Killer Nashville Noir

by Clay Stafford

  I had to get rid of this guy. “Not interested. I’m in a new line of work. Dry cleaning. I’ve also been training nonstop. So walk away.”

  He undoubtedly could tell that I wanted to break his nose, and he knew I was capable of it, because he raised his glass in a smarmy toast, said, “Nice seeing you,” and mercifully left. What was he up to? I wondered. If he were involved in the kidnap plot, would he really be so publicly obnoxious?

  I watched him disappear into the crowd only to spot none other than Jiāng, my Chinese handler, emerge from the mass of bodies. I hadn’t expected him, but the Chinese agents were a paranoid bunch. Then again, so were we. I stopped pretending to be a googly-eyed teenager—or maybe I hadn’t been pretending—and surveyed the crowd. Then I recognized Rameez Kakar, a military attaché, who worked out of the Pakistani Embassy. He was an enigma; no one quite knew where he stood on terrorism. A likely suspect in a planned abduction, in other words. He was positioned at the end of the bar, sipping a martini and speaking with two women, a brunette and a redhead. When he saw me staring at him, he frowned and looked away. I didn’t like it—he was standing all too close to Johnson. Everyone was too close to Johnson.

  • • •

  I sat and nursed my gin fizz and watched Johnson work and hoped that the bar would thin out and that last call would come and that Snake’s report of a kidnapping plot would prove to be faulty intelligence. But after an hour, the place just got more crowded. Graves was lost somewhere in the crowd, if he hadn’t left. Kakar stayed in the same spot at the end of the bar, chatting up the women. Jiāng stood by the door, sipping a Perrier and making no effort to communicate with me. My attempts to flirt with Ben Johnson met with polite, charming, businesslike rebuffs.

  I felt another hand on my shoulder. If it was Graves, I would break his nose this time.

  “Jordan,” the woman said. “How long has it been? Seems like forever.” She sounded drunk.

  I turned to see CIA agent Sara Byrom, formerly an analyst, but lately an operative. What was Snake up to now? He knew I liked to work alone.

  Ignoring me, Byrom leaned over the bar and shouted for Ella to bring her a double shot of Cuervo Anejo tequila.

  Before Ella could place the shot glass on the counter, Ben appeared, took the tequila out of her hand, and set a cup of coffee in front of Byrom, who reached out and took his hand.

  “Hey now, don’t spoil all the fun,” Byrom said, slurring her words.

  Johnson gently pulled his hand away. “You’ve had enough, ma’am. Let me call you a cab.”

  Byrom pouted sexily, then reached over and caressed Johnson’s cheek. I thought she might lean over and try to kiss him. Again, he removed her hand.

  “Don’t mind Sara,” I said to Johnson. “Even the thought of alcohol lowers her inhibitions. I’m sure her husband will come to get her soon. You’re still married to Terry, aren’t you, Sara?”

  “Fuck you, Jordan,” Byrom said. “When did you get so old?” She batted her eyelashes at Johnson like an old-time movie vamp. “Should I tell this handsome hunk your secrets?” She directed another obscenity at me and made her way over to a table where two other women were sitting. I didn’t recognize them.

  “Friend of yours?” Ben asked.

  “We went to college together. Haven’t seen her in years. She’s not a bad person. Never known her to be a drinker.”

  “We all face a few bumps in the road.”

  “I’ll second that,” I said, lifting my drink. “I’ll look after her. If she doesn’t take a swing at me first.”

  He grinned and moved on to help another patron.

  A shrill shriek sounded from down the bar. A group of women were greeting each other, reminiscent of an obnoxious sorority pajama party. Across the room, Sara Byrom struggled to her feet and began staggering toward the ladies room. I didn’t want to leave Johnson, but this was my chance to learn what she was up to. I reluctantly got up and followed her. I found her standing over a sink, looking as if she was about to be sick.

  When she saw me, she stood fully erect and said in a clear, sober voice, “Snake sent me. Backup.”

  “Forget it, Byrom. You don’t have the experience. You’ll just get in the way.”

  “Oh really? Looks like my drunk act brought you a bit closer to your engineer bartender. And if there’s a move on Johnson, you’ll need me.”

