by Jack Huber
“Breakfast is probably over anyway. It’s almost noon,” Jimmy said as he grabbed a few things from his second bed.
We walked through the maze of the hotel until we found the parking lot exit, then headed for the car in the back lot.
“How’s this thing holding up?” Jimmy asked, referring to the Malibu.
“Great. Out here in the country I can open it up sometimes. Hell, I even raced a cop in Missouri!”
“Sounds like you, Patty-boy. I miss your old Camaro.”
“Me, too. When it blew up in that lake, there wasn’t enough left of it to make a tricycle.” We climbed in and buckled up. “Besides, this one is actually faster than the Camaro.”
“That’s hard to believe.”
“Let me show you.” I navigated to the freeway but got off in a couple of miles where the frontage road was long, straight and clear of traffic. “Here, we’ll do a quarter mile.”
I punched it and we both were thrown back in our seats. At about the five-second mark we were at 65 mph and I hadn’t yet heard it shift into high gear. As we passed an auto parts store I saw flashing red-and-blue lights. “Damn.”
Jimmy reacted much the same way. “That’s a stater. Who woulda figured he’d be out here on this side road.”
I slowed, pulled over and stopped, waiting for the trooper to catch up. I had my license and registration ready when he pulled up behind me and I handed it to him when he walked up to my open window. “I’m sorry, officer. I was just opening up the carburetor for a moment.”
“I get that, Mister …” He looked at my license. “… Ruger. This ain’t no drag strip.” I hadn’t gotten a good look at him but his deep voice and southern accent definitely came across. He added with a succinct tone, “I do appreciate your consideration in not making me chase you down. Hold on while I run these.” He walked back to his car, which I saw was unmarked except for a narrow strip of LED lights on top.
“Shouldn’t you tell him about working with Nashville PD?” Jimmy asked.
“No, this is a state trooper and I just don’t know if that would be a good or bad thing.”
“Yeah, you’re right about that. Maybe he’d arrest us just on principle.”
“I think I’ll just take the ticket and pay it.”
In a couple of minutes, I heard the trooper’s car door slam closed and saw him in the side view mirror walking back towards me.
“Mr. Ruger, here are your documents,” the trooper said, still in a concise manner. He handed them back through the window. “Did you know that you’re flagged in the system?”
That sounded ominous. “No, sir. What does that mean?”
“Your record was noted by the FBI to give leeway if possible.”
“I’m really sorry about that, officer. Please feel free to give me a ticket. I was speeding, no doubt about it.”
Less formally, he replied, “I would but, you know, I just don’t know what kind of paperwork that would cause me, you know?”
I looked up at him and was relieved that he was smiling, not upset. “I hear you, brother. We were on the job, retired now. We work with the FBI on occasion.”
“Well, I would ask that you don’t speed like that in my jurisdiction again. If I can be of any help to you, I wrote my cell number here on your warning.” He handed me a white form with the words, “Violation Warning,” printed in bold type at the top and a phone number hand written on the bottom. “I’m Trooper Tom Williams. I hope you gentlemen have a great day.”
“Thanks, Tom. Pat and Jimmy,” I replied, briefly pointing to each of us and extending my hand out the window to shake. “No more speeding here, I promise.”
He shook it and said, “Good. You fellas have a good day, now, ya hear?” He walked away and climbed back in his vehicle.
I waited until he drove by us before I even started up the car. “That was weird,” I said. “I wonder what that was all about. You ever hear of the FBI flagging people at the state level?”
“No,” Jimmy replied seemingly in thought. “With all the new technologies tied together, maybe it’s something they do now. Pretty cool, if you ask me.”
“Yeah, maybe. What if I didn’t want the locals to know I was working with the feds?” It was a rhetorical question and I pulled away carefully. I drove slowly up to the freeway on-ramp and asked, “Could you feel the acceleration back there?”
“Yeah, before we were so rudely interrupted. This thing really gives you G’s, doesn’t it? I was sort of dazed for a moment when you first punched the gas.”
