by Jack Huber
June handed the completed form to the detective and we followed him to the stairs. He turned and asked, “Do you mind? The elevators here are slower than molasses in January.”
“Not at all, Detective Ronin,” June replied and started toward the stairs behind him.
I let Bobbie go next and I followed. We walked through a small maze of office space and ended up in a conference room.
Ronin stood at the doorway and paused. “I don’t have enough chairs at my desk so we’ll meet here, if you don’t mind.” He extended his arm into the room.
The conference room reminded me of many such rooms in the various precincts and stations I had worked at or with throughout my career. It was a smaller room dominated by a single dark wooden table down its center with ten cushioned black leather office chairs surrounding it, each with padded arms. Three walls were covered in a two-tone gray wallpaper and another had a long horizontal mirror built in, no doubt made of two-way observation glass. I sat on the third chair on the opposite side from the door, in front of and facing away from the mirror. The red-and-white-clad women sat across from me while Ronin sat on the end chair on my side.
He started the conversation. “Mr. Ruger has filled me in. Let’s see … which one is Bobbie?”
Bobbie raised her hand from her elbow, which stayed on the table, and she waved her hand back and forth briefly.
“Thanks for coming in. And you’re June?”
June nodded.
“Thank you as well. Can I see your photos?”
June took her phone from her purse, which had a big crack across the screen but was still working. It took a few moments to access the photos but she got to them and gave the phone to Ronin. He looked at the first three or four, then scrolled back and handed back her phone.
“Can you email these to me?” He took a card out of his breast pocket and handed it to her. “Use this address.”
“Okay, sure.” After a few minutes of fiddling with the phone June stopped and said, “There! You should have them now.”
Ronin pulled out a very large iPhone from a holder on his belt and waited, then said, “Okay, got them.” He seemed to study the photos for a few minutes, enlarging them with his fingers, moving around the view, I guessed to see different people more clearly. “These are definitely members of the Flak Union gang, a sort of crime-family style of thugs, though not prone to the kind of violence the mob or street gangs used to bring. Just usually extortion or blackmail.”
I laughed. “FU. They really like their initials. I’ll bet they use them everywhere.”
“You’re right,” Ronin replied with a straight, no-nonsense look. He found a photo, blew it up and turned it to us. “See the tattoo on his left forearm? It’s an ‘FU’ in a waving flag.”
I shook my head. “How violent are these guys?”
“They beat people up, even put them in the hospital, but I haven’t seen any murders, at least not yet.” He put his phone down on the table and turned to the women. “Can you go through what happened? What they said?”
Bobbie answered, “This isn’t the first time these guys have hassled us. We had just met with Craft Records and were feeling pretty good about them making us an offer soon, a contract. We were walking back to the hotel when a couple of men pushed us into an alley. June took out her phone immediately and began snapping photos.”
“They didn’t seem to care,” June added. “They just began yelling that we needed to stop recording and that Ron-Ron will be calling on us.”
“Why would a street gang care if a gay couple was recording?” Bobbie asked. “What’s in it for them?”
“It depends,” Ronin replied. “It could be they are softening you up to sign with them. They might be homophobic as a group and you’re in their town. They might just hate women.”
“Anyway,” June continued. “One of them grabbed my blouse and said they weren’t messing around and we would be sorry if we didn’t pay attention. A man walking by called out to us from the street and they scattered down the alley. The one who grabbed my blouse took my phone and tossed it before running off. That’s why the screen is cracked.” She paused, then asked, “Detective, what can we do?”
“Stay put for now.” He turned to me and asked if I could take them back to their hotel. I nodded and he turned back to Bobbie. “When you get back to your room, stick close to the hotel. I recognize one of the guys in your photos and I’m going to bring him in for questioning.”
“Should we go get handguns?”
Ronin took a deep breath. “I wouldn’t recommend it. You should do whatever you feel you need to do. To this point the Flaks haven’t killed anyone. Escalating to guns can change that.”