  “Who else on the inside knows about this?”

  “No one.” Byrom inhaled deeply and looked at me with concern. “You’ve been working alone too long, Jakes. Tonight is a big deal. It’s no coincidence that Rameez Kakar is sitting at the end of the bar. The Pakistanis are seriously concerned that one of their former nuclear scientists is behind the plot to abduct Johnson. They don’t want the fallout from a kidnapping coming down on them. But even with Kakar and me here, we’re undermanned.”

  She didn’t know about Jiāng, obviously. As far as I was concerned, he and I provided more than enough protection for Johnson. Everyone else was a nuisance or worse.

  “You can’t trust Kakar, so here’s your job, Byrom. Don’t take your eyes off him. Let me take care of the rest.”

  • • •

  I returned to the bar and watched Byrom stagger to the opposite end of the room. The women she’d been sitting with earlier were gone. I passed on ordering a drink when Ella made the rounds, but quickly finished the last of mine as soon as Johnson headed my way.

  “Maybe you should serve Sara another cup of coffee,” I said.

  “Ella’s on it. Your friend will sober up in no time.”

  “Lightweights always do.” I pushed my glass across the counter toward him. “I, on the other hand, am not a lightweight.”

  “Another Ramos Gin Fizz coming up.” He mixed the drink and handed it to me.

  I took a sip. “Better than the first. And the first was perfection.”

  He smiled almost shyly.

  “Do you like being a bartender?”

  “It keeps me in contact with people. Some jobs keep you isolated, and that’s not good for the soul or the brain. What do you do for a living, Jordan?”

  “I’m still trying to figure that one out. I work at a dry cleaner. I don’t plan on being there forever. But it’s good, because I have defined hours and plenty of time to train.”

  “Train for what?”

  “I do triathlons. I spend most of my free time at the CrossFit gym or running, swimming, and cycling. It’s grueling, but I love it.”

  He glanced at me, and just as I’d hoped, I’d piqued his interest. His dossier had said that he, too, was a fitness nut though the old NASA photo had led me wrong.

  From down the bar, Ella called Ben’s name. She was standing with one hand on a beer tap and the other on her hip. “We need another keg of the Rowdy Rye. They’re drinking this stuff like water.”

  He nodded and headed toward the back storeroom. As soon as he was out of sight, Ella marched over to me like a woman on a mission. She leaned over, put her elbows on the bar, and positioned her face within six inches of mine.

  “I know the look,” she said in a taut voice. “I’ve seen it a hundred times.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Ella.”

  “Let me save you a little heartache, honey…Ben is my guy.”

  “I’m just here to have a drink or two, and he happens to be the bartender. If you could mix a Ramos Gin Fizz, I wouldn’t have spoken with the man.”

  “Just so we understand each other.” She spun around and went back to waiting on customers.

  I shook my head—another complication.

  There was a loud shout from down the bar, not from the sorority sisters this time, but from a man. Rameez Kakar and Daniel Graves were standing toe-to-toe, like two boxers in a stare down. Then Graves reached around Kakar and brazenly fondled the breast of Kakar’s redheaded companion. Kakar tried to apply a guillotine chokehold on Graves, but Graves, who was FBI trained, fended Kakar off. They grappled for a moment, arms entwine
d, and I thought it would end there in a standoff.

  Then I saw the metallic glint of an object in Graves’s left hand. He was holding some kind of stiletto-styled switchblade. The redhead screamed out in Urdu, “Rameez, a knife!”

  To my shock, Graves thrust the knife into Kakar’s side. Kakar crumpled to the floor, arms flailing. Patrons began screaming and running from the bar. A few of the men looked like they wanted to intervene but thought better of it when Graves brandished the knife.

  I hadn’t been invited to that party, didn’t want to be a guest. I couldn’t get involved without blowing my cover. Then I realized that I was involved. Graves was either crazy or part of the abduction scheme, and I had to find out which. I looked for Jiāng, but he was no longer in the room.

