Blood and Roses

by Douglas Pratt

  “If I were guessing, I’d say Manning knows about anything and everything that involves this type of indecency. He may not be directly involved, but he will want a piece of it.”

  Leo crossed his leg, letting his knee push against me. “Why isn’t he in your business?” he asked her.

  Mama cocked her head. “He tries. Hard. I have a lot of pull still with some politicos in the city. But every few years, he tries to put pressure on me. He’d love to corner the high-end racket. Better percentages, and a lot less maintenance.”

  “Next time he pushes,” Leo said, “you should let me know. I don’t mind introducing myself.”

  Mama smirked, “Aw, Sidekick, I appreciate it, but I’ve been in this business for…well, more years than he has. I can handle myself pretty well.”

  “If we wanted to find Manning?” I asked.

  “He usually works out of a club near the airport. I think the name is Roxie’s, but the place changes names like Sidekick, here, changes underwear.”

  Leaning forward with a half-smile, Leo quipped, “I don’t wear underwear.”

  Mama closed the gap between them and purred, “Neither do I.”

  Rolling my eyes, I drank down the rest of the Angel’s Envy.

  7

  Leo was grinning when we got into the truck.

  “I feel like I need a shower,” I said.

  “That seems rude,” he commented. “She was quite nice.”

  “Yeah, she was. I was referring to you.”

  He waved off my jab. “I’ll admit that she is quite interesting.”

  “Interesting, huh?”

  “Yeah, interesting,” he repeated as his phone chirped. He fished it out of his pocket. “I got an address of Witt’s cousin.”

  “Good. I hope you can talk to the cousin without the flirtatious oozing.”

  “Just drive. The address is outside of Memphis. Mason.”

  “Mason, huh? There’s a good chicken place there.”

  Mason is somewhat northeast of Memphis. Once we exited the interstate, the highway is lined with soybeans, corn, and sporadic trailers and farmhouses. I keyed up a new song in my collection, although it was far from new itself. Big Mama Thorton began denouncing the listener for being “nothing but a hound dog.” The slow, throaty blues she sang seemed perfect for this kind of drive.

  “I hate the blues,” Leo moaned. “Especially, when someone covers something as great as Hound Dog.”

  “Technically, this isn't a cover,” I pointed out. “This is the original. Predating Elvis by a decade or so.”

  “Couldn't we at least compromise with Johnny Cash?”

  “Tell you what,” I said in a soft voice. “If you are really good, you can listen to Johnny Cash on the way home, and I'll stop and get you an ice cream.”

  Leo deadpanned, “With sprinkles?”

  “Only if you behave, and let me listen to my music.”

  He turned his eyes back out to the rows of green stalks marching past us.

  “Where is this place?” I asked as we approached the city limits.

  The telltale signs of small-town bureaucracy reared its head as the speed limit dropped from 55 to 25. Warnings against driving trucks with jake brakes were posted under the sign welcoming us to the quaint town of Mason, birthplace of Isaac Hays.

  “Dude,” Leo exclaimed, “Shaft was born here.”

  “Isaac Hayes wasn't Shaft. That was Richard Rountree. Isaac Hayes just wrote the song.”

  Leo began to bob his head to the tune in his head. His mouth started humming the tune, and in seconds the words, “Who is the man who risked his life for fellow man,” whispered through his lips.

  “Shaft!” He sang, “Can you dig it?”

  “Directions, Leo,” I reminded him.

  “Straight through town,” he said.

  The town was only a mile and a half long. A chicken place, a barbecue joint, and a car wash were the highlights. Each building sported its own Town of Mason patrol car as if the presence of the local cops was a warning.

  “No shortage of police,” Leo commented.

  “The dollar store didn't have one,” I pointed out.

  “Probably not enough tax revenue.”

  A tiny Baptist church, with a sign encouraging everyone to seek solace in all things, bookended the northern city limit. The speed limit immediately jumped up to 55 miles per hour. I compensated by pressing the accelerator to get the truck up to the posted limit.

  “Is the house far?” I asked him.

  Leo gave me a sheepish look. “It's not really a house.”

  “What is it?”

  “Its a bar,” he said pointing at a building on the right side of the road.

  An older commercial building. A plastic sign leaning toward the north sported a Pabst Blue Ribbon logo and the flaking remnants of the name “Carl’s.” Seven or eight motorcycles were parked in the gravel lot.

  “That's not a bar. It's a roadhouse. I've seen this movie.” I turned into the lot. The gravel crunched under the tires.

  “Max, you are worrying too much.”

  “Yeah, that's me,” I said. “What's your plan?”

  “Cold beer and a few questions.”

  Shifting the gear into park, I said, “We aren't going to fit in here.”

  “We just have to act like we fit in,” Leo assured me as he opened the passenger door.

