Driven Be Jack_A Jack Nolan Novel

by Robert Tarrant

  We all sat quietly for a couple of minutes, lost in our own thoughts, before Windy said, "Maybe you should talk to her parents. Debbie's parents. They must know where she is now. You could talk to her. If anyone could tell you what was going on in Jessica's life it would be Debbie."

  PJ said, "We'd like to do just that, but first we need to track down her parents. We understand that her dad worked for USDA and got transferred. Do you, by chance, know his name?"

  Windy drew a deep breath that ended with a light cough and a wheeze. He replied, "I can't recall his name, but I'll bet it's here in my archives somewhere. I remember that Debbie was homecoming queen her senior year, so there would have been a story in the paper and it would have contained the names of her parents. I remember that she was queen because Jessica teased her every time she came into Pappy's, curtsied and called her 'your highness.' It was all good natured and made Debbie laugh so hard she nearly cried a couple of times."

  I asked, "Can you find her dad's name?"

  "Of course I can." With that Windy got up and went over to a cabinet of small file drawers like an old fashioned card index in a library. He deftly thumbed through a couple of drawers before pulling out a card. He repeated a date to himself and walked over to the shelves of archived papers. He brought a volume back over to the table and opened it. After flipping through a couple of copies of the paper he pointed at an article. "There it is, "Doyle, Doyle Chapman. That is Debbie's father's name."

  I jotted the name down in my notes and asked, "You don't have any idea where he was transferred?"

  Windy chuckled, "Sorry, something as mundane as that doesn't make it into even the Register."

  We chatted with Windy a few more minutes, thanked him for lunch, and left.

  I offered to drive and to my surprise PJ agreed. As we left town I understood why, she was busy outlining the next steps of the investigation. I asked PJ if she thought we should call Dr. Burns and ask if we could talk with Amanda again. She replied that she wanted to do the follow up we had identified first.

  When we parted, back at Cap's Place, PJ told me that she was going to spend Sunday with Angela and then go into her office on Monday morning to see if she could track down the people we'd learned about today. She promised to call me sometime Monday and let me know what she'd found. It occurred to me that on Monday Freeman Robinson would only have fourteen days to live.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  From the number of cars in the parking lot it was obvious we had a decent Saturday evening crowd. It was 7:15 p.m. when I walked in the back door. Dana was moving like a whirlwind behind the bar mixing drinks for the two waitresses working the floor while keeping everyone at the bar well hydrated. I knew better than to say anything to her, she was in her zone. Looking across the bar I noticed Moe standing with his back to the wall and his arms crossed in a pose that reminded me of pictures I'd seen of statutes outside old cigar stores. It was obvious he was intently watching something, or someone.

  I walked over to him and stopped with my back to the main floor, being careful not to block his view. I said, "Hi Moe, what's going on?"

  He exhaled slowly and in his raspy voice said, "Nothing much Jack. I'm just watching table twelve. Looks like a family fight brewing between those two. Got a little loud a few minutes ago. About one more outburst and I'm going to send them somewhere else to finish their skirmish."

  I turned slightly and looked at the table he'd indicated. A couple in their early forties, dressed as if they had spent the day at the beach, was engaged in a very animated conversation. They both had the signs of someone who had consumed considerable alcohol over the years. My guess was that they had spent their day drinking on the beach and stopped in to get something to eat on their way home. I said to Moe, "How many drinks have we served them?"

  "That's their first . . . here."

  "Did they order food?"

  "Yeah, that was the start of the argument. He wanted pizza and she wanted a sandwich. You know, life altering issues."

  "Who has their table?"

  Moe cocked his head in the direction of Renee as she headed toward the kitchen, "Renee has their table. She's aware. She's been avoiding their table, so they couldn't order a second drink before the food came."

  Just then Renee came up to the table with a large pizza and a hamburger basket. I chuckled, "No one compromised. Maybe now they'll settle down and eat."

