Deadly Promise

by Brian Crawford

  I turned right, heading toward the Buick, once again pretending I hadn’t noticed them. At the last second, I turned the truck in front of them, effectively blocking any chance of forward movement. LeClair quickly adapted to my change of plans, flooring the Cadillac and coming to a stop behind the Buick. They were blocked in.

  The truck made an effective physical barrier between the two men and me as I exited the truck. LeClair opened his door but did not exit the vehicle. My eyes focused on the two men while my right hand was at the low ready position near my Glock.

  The driver lowered his window before reaching into his front jacket pocket. He didn’t look nervous, but he did make an obvious point of moving very slowly. His hand came out holding a small leather case, which he opened with a practiced flip of his wrist, revealing a gold badge with an eagle perched on top.

  My wife is getting good at this. FBI.

  I motioned for LeClair to leave. He looked reluctant, but I smiled to allay his concerns and tried again to wave him off. He shrugged his shoulders and closed his car door. The two agents waited for LeClair to pull away before exiting their vehicle, which demonstrated intelligence and situational awareness on their part. Both men were in their thirties. Short hair. Average height. Average build. Cheap suits. Reasonable shoes. Like they had stepped off an assembly line for federal agents.

  The driver spoke first. “I’m Special Agent Barker. This is Special Agent Conley. FBI.”

  “I recognized the badge. You are following me. Why?”

  “We’re not at liberty to say.”

  I stared at the two agents for several seconds hoping they would change their minds and open up. They didn’t.

  “Have a nice day, Agent Barker, Agent Conley,” I said as I turned around.

  “McCain, wait a minute.” In a written transcript, Conley’s request would have sounded fairly innocuous. However, the way he pronounced my name was condescending and smug.

  “I have to go to work.” I didn’t turn around to address them as I spoke.

  “McCain, we have a few questions for you.” The same irritating tone to his voice.

  I stopped to turn toward the disrespectful agent. “Are you planning on telling me why you are following my wife and me?” He didn’t answer my question. “That’s what I thought.”

  “McCain, you looked like you meant business. What were your intentions?”

  “Would you believe me if I said I’m not at liberty to say?”

  He didn’t seem to appreciate my sense of humor. “McCain, I’m a federal officer, and I asked you a question.”

  “And I’m a U.S. citizen who is under no legal obligation to answer your question.”

  I turned my back on him once again.

  “McCain,” he barked.

  “Barker,” I replied in a similar tone without turning around.

  “It’s Special Agent Barker.”

  I stopped and looked over the hood of the truck. Leaned forward and looked Barker in the eye. “Agent, maybe. Special, well, you keep telling yourself that. All I see is a guy who failed Tailing 101 and never read Carnegie’s How to Win Friends and Influence People.”

  “I don’t appreciate your tone, McCain.”

  “You think I care? Barker, if you want answers, then I suggest you get someone with some people skills to come down here. Maybe call ahead and make an appointment. Have a nice day, Agent Barker.”

  I climbed in the truck without saying another word leaving the two Special Agents to stare at me as I drove away.

  CHAPTER 6

  If I learned anything during my time in Naval Intelligence, it was never let an intelligence-gathering opportunity pass me by. Yet, I had done that when my anger got the better of me simply because I didn’t like the way Agent Barker pronounced my name. That was stupid on my part. With a little more time, with a little more cooperation, I might have had my answers, which was the whole reason I had confronted them in the first place. I arrived at work, called my wife to let her know I was okay, and then settled in for my seven-hour Sunday shift promising myself to do better next time.

  Barker and Conley were waiting for me across the street when I got off work. They did not return my wave, choosing to ignore me until I pulled onto the street to head home. Barker was driving like before. This time he wasted no time racing to get in behind me to follow me very close.

  So that’s their approach now that their jig is up. Are they trying to irritate me, hoping I’ll pull over and start talking? Or are they trying to scare me?

