Nimble Be Jack
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 2015 by Robert C. Tarrant
This book is dedicated to my parents who instilled in me the quiet confidence to believe I could do anything I chose in life.
Prologue
Senator William Hudson sat behind the oversized executive desk peering over his half glasses at Andrew Potus. Every time he focused on Potus’ name he couldn’t help but chuckle inside. Of course his face, disciplined by twenty years in the U.S. Senate, would never betray his true feelings. POTUS is the acronym for President of the United States. If there was ever a person who did not project the image of a President of the United States, it was this Potus.
Andrew Potus, as Director of the National Clandestine Service of the Central Intelligence Agency, was the highest ranking spook in the government. He was responsible for directing all activities of the CIA human intelligence community. Yet, by appearances he looked every bit the reclusive librarian. No more than 5 foot 8 inches tall and 150 pounds soaking wet, Potus certainly did not exhibit the physical traits of someone capable of the dastardly deeds often attributed to the CIA. His manner of dress, with his patterned suits and bow ties, was the antithesis of James Bond. Maybe that was the point. Put someone out front who, by his very appearance, mitigated the image of the dark side of the Agency.
Unfortunately, Hudson, as Chair of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence, knew that when dealing with the CIA one would be naive to judge anything by its appearance. Although they were often cause for serious concern, it was not the deeds of the CIA that Hudson was aware of that troubled him, it was the unknown deeds that gave him fretful nights. It was the job of his committee to control the CIA and he had serious reservations about the committee’s success. The American people were not going to accept “we didn’t know what was going on” again from Congress. No more Guantanamo or Abu Ghraib.
Most people would assume that if you wanted to control the intelligence community you would use the National Intelligence Director. The position of NID was created after 9-11 to coordinate the activities of the sixteen spy agencies serving the United States government. Hudson knew that the NID, appointed by the President, answering to the President, was the scapegoat positioned to take the fall for any future failure in the sharing of intelligence such as occurred preceding 9-11. The clout to coordinate the operational activities of individual agencies was another matter altogether.
Hudson certainly didn’t want the actions of overzealous “patriots,” employing “politically incorrect” tactics in pursuit of another ill conceived strategy in some “God forsaken” corner of the world, interfering with his plans to ascend to the highest office in the land. He had paid his dues, kept his nose clean, and avoided the minefields. Now was his time. The trick is to have enough knowledge of what is going on to keep control while maintaining enough distance from the “heat in the kitchen” that you don’t get burned if the fire flares out of control. It’s always good to have someone that you can feed to the “media dogs” if the need arises. Andrew Potus was just that guy.
Potus crossed his legs in an almost feminine style and asked with a touch of sarcasm, “To what do I owe the honor of your sudden request for my presence Senator?”
“Andy, you are always the skeptic. Maybe I just wanted to hear about your fly fishing trip to Colorado.”
“As always, you are well informed on my schedule Senator. I would have invited you to come along but I knew that you were busy preparing for your upcoming surprise visit to the troops,” replied Potus with every intent to answer volley for volley in any game of one-upmanship this overstuffed egotistical politician wanted to play.
Hudson, suddenly confronted with the realization that his trip would lose some of its drama if it was not a surprise, started to reply but caught himself. Reaching for the pitcher sitting on the silver platter at the corner of his desktop he offered, “Water?”
Potus, recognizing the minute tells in the disciplined face of the seasoned politician, allowed himself the pleasure of driving the stake even deeper, “I’m not certain that this is really the time to be traveling to that region of the world, but I expect that you’ll be afforded the highest degree of security. Certainly right up there close to what would be afforded the President.” Even his considerable contempt for Hudson could not override Potus’ personal discipline not to speak the actual destination aloud. Not even in the inner sanctums of the Hart Senate Office Building. Shaking his head, Potus replied to the offer of water, “No thank you, Senator.”
Feeling a flash of anger, Hudson growled, “I asked you here today Director because I want your personal assurance that the list of covert activities we discussed last week is still accurate and totally inclusive. I do not want any surprises while I’m overseas.”
Potus fully understood why he, and not his boss, was here for this meeting. CIA Director James Hartack and Senator Hudson were close friends, had served together in the Senate, and would likely be side by side on their party’s next presidential ticket. If anything associated with the CIA went awry between now and the election, Andrew Potus would be the one thrown under the bus. Without even the hint of a twitch in his entire body, Potus looked Hudson directly in the eyes and lied, “Senator I assure you that you have been fully apprised of every covert operation we have underway, or even proposed, at this time. I would hope that the candor with which Director Hartack and I have interacted with you and your committee over the past couple of years would have built some trust by now.”
Pursuing this opportunity to assert his senior status in Washington Hudson replied, “Every day is a new day in this town. Dramatic changes occur overnight. Actions are based on information. One must constantly verify, verify, verify. Otherwise, one will end up caught with one’s pants down at the most inopportune time.”
