CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright
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
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Acknowledgements
Driven 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 2017 by Robert C. Tarrant
CHAPTER ONE
It's 7:00 a.m. on Sunday morning and I'm sitting at the end of the bar drinking coffee and reading the paper. Of course, the place is empty because we don't open until noon today. Living upstairs over your work, in my case ownership of a South Florida bar, has its pluses and minuses. The commute is short, one flight of stairs, but you can't get away from any problems that arise at work, because you're only one flight of stairs away. When I'm honest I have to admit that few problems find their way to me, even living in such close proximity. Marge runs the business end of things and Moe runs the physical operation. They both consult me on significant decisions, but we all know it's more out of courtesy than need. Let's face it, I'm merely a figurehead around here.
One of the problems related to living upstairs is the reason I'm up at this ridiculous time of the morning. Marge and Moe convinced me to enlarge Cap's Place, so that we could accommodate live music. I was perfectly happy with the bar just as it was when I inherited it from my uncle Mickey. Mickey had done a nice job of refurbishing the rundown bar he bought when he retired from the Detroit Police Department. The motif of Cap's can best be described as "traditional nautical bar," with a heavy emphasis on bar. The walls are adorned with long retired remnants associated with the sea. Fishing tackle, buoys, boat bumpers. Mostly just nautical flea market junk. Some people probably think it's down right tacky, but I think it's kinda homey. After all we are in South Florida.
Fortunately, Aunt Jean was emphatic that if they were going to live upstairs she and Mickey were going to be comfortable. Consequently, the upstairs apartment was entirely remodeled and it isn't the least bit tacky. Sadly, Aunt Jean was only able to enjoy the apartment a couple of years before cancer took her from Mickey. Fleeing a failed marriage in Michigan, I'd come to Florida and Mickey insisted I move in with him. One day Mickey dropped dead, the result of a massive heart attack, and I found myself the heir to Cap's Place.
Building the addition necessitated the contractors starting work at 6:00 a.m. every morning in order to quit work by mid-afternoon, before business gets too brisk. The by-product of this arrangement has been a significant alteration to my sleep pattern. It's hard to sleep with compressors, power saws, and nail guns screaming a few feet below your bedroom. Though the contractors don't work on Sunday, the habit of waking at 6:00 a.m. has started to manifest its ugly self on Sunday mornings, as well. This is especially painful considering the fact that I arose and left a beautiful woman sound asleep in my bed. Elena has only been staying with me on the weekends, so she hasn't been afflicted by the dreaded early rising disease.
I was just finishing my second cup of coffee and the sports section when I heard the deadbolt on the back door disengage. The door opened and the morning light streamed in momentarily before being blocked out by the mass of a huge black man entering. Moe strode into the room carrying a tool box in each hand. He looked at me at the other end of the bar and growled, "Hey, Boss. What happened, Elena kick you out of bed for snoring?"
His brown eyes always twinkle when he calls me Boss. I've told him a hundred times not to do it, so he persists just to get a rise out of me. I rejected the bait and replied, "No. It's just that I was awake and she wasn't, so I got up and let her sleep."
Moe set the tool boxes on a nearby table and grabbed a mug from behind the bar before joining me. I filled his mug and refilled mine as I asked, "What brings you in so early today?"
"I promised Juan I'd get the sink and drainboard reinstalled on the back wall in the kitchen now that the contractors are finished in that area. You know Juan, he's been in a real yank with all of the disruption to his kitchen. I'm just trying to keep peace among the natives."
I shook my head and muttered, "This whole project is a perfect example of scope creep. We start with a simple addition to the main bar area to accommodate a small raised stage and end up remodeling the kitchen and both bathrooms."
Moe rubbed his hand over his shaved scalp and said, "I hear you, Boss. First, it was simply a matter of relocating some plumbing lines and next thing I know we're redoing the bathrooms and the back half of the kitchen."
I said, "Obviously, Juan got to Marge when we weren't looking."
A faint grin spread across his broad face, "Actually, Marge added the bathroom remodels on her own. You know how she's been complaining about the bathrooms for years. I think she had plans for them in her mind from the start. You and I lost control when Marge and Elena first started talking about the project. I have no control over Marge and you sure as hell can't control Elena."
I held my hand up in a halt signal and said, "Whoa there big guy, don't blame this on me. You and Marge are the ones who suggested we bring Elena in on the project. I told you there are plenty of architects in South Florida. We could have used someone else."
After taking a sip of his coffee Moe replied, "Yeah, you said that at first, but then you found out that she would do the entire project without charging us. The cheap side of you overwhelmed the cautious side."
"It wasn't like that at all. The reality was that I didn't know how to reject her offer."
Moe scoffed, "And keep her in your bed?"