  The last question made me smile. Years ago, I worked as an undercover operative in the Navy trying to infiltrate a group of servicemen that were smuggling dope out of the Philippines. I survived a helicopter crash in the Cambodian jungle only to have angry Vietnamese soldiers track us for eleven days before escaping into Thailand. The Dixie Mafia tried to kill me. Gangsters attacked me. Mercenaries shot at me. Two little clean-cut FBI pipsqueaks needed to do more than tailgate me to scare me.

  After pulling onto our cul de sac, the FBI agents parked in the same spot they had used for the last two days. Their way of telling me they would be waiting for me. I parked the truck in the garage, entered the house, and yelled for Jessica.

  She met me at the top of the stairs looking like she had been cleaning or organizing. “Welcome home, sweetie. I haven’t made anything for dinner.”

  “No problem. I grabbed something at work. I was wondering if you wanted to go out. One of my patients told me LeClair’s has a pretty good band there this weekend. Tonight’s the last night. Plus, we should thank Leclair for earlier.”

  “Sounds good. It would give us a chance to see how those swing dancing lessons are paying off.”

  Working in an urgent care setting was less stressful and usually less dirty than working in an emergency room, but I still couldn’t shake the feeling I was an infectious being until I had a good shower after working a shift. I jumped in the shower in the guest bathroom while Jessica headed into our bedroom to get ready.

  Boyd wasn’t lying when he said I had passed Jessica off as a Russian supermodel. It was a story I had used at a restaurant to convince the manager to let us pass through a fire door. I made up something about avoiding a crazed fan. The manager never doubted my story — Jessica truly is that pretty. Honey blonde hair, silver-blue eyes, flawless creamy skin except for the light golden freckles across her cheeks and nose, which in my opinion only added to her natural beauty. Tall like a model at five-nine but with considerably more muscle tone, much like a sexy Russian tennis star. She was also surprisingly low maintenance, which meant she was ready and waiting downstairs for me instead of the other way around.

  “What are you smiling at?” she asked as I came down the stairs.

  “As if you don’t already know, my little Katerina.”

  A crimson blush spread across her beautiful face. “Stop it. You know I hate that.”

  “Bull, I know you love it. In fact, if we’re ever forced into witness protection, I want you to choose Katerina as your name.”

  “Only if you change your name to Thomas Magnum. That man is so hot.”

  “The guy with the mustache on that TV show? I could kick his ass, you know. And my Cobra is faster than his Ferrari.”

  “Yeah, well, if I’m your little Russian sex kitten, you can be my celebrity crush.”

  Jessica met me at the bottom of the stairs and kissed me before spinning me toward the garage door and pinching my butt. “Let’s go.”

  I turned around to face Jessica. “By the way, the feds followed me home. I want to drive if they are still outside.”

  “Why?”

  “Why do you think?”

  “You’re gonna poke the bear?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can we take the Cobra, then? It’s a beautiful night.”

  Jessica was referring to my 1966 Shelby Cobra, arguably the sexiest car ever made. Devised and built by the legendary Carroll Shelby, the Cobra was a street-legal racecar. My father bou
ght the car for twenty grand at a time when the average luxury car sold for four or five thousand. Who knew that nearly 30 years later, the car would be worth over 250,000 dollars?

  “It hardly makes it fair,” I said.

  “Life isn’t fair.”

  “You just want to drive it home,” I teased.

  “Damn right, I do.”

  Barker and Conley were waiting for us when we pulled out of the driveway. No longer undercover, they waited for me to pass and quickly settled in closely behind the Cobra.

  I knew Jessica could see them following us and fully expected her to say something. She managed to wait until the fourth stoplight before losing her composure. “Are you gonna let them get away with that the whole way there?”

  “They’re trying to irritate us now that their cover has been blown. Are you ready for me to return the favor?”

  “Hell, yes.”

  Cross-traffic was heavy as we stopped at the next red light. I watched and waited, waited and watched. At the first opportunity, I revved the motor, let out the clutch and catapulted the 500-plus horsepower Cobra through the intersection during a tiny window of reduced cross-traffic. I kept accelerating until the next left-hand turn before whipping the steering wheel hard left and pulling the parking brake. The car did a 180-degree spin, coming to a perfect stop parked up against the curb.

