I started to relax a little, “You and Captain Bob pretty busy in Miami, huh?”
Another chuckle, “Look Jack, you know I’m not going to say anything, beyond the fact that the fishing was good, because you’re a decent guy and I doubt you’re any better a liar than I thought you were when we first discussed my profession up in Lighthouse Point. Although, I will admit you did a nice job with your little undercover interrogation of that freelance reporter Dockery.”
Justin was referring to me acting the role of a television producer as a ruse to learn information from a freelance reporter who turned out to be behind the deaths of one of our waitresses and a Miami Herald reporter, as well as the attempts on Sissy’s life. I’d turned what I learned over to the police and Dockery committed suicide as the police investigation intensified. At least Sissy was safe.
I puffed, “I did pull that off, didn’t I.”
A smile crept across Justin’s face, “You did my friend. You certainly did.” The smile faded and his eyes narrowed as he continued, “I was thinking about that whole mess the other day. The story Dockery and the Herald reporter were working on centered around the unnecessary expenditure of homeland security funds for the benefit of the industries that manufacture and sell the equipment. That was the whole thing?” The question at the end was delivered in a tone that seemed to convey doubt.
Justin is not the kind of man who tolerates flip responses, so I took my time and thought back to my meeting with Dockery. “Yeah, that was the gist of it. The Federal Government keeping everyone stressed about homeland security as a means of supporting the enormous expenditures both here and abroad. The expenditures benefiting certain industries who in turn supported those in office. Same song people sing about the petroleum industry or the banking industry or a multitude of other industries for that matter.”
Justin's face darkened, “Wasn’t there something about some of the domestic terrorism plots being aided by undercover federal agents?”
I chuckled, “Yeah, he said something about that but I just chalked it up to his general conspiracy theory mentality. Why, do you think there is something to that?”
Justin’s face faded to blank, “I have no idea. Just asking what Dockery told you. Just curious.”
“That’s all I recall. I recounted the whole conversation to you and Sissy when I got back to Lighthouse Point. You probably remember as much as I do. After Dockery committed suicide I let the memory of talking with him fade. Lots of things about that period I have let fade in the old memory banks.”
Justin slowly nodded his head. We didn’t either one need to be more specific. We made small talk while we finished our beers and then Justin said he needed to get going. As he walked out the back door I couldn’t help but feel that the only reason he stopped in was to ask about what Dockery had said to me. I didn’t know why, but it left me disquieted.
CHAPTER FOUR
Later that day, bowing to the fact that I needed either a haircut or a dog license, and opting for the haircut, I made my way up Federal Highway to Vito’s Barber Shop. Vito had been cutting my hair since I first arrived in Florida and asked Mickey to recommend a barber. Vito’s is a small two chair shop tucked into a nondescript strip of equally nondescript small businesses. As the name implies, the owner and number one chair is Vito. I’m confident Vito has a last name but I’m clueless beyond being certain it is distinctly Italian. I have no idea why Mickey started going to Vito. I never asked.
Vito looks to be in his late sixties and once told me that he came to Florida from New York some thirty years ago. The walls of the shop are covered with photographs of “the old neighborhood” interspersed with an occasional picture of a character from The Godfather. Most of the photos of the old neighborhood included people who looked like they’d just stepped from the set of either The Sopranos or The Godfather.
Other than the occasional interloper like myself, the clientele was distinctly Italian with an average age of about sixty-five. The conversation, like most barber shops, revolved around sports and the front page of the newspaper that day. At Vito’s, there was an occasional diversion to the status of people from the old neighborhood. Since I didn’t know anyone from the old neighborhood and since these conversations often drifted into Italian, I sometimes felt left out of the usual barber shop banter. Still, the place has a friendly atmosphere and Vito gives a decent haircut, so I keep coming back.
When I entered the shop, Vito greeted me with his broad smile and customary, “Hello, my friend.”
Seeing three guys sitting in the line of chairs along one wall of the shop, but not knowing if they were there for haircuts or just conversation, I asked, “How long Vito?”
Vito looked up from the guy in his chair and answered, “You’re next after this gentleman, except that I had a gentleman call earlier and I told him I’d take him when he arrived, so if he arrives before I start you, he’ll be next.” Obviously the three others were here for the conversation.
