by Dan Alatorre
Back and forth, from the driver’s seat to the engine.
The guys in the Mustang looked at me.
The hairs on the back of my neck stood up as I looked back at them.
This wasn’t South Central Los Angeles, it was Land O Lakes, Florida, for Pete’s sake. Five hours ago those guys were probably hanging out at the food court in the mall. But then again, dangerous things do happen, usually when people should have known better. I had a wife and a little kid, I reminded myself, so I shouldn’t do something stupid like get shot by a couple of paranoid marijuana dealers in a dark parking lot behind a bar. Not when I could easily avoid it. I should have moved, but I had a meeting scheduled there.
A car rolled up to the Mustang and turned off its lights. If they were selling crack or black market guns or something, they wouldn’t think kindly of me observing their deal going down.
They kept staring at me. If they were trying to intimidate me, it was working.
Tension gripped my shoulders. I could have left and just called Tyree and found another place to meet. Why didn’t I? As I pretended to be busy texting on my phone, I could make out a muted conversation coming from the Mustang guys.
With a blast, the Mustang’s engine roared to life. I jumped. This pleased the muscle t-shirt guy, who laughed extra loud in my direction. He wanted me to know he knew I was there. They loudly revved the engine a few times, then cut it off. A signal? My stomach tensed.
The two guys walked back and forth from the driver’s door to the open hood of the car again. What part of the engine could they be checking in the dark?
After a few minutes, the second car drove off the way it came, crawling along a few hundred feet before turning its headlights on.
That had to be a drug deal move, so I couldn’t make out the license plate.
I shouldn’t have watched the second car so long. When I glanced back at the Mustang, one of the guys was walking towards me. Not muscle T, but somebody else, with thick arms and a shaved head. I back up half a step and peered over my shoulder to see if maybe there was somebody behind me that he could be walking toward. There was no one else in sight.
“What are you doing back here?”
My stomach leaped. I’d been leaning on my car with my arms folded, and I still had my cell phone in my hand. That would be helpful if I needed to call 911 when this guy decided to tear my arms off. He was big enough, and he was confronting me in a dark, empty parking lot at night. After a drug deal. Behind a freaking bar. How stupid am I? I quickly punched a 9 and a 1 and another 1, and held the phone in the crook of my arm, ready to press “send.”
I took a short breath and tried to steady myself. “I’m waiting for someone.” I was impressed with how calm I actually sounded. Inside, my stomach tightened up.
“Who?” He barked, still coming toward me. My thumb hovered above to the button on my phone that would call the cops.
“That’s none of your business.” I said it slowly, staring right at him, eye to eye, doing my best to not let on that my heart was pounding a hundred miles an hour.
If there was going to be a confrontation, it would be now. I had already screwed up by not leaving, but if there was a chance to get him to back down, this was the way. Try to show no fear, even if you are scared. Looking him in the eye would signal that I didn’t intend to run, and that I might fight back.
I kept my eyes on him, not breathing. My thumb was ready to press the green send button.
He stopped and looked me up and down, sneering
“I manage that bar right there.” He pointed at the bar’s open back door. “So I have a right to know what’s going on in my parking lot.” He took a step toward me.
“Then go manage your bar.” I stopped leaning on the car and stood upright, hoping a little bit of motion in his direction would stop him. It did.
A bar manager selling drugs part time. Terrific.
I was silently thankful my act was working, but inside my pulse was racing.
He narrowed his eyes. “I think you should leave.”
I wasn’t reacting the way he expected. “I told you, I’m meeting somebody. I’m not going anywhere.”
He didn’t like that. It seemed to confuse him. I wondered if it would work and he’d leave, or if it would only piss him off.
“This is my bar!” The slightly slurred words showed he had been drinking. “I need to know what’s going on in my parking lot! What are you doing here?”
He was getting louder and angrier. Adrenaline pulsed through me. Some of the guys got out of the Mustang and glared at me, ready to join in like a pack of dogs. I was seriously outnumbered. Intimidation was becoming something else. Things were getting out of control.
I had no other options. I had to ride out my tough guy ploy. “Does your boss know you drink on the job?”
He hesitated, but I thought I could see his hands curling up into fists.
“Does your boss know you’re drunk right now, out in the parking lot instead of managing his business?”
It was a desperate move. I figured this guy might have something to lose—a good job, a house—so I tried to remind him of that. He manages a nice bar and probably makes decent money. A fight might cost him that.
In that split moment where he hesitated, I no longer thought he’d hit me. He’d have done it already.
I glanced at his friends in the Mustang. They might change his mind.
I swallowed hard. Maybe I miscalculated.
It didn’t matter. I was almost panting, I’d been holding my breath so long. Fear gripped my stomach and adrenaline pounded through my veins. I had to stand my ground now, maybe give a little verbal push back while I figured out how to get them to go away. To show them it was better to leave. I had no choice.
It was a bad calculation. Muscle T and his guys headed my way. The drunk bar manager was going to defend his territory and they were going to help.
Do I press send?
He gave me one last chance as the Mustang boys closed in. “How about I call the cops right now, and you can explain what you’re doing to them?”