  Jessica was laughing. “Oops, you ran a red light.”

  “You think the FBI will try to write me a ticket?” I replied in a mocking tone.

  “Why are you stopping?”

  “To let them catch up.”

  Jessica’s next question was interrupted as the Buick came flying around the corner with Barker at the wheel, concentrating so intently on the road he didn’t notice us sitting in the opposite lane until he was alongside the Cobra. He jammed on the brakes, coming to a complete stop in the middle of the Memphis street.

  “And now we let him follow us the rest of the way.”

  “That was fun,” Jessica said, “but what did it accomplish?”

  “I want them to know the only reason they can follow us is because we are letting them follow us.”

  “Alright, boss.”

  I smiled, wondering if boss was her new nickname for me. For some reason, I liked it better than sweetie. Probably because I enjoyed the irony of it. Like I could ever be the boss of such a strong, intelligent woman.

  The FBI followed us the rest of the way to LeClair’s from a more agreeable distance. All the way to the parking garage near Beale Street. They parked a few spots away and quickly exited their vehicle to let us know they were fully prepared to follow us on foot.

  Beale Street, the most famous avenue in Memphis. The most famous avenue in Tennessee. Home of the Blues. The street was always about music. Since the 1860s, black musicians had been performing on Beale. The Blues didn’t arrive until W.C. Handy wrote the first Blues song, “Beale Street Blues,” in 1909. During its heyday, Beale Street was the cultural and commercial epicenter of black Memphis. Black-owned businesses of all types lined the street: beauty parlors, barbershops, dry goods stores, banks, all intermingled with the atmospheric clubs. The Great Depression hit Beale Street like it hit all of America, but it was a horribly inept urban renewal project that laid waste to the iconic street. Declaring Beale Street a National Historic Landmark in 1966 couldn’t even save it. The street became a virtual ghost town, only to be saved in the late seventies by investors looking to renovate and restore the area. The first new club reopened in 1983. The reinvention of Beale Street had begun. Once considered a street of black Memphis, for black America, Beale Street became a vibrant tourist attraction for all America. Some places even still played the Blues.

  LeClair’s was one of those places. LeClair had owned a Blues Club in a different part of Memphis since the mid-seventies. He opened his first bar as a promise to himself; he told himself if he made it out of Vietnam alive, his dream was to own a Blues bar in Memphis. LeClair shut down his first bar and moved to the east end of Beale Street in 1987, one year before I moved to Memphis to start my residency.

  LeClair had a reputation among the locals and Beale Street regulars as being a Blues purist, which didn’t always make him the busiest bar, but it did provide him with a devoted set of regulars who shared his passion. Tonight, there was a line waiting to get in. More accurately, a long line.

  Jessica and I approached the doorman, who smiled and moved aside to let us pass, causing several people in line to groan in protest. When I dated Jessica’s sister, Ellie, she always hated when I cut in line, saying she was sure people thought she was using her celebrity status as Memphis’ most popular meteorologist to gain special favor. Jessica had no such reservations.

  “Steve,” I said to the doorman, “those two vanillas in suits over my shoulder are following me. When they try to get inside, could you make them wait in line like everyone else?”

  “The two guys in the cheap suits who look like cops?”

  “Yeah, them.”

  “What’s their story, Doc?”

  “FBI.” His eyes widened in surprise before a sly smile spread across his face. I pulled a twenty-dollar bill from my pocket and handed it to the burly doorman.

  “Doc, you don’t pay a cover, you know that.”

  “I’m showing you my appreciation in advance. Steve, do not get yourself in trouble with these guys if they insist. It’s not that important.”

  “No problem, Doc. I’ll send them to the back of the line like everyone else. I’ll claim we reached fire code occupancy or something. Get in there and enjoy yourself. I got this.”