“Director Hartack and I certainly don’t intend to contribute to you being caught with your pants down Senator,” responded Potus with the utmost feigned sincerity in his voice.
“Very good Andy. That’s all I needed to hear. Thank you,” said Hudson as he rose, came around his desk, and extended his hand to Potus.
Potus rose and shook Hudson’s hand more formally than warmly. “You can count on us Senator. Have a great day and a safe trip.”
CHAPTER ONE
Another beautiful South Florida day and here I am, sitting inside what some would describe as a dingy bar, nursing a Landshark. Of course as the owner of this somewhat dingy bar I feel it important that I regularly partake of our ambiance and sample our fare. That’s not difficult when you live in the apartment above the bar. The bar was named Cap’s Place by its original owner, my Uncle Mickey, who had once been a Captain of Detectives in the Detroit Police Department. I fled the Detroit area myself and came down to Florida to drown my sorrows after my marriage went to hell, so a bar owned by my uncle seemed like the perfect place to land. The apartment, the bar, and an assortment of characters associated with the bar all became mine when Uncle Mickey dropped over from a heart attack one day. I’d left a cheating wife and a promising law career behind in Michigan. At times I still miss both, but mostly I just live for today. Whatever the hell that means.
Cap’s Place is really run by Marge. She was a bartender when I first arrived and fortun
ately stuck around after Mickey died. I was gone for a week last fall trying to protect the life of Sissy, another bartender, and the place ran so well under Marge that I promoted her to manager. The place has never run so well. In fact, there is a real possibility that we may even be making a profit these days.
A chorus of “Hi Sissy,” interrupted my thoughts and I looked up from my perch at the end of the bar to see Sissy Storm coming in the back door. Sissy is a very striking woman with mile long legs, a tight body, and what I had once thought to be a “South Florida enhancement” bustline. I have come to believe, after closer examination, that her ample endowment is but another example of God’s gifts to mankind. I once joked to her that with a body like hers and a name like Sissy Storm she should have been a stripper. Not one of my brighter comments.
Sissy and I spent several days hiding out together after an attempt on her life, and the intimate relationship that sprouted during that period carried forward. After we came out of hiding, Sissy began to stay with me several nights a week in direct contradiction to my self-imposed rule prohibiting my sleeping with employees of Cap’s. Our relationship had come as a shock to those patrons of Cap’s who had previously believed the legend that Sissy was gay. I attempted to promote the gossip that I was such a stud that I could seduce even the gay. That rumor never really took hold.
Our relationship seemed to run its course after a couple of months and Sissy began staying with me less and less. She’s attending college now so she isn’t working here as much. I guess now we’re friends with occasional benefits. My life is either blessed, or cursed. Depends on how I look at it on any particular day.
Sissy slid up onto the stool next to me and purred, “Guess what I got on my econ exam last week?”
I hadn’t been a detective like Uncle Mickey, but in my days at the Prosecutor’s Office I’d worked with plenty of detectives. This was easy. “You aced it.”
Her blue gray eyes sparkled, “Damn right. Got the highest score in the class.”
I patted her gently on the back, “Way to go. Now maybe you can help Marge turn this place into something profitable.”
Sissy chuckled and said, “I don’t think Marge needs any help making things profitable. She spent twenty years in investment banking. She knows what she’s doing.”
Momentarily my mouth hung open, “Marge was an investment banker?”
Sissy rolled her eyes, “Something like that. I don’t know exactly, but something to do with investment banking. When all of that stuff was going on with the banks and the stock market a few years ago, she seemed to understand all about it. It was Greek to me, even after she tried to explain it to me, but she seemed to really understand what was going on, and why.”
“I had no idea.”
“Of course you didn’t Jack. I’ll bet you never really had a conversation with Marge. At least one that didn’t have something to do with this place.” She swept her hand in a circular motion for emphasis and continued to lecture, “You’re a great guy Jack, and for the most part we all love you, but you’re really sorta out to lunch when it comes to the people around you. Everybody here has a story,” again the circular motion, “you just never ask.” With that rebuke, she hopped off her stool, told me she was off to class, but would be back to work later this evening. I found myself staring at the nearly empty bottle in front of me. Sometimes the truth really sucks.
CHAPTER TWO
The jogger slowed and came to a halt at the end of one of the benches near the bandshell on the Hollywood Beach Broadwalk. Deftly raising one leg to the top of the back of the bench, the stretching routine began. The elderly man, puffing on a cigar, sitting on the next bench turned and asked, “Good run?”
Without turning, the jogger responded, “Very good run. Perfect morning.”
Taking a long drag on his cigar, and holding the smoke before exhaling, the old man replied, “Yes, a very nice morning. I love to sit and watch the ocean. One of the few places left where one can sit and enjoy a cigar.”
The jogger looked toward the old man this time, “You know those things are bad for your health.”