  Moe growled, "If not, they're history. Too busy tonight for people to get the idea you can yell and carry on like you're in you own living room. We got families here. Not having kids listening to that stuff."

  We watched as Renee served the food and it was obvious that both ordered a second drink. As Renee left the table she looked over in the direction of Moe. He shook his head, no. Renee diverted from her path toward the bar and cleaned off a recently vacated table. Moe said, "If they settle down we may serve them another drink when they finish eating, if they don't I'll ask them to leave."

  I chuckled inside. Moe asking someone to leave is a bit of a misnomer. It's one of those offers you can't refuse. I said, "If it comes to that and Renee gets stiffed on the tip make it up for her out of petty cash."

  "Will do, Boss."

  Harry Ward was sitting at the end of the bar next to the stool I usually occupy. I wandered up and said, "Excuse me Sir, is this stool taken?"

  Looking straight ahead Harry replied, "The dead beat who owns this place usually sits there, but he must be out chasing some skirt tonight, so you might as well take it." As I sat down he added, "Oh, hi Jack. Didn't know it was you." The corners of his mouth turned up and laugh lines radiated from his eyes.

  Dana breezed by and asked, "Having a beer, Jack?"

  "Yeah, I'll have what this old geezer is drinking, and bring him another one." Turning to Harry I said, "Little late for a man of your years to be up isn't it Harry?"

  He winked, "Hoping to get lucky tonight. When do the babes from the nursing home get here anyway?"

  I couldn't help but laugh. That's what I like most about Harry. He's always in a light hearted, jovial mood. Dana set a Landshark in front of each of us and Harry tilted his toward me and said, "Thank you, Sir."

  I replied, "My pleasure," clinked my bottle against his and we each took a long drink.

  Harry and I had chatted for a few minutes when I noticed a small commotion on the other side of the room. It was the couple at table twelve arguing. Their voices were loud and their statements laced with profanity. I had just started to glance around looking for Moe when he appeared from the kitchen. His sudden presence at their table halted the argument in mid-sentence. I couldn't hear what he was saying, his low growl was lost even in the suddenly reduced din of the bar, but it was obvious that he was informing them that their presence was no longer welcome. The guy took a couple of bills from his wallet, threw them on the table, and the two of them stormed out the back door.

  As Moe walked away from the table I noticed a man, sitting in a nearby booth with a woman and two teenage girls, say something to him with a nod of obvious approval. Moe always says it's like weeding a garden, if you pull a weed as soon as it sprouts you won't have to fight to regain control later. I don't know how a man born and raised in the inner city of Detroit comes up with these agricultural analogies, but his logic is right on. Harry and I went back to solving world problems and everyone else returned to their food and drink. The hum of the bar returned just as suddenly as it had faded. It was as if a swarm of bees had gone around an outside corner of a building, then returned.

  Harry left about 9:00 p.m. and I wiled away a couple more hours bantering with Dana as the crowd thinned. Moe and Marge tell me that once we start having live music people will stay much later. I'm not convinced that I want people around later, but they seem fixated on Cap's Place making a profit. Good thing someone around here is looking at the bottom line, otherwise I might have to go out and get a real job.

  Dana told me she needed to drop a cash deposit into the safe in t
he office and asked if I could watch the bar for a couple of minutes. We attempt to limit the amount of cash we keep in the till behind the bar, so that if we do get held up our losses are reduced. So far it's worked well, we've never been held up. There were only three customers left at the bar and a couple of tables, whose occupants looked like they were winding down, so I felt confident I could hold down the fort for the time it would take for Dana to make her deposit into the safe.

  I had just drawn a draft beer for one of our regulars sitting at the bar when the front door burst open. The front door doesn't get utilized much and when it does it usually signifies someone who hasn't been here before. Regulars always use the back door. This was an extreme exception to the rule. The guy Moe had ejected earlier in the evening stormed through the door waving a large semi-automatic pistol in one hand and a pint of what I guessed was bourbon whiskey in the other. He shouted, at no one in particular, "Where's that big black son-a-bitch? I got something for him."