  Graves started for the front door, and I followed. I shouted Byrom’s name, but she was gone, too. Then Jiāng reappeared, standing at the entrance of the now-empty bar. All he had to do was nod his head slightly for me to understand—Daniel Graves would be at the bottom of the Potomac River by midnight. I went over to Kakar, who with the aid of his two female companions, was struggling to stand.

  “Explain this!” I ordered.

  “No idea,” he rasped.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “We’re on the same side in this,” he said breathlessly. “Please. I can’t afford to have the police question me. Nor can you.”

  And only then did I understand what I’d missed. “Get out of here,” I said.

  I hurried to the backroom where Johnson had gone to get that keg of beer. There was no one in the room, but the backdoor was ajar. I unholstered my Sig Sauer and walked out into the alley. A white van was parked about fifty feet away. Two thugs were struggling to lift an unconscious Ben Johnson into the back. At least, I hoped he was only unconscious. There was movement from across the alley, behind a dumpster, and I almost fired, but then recognized Sara Byrom, who was standing in the shadows with an arm outstretched, aiming her weapon. Despite the darkness and the distance, I could see that her arm was shaking. She needed to take the shot, but she was frozen with doubt like the almost-rookie she was.

  Unlike Byrom, I didn’t hesitate for a second. I swung Siggy upward and fired, sending one of Johnson’s abductors to the asphalt. Johnson’s legs hit the ground. When the other man looked up in surprise I fired a second shot, and the guy joined his colleague. That left the driver. But before I could approach the van, the driver floored the gas pedal and started down the alley. I charged out after him, only to realize that the driver wasn’t a he, but a she—Ella.

  She floored the accelerator and sped toward the end of the alley. I raised my weapon to shoot, but civilians appeared, crossing the street. Just as Ella made a hurried left turn out of the alley, a large SUV broadsided her, not just any SUV, but a blacked-out Suburban my colleagues at the Agency drove. Byrom might not have been able pull the trigger on her gun, but she was able to press the buttons on her cell phone to call for help, and that wasn’t anything to sneeze at.

  I rushed over to Johnson and felt for a pulse. He was alive. I instantly detected a peculiar smell. When Byrom reached us, I said, “Chloroform.”

  “They don’t use chloroform anymore, it’s hard to get.” She was clearly in a daze, because she had to know that chloroform is still used in chemistry labs all the time.

  I made sure Johnson was comfortable and whispered to Byrom, “It’s okay, Sara. It’s always tough the first time. The point is, you figured out what happened and called for backup. You did your job.”

  The words were enough to snap her out of it. Johnson was already starting to wake up. We helped him to his feet and got him inside.

  “What happened?” he asked. “Was I robbed?”

  “Sara stopped it,” I said. “I can’t believe it, but Sara’s a cop. I never knew she was a cop. Last I saw her, she was a high school teacher. Tell him, Sara.” I tried my best to sound like the naïve girl who ran marathons and dry cleaned tuxedos and evening gowns.

  Without missing a beat, Byrom said, “I’m an undercover detective for the District of Columbia PD, working the robbery detail. A gang has been targeting bars and restaurants. Using drugs to knock out the owner and running off with cash and whatever else they can take. An informant identified your bar as the next target.”

  A still groggy Johnson rubbed his forehead. “Why didn’t you warn me?”

  “Undercover means just that,” Byrom said. It was a lame explanation, but good enough for Johnson to believe in his muddled state.

  “You should come out of this soon,” Sara said. “See your doctor. I’ve got to report in.”

  After she left, Johnson asked, “Where’s Ella?”

  “Detective Byrom said she was driving the getaway car or whatever you call it.”

  “Ella?”

  “I’m sorry. I know the two of you were dating.” I shrugged helplessly.

  “What? I hardly know her. Hired her a couple of months ago as a cocktail waitress. She’s filling in for my regular guy while he’s in Cabo.” He paused and seemed to become more alert. “Wait a minute. Are you a cop, too?”

  “I told you, I work at a dry cleaner.”

  “Then what were you doing back here?”