I couldn't hold back a juvenile smirk, "Well, that was a consideration."
Moe said, "I have to admit Boss that you've stayed alive longer than I ever thought you would once you started seeing Elena."
This last barb was a reference to the fact that Elena's father, Lorenzo Mancuso, is a reputed organized crime boss in Miami. The entire law enforcement community seems to be convince
d Mancuso is a criminal, but they've never been able to bring any charges. I know that where there's so much smoke there's probably fire, but so far I've done a pretty good job of pushing the whole thing out of my head.
I replied, "Don't I know that. You and Justin sure told me that enough."
The mention of Justin brought a cloud across Moe's face. Darker than the usual semi-scowl he wears much of the time. He exhaled and said, "You know, I miss Justin. He was a stand-up guy. Hell of a way to go, that explosion and all."
A day doesn't go by that I don't think of Justin and the explosion of his boat. Every time I look out over the marina situated behind Cap's Place I see his empty slip. Johnny, the marina manager, says Justin paid for the slip for a year and he's not going to rent it until the year's up. Like he expects Justin to come back sometime. Of course, they never did find his body, so . . . That's the thing about Justin. If I hadn't witnessed his boat exploding, I might not be convinced he's dead either.
A couple of guys who knew him in the military and in whatever type of mercenary activities he'd been involved in since leaving the military, gave me the distinct impression that Justin is one of those guys who is very adept at staging his own death when he thinks it's time to end one "legend" and create another. They actually said the word "legend." I'd never been in a conversation with anyone who talked as casually about changing identities as these two guys did. I think their visit was primarily to assess for themselves if they thought Justin was really dead. I told them about seeing Justin motoring out of the harbor and watching the boat exploding, but they gave me no indication what they thought after hearing my story, so I can only believe what I saw with my own eyes.
Having a visit from two inquisitive, but somewhat mysterious, men seemed appropriate given what vague information I knew about Justin. If Justin was even his name. Still, everything he had contributed to my life had ended with a positive outcome. That is if I disregarded the activities I was aware of that were far from legal. When he was around I felt like a loaded shotgun was propped up against the bar. Comforting in one regard, but frightening in another. In the improbable event that someone stormed into the bar shooting, the shotgun could be a lifesaver. The rest of the time it was a dangerous hazard just inviting a catastrophic accident. I was never relaxed when Justin was around, but now that he is gone . . . .
I was jarred from my thoughts with "What the hell, you bed a girl and then sneak off at the break of dawn?" Elena was standing at the bottom of the stairs that lead up to my apartment. She was wearing an old Detroit Lions jersey of mine and her hair had an unmistakable bedhead look.
I replied, "Hi Honey. I woke early and didn't want to disturb you. Would you like a cup of coffee?"
With a feigned pout, "You calling me Honey because you can't remember my name?"
"Of course not. I know your name's Ellen."
"You ass." She took two long strides and punched me in the shoulder with her boney little fist. "Yes, I'd like a cup of coffee, but I can get it myself Jeff." With that her bare feet padded around the end of the bar and she grabbed a mug and poured herself a cup. Looking up from her first sip she smiled and said, "Hi Moe. You're in early today."
Moe nodded and said, "Morning Elena. I've got some work to get done in the kitchen before Juan comes in to open."
Elena said, "I think the remodeling in there came out very well, don't you?"
I couldn't help but smirk as Moe replied, "Yeah, real good. Big improvement." He talks tough to me, but Elena and Marge have him wrapped around their little fingers.
Elena came back around the bar and started back down the hallway toward the inside stairs. With an exaggerated wiggle of her butt she said over her shoulder, "If you expect to enjoy the pleasure of my company in the future I suggest you get yourself upstairs and help me make breakfast, Mr. Nolan."
I responded, "Pretty feisty this morning Ms. Wilson."
"Yeah, I awoke with a need and no one to fulfill it." With that the door to the stairway closed behind her. She got the last word in once again.
Moe stood and said, "I better get started in the kitchen. Good luck Boss."
CHAPTER TWO
It was almost noon on Monday when I returned from the bank. I came in the back door, said hi to Renee who was tending bar, and walked back to the office to drop off the deposit receipts. Before I even reached the office door I heard Marge singing along to the radio. I had never heard Marge exhibit this type of behavior before. Not that she's a down person, she's just more serious than someone who sings along with the radio. I guess twenty years in investment banking would tend to bring out the serious side of a person.
I entered the cramped office just as Marge was finishing the final refrain from her song with quite the flourish. She looked momentarily embarrassed but quickly recovered and said, "Hi Jack. Beautiful morning out there isn't it."
