CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright
Series Listing
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Acknowledgements
Series Listing
Loyal Be Jack
A Novel By
Robert C. Tarrant
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is purely coincidental.
Copyright 2019 by Robert C. Tarrant
Book Cover Design by ebooklaunch.com
Cap’s Place Series
Cap’s Place
Nimble Be Jack
Quick Be Jack
Driven Be Jack
Chaotic Be Jack
Loyal Be Jack
CHAPTER ONE
As I descended from thirty-thousand feet, I had no idea how the remnants of my former life would soon be shredded beyond recognition. My flight from Fort Lauderdale to Detroit had been uneventful — thankfully uneventful. Hurtling through the sky in an aluminum tube is not my favorite pastime. I had even dozed a few minutes. No doubt a product of the adrenaline drain coupled with the effect of the alcohol I consumed. Sitting on the runway in Fort Lauderdale three hours ago waiting for our turn to take off, a nugget of advice given to me years ago by one of the older attorneys in the prosecutor’s office had come floating back. I was facing the first significant trial where I was sitting first chair, and I had confided in him how my mind was reeling such that I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to focus enough to even speak by the time I reached the courtroom. He’d told me to acknowledge to myself that once inside the courtroom, there was nothing in life I could impact outside of my interaction with the judge and jury. I couldn’t strengthen the case, I couldn’t solve the issues I had in my personal life, I couldn’t address anything outside the courtroom. As soon as I realized that limitation, my brain would be free to focus all of its energy on the task at hand. Through the years, I came to understand that multitasking is the harbinger of mediocrity. For the time being, I put aside the mountain of issues that faced me in rebuilding Cap’s Place and began to focus on the purpose of this return to Michigan. Vague as that purpose seemed to be.
We touched down and taxied to the McNamara Terminal at Detroit Metropolitan Airport. I found my way along its gleaming canyons and down the escalator toward the baggage claim area. Had I known what lay ahead, I would have turned around and booked the next flight back to Florida.
Approaching the carousel assigned to my flight, I was surprised to see a tall trim man wearing a suit holding a sign with my name on it. I hadn’t ordered a car, but obviously someone was here to meet me. As I walked toward him, a look of recognition crept across his face. I was reasonably certain I’d never met the man before in my life, but he appeared to know me. He smiled and said, “Hello, Mr. Nolan. I’m Thomas Wilcox. Mr. Whitt sent me to pick you up.” Benjamin Whitt, my ex-father-in-law, must have accurately described me or shown him a photograph.
I replied, “Well, that’s nice, but I have a rental car reserved. Thanks anyway.”
Thomas smiled again and said, “Mr. Whitt said that would probably be the case, and he suggested you cancel your car and allow me to take you to his house. He said there is no reason for you to drive in the Detroit traffic as long as I’m available. Tell you the truth, I’m looking forward to driving you around during your visit. Been pretty slow since Mr. Whitt got sick.”
I thought about it for a second and then said, “Sure. What the hell.”
A few minutes later, I was in the back seat of a black Lincoln Continental as Thomas exited the airport and joined the throng of traffic on eastbound I-94. We were headed to Grosse Pointe Farms, where Benjamin Whitt calls a ten-thousand-square-foot Georgian Colonial “home.” Settling into the uncommon luxury of being chauffeured through the Detroit area traffic, I reflected on the circumstances that brought me here. A couple of days before the hurricane that destroyed my South Florida bar and nearly cost me my life, my ex-wife, Katharine, had walked back into my life with a request from her father. He was dying from cancer and wanted to see me before passing. How do you say no to a dying man’s request, even if he is the father of the woman whose adulterous conduct had turned your life on its head? Some people probably would have ignored his request, but I just couldn’t find it in my heart to punish the father for the sins of the daughter.
Prior to her sudden appearance in Florida, I hadn’t seen or spoken to Katharine since the night I walked in on her and Judge William Callaghan in the hotel suite that she and I should have been sharing. I’d fled to Florida and taken up refuge with my uncle, living above his bar. One of the benefits of our legal system is that you can obtain a divorce without ever actually speaking to the other party. After Uncle Mickey passed away, I found myself the proprietor of a bar in Hollywood, Florida. Now Benjamin was dying, and he was asking to see me. I couldn’t imagine what it was about, but I was determined to fulfill his request and go back to Florida with as little interaction with Katharine as possible.
Thomas exited I-94 and drove south to approach Grosse Pointe Farms from the east, along Lake Saint Clair. The manicured boulevard, Lake Shore Drive, took us past old moneyed mansions looking out on the expanse of the lake. Near the Country Club of Detroit, we turned onto a winding tree-lined street. Several blocks later we pulled into the drive of Benjamin’s house overlooking the country club’s golf course. Though I had been to the house many times during the years Katharine and I were together, I still found it impressive as we approached. The stately two-story dark red brick structure, with fifteen windows across each story of the front, could easily double as a small hotel.
