by Linda Ladd
Stepping down onto the old bricks, he locked up the truck and crossed to the other side of the street, about fifteen yards up from the bar. He stopped there and glanced around. The courthouse sat cater-corner from where he stood, on the other side of the intersection above him. Three floors high, large and square and impressive, probably built in the 1920s or ’30s. It took up the entire block and had a grassy lawn surrounding the building. White concrete steps led up to entrances on all four sides. A criminal justice center sat directly across the highway, on the far side of the courthouse. He could see it from where he stood. It looked new and modern and probably was where the mayor and town council preferred to spend their tax money. Three cop cars were in plain sight, two in the rear courthouse parking lot, another one parked in the jail’s front driveway. Another black-and-white police car drove past Novak while he stood there. The officer gave him a long look, but then drove on.
Nobody walked along the streets, not now that it was dark. There were a couple of stores that weren’t boarded up, a few attorney offices taking advantage of their proximity to the courthouse. They were all closed, too, lawyers gone home, having dinner with their wives and helping their children with math homework. The courthouse was deserted except for the cop cars and two others. Probably people working late, preparing for court the next day or sending out jury summonses. Novak turned and headed down the steep sidewalk to Red’s Bar.
At the front entrance he paused again and observed his surroundings. He wanted to find out who he was up against in this little town, if he was up against anybody. If there was an organized criminal element, he wanted to know how many there were, and who was calling the shots. Times like this, he always got a bead on how connected the bullies and bad guys were to their bigger counterparts in the large cities. In this case, that would probably be Atlanta, where the mafia guys who ran criminal organizations had tentacles reaching into every small town for miles around. This tavern, though, was an establishment that had been hunkered down for so long that the good people didn’t realize it existed anymore. Nobody thought about it, or noticed it, or cared who entered or left or drank themselves unconscious every night of the week. Dark, dingy, and comfortably nondescript.
The patrons would be drunkards and miscreants nursing drinks and stumbling home drunk when the bar doors closed. They would be the ones who had lost their way in life a long time ago. They would welcome any stranger into their rum-soaked daze with few questions and be happy to spill all their troubles to him, happy that somebody would listen to their woes. Every small town had a place like this one, and that was the first place Novak went when he needed information about an unknown location.
Novak pushed open the battered black steel front door and walked inside. He stood just inside and allowed his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Smoke nearly choked him and hovered in a thick gray cloud close to the ceiling, a noxious pall over the tables. No ventilators, no windows. Nearly everybody inside held a lit cigarette between their fingers. The smell of nicotine and spilled booze and unwashed bodies was suffocating. Raucous music was playing on the juke, Waylon Jennings singing some catchy old song that Novak couldn’t name. A scarred bar stretched across the room on his left, wood that had been worn down on the edge from customers leaning against it. About fifty different kinds of beer signs hung on the wall behind the bar.
There was not a single woman inside the place, which didn’t surprise Novak. Half a dozen men sat around in various stages of serious inebriation and despair, three at individual tables located in the back corners, pretty much hidden in the smoky gloom. The other three sat at the bar. Two older men, sitting apart with four stools between them, not talking, just staring morosely down into their mugs. A younger guy in jeans and white T-shirt sat at the far end by himself, eyes shut, cheek pressed down on the counter. Probably lost his girl and had been crying into his beer.
The bartender looked bored and only half awake. He stood leaning against the bar and watching a twenty-inch Motorola color television sitting on a shelf above the draped front window. He was watching two tough-looking females in tight spandex going at each other in a wrestling match. He was smiling up at it. Nobody was paying attention to anybody or anything, including Novak. Most of the patrons just stared blankly ahead, thinking their own deep thoughts, hunkered down inside their grubby existence. Waylon’s song ended, and then there was silence. Nobody moved. Nobody spoke. A misty, surreal land of misery.