  The two couples sitting at tables rose and started toward the back door. He yelled, "Whoa there folks, you all get your asses back over there." Waving the gun he was pointing toward the area of the low stage being constructed to accommodate our future entertainment.

  One of the two young men said, "Come on Mister, just let us go. We didn't do anything to you."

  "I said get your asses over there," roared our intruder. With that he turned to the three guys sitting at the bar and said, "Goes for you, too. Everybody over there." Without a word the three slid off their stools and started in the direction he had indicated. For some reason I stood still behind the bar just staring at him. Maybe I thought if I didn't move he wouldn't notice me. No such luck.

  "What the hell, you deaf barkeep. Get your sorry ass over there." He pointed the gun directly at me and said, "I'm gunna kill that son-a-bitch, so if you want to go with him you just keep standing there."

  I turned and started for the far end of the bar where the only opening to get out from behind the bar is located. It crossed my mind that I could probably dart out the back door before he could shoot me, but I had no idea what backlash toward the others that might unleash. I'm no hero, but I didn't want to get someone killed. As I walked slowly toward the assembled group he again roared, "Where the hell's that big black bastard at?" Waving the gun, "Now that I got my equalizer with me."

  I wasn't certain if Moe was still around, because I hadn't seen him lately, but guessed he was in the kitchen. I was praying that he stayed in the kitchen. Deciding it was my responsibility to try to defuse the situation, I said in as calm a voice as I could muster, "I think he went home for the day. Maybe you should take this up with him tomorrow."

  His beady eyes narrowed and he took a swig of his whiskey as if it would help him understand my words. He glared at me, "Gone. I don't think he's gone. I think he's afraid now that I brought my friend to talk to him." Again he waved the gun haphazardly around in the general direction of our little cluster. I heard one of the young women whimper as she tried to stifle crying. I understood her feelings as it was a distinct possibility that, at the least, he'd accidentally shoot one of us.

  I said, a little more forcefully this time, "Look, you're just wasting your time. I saw Moe leave awhile ago. He's gone."

  He slammed the whiskey bottle down on the nearest table and took up a two handed shooting stance. He pointed the gun first at one of us, then at another. He snarled, "Well, so it's not a total waste of my time I'll just have to cap one of you. Then that bastard can live with that the rest of his life." Even with his feet spread apart he was weaving considerably. I was rapidly coming to the conclusion that his mental state was no more stable than his physical balance.

  Both of the young women were now openly sobbing. The cluster of terrified people were all looking at me as if I could somehow get us out of this. I held my hands up and took a small step toward him. That brought the barrel of the gun directly toward me. "Stay right where you are barkeep, unless you're volunteering to take the slug."

  "No, no." I stammered. "Nobody needs to take a slug. You can just turn around and go out the door you came in. Nobody needs to get hurt."

  "You don't understand. I was wronged in this place tonight and I'm gunna have my revenge. If I can't get that big black thug then I'm gunna take somebody else in his place." He punctuated every word with a thrust of the gun. Suddenly, he turned from me and again pointed the gun at one of the sobbing women. "I think I'll shoot one of these pretty little girls. How's that sound barkeep, one of these pretty little girls dies in place of the bastard that works here?"

  The woman he was pointing the gun at was sobbing loudly as she croaked, "Please. Please don't kill me." From the look of the slacks worn by the young guy with her, he had wet himself. The air in the room was suddenly heavy with terror.

  I said, "Wait. Don't kill anybody. I don't even know what you're talking about. What happened to you here earlier?" I knew exactly what he was talking about, but was hoping to buy some time. I had no idea what I was going to do with the time, but every minute I could keep him from killing someone was at least another minute to try to figure a way out of this.