Thomas parked behind a black SUV, and we approached the large front entry door. Before we could ring the bell, the door swung open and a gray-haired woman in a pale blue maid’s uniform opened the door and said, “Hello, Mr. Nolan. I don’t know if you remember me, but I’m Lily. Please do come in.”
I extended my hand and replied, “Of course I remember you, Lily.” Well, sorta.
She smiled and turned to Thomas. “Thomas, please take Mr. Nolan’s bags up to the blue room.” I had forgotten that the numerous guest rooms at the Whitt home were referred to by individual names reflecting their decorating. How charming. Thomas returned to the car, and I followed Lily into the large foyer with its gleaming black-and-gray marble floor and pale gray walls. Before Lily could say anything further, a sharp clicking of heels on the marble announced the approach of Katharine.
Despise her as I might, I couldn’t help but admire how attractive my ex-wife was. Glistening auburn hair framed her angular face with its high cheekbones. The trim cut gray business suit she wore did nothing to conceal the near perfect tone of her body. Her confident stride halted directly in front of me as she said, “Thank you for coming, Jack. My dad will be pleased. Knowing you were coming today seems to have perked him up a bit.” Her tone was far from warm and welcoming. She didn’t extend her hand, and neither did I. She continued. “I’ll take you to him now. He’s in the study.” No small talk about my flight or the fact that I survived a hurricane that many didn’t. I no longer warranted small talk in Katharine’s world. All business — and that’s just fine with me.
I followed Katharine deeper into the house. As we approached Benjamin’s study, I noticed a tall fit-looking man in a dark suit standing a few feet from the door. His high and tight haircut and serious expression screamed — cop. His demeanor was that of someone waiting. Could there be a line waiting to see Benjamin? Just then the door to the study opened, and I had my answer. Out strode the governor.
Robert Armstrong had been governor of Michigan since before I left the state. After a lifetime in elected office at the local and state level, he was now in the final two years of his last term as governor. Rumors were rampant that he would run for one of the U.S. Senate seats from Michigan, or even president. Armstrong had been a long-standing client of Benjamin’s, but I had never had the occasion to meet him. When he saw Katharine, he smiled broadly and said, “Hello, Katharine, it’s nice to see you.” He reached out and took her hand, but he didn’t shake it, he just held it. “Ben looks a little better today than the last time I saw him.” Few people referred to Benjamin as Ben, but obviously the governor was on that short list.
Katharine returned the smile, but it appeared somewhat forced. “Thank you, Governor, Dad always enjoys your visits.”
He finally released her hand, saying, “I must get back to Lansing, but please keep me posted on his condition.” He turned and started toward the front of the house, his security officer following in his wake. Katharine made no effort to introduce me, and the governor showed no signs of even realizing I was present. He probably has a sixth sense that tells him if someone is a Michigan voter. Of course, if he runs for president, my Florida vote might be crucial. Oh well, his loss.
Katharine opened the door to the study, and I followed her into the room. I was startled to see that the room I remembered for its towering bookshelves, oversized executive desk, and separate seating area of two deep leather club chairs and a matching couch had been converted into a full-blown hospital room. The only remnants of the study were the bookshelves along the walls. The center of the room was now occupied by a hospital bed partially surrounded by medical equipment. I barely recognized the frail man propped up in the bed. Benjamin Whitt had, since the day I met him, always been larger than life to me. Physically, he always carried 185 pounds of muscle, taut from regular jogging, racketball, and weightlifting. He had a workout room in the basement of his house that would rival many health clubs. He once told me that a day without working up an exhausting sweat was a day lost. Thinking back, I realized that it was during my years of association with him that I was most consistent in pursuing an exercise regime of my own. His impressive physical stature was only surpassed by his lively wit. In casual conversation with him, one always needed to be on the lookout for the double entendre. Yet, when the topic was the law, he was deadly serious and all business. He commanded a courtroom, or a boardroom, much as the ringmaster commanded the circus performance. Now, as I approached this gaunt and frail man, connected to a labyrinth of tubes and wires leading to an array of beeping and whirring devices, I couldn’t help but wonder what happened to the Benjamin Whitt I’d known.
Benjamin smiled, and a light came to his eyes, not the glint of the past but light nonetheless. He raised his hand, the one not connected to tubing, and I grasped it. He gripped my hand, but the grip was weak and the surface of his hand felt as if it was covered in tissue paper. His words were slow and his voice was raspy as he said, “Jack. You came. Katharine said you were coming today, but I wouldn’t allow myself to believe it until I saw you with my own eyes. Thank you so much for coming.”