  I felt myself blush, and to this day I still don’t know if it was real or an act. “It’s embarrassing.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I saw Sara follow you into the backroom, and I thought you and she were…let’s just say I got a little jealous, so I followed both of you. Then I went out back and saw you lying on the ground, and Sara flashed her badge and motioned for me to get back. And then there was shooting, I guess Sara—I mean, I know Sara shot them, and Ella was driving and tried to get away, and there was a crash…Oh my god, I’m not really sure. It happened in slow motion yet so fast. It was all so frightening, and I was so afraid that you were…that you were dead.” I’d forced myself to the verge of tears and now took a deep breath as if I was composing myself.

  “You were jealous?”

  “Well, yeah. I know I’m just a customer. But it’s not every day you find a man who can make the perfect Ramos Gin Fizz.”

  • • •

  Ella turned out to be the girlfriend of an American Jihadist believed to be in Syria. While her boyfriend was on the FBI’s radar screen, she was not. Her group didn’t trust Jack Adams either—they’d planted her in Ben Johnson’s bar a few months earlier in case Adams didn’t take their bribe. Our side hadn’t been the only one with a backup plan.

  With a little help from my colleagues at Langley, the Pakistanis apprehended their rogue scientist and his terrorist cell. Hiring Graves, who’d had the bad judgment to stab Kakar as a diversion, was a poor business move. Meanwhile, I was back on track with the operation to take control of Johnson’s laser experiment. Over the next two weeks, I stopped at the bar nightly after my workouts at the gym. On exactly day twelve, Johnson—Ben to me now—finally took the bait.

  “I’m not working this Saturday, a rare off day,” he said. “How do you feel about beef barley soup at my place?”

  “Make me a Ramos Gin Fizz, and it’s a date.”

  SAVAGE GULF

  by Clay Stafford

  She looked familiar, but when he had known her before, her chest had been no bigger than his then-skinny pecs. Now, she could float a platoon of capsized Marines.

  “Mary!” he exclaimed raising his eyes from her…nametag. “So good to see you again.” Thank goodness she had not accidentally pinned herself, the explosion would have blown out the windows. She was still as ugly as sin. No implant could fix that.

  “Jack,” Mary said as she handed him his nametag, her face glowing red from yesterday’s tanning bed. “I’d know you anywhere. Can you believe it’s been almost thirty years?” She laughed.

  He remembered how he had hated that laugh. He remembered how he had hated all of them.

  “I’m so sorry about Marjorie,” she said.

  Already, it had begun.
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  • • •

  From the four corners of the Monteagle Moonshine Lounge, the Bee Gees sang about staying alive. Appropriate for the night. There were only four other people there so far—possibly classmates—though they didn’t look familiar. Everyone had gotten old and fat. Including him. Or dead.

  Jack gave a deep sigh. No matter how much locally-made sauce they used to spike the punch, he could not forget Marjorie. Cheerleader. Homecoming Queen to his King. Out of forty-six graduates, the girl of his dreams. Miss John D. Landry High. Bride. Adoring wife. And of course—the image that he could not obliterate from his mind—the woman who had…

  He thought about Heather. Heather Ralston. Marjorie’s former best friend. It disappointed him that Heather wasn’t coming. She was driving down alone from Murfreesboro to meet him later in Shad. Harold, her husband, had died when a tree had fallen on him. Straight-line winds. He had been standing in his driveway. Fifty was not an old man.

  It’s different for a man, he thought. And then he corrected himself. At high school reunions there weren’t males or females; there were sharks and guppies. Those who had succeeded would line one wall and mingle amongst their regal selves; those who had failed would line the opposite wall and gawk at those who had triumphed. Outwardly, the losers would criticize from their lowly and pitiful stations, drinking free punch ever more, but inwardly he knew, just as they knew, as he would watch them from the noble sect amongst which he moved every quinquennial, that those poor losers across the room only envied him. Heather’s deceased auto executive husband, Harold, had made a fortune in the dot-com market by creating a program that helped mechanics balance wheels. Jack had likewise been a man of his own making, though not to Harold’s success. That was expected of Type-A men. Heather and Marjorie had accomplished nothing on their own; neither had even produced a child. He could see why Heather had not wanted to come. Before, she had served as arm decoration for Howard. She would only be doing the same for him.