That was my opening. “Call the cops.” I said. “I’m not doing anything illegal back here.”
It was like the arguments I had with my older brother when I was a kid. By getting them to talk, I could lure them into an argument and away from a fight. More thinking, less fist throwing.
Usually.
The Mustang guys didn’t see it that way. They weren’t talking at all and didn’t seem like they were going to. Halfway to me now, they moved with threatening determination. I took a quick glimpse at my phone, tucked in my arm, my thumb on the send button. I didn’t know if I should press it or not. The police would never have arrived before Muscle T beat me to a bloody pulp.
This isn’t what I came here for. The bar manager was ranting. Maybe he was wavering about fighting, but the Mustang guys weren’t.
Another guy appeared from the other direction, shoulders squared and hands at his side like a boxer striding to the center of the ring to start the first round.
They were going to surround me like a pack of dogs, and as soon as one attacked, they all would. I had no chance.
The breath went out of me. The police would never get here in time to save me.
The boxer’s appearance surprised the Mustang guys. They slowed down for a minute. The dynamic was changing so they needed to reassess things.
The stranger came up behind the manager and then made his presence known.
He didn’t do anything. He didn’t have to. When I turned my head to look past the manager’s shoulder, the shadow from the parking lot lights let the manager know someone else was behind him. When the manager turned to see who it was, his jaw dropped, indicating it wasn’t who he expected.
This had to be Tyree. He wasn’t as big as I expected, maybe even an inch shorter than me, but he was big enough. And his attitude said he didn’t mess around.
He looked at me. “You must be Doug.” T
hen he growled at the manager. “Who are you?”
“That’s my bar right there . . .”
I eyed at the Mustang guys. They hadn’t moved an inch since spotting the newcomer.
“I’m here to meet this man.” The stranger’s voice was calm but firm, loud enough to be heard by everyone present, but not shouting. “And our meeting doesn’t include you.”
The stranger’s height and stature were deceptive because his voice and attitude created all the authority one man needed. It made him seem bigger than he was.
The manager started again. “What are you guys doing back here?” He seemed slightly less angry now. More confused.
“It has nothing to do with you.” The stranger leaned slightly in the manager’s direction as he spoke. Then he turned to me, almost showing his back to the manager, but not quite. In movies, such moves are dramatic. In real life, they are not. They are subtle, but critical. This was dismissing to the manager.
I swallowed hard and eyed the man, trying to maintain an even tone. “I don’t think we should have our meeting here. Too noisy.”
He faced the manager. “I think we’ll have our meeting anywhere we please.”
The stranger’s arms stayed at his sides, in a white shirt starched to a stiffness that cardboard would be jealous of, and long sleeves that looked like they never got rolled up no matter how hot it got.
“I’m calling the cops,” the manager said.
The stranger didn’t flinch. “You do that.”
The manager glanced back and forth between me and the stranger. The Mustang guys held their ground. The stranger held his.
I held my cell phone.
“I’m calling the cops,” the manager said again. This time it sounded less like a threat and more like “I’m telling mom.” He backed up a step, then turned and walked back to his bar.
I took a well-deserved breath.
The stranger motioned his head toward the Mustang. “What’s the story over there?”
“I’m not sure,” I said.
He turned back to me and smiled. “Then let’s go before they figure things out.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m John Tyler Reed. Folks call me Tyree.”
The fear drained out of me. I shook his hand. “I’m Doug. Nice to meet you.”
He was older than me. Stockier, too, in a way that said back in the day he worked out a lot, either as a military guy or a law man. He spoke with a Texas style accent, but not a thick one, and his manner was an even split of confidence and fact. What he said, you believed.
He was the real deal. He was John Freaking Wayne. The Marines. The Cavalry.
And he saved my ass.
The drunk bar manager watched us from the back door, probably trying to decide what he wanted to do about whatever he thought we were up to. The idiot must have thought we were plotting to rob him or something.
“You handled that guy pretty well,” Tyree said.
“Did I? He didn’t leave.”
“Yeah, but you didn’t give him any information and you didn’t back down. That’s good enough in a dark parking lot.”
Information? That was an odd comment. But I liked that he thought I didn’t back down from a possible fight. Regular guys don’t often get a chance to hear that. And that’s nice, because we aren’t sure we’re any good at fighting. Because we aren’t.
I scowled, waving at the bar. “I never thought about this being anything but a safe meeting spot until tonight. That manager’s probably calling the police right now, thinking we’re doing a drug deal.”
The guys with the Mustang revved its engine again.
Tyree glared at them. “Well, they might be, but either way we need a place to talk and this isn’t it now. My car’s out front.”
More revving.
“How about I drive you over to it and we can go someplace else?”
“Sounds good.” Tyree walked to the passenger side of my car.
Chapter 26
I picked up the sodas and walked over to the table. It was time to spill my guts. “So, John, where should I start?”
Our original meeting place had been picked because it was easy to find, not because it was close to anything else. There was a twenty-four-hour donut place about five minutes away, so we went to it.