  Tugging on the collar of my shirt, I said, “I'm wearing a polo, and you have on one of those old man fishing shirts.”

  Looking at me with an offended glare, he said, “This shirt is comfortable. I wish the Marines used these in Afghanistan.”

  I rolled my eyes as I followed him into Carl’s.

  The over-sized steel door looked like it was designed to withstand a battering ram. The windows were all covered with steel bars. The gravel path to the door was littered with cigarette butts.

  When Leo pushed the door open, a rank cloud of smoke escaped the bar. The bar was nearly pitch black after coming out of the bright August afternoon. My eyes blinked a few times to rid the spots still floating on my retinas.

  Speakers above the dingy bar were playing the end of a Crosby, Stills, and Nash song. I couldn’t put a name to it, but the lyrics were already on my tongue. The crowd inside was spread around the bar and three tables. I counted 11 guys, including the bartender who was staring at us.

  Someone said Leo’s name, and my head snapped around to the voice. My brain took a second to realize they didn’t call his name. They referred to us as Leos, law enforcement officers. I knew we would stick out, but maybe this way, at least, would give us some perceived authority.

  “We aren’t cops,” Leo said loudly to the bartender. There went that idea.

  Although Leo would fly by the seat of his pants, he was always going to be the alpha in whatever room he walked. Outlaw bikers or uniformed cops, Leo’s presence exudes danger. My plan was to stay behind him and back his play.

  “What do you want?” the bartender grunted.

  “Couple of beers,” he said. “What do you have?”

  Brushing the greasy, gray strands behind his ear, the bartender reached into a top-load cooler and pulled out two Budweisers.

  Setting the two bottles on the bar, he said, “$15.”

  Leo laid a 20-dollar bill on the bar. “Keep the change,” he said as he handed one of the long-necked bottles to me.

  I was sizing up the bar’s clientele as I took a swallow. Without a doubt, Leo had evaluated every person in the bar for their level of threat. If I was guessing, he did that in the second it took him to walk to the bar. Give me a person who is face to face and talking to me, and I can read them like a book. Leo, though, seems to know in a flash which threats are real or not.

  The biggest threat, that I perceived, was the table to my right. It was the same one that proclaimed us to be cops. Three men sat around the little round table. At first glance, they looked like a surly collection of old biker guys, drinking and bitching about
how women have too many rights and the Jews were what was wrong with this country. A closer look, though, painted a different picture. The hierarchy was evident at that table. They were the most powerful ones in the room. In fact, the leader of that table was a tall, bulky guy in his late 40’s, maybe even in his 50’s. Questioning eyes reached across the room to him for instructions. However, he sat, leaning forward in his chair and drinking a Bud Ice, and appeared to pay no attention to anything beyond his beer.

  Leo sat on one of the rickety stools at the bar. He leaned against the bar, and to most people, he looked relaxed. Since I’d known him, I have noticed that Leo tends to perch on edge of ready to pounce.

  He glanced at me and gave a barely perceptible nod, which I assumed meant he wanted me to do the talking.

  “How’s it going around here?” I asked the bartender.

  His eyes cut toward me from behind the gray mop of hair. “Busy,” he snapped.

  “We were looking for a guy,” I said, and then I poked Leo and asked, “What was his name?”

  “Skaggs,” Leo said. “Michael Skaggs.”

  “Did he win something?” one of the guys on the left side of the room blurted out.

  The big, bulky leader pulled his eyes up for a millisecond from his beer, and another guy at the table shot a glare at the verbal fellow on the other side of the room. The message was clearly received as the one who shouted turned demurely back to his half-empty bottle of beer.

  The air inside of Carl’s began to twist like a rubber band. Leo peered at me from the corner of his eyes as if I was supposed to understand his thoughts.

  One of the three men from the alpha table stood up. He was the youngest at that table, maybe in his early 40’s. He might have been an amateur bodybuilder. The muscles bulged from his forearms in an almost inhuman form. My guess was that he was the force behind the leader’s orders.

  He took three slow steps toward us. The blue eyes squinting at me burned. His third step left him standing directly in front of me. I lifted my chin to look at him.

  “Maybe you should look for this Skaggs fellow somewhere else.”

  Twisting my head a little, I said, “Maybe.”

  He didn't move.

  One of the many things my father taught me was to always stand my ground. I think, for the most part, he meant in terms of ethical and moral decisions. Standing up to a gang of bikers wasn't what he had in mind.

  Nonetheless, I took a swig of my beer without breaking eye contact with the biker.

  He cut his eyes to the Alpha. I couldn't see his reaction, but the biker slapped his hand across the bottle knocking it out of my hand.

  “Oh, my bad,” he croaked. “Guess you are done now.”