I entered the freeway, finally giving it some gas. “I know, right? My Camaro was fast, but this, this is a whole new level.”
I exited the highway and in a couple of miles we arrived at Mike’s Tavern and Grille. We walked up and I knocked on the door. When there was no response, I looked for a sign that might have hours on it. I didn’t see one but before long the buzzer sounded and the door lock clicked open.
“That’s weird,” Jimmy said. “What are they hiding in there?”
“Nothing I can think of,” I replied as we entered the mostly vacant bar.
There was one patron, a businessman, at a table, seemingly having lunch with his Bloody Mary. We stood at the empty bar counter until a wide-bodied African-American bartender came from a back room to join us. It was Xavier.
“Hey,” I said. “I thought you worked nights.”
“I do,” he replied, picking up a clean white towel and wiping the front edge of the counter before walking around behind it. “I trade off with Emily. On weekends we both work nights and the owners come in to work the afternoons. You’re lucky. This is Tuesday, so you have me.”
“If you say so,” Jimmy said. “But I’m thinking we’d be luckier to have Emily.”
Xavier laughed. “You are right, my man. She’s a kick.” He put down the towel. “What’re you boys having?”
“First, we need your help,” I answered and he turned back to me. “Do you remember when I was here the other night?”
“I sure do. Pat, right? You had a Bud Light.”
“Good memory! Well, there was a guy here, Alan Drohan, telling a story about him saving a pilot …”
“A pilot who had passed out. I know. Al tells that story at least once a week.”
“So he’s a regular?”
“Regular, like clockwork. He shows up here at the stroke of two every afternoon, rain or shine, and today the sun is shining.” He leaned over to look at the wall clock to his right, which showed five minutes past two. “He’ll be showin’ up here in about a half-hour. That clock is bar time.”
I validated that on my watch, which showed 1:35. “Okay, we’ll have a couple of beers then and wait.”
“Good enough. It’s five o’clock somewhere.” Xavier turned and pulled a couple of mugs out of the glassware freezer next to him and they immediately frosted up. “Pints okay?” he asked. I nodded and he expertly poured the Bud Lite drafts without a hint of foam. He set them down in front of us and said, “On the house, gentlemen. Like I said, your lucky day. Enjoy!”
“Thanks!” Jimmy uttered and took a big gulp, placing his mug back on the counter with an accentuated, “Ahhh.” He laughed for a second and said, “You remember the old days when we’d have to pretend to turn down free beer before we took it anyway?”
I laughed, too, and took a sip of the ice cold brew. We sat for a while and shot the breeze, Jimmy telling me about his kids taking piano and flute lessons at school, and how Erin was thinking about running for a PTA officer position.
Soon, a loud pounding on the door got Xavier running to the unlock button. “He’s here,” he told me, matter-of-factly.
“Thanks, man.”
Sure enough, Alan popped in and hurried to the corner bar stool on our left, closest to the door. He looked over at me and asked, “Hey, didn’t we meet a few days ago?”
“Yes, Alan. We did. I’m Pat and this is my friend, Jimmy.”
“Jimmy Buffet? Jimmy Stewart? Jimmy Fallon? You gotta be
a famous Jimmy of some kind, right?”
“Stewart,” Jimmy replied. “How did you know?”
“I didn’t, but people like to be confused with someone well-known. You guys waiting for me?”
“Yes, sir, we are,” I answered, somewhat relieved he didn’t wait for a Jimmy Stewart impression, though I figured one was coming. “Got a minute?”
“Sure.” Xavier dropped a martini on the counter in front of Alan, who picked it up and sauntered over to us.
Drohan took a sip and said, “What can I do for you gentlemen?” He stirred it with the olive and toothpick and took another drink.
“You look like an actor,” I said. “You ever been in a movie?”
“I was an extra once, back when I lived in Upstate New York. Why?”
“We need someone who’s gregarious and can think fast on their feet for a little project. An actor would be even better.”
“What’s this about?”
“Do you sing? I didn’t stay for karaoke last week.”
