Cap’s Place
A Novel By
Robert C. Tarrant
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.
Copyright 2012 by Robert C. Tarrant
This book is dedicated to my loving wife Karen whose unwavering support and encouragement have made it possible for me to pursue my dreams.
Prologue
Abdul steered the cab across the intracoastal drawbridge turning onto northbound South Ocean Drive. He turned into the 7-Eleven parking lot. It was 5:30 a.m., he would stop and have tea with Mohammed as he did nearly every morning. Mohammed steeped his tea in the back room of the store and between the occasional early morning customer they would reminisce about home.
Abdul enjoyed talking with Mohammed about home, but of course he never talked to him about his purpose in this country. That was the most difficult part of Abdul’s life in this decadent place, he could tell no one of his true objective. As the culmination of his work drew closer and closer, he felt the burning need to tell fellow believers of his mission here among the infidels. He wanted to shout from the rooftops, “Look at me, I am part of something that is about to again strike terror at the heart of this unholy society.” He did not know for certain when he was going to be prepared to strike, but he had this growing feeling that events were close at hand. For one who had only been in this immoral country for such a short time he had made extraordinary progress in developing his plans. One of the shortcomings of his fellow fighters had been the complexity of their attempted strikes. With complexity came the need to involve too many others. Abdul, on the other hand, had done nearly all the preparations for his strike himself. His supporters back home would marvel at his success. He tempered his slide toward vanity by remembering that he would not be nearly this close if Allah had not provided him the blessing of meeting the American anarchists. They had helped him move from undirected hate to a solid operational plan. Of course they would perish in the event, but he had not shared that detail with them.
As Abdul stopped in a parking space in front of the store and put the gear selector in park he noticed an old man plodding toward him from the driveway of the Crown Plaza Hotel next door. He was stooped, dressed in dark shirt and trousers, with a long coat, and he towed a small rolling suitcase. The coat was certainly out of place in South Florida this time of year, but it probably wouldn’t fit in the small suitcase.
Abdul was stepping from the cab when the old man spoke in broken English, with an Eastern European accent, “Take me to the . . . airport?”
“Fort Lauderdale?” Abdul could run him up to Fort Lauderdale and still have time for tea with Mohammed upon his return, but if the airport was Miami he would get caught in the morning traffic and Mohammed would be gone by the time he returned. He would miss the morning tea and shared memories of home.
“Yeah, Fort Lauderdale.”
Abdul could not see Mohammed through the cluttered front window of the store, but he was confident that he would be back before Mohammed finished his shift. Since he was not on the clock yet, he would not start the meter in the cab so the fee would go directly into his pocket. Ah, the tea would be especially sweet this morning. Anytime Abdul could cheat the infidel who ran the taxi company it sweetened his day.
The old man struggled to get the small suitcase into the backseat with him, but he finally settled in, exhaling so deeply it seemed as if his lungs were collapsing.
“Please, we make one short stop, right off this road, just a few blocks from here on way to airport.”
“Just show me where. The fare to the airport is twenty dollars, flat. Unless your stop is too long, and then it goes up.”
“Okay, okay, stop not long at all.”
Northbound on South Ocean Drive they passed the Westin Diplomat Resort. Abdul had made many, many, trips between the Diplomat and the airports in both Fort Lauderdale and Miami. This had worked out very well because the queue for cabs was always long at the Diplomat and that gave Abdul plenty of time to wander about and make observations necessary in his planning.
Abdul had selected the Diplomat for his blow at the infidels. Maybe it was first suggested by one of the infidel anarchists, but Abdul recognized immediately how fitting it would be to strike at one of the playgrounds of the fat, oil guzzling, war mongering, nonbelievers and their painted whores. Yes, the Diplomat was the perfect target and his cab gave him the perfect cover for his planning and preparations.
As the cab approached Azelea Terrace, the old man exclaimed, “Here! Turn here!”
Abdul turned the cab onto Azelea Terrace toward the beach. Condos, and motels converted into apartments, lined the side streets in this area between South Ocean Drive and Hollywood Beach.
“Here, here, pull into that parking lot. Stop up there in the corner near the gate.”
Abdul drove into the parking lot adjacent to the beige stone ten-story condo building that filled most of the block between South Ocean Drive and South Surf Road. The parking lot was only partially occupied this time of year, the snow birds had not yet returned from the North, and Abdul had no trouble finding a spot near the sidewalk leading to the side of the building.
“Just wait here, I be right back. I leave my suitcase here, so you know I come back.”
“Yes, but if you are more than five minutes the fare goes up.”
“Okay, okay,” and the old man struggled out the back door and started to plod toward the gate. About half way to the sidewalk he turned and started back to the cab. Abdul rolled down his window to ask what was the matter. Maybe he would need to drive him around to the other side of the building.
The old man reached the open window of the cab, but before Abdul could speak, the silenced 22 caliber Beretta Bobcat was pressed upward against the left side of his jaw. Before his brain registered the feel of the weapon against his skin, the 27 grain hollow point low velocity slug was rattling around in his skull bringing darkness and silence to his world.