  Another biker from across the room stepped toward me. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Leo spin the Budweiser bottle in the palm of his hand. His wrist snapped out, and the mouth and neck of his beer jammed into the second biker’s eye. Beer sloshed over his face as he fell backward.

  Leo’s arm whipped backward slamming the bottom of the bottle into the first biker’s throat. A guttural gasp emitted from his mouth. Leo followed with a balled fist into his nose, knocking him into the bar. He tumbled to the ground knocking bar stools on their sides.

  “My bad,” Leo said with a grin. “ Maybe you've had too much.”

  The screech of metal on concrete made me spin toward the sound as three more bikers leaped to their feet and charged. Bracing my feet in a solid stance, I caught the first guy and twisted him off balance and rolled him to the floor. Leo intercepted the other two, and my attention trained on the one scrambling to his feet. Driving my fist downward, I connected with the side of his face while he was still trying to stand up. He fell forward and face-planted into the floor.

  A blur of motion to my right caused me to turn my head. A mass of black leather hit me. My feet seemed to juggle the floor as I attempted to maintain my balance. A wicked grin stared at me from under a dark, curly beard. He took a swing at me.

  The cracking sound was audible, and in the split second, before everything went dark, I knew he never hit me. But the floor raced up to strike me.

  My eyes opened. My face and head felt wet.

  “Wait, don’t sit up,” someone said.

  Disregarding the voice, I lifted myself up slowly. A young, clean-shaven face looked at me.

  “Sir, you need to be still.”

  “I’m fine,” I grunted.

  “Max, take it easy,” Leo said from somewhere. “You took a good hit.”

  My head turned toward his voice. He stood with his hands behind his back next to a police officer.

  “What happened? How long was I out?” My words were mumbled.

  The young face answered, “Someone hit you with a bottle. You’ve been unconscious for about 15 minutes.”

  “I'm okay,” I said. Grabbing a chair, I pushed myself to my feet.

  The cop standing next to Leo stepped over. “Are you sure you're okay?”

  “Yeah,” I confirmed.

  “He probably has a concussion,” the younger one, who I now realized was a paramedic, said.

  “Won't be my first.”

  The officer gave me a quick scan. “I'm going to need you to place your hands on the bar.”

  Leo offered a half shrug. I obeyed the officer who said, “You have the right to remain silent.”

  8

  “Thanks, Kristi,” I said as we walked out of the Mason Police Department with Kristi Onsen. “I wasn't wanting to spend a night there.”

  Kristi, a defense attorney with Jackson, Onsen, and Vera, said, “They wanted to press charges, but I convinced them that it wasn't in the city’s best interest.”

  “We didn't start it,” I claimed.

  “There are seven or eight witnesses that say otherwise,” she pointed out. “Of course, your injury helped play down the victim card the bikers were claiming. I wish all my clients show evidence of an assault. My job would be a whole lot easier.”

  “Glad I can accommodate,” I replied. “You got us clear then?”

  “Free and clear. Although the city attorney suggested that the two of you make your way back to Memphis, posthaste.”

  “He said ‘posthaste,’” Leo asked.

  “That part was implied.” Kristi pointed to her Lexus. “Want a ride back to your car?” she asked.

  “Yes, please,” I answered, “I’m sure you’ll charge me.”

  She smiled. “Don’t worry. The trip out here cost you enough.”

  “How do you know Max?” Kristi asked Leo.

  “We, sort of, met under unusual circumstances. However, he is one of the few civilians that can keep up with my drinking.”

  “What branch?” she asked.

  “Marines,” he responded.

  “Navy. JAG. When did you get out?”

  “Few years ago.”

  “Miss it?” she asked.

  “All the time and never.”

  She nodded as the two shared an unspoken experience that I wasn’t able to fully understand.

  “If you and Max are so close, then I should give you my card. I need all the business I can get.”

  Leo glanced at me as he climbed into the back seat. He asked, “I thought Tom was your lawyer?”

  Nodding, I said, “Tom doesn’t practice in Tennessee.”

  “Ah, well, she seems to be very competent.”

  “Leo.” My tone was hopefully conveying a silent order to turn off his libido for a second.

  Kristi drove us north to Carl’s. My truck was sitting on the gravel lot. Every window was broken. Bullet holes peppered the entire body. All four tires were flat, sliced along the walls.

  “Oh, crap,” Leo muttered.

  My nostrils flared. “An easy $5000?”

  Leo stared at the ruined hulk of a truck.

  “Leo, this easy $5000 has cost just me 50 grand.”

  “Don’t forget my bill,” Kristi added.

  An exasperated sigh left m
y mouth.

  “Look, Max, your insurance will cover this.”

  “You going to call the cops?” Kristi asked.

  “Think the local cops will do much?” I asked. “Or will I get a ticket for allowing my truck to be in the way of a herd of crazed bikers?”