“Of course I came, Benjamin. I would have been here sooner, but I ran into a little trouble with the weather.”
Benjamin laughed, a weak, dry laugh. “Little trouble with the weather. That’s what you call it. That’s what you call a hurricane—a little trouble.” He started to laugh again, but it morphed into a cough. Once he regained his voice, he said, “Katharine kept me posted about the hurricane, but I want to hear all about it from you. I’ve never actually experienced a hurricane.” Of course you haven’t, Benjamin, you’re smart enough to heed the warnings.
Katharine stepped forward holding her cell phone in her hand. “Dad, I’m afraid your reunion with Jack will need to wait a few minutes, Doctor Clarke is on his way in. I’ll entertain Jack while the doctor’s here and send him right back in as soon as he’s finished.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed movement along one side of the room, and for the first time saw a nurse sitting in a straight-backed chair along the wall. She rose and approached the bed, saying, “Mr. Whitt, I believe Doctor Clarke is going to adjust your meds. It will make you more comfortable for your reunion with your friend.”
As Katharine and I left Benjamin, I felt as if the air around us was dropping significantly in temperature, but she did suggest we have a cup of coffee in the kitchen. Lily was in the kitchen when we entered, and she asked if she could help us. Katharine replied curtly that it was not necessary, that we were going to have coffee, but she would make it. Katharine indicated for me to sit down at the table in the hexagon-shaped breakfast nook that extended from one side of the kitchen, and she busied herself in the kitchen preparing two cups of coffee in a Keurig. When finished, she brought the coffee over and sat down across the table from me. Sunlight, filtered by sheer white curtains, streamed in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, but I didn’t feel any appreciable increase in the temperature at the table.
After taking a sip of her coffee, Katharine said, “Jack, I do appreciate you coming to visit Dad. I know it means a great deal to him.” The words were kind, but her tone lacked conviction.
I decided it wasn’t worth picking a fight over, so I replied, “I guess I should take that as quite the compliment, given the stature of his previous visitor.”
Katharine started to reply but stopped. When she did speak, I had the impression she was carefully choosing her words. “My dad’s relationship with the governor is business, purely business. I would say that they are business associates, not necessarily friends. No, Jack, my dad looks at you totally differently than he looks at the governor. You can never underestimate his admiration of you.” Maybe I was being hyper-sensitive, but I didn’t feel she shared her dad’s opinion of me. I also sensed some resentment of the fact that her dad might admire me.
I replied, “There’s no doubt that for a few years I was closer to your dad than my own. I was sorry to lose that relationship, but . . .” No sense in stating the obvious. Our conversation, while not warm, was civil and I wanted it to remain that way, so I changed the subject. “You must have some idea what it is he wants to talk to me about?”
Katharine subtly shook her head. “I really don’t. When he first requested that I contact you, I asked him a couple of times what it was about, and he made it clear that he wasn’t going to share the topic with me. I really have no idea.” We fell quiet as we drank our coffee, and I contemplated what it could possibly be that Benjamin wanted to talk to me about. I also wanted to finish my coffee before the cold air emanating from Katharine turned it to ice.
Katharine broke the silence, asking, “Did your bar sustain much damage in the hurricane?”
“Not as much as some places but pretty significant. It’ll take months to rebuild and reopen.
”
“So, you’re going to rebuild? I thought maybe, if the damage was significant, you’d take your insurance settlement and move on to something else. Maybe return to practicing law.” The inflection in her voice gave me the distinct impression that she felt that anything except returning to the practice of law was pure folly.
I replied, “Oh, I’ll rebuild. Well, I say that, but we haven’t seen the insurance numbers yet. I’ll rebuild if the insurance proceeds will be adequate to support rebuilding.” I also knew that I hadn’t totally dismissed the idea of accepting the offer to buy the property that I had received just before coming up here. It was too much money to just summarily dismiss.
A look crossed her face that I recognized to mean her mind was kicking into lawyer mode. She asked, “You anticipating problems with the insurance company?”
“No special reason to expect problems, but you know insurance companies as well as I do.”
She smirked and said, “Oh, I know insurance companies, all right. I would expect that I know them much better than you do at this point.” Her hand made a dismissive wave through the air as she continued. “You know, since you’ve taken your little hiatus to be a bartender.”
Her bait was tempting, but I was determined to resist it. “I prefer to think of myself as a small business owner. You know, the backbone of the American economy.”
“Ha, you keep telling yourself that, Jack. You had so much potential, too. Now you’re just squandering it, running some dive bar. What the hell happened to you?” She paused, but before I could say anything in response, she forged ahead. “And don’t lay it at my feet. People get divorced every day. They don’t all run away and hide from life. What the hell happened to you? You’re not the man I married. You can’t be. The man I married had ambition and drive. You’re not that man.”
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