Novak walked over to the bar and pulled out a stool halfway between the two men and the half-conscious boy on the end. The old guy nearest to Novak appeared more alert, glancing up occasionally to peer blearily at the TV screen. Looked like he might be a talker, if encouraged. The bartender finally seemed to notice Novak, came up opposite him across the bar, and just stared at him without saying anything. Casual chitchat was at a premium in Red’s Bar, it seemed. He had James embroidered in red thread on the breast pocket of a light blue, short-sleeved work shirt that had Jack’s Garage emblazoned in a larger, fancier script. He had grease under his fingernails. James appeared to be moonlighting.
“Give me a draft.”
The bartender turned around, reached for a big mug that Novak hoped was cleaner than it looked. The guy pulled down the lever, let the beer rise until it foamed over, and then put it down in front of Novak. “You got cigs here?” Novak asked.
“Marlboro is all we got.”
“Okay.”
Wordlessly, the man reached down and retrieved a pack from under the counter and tossed it on the bar in front of Novak. Novak slid a ten-dollar bill across to him and opened the cigarettes as if he were going to light up. He wasn’t; he hadn’t smoked since he was a teenager. The smell of smoke could reveal his presence where he didn’t want it known. But tonight, it was a way to start the ball rolling. Instant camaraderie. He got out the matchbook Mariah had given him and placed it casually on the bar, turned where the semi alert guy next to him could see the logo.
If the Triangle Club was a joint known for its notoriety, and he had a feeling it was, chances were the guy might want to tell him about it. Maybe even regale Novak with his prior sexual exploits, especially if it was a gentleman’s club, the way Novak suspected. Maybe willing to share his experiences enjoying the pleasures the place offered to interested men. As it turned out, he was dead on.
“Looks like you been out there at the Triangle,” the guy muttered after he’d stared at the matches for a good long minute. The guy had a gravelly smoker’s voice, but he wasn’t as old as Novak had first assumed. Middle-aged, maybe forty-five or fifty, or at least he looked like it. His dark hair was balding on the sides and top, but he had a long fringe of brown bangs around the crown. His face looked brown, with a dark tan and deeply lined, like a man who had worked for decades on a Gulf shrimper or oil rig. Novak had a feeling the guy had slugged his way through the most terrible sort of life imaginable and was still trudging along in that same sucking mire with no end in sight. No wedding ring, no watch, a not-so-clean black knit pullover and black sweatpants and dirty white sneakers with a red stripe. He looked tired and older than he should, and lonely. Most of all, he looked lonely.
Novak took a drink of the beer. It tasted better than he had expected. “Nope, never been there, never heard of it, either. Somebody just left that matchbook at the motel I’m stayin’ at.”
“You new around here then?”
Before Novak could answer, the guy turned back to morose drinking, as if he’d lost interest already. He swallowed down the last bit from his mug, belched loudly with his mouth open, and wiped his wet lips with the back of his hand. He pushed the empty mug out toward the bartender.
Novak tried again. “Yeah. I’m just passing through. Killing time tonight, looking around town, you know. How ’bout you? You from around here?”
“Lived here all my life. Hate this place. So I come down here to drown my sorrows. Name’s Gary.”
“Novak.”
Novak took a drink, didn’t say a
nything else. Waited. Inhaled enough smoke to give him instant black lung. Sipped some more beer. Waited some more. He had learned to be patient. Patience usually paid off.
Gary came out of his drunken funk again, after maybe ten minutes, and remembered he was having a conversation. “Man, that Triangle Club up there, that’s quite a place.” Gary’s low guffaw was suggestive of sleazy goodies to be had by one and all. The guy kept grinning to himself as he sipped his booze. After a moment, he slid his attention back over to Novak’s face, his bloodshot blue eyes bleary with confusion. “That place out there? That’s the place to go. Oh, yeah.”
“Yeah? Why’s that?”
“You wanna have some fun?”
“What kinda fun?”