I sat down and looked through a two month old issue of Sports Illustrated while Vito finished the guy in his chair. My turn came and I’d just settled into the chair when the door of the shop opened and in walked a guy about thirty years old with the build of a middle linebacker. He walked directly to the back of the shop looking each of us up and down as he passed. Vito froze in mid-motion and said, “The gentleman I mentioned earlier has arrived, I’ll need to take him before you.”
Momentarily confused, I hadn’t moved when the door of the shop opened again, and in walked a man who I estimated to be in his late sixties, with a full head of black hair graying at the temples, and cold deep blue eyes. He was no more than 5 foot 10 inches, but had the appearance of a heavily muscled former athlete or steel worker. I’m no fashion expert, but I do know expensive clothes when I see them and his were distinctly expensive. Black Italian loafers, black slacks and a dark gray silk shirt. A heavy gold bracelet rode low on his left wrist and a huge diamond ring glistened on his right hand.
Vito stepped forward and removed the barber’s cape he had just placed over me and said, “Welcome Mr. B, I have explained to this gentleman that you’d called and would be taken when you arrived.”
Evidently, I wasn’t vacating the chair quickly enough because the linebacker strode purposefully from the back of the shop and growled at me, “Didn’t you hear the man? Mr. B is next. Get the hell out of the chair.”
Mr. B glared at the linebacker and said in a calm but commanding tone, “That was unnecessary Nick. I know everyone in here, so you just go and wait in the car.”
Linebacker pointing at me, “You don’t know him.”
Mr. B turned toward me and stuck out his hand, “Anthony Bracchi, and you are?”
I leaned forward in the chair and shook his beefy hand, “Jack Nolan.”
Turning toward Linebacker it was Mr. B’s turn to growl, “Now I know everyone here, so you get the hell out.” Linebacker turned without another word and left.
As I was rising from the chair Mr. B said, “Sorry for the inconvenience, but I’m on a real tight schedule today. Vito told you I was coming?”
I was now standing, looking directly into those cold eyes, “No problem. I’m in no hurry today. Just running errands. Thought I’d take a few minutes and let Vito butcher me.”
A sparkle crossed the cold blue eyes and Mr. B chuckled, “Thanks Buddy. Maybe I can return the favor sometime.”
Vito said, “Jack owns Cap’s Place, a great little bar over on A1A.”
Mr. B now looked at me with obvious interest and said, “Really. I own a couple of joints up in New York and New Jersey myself.”
Vito, while placing the cape on Mr. B, “Couple of joints? Mr. B owns a string of the nicest strip bars you’ve ever seen.”
“Oh. Really. That’s . . . ah . . . interesting.” One of those conversations you just don’t want to get into any deeper.
Mr. B stated the obvious, “Sex sells.”
I buried my head in the day-old newspaper and muttered, �
�So they say.”
With that, Vito settled into the routine of the haircut and he and Mr. B exchanged comments about people they knew in common. Who was sick, who had married, who had divorced. The small talk between a barber and his client. Yet there was something strained about the banter. Vito was more formal, less relaxed. Even the three other guys sitting in the shop when I arrived had drawn their chairs into a circle around a small table and were engrossed in a game of dominos that had suddenly erupted between two of them. While they appeared to be totally focused on the game and their own conversations they seemed to take turns stealing glances at Vito and Mr. B.
It took me a few minutes to identify what had happened. With the arrival of Mr. B the warmth and security of the shop had dissipated just as if an arctic wind had followed him through the door. Everyone continued about their business as before, but everyone was bracing themselves against the wind. The balance of power in the shop had been undeniably altered. This was no longer Vito’s shop. At this period in time, this was Mr. B’s shop. Everyone knew it and everyone was wary of what could happen in Mr. B’s shop.
As a prosecutor, I had been in the presence of people who exuded the raw power of the street many times, yet it was always when surrounded by the trappings and power of the legal system. This was different. This was the real world. Anthony Bracchi personified raw street power and he made no effort to conceal that fact.
With his haircut finished, Mr. B stepped down from the chair and peeled a crisp one hundred dollar bill from a sizable roll. Handing it to Vito, “Keep the change. Buy yourself a drink and toast the old neighborhood.” As he walked toward the door he turned toward me, “I’ll stop in sometime and you can show me your joint.”
I lied, “I look forward to it.”
The door to the shop opened and the cold wind left as abruptly as it had entered.