  His voice was low and guttural, "No barkeep, the time for talking's over. I think I'm gunna kill me a pretty little blond." With that he cocked the hammer on the pistol.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Dana had just finished depositing the cash in the safe when she heard a commotion in the bar. Her first thought was, I leave Jack in charge for two minutes and we end up with trouble. She came out the office door into the hallway just as the man started waving his gun at everyone telling them to go to the area of the stage. She had only gotten a glimpse of him and he hadn't seen her.

  She retreated back into the office and pulled her cell phone from her pocket. Seconds later her call was connected, "911, what is your emergency?"

  "A man just came into our bar with a gun. He's pointing a gun at everyone."

  The operator's calm voice, "What is your location ma'am?"

  "I'm at Cap's Place on South Ocean Drive in Hollywood. I don't know the street number. Just a minute maybe I can find something here with the street number."

  "That's okay ma'am. Just stay with me." A short pause and then, "I have located the street address. Police are on the way. What is your name? Where are you in the building? Can you see the gunman?"

  Police are on the way, Dana felt herself take the first breath since she had glimpsed the gun. "My name's Dana. I'm in the back office. I can't see the gunman from here. I only got a glimpse of him. I think he's a guy we threw out earlier in the night for being drunk and vulgar."

  "How many people are in the area of the building where he is?"

  Dana rubbed her forehead, "Let me think, I don't know. Ten or twelve. Somewhere around that many."

  "What kind of weapon does he have?"

  "I don't know. A big black pistol. Please send help!"

  "Okay Dana, you're doing great. Try to stay calm. The police are on the way. Tell me about the bar, how many entrances?"

  The next couple of minutes were filled with an exchange of Dana describing the inside of Cap's Place and the dispatcher clarifying the information. Then the dispatcher said, "Okay Dana, the police are outside. They don't want to burst in the door and take a chance of getting someone injured. Can you hear what the gunman is saying?"

  "Not from here, but I might be able to if I go down the hall a little way."

  "No Dana. Don't go any closer. Just tell me what you can determine from where you are."

  "I can hear yelling, but I can't really make out what's being said. He sounds real upset about something. Wait, we have security cameras in the bar. I can look at them on Marge's computer. Hold on a minute."

  "I'll be right here, Dana. You're doing great."

  Dana turned on Marge's computer and after the excruciatingly long startup sequence she entered the password Marge had given her but she had never expected to use. It took her a minute to find the icon that
accessed the security cameras and another minute to figure out how to navigate to a camera inside the bar. She remembered how Jack grumbled about the cost of the system when he put it in. Maybe he'll feel better about the investment if it saves someone's life tonight.

  Dana relayed to the dispatcher what she was seeing on the screen, but there was no audio so she still couldn't know what was being said. The dispatcher asked several questions further clarifying the interior layout of the bar and the location of the telephone behind the bar. The dispatcher told her that the police were going to call the bar phone in hopes of talking to the gunman.

  Suddenly Dana said, "Oh my God. I've got to do something." She slipped out of the office and headed down the hall in a low crouch.

  The dispatcher replied, "No Dana. Stay where you are. Do not try to resolve it yourself." Her words echoed through the cell phone laying on the desk of the empty office.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  I heard the kitchen door swing open behind me and Moe's low growl, "Don't hurt her. I'm here. You're beef is with me, not her." With that Moe walked slowly forward with his hands raised. There was no doubt in my mind that Moe had likely just signed his own death warrant.

  The gunman emitted an almost sinister laugh and said, "Well, well, what do we have here? Been cowering back there, huh, big man."

  Moe's jaw was set and his voice steady, "No one's been cowering. Thought you might come to your senses and make all of this unnecessary." He kept walking into the room and as he passed me I saw the meat clever stuck in his belt in the center of his back. It was the same meat cleaver he had once casually carried as he confronted the gangster Anthony Bracchi and a couple of his thugs. The difference was that they weren't pointing a gun at us at the time. Moe stopped when he was midway between our cowering group and the leering gunman.