“Those girls out there? They do anything you want, but you gotta pay ’em. And I mean anything, man. Kinky stuff, too, and I’m tellin’ you the truth. Blows my mind what goes on out there.”
“That right?” Novak yawned, took a drink, and feigned disinterest. James the barkeep was noticing him now, noticing their conversation, listening to them and pretending not to.
“Yeah, you got money in your pocket? It’s worth the long drive up.”
“So where is it? Says Sikeston on the cover.”
“Nah. Used to be here but got burned down. Then some new guy rebuilt it up on Bear Creek Road, north of here, say, twenty, thirty miles, I’m guessin’. Those guys got a lot of stuff goin’ on up there.”
“So what is it exactly? Strip joint or something?”
Gary sputtered into his beer, then he slowly swiveled his stool around to face Novak. He nodded. “Yeah, girls are pretty, too. Young. They do other stuff, too.”
“Like what?”
The man glanced around and lowered his tone, barely whispering now. Except for the bartender, everybody else in the bar seemed unconscious, or soon to be. But that was good. Novak didn’t particularly want people to remember he’d been interested in the Triangle Club. Or that he’d been at Red’s Bar asking about it.
“Anything you want ’em to do, I’m tellin’ you,” Gary muttered softly, eyes lit up with boozy lust. “If you got the dough and the nerve.”
“What’s nerve gotta do with it?”
The man kept nodding his head. “Bouncers are great big guys, you know, tough guys, kinda like you, I guess. And they carry guns. Ex-army’s what they look like to me.”
Novak didn’t say anything after that, took a couple more drinks, kept his eyes down on his mug. Then he frowned and acted confused. “What about the cops? They let that kind of stuff go on?”
“Never seen me a cop up there. But I don’t have the kinda cash you gotta have to get those girls.”
“Weed? Crack? They got that up there?”
Gary nodded, narrowed his eyes. “They got it all, mister, anything you want.” He closed his eyes and looked weary and wobbly drunk.
“Gambling?”
Gary nodded some more, took another deep draught from the mug.
“So prostitution’s legal hereabouts? That what you’re tellin’ me?”
“Hell, no. You’re still in Georgia, man.” Gary laughed some.
“How they gettin’ by with it then?”
“Guess county sheriff’s okay with it. Paid off, maybe. Who knows? I ain’t askin’ no questions like that. You best not, either.”
James the Barkeep started in with some serious furrowing of brow. He moved up to Gary and leaned down close. “You gotta big mouth, Gary. You know that? Better keep it shut, if you know what’s good for you.”
Gary took note. He suddenly looked afraid. He cowered back and said nothing else. Seemed to shrink down several sizes.
Then James decided to get up in Novak’s personal space. He braced both palms flat on the counter and leaned up close to Novak’s face. He had very bad breath. “You seem goddamn interested in the Triangle. How’s that?”
“You think it’s your business what I’m interested in?”
“Just be warned.”
“That your job now? Warnin’ people off?”
“You don’t look like the kind of guy who’d be interested in goin’ up there.”
Novak gave a short laugh. “Why wouldn’t I be interested? Gary here says the girls’ll do anything you want. I find that interesting enough. You don’t?”
They stared at each other a few more seconds. Then James relaxed some and stood back. “Yeah, I do. And he’s right. Anything you want up there. Anything at all. But they’re careful about who they let in. Just warning you. Guys up there? They don’t go in for strangers comin’ in and askin’ nosy questions like you’re doin’ down here. You won’t get the kinda welcome you’re gettin’ in here. If you even get in the door up there, and I’m a bettin’ you won’t. They just might think you’re a cop.”
Novak shrugged. “Well, I’m no cop. Sounds like the place is too far outta my way, anyway. Sounds like a place I might like to check out next time I come through. If I ever come back.”