They gave him a puzzled look and I tried to explain. “Often criminals with no intention of murder are faced with a choice and the opportunity to kill. Sometimes adding firearms to the situation gives them both. You’ve heard of how often someone is killed with their own gun, right?” They nodded.
“Good point,” Ronin said. “If I were you, I’d just sit tight and let me do my job.” He stood up and we followed suit. “Mr. Ruger, will you be staying close to these fine ladies?”
“No, Detective. I’m doing a friend a favor by bringing them here and escorting them back safely. I’m retired, as in ‘not working.’”
“I see.” He reached out and shook my hand. “Thank you for your help. I’m sure we’ll be able to handle it from here.”
“Very good, thanks,” I replied.
Back to June, Ronin asked to see his card again. She handed it to him and he wrote something on the flipside, then handed it back to her. “If you see these guys or have any trouble at all, call this number. It’s my cell and I’ll drop everything to help you.”
June held onto the card tightly instead of putting it in her purse.
Ronin walked us back downstairs and shook hands with each of us. “I’ll be in touch,” he said to the women. Then he pulled me aside and said with a lowered voice, “Mr. Ruger, I looked you up. You’re the guy who saved the stadium from being bombed in Denver. You sure you can’t help with this?”
I shook my head. “Detective, when will enough be enough?”
Chapter 5
I dropped the country duo back at the hotel and drove to Jamie’s Dog Sitting to pick up Guy, who didn’t seem all that interested in leaving. He and the other dogs, according to Jamie, had gotten along famously and she asked me how soon Guy could return. I told her about our lifestyle on the road and she feigned being sad.
Eventually I was able to pry Guy away and we headed back to the RV resort. When I pulled up to park, Guy began barking and I saw several men rambling around my campsite. I leaned over, grabbed my Ruger from under my seat and clicked the safety lever to the off position with my thumb. I told Guy to stay and got out of the car, gun drawn.
“Hold on, dude,” one of them said while he put his hands in the air. The others gathered around him. “We aren’t here to hurt you or you’d already be hurt.”
The men were of various ages and sizes, from a thin 25-year-old six-footer to the leader addressing me, who struggled to hit five feet tall and was a bit pudgy. All were your typical white, non-Hispanic, street thugs — their wardrobes screamed street gang. I counted eight of them but couldn’t tell if there were others nearby.
“Then what can I do for you?” I continued to point the gun at the speaker of the group.
“I’m Ron-Ron. You heard o’ me?” He had a gruff voice, like that of a 60-year-old chain smoker. It reminded me of the old 60’s radio host, Wolfman Jack.
“No, can’t say that I have,” I lied, not wanting to give away anything. “What do you want?”
“Just a friendly chat. But first, you can see we don’t have any guns out here, right? Why don’t you lower yours. No accidents, okay?”
I lowered my handgun, keeping my tight grip on the handle, and said, “I’ll keep it handy, if you don’t mind.”
“Suit yourself. I just don’t
want it going off while it’s pointed at me.”
“So,” I said. “Spit it out. Why are you here?”
“Bobbie and June, the country singers.”
“What about them?”
“They don’t need your help. You’re a cop, right?”
“I was. Now I’m an RV nomad navigating the countryside.”
He smiled. “Well, that might be true, but you’re still playing a cop. You took the girls to the station just this morning.”
“You watching me?”
“Them, not you.” Ron-Ron sat down in one of my lounge chairs. “Comfy. I admire your vagabond spirit. It’s time for you to vagabond down the road.”
“Look, I’m not sure what you’re getting at, but I’m retired. Bobbie and June are clients of a friend of mine and I did them a favor. You guys scared them pretty good.”
The little man leaned forward and said, “Your clients, you mean.”
“No, not my clients. I’m not on the job in any way.”
He leaned back and answered, “Great! Then you won’t mind cuttin’ your Nashville visit short.”
I chuckled. “I do mind. I haven’t been to the Grand Ol’ Opry yet. Or to B.B. King’s place.”