“I sing pretty well, actually,” Al replied. “But I don’t do karaoke very often. I like to bring my guitar down and sing with the band. I’ve got kind of a high voice and they like me to sing high harmonies.”
“What kind of guitar, if you don’t mind my asking,” Jimmy responded.
“I have a sweet Takamine EF360S,” Alan said, looking very proud. “It’s electro-acoustic, so I can plug into a band’s mixer if I want to, or I can just play it without hook-ups.”
“Perfect! We’re researching a group who may or may not be strong-arming musicians and singers into signing with them. We’d like to find out if that’s true.”
“You mean the Flackers, or Flankers, or something like that?”
“Flak Union. You know about them?”
“I had a friend who ran into them. They beat him up pretty bad. That didn’t have anything to do with music, though. He was buying Oxy and it didn’t go well.”
“Well, then,” Jimmy cut in. “You won’t mind getting some payback for your friend.”
“Payback?” Alan said almost laughing. “I’m not a ‘payback’ kind of guy. I’m more of the ‘live and let live’ type, you know?”
I put my hand on his shoulder. “These guys may have hurt some people we know and we’re looking into it. Alan, we need some help and we don’t know many people in town.”
“C’mon, man,” Jimmy added. “Don’t make us beg.”
“Begging is good for your character.” He finished his cocktail and reached the glass over to set it down on the counter. “Xavier, my man. Another!”
We waited for the idea to settle in and when the new martini arrived, I asked the bartender, “What’s his bar tab?”
He looked at Alan, who nodded and took his drink. “Well, to be honest, I’d have to go add in everything from last week.”
“How about an estimate?”
He looked in the air as if in thought and then at me. “I’m guessin’ it’s in the 15 hundred range.”
“What?” Alan gasped. “Fifteen hundred? How did it get so high?”
Xavier didn’t even have to consider the question. “Two weeks ago, remember the bridal shower? You bought them three rounds, at about 200 bucks each time. I warned you it was going to cost you, but one of the bridesmaids had your attention.”
“Pam. I forgot about Pam.” He smiled wistfully. “She was sure something.”
“I’ll tell you what,” I said. “We’ll pay off your bar tab, then put another thousand credit on it. How’s that sound?”
“Make it two grand credit and you’ve got a deal. There’s more bachelorette parties next month.”
“Then, we’ve got our actor.” I reached out and shook his hand, as did Jimmy, and I wondered if we were making a mistake.
Xavier looked mightily pleased.
Chapter 11
“How much longer are we going to do this?” our reluctant actor asked as he climbed into my back seat.
“I had hoped we would have someone by now.” I answered after starting the engine. I revved the motor in frustration, then revved it more.
“Hold on, there, Patty boy! We just need to re-group.”
I let off the gas and said, “Yeah, I’m guessing we’ll have to. What do you think we did wrong?”
“I told you guys,” Alan chimed in. “A sting like this could take months. Do you know how many super-star wanna-be’s there are in Nashville? Thousands. Hell, there’s over a hundred major recording studios. We’ve hit, what, 20?”
“What do we do now?” Jimmy asked.
“Dinner!” Alan offered excitedly. “I’ve been wanting barbecue all week. And it’s on you.”
“Deal,” I answered. “I saw a place on Broadway yesterday, not too far from downtown. Let’s head over there.” With no objection, I pulled away from the curb and headed north. I noticed movement in my rear view mirror. “That’s odd.”
“What?” Jimmy asked, looking backwards.
“That old Audi back there, the white one. I think I saw it yesterday a couple of times.”
“There’s a lot of white cars back there,” Alan stated, also while looking back.
“You guys aren’t conspicuous at all, really.”
“Sorry,” Jimmy said sheepishly as they both sat back and forward in their seats again. “I’m a bit out of practice.”
“I sure know that feeling,” I replied with a little chuckle. “No harm done, I think. It seems like he pulled out into traffic right after we did. Let’s find out if he’s following us.” I sped up and turned right at the next light, then slowed down and waited. No Audi. After a couple a minutes, I accelerated to traffic speed and kept an eye out.
