by Glenn Trust
“Fine.” The American nodded.
It was a display of power to impress on the American who controlled their relationship. Arguing was pointless. He would remain Bebé’s houseguest until Bebé said otherwise.
15.
Very Helpful
“We’re closed.”
“No problem.” John Sole shrugged. “Just open up.”
Sole and Travis pulled their shirt tails up to display the APD badges hooked to their belts.
“Come back at three. We’ll be open then.”
Buck Turpin was an imposing figure. A former defensive lineman at the University of Georgia, he had taken up a brief career as a professional wrestler after UGA cut him from the squad. He was one of those large men who cultivate the scowl of a badass and use their bulk to intimidate people into believing they are as badass as their size makes them appear.
At six feet five inches and three hundred fifty pounds, he could block most doors by merely standing in front of them. At nine on this sunny Atlanta morning, that was what he was doing in front of the door at Eruptions.
Sole was not impressed. “Sure you want to play it that way?” he asked mildly.
“Come back when we’re open.” Turpin crossed his beefy arms and remained planted in front of the door.
“Okay.” Sole leaned against the building’s brick facade to one side of the door, pulled out a stick of gum and unwrapped it. He bent it in half between his thumb and forefinger and popped it in his mouth, smiling. “Explain it, partner.”
“Sure.” Travis leaned against the wall on the other side of the door, forcing Turpin to swivel his head back and forth like a bobble-head toy to follow the conversation. “You see, it’s like this. We want to review the security video from a couple nights ago. Probably only take us an hour, maybe two, then we’ll be out of your hair.”
“You got a warrant?” Turpin put on his best tough guy scowl. “You need a warrant for that sort of thing.”
“You’re not too bright, are you? I suppose that’s why they have you out here on the door,” Sole said and added. “Don’t need a warrant unless you don’t cooperate.”
Turpin spun his head, eyes glaring at him.
On cue, Travis chimed in, “That’s right unless you don’t cooperate.”
Turpin’s large skull swiveled back in the other direction.
“So if you don’t want to cooperate,” Travis continued. “We’ll be forced to get a warrant, as you have correctly pointed out. While we do, one of us will stay here, with our car right there.” He nodded at the unmarked Ford parked at the curb a few feet away in the valet drive up area.
“Might take a while to get the warrant … might take all night,” Sole said, shrugging and spitting the gum from his mouth in a high arc to land by the curb.
“Hey, you can’t …” Turpin began.
“It’s true,” Travis interrupted. “Of course, after dark, we’ll have to turn the blue lights on … as a safety precaution, you know, so people don’t run into our parked police vehicle.”
“That’ll be something.” Sole grinned and laughed. “Cop car … blue lights on … in front of Eruptions. I’ll bet that will make people think twice about coming in tonight.”
“Yeah,” Travis chuckled. “Safety first though.”
They spoke from either side of the door, leaning against the building, like two friends waiting for a bus, chatting about the weather. Turpin’s head bobbed back and forth to follow their banter.
“Let them in, Buck. Bring them to me.”
The voice coming over the intercom by the front door was sharp, the words clipped and terse.
“Yes, sir.” Turpin nodded and looked up at the camera over the door.
Sole and Travis stood up straight and smiled into the camera.
“Gosh, Buck,” Sole said. “Your boss sounds pissed. I hope we didn’t get you in trouble.”
“Shut the fuck up.” Turpin jerked the door open and led them to a fourth-floor office just above the upstairs lounge.
Sergei Sokolov sat behind an expansive oak desk in an office with one window. The window looked down through one way glass onto the third floor where the most elite of Eruptions’ clientele gathered.
A naturalized former citizen of the Soviet Union, Sokolov had immersed himself in American culture over the last twenty years, putting his years as an assembly line worker in a Russian car factory far behind him. No one knew where a man with his modest origins had acquired the cash to buy and then transform an old building into Atlanta’s most fashionable nightclub.
The Atlanta police suspected he had ties to organized crime and that Russian mobsters had funded him, but the money trail was too well disguised to prove it. Sole and Sokolov had encountered each other on a previous case when the club owner provided information about a human trafficking ring in exchange for a more relaxed relationship with the police. The traffickers were Asian, unconnected to the Russians with whom Sokolov maintained cozy relations and who were happy to see their competition eliminated.
The heavy odor of men’s cologne hung in the air as they walked into the office. “Damn, Sergei,” Sole said, plopping without invitation into a chair across from the desk as he sniffed the air. “Did you spill a whole bottle of Polo in here?”
“What do you want, Sole?” Sokolov, sat straight in his leather chair, hands folded on his desk, the gold links in his cuffs sparkling in the light from the shaded lamp to the side.
“Understand one of your patrons had a head to head with someone sitting at a booth on the third floor … a white guy in a business suit … not exactly the attire one expects here partying after hours.”
“So? We don’t have a dress code,” Sokolov smirked. “Maybe he was just a rich nerd or someone out exploring the famous sights in Atlanta and didn’t know what kind of place this is.”