The fact that he was soon leaving town seemed to alleviate James’s concern a degree. “It’s worth the drive up there. Hafta be careful, though, I’ll just warn you in advance. Guys up there don’t like strangers. Most customers are regulars. Down here from Chattanooga or up from Atlanta. Lots of college guys come round, too.”
“Yeah, well, gotta get on back to Philly, anyway.”
“Don’t sound to me like you come outta Philly. Don’t look like it neither, not with that tan.”
“Transplant from Miami. Miss the beaches the most.”
“Yeah, I bet.”
Johnny Cash came on the juke singing “Ring of Fire.” Novak wondered if that was a bad omen. He hoped to hell not. So he sat there a while longer and watched James pick up a telephone and put out a call. The guy kept glancing at Novak while he talked. He was not subtle at all; looked like Novak just might meet some of the bad guys he was looking for, after all. Tonight. Which was okay by him.
Novak stayed and breathed in smoke for another hour or so, waiting for somebody to show up. Then he decided he wasn’t going to get anything else out of Gary. The drunk had taken James’s threat seriously. Maybe it was time to take a little drive about twenty or thirty miles up Bear Creek Road and see how tough the guys up there really were.
Novak stood up, walked to the door, and stepped outside into the cool fresh air. He took a deep breath, glad to get out of the smoke. Train tracks lay at the bottom of the hill. A train was approaching somewhere far off in the distance. Or maybe it was going away. Didn’t matter to him. He was more concerned with the two guys standing out on the sidewalk waiting for him. They had on dark poplin jackets and jeans and black watch caps. They were not as big as Novak, but they looked like they knew what they were doing, and what they were doing was waiting to beat his head in.
“Evenin’,” he said, walking straight at them.
They closed ranks, blocking the sidewalk.
Novak glanced around. He found nobody watching but the bartender, who had pulled back the black curtain for a first-row seat to the beat down he’d called in. He put his attention back on the two men. One was smiling in anticipation of pummeling Novak’s face to bloody pulp. He stood about six-one, hundred and fifty pounds maybe, with an IQ about sixty or seventy points below that. The other guy was the leader. He was smiling, too, but his eyes were alert and moving over Novak, head to toe. Gauging his height and weight. Assessing his victim, enacting the coming fight inside his head. Novak could tell when he reached a negative conclusion about his chances.
“Want to get outta my way?” Novak asked them. He flexed his fingers and balled his fists loosely, getting ready. He was going in first and he was going to make sure they remembered him afterward at the hospital.
“We got business with you,” said Smiley of the Low IQ.
“I don’t think you do,” said Novak.
“That right, fella? You best—”
That was as far as he got before Novak sent his left fist jabbing forward so quick and
so hard against the man’s Adam’s apple that he didn’t even see the blow coming. He went down hard on his knees and then over onto his side, grabbing his throat and choking and writhing around on the sidewalk. His buddy, the boss man with the lively eyes, stepped back, not smiling anymore, not assessing Novak anymore, either. One-on-one, up-close-and-personal combat was not his bag. Usually wasn’t with these kinds of guys.
“So. Why don’t you just get out of my way and get your friend there to the emergency room before he chokes to death?”
The guy looked down at his gargling, gasping friend and then up into Novak’s calm face. He hesitated, and then he said, “You been askin’ about the Triangle? That’s not so good for your health.”
Novak had to smile at that. “I feel fine. But you’re not going to, if you don’t step out of my way.”
The guy didn’t look so sure. “You better back off and get the hell out of here.”
Novak decided this guy’s cup wasn’t exactly running over with intellect, either. He just stared at him. “You’re not very smart, are you?”
The man hesitated, a true coward who enjoyed acting tough until the going got rough. Novak could spot guys like him a mile away. He now looked dismayed that his threats didn’t intimidate Novak. Probably had never gone up against anybody alone, not mano a mano, and not on a dark and deserted street, and not with anybody who outweighed him by a hundred pounds. “The boss’s gonna be pissed at what you did to Georgie.”
“What boss?”