Ten minutes later, we were about five cars back from a red light and I surveyed the rear traffic in my mirror. The Audi had returned. “He’s back.”
Jimmy slowly looked back and said, “Got ‘im. He’s stuck in traffic, too. When the light changes, pull around to the right, up there.” He pointed to the next intersection ahead. “We’ll meet you there.”
“What?” I asked, but he was already out of the car. I watched as he walked back on the sidewalk, then jumped to the Audi quickly, opened the passenger door and hopped in. Traffic began moving and I proceeded around the corner, stopped at the curb, and waited. A moment later the Audi pulled up and parked behind me.
“Wait here,” I told Alan as I grabbed my Ruger from under my seat and got out. He raised both hands in the air as if to say he wanted nothing to do with what was happening.
I hid the gun from plain sight as I slowly walked back to the white car. I saw that Jimmy was laughing but he had his gun still pointed at the guy, so all was not necessarily well. I relaxed a bit and climbed into the back seat.
“Patty-boy,” Jimmy said in a jovial tone. “This here is Martin and he has something to tell you. Don’t you, Martin?”
Martin had brown skin, like a Latino, but his face didn’t really look Hispanic. It was difficult to judge his age but he had black tats on his neck and shoulders, symbols of some kind, and he was wearing, as far as I could tell, a thin-strapped dirty white muscle shirt. He didn’t say anything.
“Tell him.” It looked like Jimmy had pushed the gun into Martin’s gut.
“Okay, okay.” Martin looked back at me. His left eye was brown and his right one was a cloudy green. “I was given some money to keep tabs on you. I been on you for about three days now.”
“Three days?” I said, somewhat flabbergasted. “You a professional?”
“You might say that. I worked for the Agency for a while, now I freelance.”
“What ‘Agency’? CIA?”
“I can’t say. Let’s just say that it didn’t work out.”
“So, you work for the Flak Union?” Jimmy asked.
“Like I said, I freelance. This job came up and they hired me for it.”
“Did they say why?”
“No, they never say why.”
I sat there thinking for a few
minutes. “Three days,” I repeated to myself in a low voice. To Jimmy I said, “We’re slipping.”
“Getting old sucks. What do you want to do?”
“How do you give them your intel?” I asked Martin. “Do you meet up?”
“We haven’t met in person. They call me about twice a week and I give them the update. So far there hasn’t been anything to give.”
“So they don’t care that we’re trying to catch the people responsible for strong-arming recording artists?” I leaned forward. “The ones who hurt my clients?”
“I guess not. They wanted to make sure you weren’t investigating them.”
I sat back and let that sink in. The Flaks may have been in the clear. “Give Jimmy your phone.”
Jimmy held it up. “Already have it.”
“You still have that utility that our FBI buddies gave us? The one that sends a phone’s contents up to their server?”
“I know where to get it.” Jimmy held the phone in front of Martin’s face. “This thing uses facial recognition, he said as he brought the device back in front of him and started working on it. “I guess it’s a good thing we’ve still got his pretty face to work with.” After a couple of minutes, Jimmy announced, “Bingo!”
“Give it back to him.” Jimmy complied. “Now, Martin. This is really important. If you play this right, we’ll let you go. Understand?”
“Not really,” he answered, a bit flustered. “What is it you want me to do?”
“Call your handler. Tell them you have important info about our investigation and you can’t talk over the phone. Tell ’em the feds might be involved.”
Martin sat and didn’t do anything for a minute or so.
Jimmy pushed his gun into Martin’s ribs again and said, “C’mon, it’s not that hard. You either get put in some hell-hole at the FBI or you make the call and go your merry way.”
Martin reached for the phone and flipped through a few screens.
“On speaker, please,” I instructed, and Martin touched that icon.
After a moment the phone sounded a three-tone screech and a recorded voice spoke the error message, “The number you have dialed is no longer in service …” He hung up and tried it again with the same result.