The old man began to laugh but the laughter quickly morphed into a short coughing spell. Holding the cigar up in front of him he said, “I should be so lucky as to live until these kill me.”
Continuing the stretching routine, the jogger asked, “Don’t mean to be antisocial but I’d like to get five more miles in so why don’t you tell me what’s so important that we had to meet? You know I don’t like face to face meetings.”
The old man sneered, “You don’t like face to face, you don’t like phones, what do you like? Smoke signals?”
Bending at the waist with legs straight and palms pressed against the sidewalk the jogger snapped, “Just give me the assignment and let me get the hell out of here.”
The old man rolled the cigar between his fingers, casually turned his head from side to side assessing the lack of activity around them and replied, “We have a loose end that must be addressed. The bar owner. There’s a concern that he learned certain things from the reporter. Things that could prove to be very problematic.”
Now the jogger stood and faced the old man, “If the bar owner knew these things he’d have said something by now. It’s my understanding that he’s given the cops everything he learned from the reporter.”
The old man ground his cigar out in the sand before standing to face the jogger, “This is not open for discussion. You have your assignment. Now carry through or I will find someone who will.”
The jogger responded, “I know the rules. I’ll do the job. I just think things are getting out of control. Seems like every loose end that gets tied up creates two more. This whole thing is going to implode under its own weight.”
The old man growled, “Don't worry about the strategy. That is determined elsewhere. You just follow your orders. Do it. Do it soon. Do it cleanly.” With that, he turned and shuffled down the Broadwalk leaning heavily on his cane.
The jogger turned and sprinted off in the opposite direction.
CHAPTER THREE
I came ambling down the short hallway from the small office that was once Mickey’s, then mine, and now mostly Marge’s. Still referred to as Jack’s office, everyone knows that most of the real work within its confines is done by Marge. Why shouldn’t it be anyway, she is a former investment banker! Still haven’t found the opportune time to ask her about that, but I will. At the moment, I’m focused on laying claim to my spot at the end of the bar so I can partake of one of Juan’s heart healthy cheeseburger lunches that have become my primary staple. There was nothing unusual about the lunch crowd in the bar at the time. It was the guy who was coming in the back door at the other end of the bar that stopped me in my tracks. I hadn’t seen Justin in months. Not since the day he left the guest house, at an estate in Lighthouse Point, we had used to hide Sissy when her life was threatened.
Justin was one of the characters who came with Cap’s Place. I’d always thought he was just a deck hand on a fishing boat operated by Captain Bob, another regular. When he inserted himself into the situation with Sissy, I quickly learned that Justin was a hell of a lot more than a simple deck hand. With a background in military special operations he is some type of mercenary or contract killer. As much as I have tried to purge the memory from my mind, I can’t shake the fact that I have material information concerning a homicide for which Justin is responsible. I’ve rationalized not going to the police with this information through the fact that the victim was a contract killer himself, within minutes of killing Sissy, when Justin eliminated him. Now as I see his 6 foot 2 inch frame, packed with 180 pounds of lean muscle, walking toward me, even his well-worn deck shoes, stained cargo shorts, and tee shirt don’t give me the impression of a deck hand. Interesting how knowing the backstory on someone changes what you see.
Justin pulled a barstool up next to the one I’d just occupied and said, “How are you today, Jack?” There was no mirth in his steel
gray eyes.
Realizing I had been holding my breath since I first saw Justin coming in the back door, I exhaled loudly and responded, “Great. Everything’s been going great around here. Haven’t seen you around. How’ve you been?” My attempt to sound lighthearted fell flat.
Dana, who was working behind the bar, set a Landshark in front of me and asked Justin what he’d like. He nodded toward my beer and said he’d have the same. We were silent during the thirty-seconds it took Dana to retrieve another Landshark and set it in front of Justin. Once she had moved back to the center of the bar, Justin turned toward me, “Yeah, I haven’t been around. Captain Bob took a gig out of Miami and we’ve been staying down there on the boat.”
I asked, “You guys back now?”
“Yeah. At least I am. Captain Bob took the boat in for some overdue maintenance. He’s going up to Chicago to visit his sister while the boat’s in dry dock.”
“What are you doing while the boat’s laid up?”
Justin set down the beer he had lifted toward his lips and turned, facing me, “You really want to know?”
Suddenly, I realized that I didn’t want to know. Probably, the less I knew about Justin the better I would feel. Yet, I couldn’t help but like the guy. He was a real guy’s guy. A man who seemed always in control of the environment around him. I stammered, “Ah . . . well . . . sure, well maybe?”
Justin chuckled, “Just jerking your chain Jack, I’m going to kick back for a while. I’ve earned a little time to just chill. Owe it to myself. Got a buddy who’s away playing in the sand. Staying at his apartment. Real nice place. Big complex with several pools.”
Nimble Be Jack: A Jack Nolan Novel (The Cap's Place Series Book 2) Page 1