“True enough. Could have been any of those.” Sole nodded. “What we want to know is who he was … met with a fellow by the name of Ortega … Bautista Ortega. You might have heard of him … street name is El Toro.”
“Never heard of him.” Sokolov shook his head. “And I don’t know anything about a white guy in a suit.”
“Figured as much,” Sole said, smiling. “In that case, we need to look over your video from a couple nights ago.”
“Why?”
“Not your concern.”
“The video is mine. That makes it my concern.”
“Sergei,” Sole said sighing. “Let’s not play this game. It’s police business. That’s all you need to know, and as I pointed out to Bucky while you listened in over the intercom, we can get a warrant if you force us.” He smiled and shook his head. “Don’t force us, Sergei.”
“I doubt you could get a warrant on something that thin … white male in a business suit.”
“Maybe not, but I’ll still sit here in my car and wait on your doorstep while my partner visits every judge in the city to find out. That could take a while.”
“Why are you busting my ass, this morning, Sole?” Sokolov leaned back in his chair straightening his cuffs as he glared at the detectives.
“Relax, Sergei. We aren’t snooping into your business. Just trying to identify someone who was here the other night.”
“Why? Who is he?”
“Shit. If we knew that we wouldn’t be here, would we?”
Sergei turned to Turpin “Take them to the security office and let them see all the video they want. Then escort them out.”
“Thanks, Sergei.” Sole smiled.
“Let’s go.” Turpin put a thick hand on Sole’s shoulder.
“Don’t do that.” Sole looked up.
Their eyes locked as Travis and Sokolov watched from opposite sides of the room. Travis tensed in his chair, ready to come to his partner’s aid, if necessary. It wasn’t.
Turpin released his grip. “Follow me.”
The Security office had no windows. Banks of monitors displayed various images of the interior and exterior of the bui
lding. A man sat before the monitors watching. The detectives noted that he was younger than Turpin, more of a techie than the bodyguard sort, probably a Georgia Tech engineering undergraduate working part-time to pay off his student loans.
Turpin had him set them up at a table with a monitor and showed them how to pull up the video they wanted. Travis sat down and began reviewing the images, searching for the white man in the business suit who Luis Acero said had met with a drug kingpin.
“What about the third-floor lounge?” Travis asked as he scanned.
“No cameras on the third floor.”
“What?” Travis spun around to face the tech nerd. “Why not?”
“I don’t know.” The techie shrugged. “Privacy, I guess. High-class patrons don’t want to be caught on camera at the club.” He pointed a shaky finger at the bank of switches. “But there are other cameras … the doors … other floors … should be able to see who you’re looking for there.”
Travis glanced at Sole and turned back to the monitor, scanning for the man in the business suit as he entered or left or made his way through the building to the third level. He wasn’t there.
Sole looked at the young techie, watching from his chair at the main console. “Is there another door? One without a camera?”
“Uh …” Techie threw a nervous glance at Turpin.
“Don’t look at Bucky,” Sole snapped. “Answer the question.”
“Well, there is one door, on the side … comes off the alley and goes to a stairway that goes up to all the floors.” He shook his head. “There aren’t any cameras on that door or the stairs.”
“Son of a bitch.” Travis turned and went back to searching the video images.
Sole leaned over his shoulder. It took two hours to review the recordings before they knew no camera had recorded the man who had met with Bautista Ortega.
“What now?” Travis looked up at Sole.
“Now you leave.” Turpin had been standing by the door to the security office. Taking one step across the small room, he thumped a heavy hand on Sole’s shoulder and attempted to spin him around.
He was big and strong, but like many strong, men he was unaccustomed to being challenged, coasting through life by virtue of his bulk. Most people took one look at Buck Turpin and backed away. He had never faced a determined opponent. Now he faced John Sole.
Sole spun and clamped an arm under and around Turpin’s forearm as he twisted his wrist into a gooseneck. He jerked hard, and Turpin went up on his toes, howling in pain.
“I told you not to do that,” Sole said, maintaining the wristlock.
“He did, he warned you,” Travis said, nodding solemnly. “That looks really painful, Bucky. Is it?”
“We’ll be leaving now,” Sole said, speaking softly into Turpin’s ear. “You stay here. We’ll show ourselves out.”
He released the hold and Turpin sagged against the wall, cradling his sore arm with the other hand. Sole and Travis left the room, closing the security door behind them.
They scanned the hallway. Sergei Sokolov’s office was at one end. A door with a lit exit sign over it was at the other.
“What do you think?” Travis asked. “That looks like there might be a stairway down.”
“Let’s check it.” Sole nodded.
As the tech nerd had promised, there were no cameras in the stairwell. They descended to the ground floor and pushed the door open. Bright sunlight flooded inside.
“No cameras inside or outside,” Sole said looking around.
“Whoever the suit was, he must have come in this way.”
“Yeah, if he came in at all.”
“You think Luis was lying to us?” Travis asked.
“Not beyond the realm of possibilities,” Sole replied. “Still, I doubt it. He was wide-eyed, scared shitless when he called. It didn’t come across as an act.”