I felt like I should have been jittery from the adrenaline leaving my system. After all, I had nearly gotten into a big fight with a bunch of guys in a dark parking lot, and I surely would have lost. I expected my hands to be shaking, but they weren’t. Instead, I kept focusing on the uneasiness I felt about telling my bizarre story to a stranger.
But I sensed trustworthiness in Tyree. His reassurance, you handled that guy pretty well, it had a calming effect. Like most people, I thought I was a good judge of character, so for some reason I thought I should trust this stranger. But this particular problem was not one to be wrong about. Not now.
Still, he had helped me diffuse a very bad situation without even knowing for sure that he had the right guy. That was worth something.
When we arrived, I went to the counter and purchased two cokes. Tyree sat down at the table farthest from the cashier. The place was empty, but the TV in the corner would help drown out our conversation from any nosy employees. More updates about the storm getting worse.
“Start at the beginning.” He reached across the table and pushed a chair out for me. “And call me Tyree.”
“Tyree.” I nodded, sitting down. “You got it.”
I thought I got lucky when Father Frank didn’t laugh me right out of the Our Lady Of Mercy. Hopefully this Tyree guy wouldn’t laugh me out of the donut shop.
“Your name is unusual sounding.” I was stalling. “Like it’s made up.”
He took a sip of his Coke and smiled. “Well, it’s a nickname, really.”
I was sure Tyree had been in plenty of meetings like this before, and knew some small talk was usually necessary to get people to loosen up. I’d heard cops did that. Maybe he used to be one.
Sitting back in his chair, his khaki pants looked freshly ironed after his three hour drive. So did his shirt. I bet he could’ve beat up everybody in that parking lot and he’d still look that way.
“The name Tyree is an acronym and a double entendre, all in one.”
“Doesn’t sound like a typical nickname, like calling a tall guy shorty, you know?”
That seemed to surprise him a little, and he laughed, choking on his soda. “That’s funny.” He coughed, clearing his throat. “No, that’s right, it wasn’t a typical nickname. John Tyler Reed was the name they called when they took attendance in school. So the kids called me all sorts of stuff. Ty-Rod, Ty-Ree . . . but when I got into my vocation, it took on another meaning for me.”
Vocation?
“I came up with an acronym. T-Y-R-E-E. Trust Your Religion for Everything.”
Not an ex-cop. An ex-priest?
I guessed I had some kind of nutty Bible thumper with me now, but the conversation here wasn’t jiving with the guy in the parking lot who was ready to mix it up.
I thought about his explanation for the nickname. “That doesn’t really work. It spells tyre. Like ‘tire.’”
He took another drink of his Coke. “Would you want the nickname of ‘Tire’? That's why I added the extra ‘E’ on the end. It stands for ‘every day.’”
I’d give him five minutes, and if he was batty then I’d wrap it up and head for the door. “Yeah, well . . . I guess you’re entitled to your own nickname.”
“Thank you. Let’s get down to business.” He leaned forward, putting his elbows on the table. “What happened for you to call me?”
I took a deep breath, trying to decide how ridiculous I wanted to sound.
“Why am I here?” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “It wasn’t just to bail you out of a fight in that parking lot. What’s going on? Is the wolf at the door?”
“No, no. Not like that.” I rubbed my eyes. “Not quite, anyway. It’s—it’s not easy to expla
in. I’m not sure I even understand it myself.”
“If you understood it, you wouldn’t need me.” Tyree stood up. “This sounds like it might take some time. You drink coffee?”
“No.”
“Well, I do. By the pot.” He pushed his soda to the center of the table and stood up.” And this sounds like a two pot story. So let me get some java, and then you start wherever you feel most comfortable starting. I have time.”
Tyree strode off to the cashier while I sat there alone with my Coke, wondering what I should tell and what I should keep. Deep inside I knew I had to tell somebody, even if was only to get this insanity off my chest. And talking had always been helpful for me, in a therapeutic sense. It forced me to organize and articulate my thoughts. If I ever had a problem that needed organizing, this one did.
You gotta start trusting somebody sometime, Doug.
Tyree had already earned my trust back in the parking lot. What more did I want?
He returned with a gigantic plastic coffee mug. “You ready?”
“Sure.” I nodded. “It’s gonna sound pretty bizarre.”
“I’m sure it will. If it didn’t . . .”
“Yeah, I wouldn’t have called you.”
Tyree sat, holding his coffee in both hands. “You mentioned three stories on the phone. Tell me the three stories.”
“Okay,” I said. “Brace yourself, here comes the crazy.”
Leaning back, Tyree took a sip from the big mug. “Bring it.”
I started with the winery episode. By now, Mallory and I had talked about it so many times, it had its own name: The Winery Wreck. If either one of us used those words, the other instantly knew what they were talking about.
From there, I told him about the car fire on the bridge, and discovering the heart condition in our daughter. By the time I told him all three stories, more than two hours had passed. I rambled on; Tyree quietly sipped his giant plastic mug of coffee.
“Why can’t it be both?”
“What?” I said. “Why can’t what be both?”
“These things that keep happening to you and your family. Why does it have to be decisively good luck or bad luck? Why can’t it be both?”
