though he and Tucker had crossed an invisible line that deepened their friendship. But, with this interview he’d set up for Tucker, he just hoped he hadn’t initiated something that would get Tucker killed. He liked having him around.
Chapter 16
I drove back towards town with Spain following me in his unmarked Taurus Turbo. He lived in Brentwood and could have turned off twice to take shorter routes home, but didn’t turn until we got to 440 on West End. He blinked his lights and was on his way to his devoted wife.
I was still in the Richland area when a car pulled out of a condo parking lot. This wouldn’t have been suspicious but for the fact I’d seen the car a couple of blocks away, and it had plenty of time to pull out before I got to it. Also, its lights were off until I passed. It was a plain sedan, maybe a General Motors.
The GM was about four or five cars back. I decided to take a little detour to see if my imagination was running away. I turned on my left blinker. The car in question didn’t, not that I expected it to. I made the left onto Wilson and kept my eye on the rearview mirror. At about the right time a car turned in behind me, about four blocks back. As I approached Woodlawn, I slowed well ahead of the stop sign, to let it catch up. It didn’t. I stopped at the sign, and turned the right blinker on. The car turned right a block behind me. Since I didn’t really want to lose them, if they were following me, I turned right onto Woodlawn. There’s a three way stop at Estes, and as I waited my turn, I kept an eye out behind me. Just as I started to move through the intersection, I saw a car turn right from a side street, and as it passed under a street light, it looked to be the same car.
I picked up my cell phone and punched in Spain’s number.
After a couple of rings he answered, “Spain.”
“It’s Tucker. You got somebody following me, watching out for me?”
“No. Where are you?”
“I’m on Estes, taking a little detour to see if it sticks to me.”
“You need me?” he asked.
“No, just checking. Wouldn’t want to mistake a cop for someone else.”
He said, “Let me know if you need some help. I can have a squad car next to you, pronto.”
“I’ll let you know,” I said and hung up.
Now, it seemed to me I was being followed. If he was any good, at some point he’d come up behind me, turn off again, then pick me up again. He knew my route home, or he wouldn’t have been waiting for me where he was. My job was to pick the place where he could come up behind me, and hopefully, for my plan to work, there would be no cars behind him. I couldn’t have this car behind me when I got out too far. It gets remote fast once you pass Belle Meade.
I stayed on Woodlawn until it butted into Kenner Street. I turned right on Kenner, then left on Harding, which was West End (one of the name changing spokes). That’s where the tail picked me up again. I had just made what was an obvious tail-detecting maneuver and he must have known by now, that I knew he was following me.
As I was stalled at the red light at the intersection of White Bridge Road, the tail moved over into the right-hand turn lane and shot down White Bridge Road. If he was following me, he’d go down to Post Road and hang a left, which would put him parallel to Harding. From the speed of his car, I figured he would turn back onto Harding at either Hillwood or Davidson Road.
While waiting for the light to change, I removed my jacket. This did two things: it gave me better access to my .45, and it showed the Concealed Weapons Permit badge I have attached to my holster in front of the gun. The badge comes in handy if I inadvertently flash the gun under my coat while in the grocery store or such. I don’t look much like a cop, and the badge has a way of relaxing people, if they should see the gun. It relaxes cops too; they may assume you’re one of them. In any case, it lets them know you have the right to carry.
It was at Hillwood when he turned behind me about a hundred yards back. There was no one between us, and right now, no one behind. It was perfect. The next light was at Belle Meade Boulevard, just past the police department. Being one of the wealthiest communities in the country, Belle Meade has its own police force.
I timed it for the light to turn red and I’d have to stop. The car had no choice but to pull in behind me. In my rearview mirror, I could see there was more than one person in the car. If these were bad guys, they wouldn’t try anything here. I could be wrong, but there’s only one way to find out . . . right about now.
I opened my door, drew my gun as I got out and thumbed down the safety. In a two-handed walking shooter’s crouch, I approached the car, keeping the truck bed between them and me. There were two men in the front seat and one in the back. As I approached my rear bumper, I moved the muzzle back and forth between the two in the front, first the head of the passenger, then the head of the driver, then back to the passenger. From their point of view, I was covering them all, and I had good cover behind my truck bed, and rear tire. I could only see the hands of the driver. The danger would come from one of the other two. If these were civilians, my badge would make them think I was a cop, and I’d be able to talk to them.
In the back seat, by the shoulder of the man sitting there, I saw what appeared to be the barrel of a shotgun, pointed at the roof. Okay, not civilians. I’d have to shoot him if it moved.
“Put down the gun! Show me your hands!” I yelled. It’s good to give a verbal command. I used to teach this.
I was talking to the man in the back seat, but the two heads in the front now had big eyes. The driver rammed it in reverse and squealed the tires. He actually backed down Harding until he could back into the parking lot of St. George’s Church, which is next to the police station. He did a K turn and was heading back the way he came, obeying the speed limit. It all took less than ten seconds.
Definitely bad guys, but the K turn was curious. It’s something that’s taught in law enforcement or the military.
That’s no good, maybe now would be a good time to visit Houston. I got back into my truck and just made the g
reen light. I dug out the card Spain gave me and dialed the number. It was answered on the second ring.
“Mr. Tucker, George Carr,” the voice said.
Caller ID.
“Mr. Carr.”
“I am very pleased you called tonight. I would like you to come to my house tomorrow. Would that be possible?” he asked.
“Yes. When and where?”
“One o’clock at 5302 Page Road, it’s on the left about halfway between Belle Meade Boulevard and Chickering. This may take a while, so it would help if you could plan to stay for dinner. Will that fit into your schedule?”
This voice was one that was used to being obeyed, his politeness coming as a compliment.
“It fits,” I said.
I knew the house. I’d watched it being built over a two year period, and it had only been completed about eighteen months ago. I thought it was going to be a hotel, but for the zoning. It was a stone monstrosity, maybe 20,000 square feet, on a ten acre lot where land sold for up to $500,000 per 2-acre lots.
“Good,” he said, and hung up.
So much for the compliment.
Chapter 17
Lyles, TN December 11th Present Day
I watched my back all the way home. It would be obvious if I were being tailed. My house was at the end of a winding 800-foot downhill drive. To get to my driveway, you had to turn three times off Highway 100. Each turn took you down a smaller country road.
I like to describe my home as a Frank Lloyd Wright berm home. I wanted it to look like the hillside it came out of burped a stone house. It steps down quickly from the hillside, had a flat roof, and the side facing the creek was mostly atrium doors and windows.
There are two bedrooms, two baths, with a 600-square foot great room. The bedrooms are both about 260 square feet. The bathroom off my bedroom is 192 square feet with a 6-foot black Jacuzzi tub with a heater, a black toilet, a black urinal and two pedestal sinks. I have an 8-foot square open tiled shower with two heads. Some of the subs I contracted to help me build it said it looked like one hell of a bachelor pad. Since it was just my son, Emmett, and me living there, I suppose that’s what it was. Emmett being 19, in love and away at college, was only there occasionally. I put a lot of custom amenities in it, like the warm floors heated by water that was pumped through thick-walled plastic pipes in the winter. But, I suppose I built it thinking one day a woman may come out.