  LeClair’s was packed. Standing room only. What surprised me was the music blaring out the open door. The band was a high-energy, three-man rockabilly band.

  Steve noticed the look on my face. “Yeah, shocked us too, but the crowd loves them. We actually are at capacity, hence the line.”

  Jessica was past waiting patiently. She grabbed my hand and dragged me through the crowd to the dance floor. LeClair spotted us, smiled, and mouthed “good luck.” He knew of Jessica’s love for dancing. Truthfully, it was something we both loved. For me, it was probably a primal genetic trait handed down from my mother, a former prima ballerina with the New York City Ballet in her younger years. She was the one who taught me how to move my feet, my body. To appreciate music, although classical music was lost on me.

  The dance floor was cramped, but we made do. It wasn’t long before we were a hot and sweaty mess, lost in the music and the fun — not a care in the world. I almost forgot about Barker and Conley until I spotted them staring at us from near the bar.

  Jessica followed my eyes and laughed. “Look at those two idiots. A couple hundred people having a blast and they are standing there looking like someone shoved a stick up their ass.”

  “Maybe I’ll buy them a drink,” I yelled over the music.

  “You’re awful.”

  I waved down a waitress, ordered two Walk Me Down cocktails, and sent them over to the two dour-looking FBI agents. They did not look amused when the drink order arrived. Jessica and I eventually gobbled up enough room on the dance floor to swing dance, which went over well with our fellow dancers. We even managed to get a shout out from the band on our performance.

  Barker and Conley were still standing in the same place when we exited the dance floor during the band’s intermission. Neither man had touched his drink. Jessica walked straight towards Conley, reached around him to grab a cocktail, and took a big, long swig.

  “Y’all don’t know what you’re missing. These are delicious,” she said.

  Barker said, “Nice bit of driving earlier, McCain. Why’d you let us catch up?”

  “You looked like you needed some fun in your life. Some good music. Maybe a cold drink. That there is Memphis’ version of a Long Island Iced Tea. Drink up. You’ll have to share now because Jessica helped herself to the other one.”

  “We’re on duty, McCain.”

  “Forced to follow
us around on a beautiful Sunday night in August in Memphis. That sucks.” I turned to Jessica and said, “You notice how he pronounces McCain?”

  “You mean how it sounds like he stepped in pooh when he says it? Yeah, I noticed.”

  “Is this the new strategy?” I asked. “Annoy us into submission. Because tailing us incognito was working so well before. Jessica didn’t spot you guys until Thursday.” I was taking a wild guess they started following her on Thursday. If I were right, hopefully, it would be damaging to their egos.

  Barker said, “McCain, what’s your problem with answering a few questions? You got something to hide?”

  “What’s your problem with asking nicely? Am I suspect in something? And if so, why not haul me downtown and ask away? I still might not answer, but at least I would be forced to listen.”

  Conley spoke for the first time. “You’re kind of a dick.” I swore he almost smiled when he said it.

  I laughed. “Special Agent Conley, you speak.”

  “When necessary,” he replied.

  “You’re direct. I like that. And somehow, even calling me a dick is less irritating than the way your partner says my name. Barker, be more like Conley.”

  Barker couldn’t resist the urge to talk, probably because his partner was making some progress. “McCain, we at the FBI were hoping you would answer a few questions for us.”

  “That was a little better, Barker, so I’ll answer some frequently asked questions. Yes, this is my real hair. Yes, I did marry my ex-girlfriend’s kid sister. And yes, my father did play in the NFL for 16 years as an offensive lineman for St. Louis. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m done.”

  Barker said, “McCain, maybe we’ll haul you in for that bit of driving earlier.”

  “Knock yourself out.” I turned to walk away.

  “McCain!”

  “Barker!”

  Jessica took a tiny step forward between us. “Wow, the testosterone in this room could choke a girl. Special Agent Barker, what is your goal right now? I know my husband’s goal. He is poking the bear. I’m not sure why he does that. He used to be a Naval Intelligence officer, so maybe this verbal judo you two are engaged in is part of his training.”