The old man casually reached through the open window, turned off the ignition of the cab, and rifled through Abdul’s pockets removing his wallet. He opened the back door, retrieved his suitcase, and walked purposefully, but with measured steps, toward the park across the street. His stoop was less pronounced and his gait less plodding.
Barely one minute after the old man entered the restroom of the Harry Berry Park a jogger emerged and quickly settled into a moderate pace northbound on South Surf Road toward the Hollywood Broadwalk.
CHAPTER ONE
I awoke to a gentle rocking motion. This was my first indication that I wasn’t in my own bed. I live in a small apartment above a bar and the building seldom moves. Looking around I realized that I was in the stateroom of a boat. The word boat being a true understatement.
Details began to slowly filter their way through the alcohol haze and settle into my semi-conscious brain. It was a club in South Beach. The music was loud, the alcohol was flowing freely, and the women were hot. Yes, that’s it. A hot woman. Her name? Her name? Long blond hair. A body to die for. The smile of an angel with the glint of a devil in her eyes. Kay . . . Karen . . . Kris . . . Kristin, yes Kristin the Scandinavian beauty.
Details are pouring back now. Kristin, the blue-eyed blond knockout who could hold the attention of the entire dance floor in a room of extraordinary competition. There is nothing like a club in South Beach when it comes to hot women. The competition
can make extreme cage fighting look docile. Yet, Kristin had raised the standards at Club Yelp last night. To say nothing of how she raised my standard!
Now the picture cleared in my head. Kristin is gorgeous, Kristin is oversexed, and Kristin is the trophy wife of a wealthy Dutch industrialist. The perfect combination. A hot woman well above my station in life. A hot married woman well above my station in life. A hot, oversexed, married woman well above my station in life. It just doesn’t get any better than this. Maximum potential for recreational sex with minimum potential for attachment.
Just as my mind clearly focused on the memory of my good fortune, it materialized before my eyes. Kristin, with a radiant smile, holding two steaming cups of coffee, wearing nothing but my shirt from last night, closed, but not buttoned.
“Wow, and she cooks too!”
“Hi there sleepyhead. Afraid you might sleep the day away.”
“Well, as I recall, it was a hard night last night.”
“Ah, yes, to my delight it was . . . very hard last night.”
I drew myself up to a seated position and reached for the cup Kristin held out to me. The coffee was hot, black, and strong. Perfect, the woman is perfect.
“Great coffee. How did you know I liked it black?”
That devilish twinkle again, “A man that can do the things you did last night would only drink his coffee one way. Black and strong.”
“Awe, you are just saying that because it’s true.”
“Well, I don’t know. Maybe last night was an anomaly. Maybe you’re not consistently that great.” With that Kristin set her coffee down on the dressing table, shrugged her shoulders, and let my shirt drop to the floor.
Although I had only started my first cup of the day, I was wide awake now. All of me was wide awake. Lord, if this is a dream please don’t wake me now!
It was mid-afternoon before I found the strength to leave Kristin on her 80 foot Millennium. If I had the slightest idea of what was going to happen over the next few days, I would never have left the yacht.
I always hate the drive back into daily reality after one of my little sojourns into the world of sport sex. For some reason, at these times, my mind seems to drift into replay mode. My life story plays out in my head. Parts of it seem to replay on a continuous loop. Maybe I’m searching for validation for my behavior, which I must readily admit is less than admirable on these occasions. Midwestern values struggling with the realities of my life. Sounds like something one would hear espoused on Dr. Phil.
Driving north on A1A, I can’t help but ask myself why I struggle with the stabbing guilt I’m feeling in response to my latest alcohol-sparked, testosterone-fueled, indiscretion? I don’t know why I feel any guilt at all. Kristin virtually threw herself at me. I was simply minding my own business at Yelp. Okay, I was standing at the bar ogling every specimen of womanhood on the dance floor. What’s a guy come to these places for anyway? It certainly isn’t the ear shattering music or the overpriced, watered down, drinks that motivate men to come in and spend money as if they were shipping out to a war zone in a few hours.
I’d like to think that Kristin hit on me because I’m such a good looking, 6 foot tall, physically fit, personable, well-dressed, 40-year-old male who projects an air of self-confidence. The truth is that she probably sensed that I was just as horny as she was. Wait a minute Jackson Nolan, that would describe virtually every male in the place.
Why do I feel any guilt at all? Let’s look at the other characters in this little event. Kristin, dynamite looks, especially for a woman somewhere on the high side of 35. A body the result of a lifetime of yoga, pilates, zumba, kick boxing and self-imposed starvation. To say nothing of the effects of a strategic nip and tuck here and there. All varnished with a perfect bronze finish. She is totally content in a marriage where her contribution is her good looks and social graces and his contribution is affording her the life style she always sought, but didn’t want to squander her youth achieving.