“I’m here to warn you,” he said sternly. “Leave town, stop helping Bobbie and June. Otherwise, we stop playing nice.”
I changed the subject. “What kind of name is ‘Ron-Ron’? Isn’t one ‘Ron’ enough?”
He stood up and looked annoyed. He replied, “Ronald Ronhart. Ron-Ron. Get it?”
“If you say so. Listen, I don’t know how else to say it. I’m retired. I’m not working for Bobbie and June. The cops are watching them now. I’m not involved.”
“Just to show I’m a reasonable guy, let’s say you’re telling the truth. You won’t mind us checkin’ up on you until you leave town, right? We came here, what do you call it, ‘in good faith’? No guns, no nothin’.”
“I do appreciate that. As long as it stays that way, I don’t care what you do.”
“Stay away from them.”
“What’s your beef with these nice ladies? What did they do?”
“That is none of your business. We got reasons.”
“So, I have to ask. Why didn’t you bring guns? What gangs don’t arm themselves for a confrontation?”
“Simple,” he replied. “We like money. We don’t like killing people. It’s as simple as that. There are worse things than being killed, y’know? Fingers, toes, electric shock, even … let’s call it ‘relocation.’ Ignore us, you’ll find out pretty fast. It will be out of my hands.”
“So, let me get this straight. You’re the leader of a gang that hurts but doesn’t kill people, but will kidnap, beat up, torture or maim someone that doesn’t do your bidding. You have plans for Bobbie and June and don’t want anyone interfering with them. Is that about right?”
“I’m not the leader, but otherwise, you got it pretty close.”
“You involved in a studio? Is that what this is about?”
“I think we’ve said enough. Leave town or you’ll regret it.” Ron-Ron looked back and nodded to his right. His cohorts followed him out of my campsite and I watched them climb into two older Chevy SUVs parked a few spaces down. They drove away without incident.
I let Guy out and took him for a walk, trying to get a grip on what had just happened. He did his business and I laughed as I picked it up with a baggie. This wasn’t exactly a glamorous life, I thought. Why not move on and leave the girls to the police? Threatening me was risky. I could dig in and work against the Flak Union.
When we got back from our walk, I put Guy on his rope and sat down. I decided to call Mike Ronin to let him know what happened so I pulled out my phone. I found the Nashville PD phone number, called it, then asked to be transferred to the detective. When it went to voice mail, I left a message.
Chapter 6
This time, Ronin came to me. He showed up while I was filling Bonnie in on her clients’ predicament.
“Oh, Lord,” Bonnie said. “What are they going to do?”
“You don’t have to worry about that, ma’am,” Ronin said as he and a couple of uniformed officers, along with another suit, approached us at my front door.
I stepped out and walked Guy inside, closing the door behind him. I joined our visitors on my “porch,” an area I had created with large floor mats and a few collapsible nylon chairs, all dark blue and all sitting beneath my extended awning. This was a lot cheaper than buying a half a dozen lounge chairs to add to the pair I had. I figured at some point I was going to have company, whether I liked it or not. I was right.
“Expecting us?” Ronin asked as he sat in one of the chairs. “Not bad.”
“I can’t have you big guys breaking my good furniture, now can I?” I stayed serious for a moment, then smiled and Ronin grinned.
I sat in one of the chairs, as did Bonnie and the other gentleman, but the two officers stayed standing and on watch.
“Mr. Ruger, this is Sergeant David Hakida of our organized crime division.”
I reached across and shook Hakida’s hand. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Pat Ruger, retired from the job.”
Hakida nodded. He was an average-sized man of Asian descent — I was guessing his ancestry was Japanese, from both his look and his name. He had a somewhat smaller build than me, making him an athletic 180 pounds or so. He was in business attire, though not the three-piece suit that Ronin would wear, just dark gray slacks and a light gray button-up shirt with a navy blue tie — nothing fancy. His head was shaved nearly bald and he had no facial hair.