I tossed the deposit receipts on the desk and replied, "Yeah, beautiful South Florida morning. I didn't even catch a bridge this morning." I hate the drawbridges over the Intracoastal Waterway that I must cross every time I leave this little slip of land I call home. I'm positive that the bridge operators know my car and raise the bridges at the first glimpse of me coming. I added, "You're certainly in good spirits today."
"You bet I am. Had my final checkup this morning. Try as they might, the doctors have failed to find anything wrong with me. After months of scaring the hell out of me with all of their speculation they've decided I'm as healthy as a horse. I think I had some type of bug when I was feeling so bad and losing weight and it just finally went away. Of course those arrogant medical geniuses would never admit they'd been on a wild goose chase. The good thing is that all of the worry they put me through has kept off the weight I lost."
Marge is in her mid-fifties, about 5 feet tall, and the weight loss she was referring to had taken her from a few pounds over her prime to what could only be described as trim. She's now wearing her hair short in a light caramel color. Subtle makeup and colorful tailored slacks and blouses complete the picture of a stylish attractive professional woman. I doubt anyone on the street would expect her to be the manager of Cap's Place. More like an advertising executive or a public relations director.
I gushed, "That's wonderful news Marge. Let me buy you lunch to celebrate. Your pick. We'll go anywhere you'd like."
"You know what, I'll take you up on that offer, Jack. Let's go down to Fort Lauderdale to that new place on Las Olas. Juan wants me to try their Caribbean chicken salad and see if I can figure out what's in it so he can copy it."
I asked, "Do you know the name of the place?"
"No. Juan couldn't remember the name when he told me about it last week, but I'm sure we can find it. It's only a block or two back from the beach. Juan said it's very contemporary. Black and white and chrome."
I replied, "We'll find it. By the way, why does Juan have you doing his reconnaissance? Why doesn't he do his own recipe thievery?"
Marge laughed. "Juan thinks that all of the restaurants in the area know who he is and they'll sabotage anything he orders so that he can't figure out what the ingredients are."
I scratched my head and said, "Do you think we should be worried about him? He's obviously lost touch with reality."
Another chuckle. "No, not really." Marge's expression turned serious, "I think that the truth is that Juan is uncomfortable going into the more upscale places. He just throws that excuse out as a cover."
"Maybe we should take him with us?"
"No Jack, I think that would just embarrass him. Besides, he'd never leave during lunch. To say nothing of the fact that you're taking me out to lunch to celebrate. Remember?" With that Marge stood and linked arms with me leading me out of the office. I had never seen her quite like this.
Marge and I returned from a very enjoyable lunch at about 2:00 p.m. Much to my amazement, Marge even had a glass of white wine with lunch. She was really in a celebratory mood. Of course why shouldn't she be, the dark cloud of the medical s
care she had been through the past few months had finally lifted. As we chatted during lunch, I realized that I felt a sense of relief as well. I must have been more worried about her than I realized. I'd tried to convince myself the past few months that as she looked healthier and healthier she couldn't have anything serious wrong with her, but I guess deep down I was scared that the truth was otherwise. Joining in the celebration, I had a Landshark with my lunch. Of course I have a Landshark with my lunch nearly every day, unless I have two.
When we came in the back door, Marge went straight to the kitchen to give Juan her report. I guess in the rough and tumble world of restaurant espionage, time is of the essence. I ambled down the bar and took up my usual spot at the end. Renee had just brought me a Landshark when Harry Ward came in the back door and took the stool just around the corner from my end of the bar. Harry had become a regular over the past few months. He usually came in for either lunch or dinner every day.
I said, "Hi Harry. How are you today?"
"Jack, at my age every day is a great day. How about you?"
I don't know how old Harry is, but I guess he's in his late sixties or early seventies. He's a small man with a full head of snow white hair that's usually a little on the long side as if it needs a trim. He told me once that he had moved to South Florida from Iowa when his wife died. He said he had retired from a lifetime of "selling hardware" a few months after she died and he just needed a change of scenery. I guess you couldn't get much more drastic a change of scenery from Iowa than the metropolitan ocean front here.
"I'm doing fine Harry. Beautiful South Florida day out there."
Renee walked up and set a Landshark in front of Harry and asked, "You eating lunch Harry?"
The first time Harry came in he asked whoever was tending bar what kind of beer the owner drank and said he'd have the same thing. He said the owner no doubt had his choice of everything at the bar and so if it was good enough for the owner it was good enough for him. Must be some kind of hardware sales logic, although it does make some sense. Unfortunately for him, he didn't know of the limited breadth of experience of the owner. The first day I arrived in Florida I ordered a Landshark, because the guy sitting next to me at the bar was drinking one, and I just never branched out after that. Probably some indication of how I live my life.
Driven Be Jack_A Jack Nolan Novel Page 1