During the immediate post coital phase when one tends to let one’s guard down and reveal feelings otherwise concealed, Kristin had confided that she had years ago accepted the fact that her Felix enjoyed the company of at least two different mistresses in various parts of his worldwide empire. Evidently this acknowledgement within their marriage had freed Kristin to unleash her own sexual frustrations at the opportune times. I just happened to be at the right place at the right time. At least that was one rationalization.
I mused, “Maybe that’s the true theme of my life. Just in the right place at the right time.” Remembering that day almost five years ago when I found myself in the right place at the wrong time that theory evaporated.
Life had always been easy and comfortable. Born in Lansing, Michigan into an upper middle class family. Caring parents, a brother and a sister completed the family setting that was for the most part a household befitting a late twentieth century Norman Rockwell painting. No one abused drugs or alcohol, nor anyone else. Everyone achieved, the kids in school, Dad and Mom at work, but not without balance. Family outings and vacations were regular and always fun. I can’t help but recall these chapters of my life as . . . well . . . boring.
One day, while intently studying Playboy, I discovered that Michigan State University was ranked number one in the category of party schools. Additionally, MSU had contributed several worthwhile additions to the photo spread titled, Babes of the Big Ten. These two facts, coupled with my adolescent male passion as a Spartan fan, sealed the deal. Funny thing, the factors that influence life-altering decisions.
I managed to major in beer drinking for nearly six years before graduating from MSU with a degree in Business Administration. Somehow over the course of my Business studies, I developed an interest in the Law. I could never pinpoint an event that triggered this interest, it just seemed to be a gradual, but relentless awakening. Even more miraculous was the fact that this passion for the Law motivated me to actually study.
After MSU I found myself at Thomas M. Cooley Law School in Lansing. I was nearly a whopping ten miles from home. I learned to drink less beer and study more, at least during the week. Sure enough I graduated, passed the bar examination, and was admitted to the State Bar of Michigan. Now I was faced with the prospect of needing to work for a living. Fortunately, I met the love of my life in law school, so I didn’t face the trauma of adulthood alone. At least it seemed that way at the time.
Katharine not only possessed one of the sharpest legal minds in the class, she had one of the top three bodies. To say nothing of her nearly insatiable sexual appetite. We used to joke that it was “lust at first sight.”
Katharine landed a position with one of the largest law firms in Michigan, based in Troy, and I found a position with the Oakland County Prosecutor’s Office. We had a high rise apartment in Troy and began to live the life of upwardly mobile young professionals.
The hours were long, but Katharine’s income steadily reflected her increasing prowess in the world of mergers and acquisitions. While my salary could not keep pace with hers, a string of successful high profile prosecutions brought me promotions in the office and notoriety within the legal community. We were well on our way to becoming a force to be reckoned with.
There is an old cliche that, “Just when you see the light at the end of the tunnel, you realize it’s the approaching train.” I didn’t see the light or hear the whistle. The damn train just barreled over me without warning.
CHAPTER TWO
I pulled into the parking lot of Cap’s Place and parked in my usual spot in the No Parking zone in front of the trash dumpster. What’s the sense of owning the place if you can’t violate your own rules? Besides trash pickup is at 5 a.m. on Tuesday and Friday, and though I might not be certain of the day of the week I was certain from the height of the sun that it was well past 5 a.m.
As I headed for the rear exterior stairs leading to my apartment, Moe came ambling out the back door of the kitchen, “Hi Boss, how’s things?” Moe i
s an imposing sight to say the least. Six foot four, 240 pounds of solid muscle, black man with piercing brown eyes and a perpetually shaved head.
“Great Moe. How you doing today?”
“Was better ’til that damn dishwasher started acting up again.”
Moe is an interesting story. When Uncle Mickey was a Detroit homicide detective he sent Moe to prison for twelve years for shooting a guy during a card game. Moe contended that the guy came at him with a knife and he shot him in self defense. Uncle Mickey believed him but could never get any of the witnesses, all friends of the victim, to corroborate Moe’s story.
Uncle Mickey worked the case right until Moe’s sentencing and even poked it a few times during the years Moe was behind bars. During the process, Mickey came to know Moe’s family and helped his mother on a couple of occasions where she had problems with her landlord and once when she felt threatened by the presence of drug dealers in her apartment building. Situations where Mickey’s position could make a difference.
By the time Moe was released, Mickey had retired from the force, come to Florida, and opened Cap’s Place. Moe came down to personally thank Mickey for everything he had done. Moe’s mother had died before he was released, one thing led to another, and Moe just stayed around Cap’s as the general handyman . . . jack of all trades. He mostly does the maintenance stuff, but occasionally is pressed into service as an ad hoc bouncer. When I inherited the bar I inherited Moe.
“The machine or Sid?”
“The damn machine, Sid I could fix.” With that he pounded his huge right fist into his left hand indicating the sensitive approach he would employ if the problem was Sid. Lucky Sid.
“Any luck fixing it?”
“Yeah, I got it going again, but you’s gunna have to break down and spring for a new one or start using paper plates.”
Cap's Place: A Jack Nolan Novel (The Cap's Place Series Book 1) Page 1