“What next then?”
“Let’s circle back with Luis. Maybe we can jog something loose from his shaky memory.”
“Good a plan as any.” Travis nodded.
They walked along the alley to the front of the building. As they turned the corner, Buck Turpin came through the front door, accompanied by two other men.
“What do we have here?” Sole grinned and turned to face the trio of goons.
“Mr. Sokolov wants to make sure you leave,” Turpin said, trying to sound as tough as he had earlier, without much success.
“We’re leaving. We might be back though.” Sole smiled as he slid behind the wheel of the Ford. “We’ll let Sergei know you’ve been very helpful.”
16.
Shaye—2001
“You always drink alone?”
It started with a smile. Life changed from there.
“Only when there’s no one with me.” Sole looked up and took a breath as her sunlight washed over him.
She radiated warmth. He took it all in. Green eyes that glittered out at the world, lit by some internal source. Brown hair that bounced softly off her shoulders when she moved, like the ripples on a pond moving in slow motion. And there was the smile, soft and warm, firm and beaming, inviting and tempting. The smile became his world as he gazed at her.
“I’m Shaye.” She put a hand out.
“John.” He turned on the barstool and took her hand. “John Sole.”
“I know who you are.” The smile grew broader on her face. “Been waiting for you to invite me over for a drink.”
The Blue Don was a cop bar. Everyone was welcome, but off-duty police officers made up a good percentage of the clientele. A caricature of The Godfather, shaded in police blue, hung over the bar inside and on the building’s exterior. That had garnered some negative press over the years from those with an ax to grind with the police department. The implication that the police embraced the image of the blue godfather provided fodder for the local talk shows.
The cops found it humorous. Despite the department’s efforts to make it off limits for officers, there was nothing they could do. The Blue Don’s owner—not a former law enforcement officer, although most assumed he was—made sure they always complied with every licensing requirement and ordinance. Having a drink in a legal establishment on your own time did not constitute a violation of law or departmental policy. Besides, the more the administrative staff tried to dissuade officers from going, the more motivated the officers were to be seen there. The department let the issue drop.
“Do I know you?” Sole held onto her hand, immersing himself in her radiance.
“You should.” She leaned close and whispered breathlessly in his hear. “2-Bravo15, be en route to a signal forty-two.”
“Dispatch!” Sole grinned.
“That’s me.” Shaye scooted up onto the stool beside him. “Evening watch dispatch, Zone 2 … one of them, anyway.”
“So why me, Shaye?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “Man of mystery maybe. The quiet one … comfortable on his own … doesn’t need to be pumped up by all the war stories and testosterone floating around in here.” She touched her fingertips to his arm, and he felt a tingle of electricity he had never experienced around another woman. “Mostly it seems like you have nothing to prove. That’s different … refreshing.” She moved her hand, and he ached for her to put it back. “Buy me a drink.”
He did, and they talked through the evening. They met the next evening and did the same. On the third, she invited him home to her apartment.
For the first time in his life, John Sole felt whole, complete. The sensation of being part of something bigger grew on him. Away from her, something was missing, and all he could think of was when they would be together again.
Six months after that night at The Blue Don, John Fitzhugh Sole and Shaina Ruth Berman were married. The preliminaries were touch and go at first, at least in John’s mind. Shaye’s conservative Jewish family spent an evening questioning him in their Buckhead home.
What were his intentions?
He loved Shaye an
d had come to realize his world revolved around her.
What was his income?
He earned what a cop earned. He wasn’t rich, but he wasn’t poor, and everything he had was hers if she wanted it.
What were his feelings about religion?
He wasn’t opposed to religion, but he didn’t have any particular religious convictions.
What was his opinion of Judaism?
He had none.
Was he aware of the historical persecution of Jews?
Yes, he knew the history, although he had never experienced persecution in that way.
He answered their questions without any attempt to embellish or explain. That turned out to be the determining factor. John Sole, although a gentile and not of the chosen people, came to them as an honorable man. He would be an acceptable addition to the family.
Saul Berman lowered his glasses, peering at John over the top. He turned to his daughter who had watched the inquisition with barely concealed amusement. “I suppose you will marry him no matter what we say.”
“I will.” Shaye nodded, her eyes meeting her father’s with firm determination. Then she smiled. “And now that you’ve had your fun, it’s time to let my man off the hook.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Berman said, standing and extending a hand. “Welcome to the family, John Sole.”
Sole rose to take his hand. Family. The word had always been a distant dream. Shaye had made it a reality for him. “Thank you, sir.”
“Call me, Saul.”
“Thank you, Saul.”
Naomi Berman left her seat beside her daughter on the family’s overstuffed sofa and put her arms around him, planting a wet, red lipstick kiss on his cheek. Then she stood back, running her eyes up and down his lean frame. “We need to fatten you up some, though.”
It became a family joke, Naomi’s efforts to put meat on his bones and overcome Sole’s natural tendency toward leanness. To his delight, she worked hard to fulfill her goal, sending a never-ending supply of treats and delicacies his way to put some additional flesh on her son-in-law.