“Water?” I asked, reaching into the electric cooler next to me. “It’s cold.”
I pulled a bottle of water out and held it out first to Hakida, then to Ronin, who hesitated but took the bottle. I handed one to Bonnie and I took one for myself, opened it and took a big drink. “Sometimes water just hits the spot, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, it does,” Bonnie said and took a sip.
“So, you had an encounter with Ron-Ron,” Ronin stated flatly, then waited for me to explain.
I took another drink, then answered, “Yes, as I said on the phone, they paid me a visit. Strange group.”
“Yeah, I heard that. I’m sorry, who is this?” he asked, referring to Bonnie.
“Oh, my apologies. Detective Ronin, Sergeant Hakida, this is Dr. Bonnie Mann. Bonnie, Detective Ronin and Sergeant Hakida.”
Ronin waved her back when Bonnie began to rise to shake their hands. “Don’t get up, Dr. Mann. I take it Bobbie and June are your clients?”
“Yes, but doctor-patient confidentiality limits what I can say about that.”
“We understand,” Hakida replied. To me, he asked, “You met Ron-Ron. What are your impressions?”
“Definitely a leader in the making, if he isn’t already one. His minions snapped to with every instruction. Odd that they don’t use guns. What gang doesn’t bring guns to a knife fight these days?”
“Yes, they are unique, I’ll give them that,” he answered. “We’ve been watching them for a while. Not having murders to pin on them makes it harder to expend resources in their direction. Smart.”
“He didn’t say they weren’t violent, just that they didn’t like killing people.”
“Yes, so we are taking the approach of a street gang who hasn’t murdered yet. Regardless of their intentions, it’s only a matter of time, I’m sure. All it takes is for someone to die in their commission of a crime and we’ll have the funding to go after them.”
“What are they into? How are they making their money?”
“The usual,” Ronin replied. “Opioids, exotic drugs, extortion, prostitution, numbers ...”
“Just about everything but the kitchen sink, really,” Hakida added. “We believe they are getting into the music recording business. The mob did that a few years ago but pulled out when the industry went digital. It became so much harder to run a studio, even with the forced talent, that they gave it up
.”
“So why would the Flaks do it?” I asked. “Same industry, right?”
“Yes, but there’s been a bit of a renaissance of recording studios. It’s much cheaper to set up and run a recording studio these days and a lot of studios are popping up again.”
“Artists have found out,” Ronin continued, “how hard it is to become successful without a company handling all the marketing, social media, and all the rest of the support they need.”
“So, you’re saying Bobbie and June can’t really make it big on their own?”
“Exactly,” Hakida replied, nodding. “They need a record contract.”
There was silence for a couple of minutes. Bonnie broke it with a question. “How will you protect them? My clients, I mean.”
“I’m not sure we can,” the sergeant began.
“What do you mean? The Flaks threatened them with violence. That’s extortion.”
“From what I can tell, what has happened so far doesn’t really rise to the level of extortion. For that to be valid, they had to have asked for money or something of value with the threat if they don’t comply. Ron-Ron’s crew asked for nothing.”
“Except not to do any recording,” Bonnie cut in. “Don’t you have laws against threats of violence?”
“Yes,” Ronin replied. “It’s called ‘criminal threatening,’ but it’s a misdemeanor and there’s no bite to it — we can’t hold someone for long. We need a more substantial reason to arrest them. Otherwise, they’ll walk right away and we won’t have accomplished anything.”
That response didn’t seem satisfactory to Bonnie and she made no effort to hide how upset she was. “I don’t believe it. They have to be attacked and hurt before you can do anything? How about preventing the attack?”
“Like I was starting to say,” Hakida answered. “I’m not sure we can arrest them, but my department can keep them under surveillance and step in if necessary.”
Bonnie visibly relaxed a bit. “You can do that?”
“That’s why I’m here, to discuss options.”
I jumped into the conversation. “Sergeant, are you planning to speak with Ron-Ron? Bring him and the others in for questioning?”