CHAPTER FIVE
On my drive back to Cap’s, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I would be seeing Anthony Bracchi again. It was not a comforting feeling. It was only as I pulled into the parking lot and nosed into my designated parking spot under the No Parking sign in front of the dumpster that my world started to look up. Entering the back door at Cap’s were Patty Johnson and Tim Donovan, both detectives with Hollywood PD.
Patty, who most people call PJ, is 5 foot 7 inches tall and weighs 110 pounds soaking wet. She does everything she can to downplay her natural beauty, but some things just can’t be hidden. By contrast, Tim stands 6 foot 3 inches and weighs somewhere around 260 pounds with the natural appearance of a hard-nosed Irish cop. PJ and Sissy became friends years ago when PJ protected her while Sissy testified in a trial against a Russian gangster. PJ and Tim had worked the case when Sissy’s life was again threatened a few months ago. Since that time, PJ and Tim had become almost regulars, with other Hollywood coppers stopping in occasionally. I know it would make Mickey happy to think that Cap’s was again becoming at least a quasi-cop bar. I didn’t really give much thought to the others coming in, but I loved it when PJ came in.
By the time I got in the back door PJ and Tim were ensconced in a corner booth. Since it was only mid-afternoon on a weekday, I presumed they were stopping in for a late lunch or just a cup of coffee. Well, coffee for Tim, but tea or soda for PJ, as she doesn’t drink coffee. Cops that don’t drink coffee . . . what’s next? Women driving NASCAR? As I walked toward their booth, Renee, one of our waitresses, delivered a cup of coffee and a Coke to them. Damn Jack, you should be a detective.
PJ looked up and smiled, “Hi Jack. Sit down. You can help us sort through something.”
As my friendship with PJ and Tim matured, they began discussing some of their cases with me. Usually looking for the prosecutor’s perspective, based on my experience as a prosecuting attorney in Michigan. Sometimes they were just looking to bounce competing theories off of me. I didn’t really care why, I was just flattered to be asked and I especially liked it when PJ asked.
“Sure. What’s up?”
As I slid into the booth on PJ’s side Tim asked, “Remember that cab driver that got popped up the street a few months ago?”
I thought for a second and replied, “Vaguely. It was about the time the nightmare began with Allison and Sissy. I don’t remember much after the initial report because I was focused at the time on trying to keep Sissy alive.”
PJ nodded, “That’s the issue. There wasn’t much else to know because the feds snatched the case out from under us. No real explanation. National security, blah, blah, blah.”
Tim chuckled, “In case you haven’t detected it yet, my partner doesn’t like being screwed by the feds. She’s young. She’ll learn to accept it.”
I asked, “The victim middle eastern?”
A frown swept across PJ’s beautiful face, “You got it Jack. That alone is enough to make a case fall under federal jurisdiction these days.”
“Sounds like water under the bridge. What brings it up today?”
Tim set his coffee down, “A city worker was doing some renovation work on the public restrooms at the Harry Berry Park when he found a small rolling suitcase containing some clothes stashed above the ceiling in the men’s room. He turned them over to a patrol officer. The patrol sergeant remembered the description we had of the last fare the cabbie had picked up. The suitcase and clothes fit that description. The description was of an old man pulling a suitcase. Not likely an old man stashed this stuff above the ceiling. This is not some ordinary street crime or gang bang.”
I asked, “How close to the location of the shooting were these things found?”
Tim shaking his head, “Not more than fifty yards between the shooting location and the restroom at the park. Possibly picked the location of the killing to have easy opportunity to change appearance.”
I nodded, “Sounds like someone went to an awful lot of trouble to disguise their identity to pop a simple cab driver.”
PJ clapped her hands together, “Bingo. Buy the man a cigar.”
I nodded again, “Obviously, the cab driver was not a simple cab driver, so maybe the feds are onto something.”
“Exactly. The clothes fit the description, and consequently are material to the investigation the feds already took over, so we need to turn them over to the feds,” snorted Tim.
PJ slumped into the corner of the booth, “I know you guys are right. It just makes me mad. It’s always a one-way street with the feds. We haven’t heard one word from them since they took the case. You know they’re not working the murder. They may be working some other angle with the cab driver but they sure aren’t working his murder.”
I scratched the top of my head, “Wonder what angle they’re working if they aren’t backtracking through his murder?”
PJ leaned forward resting her elbows on the table, “Good question Jack. They must be pursuing something else because if they were working the murder we’d have heard about it.”
Tim interjected, “Probably something they got from his apartment. They went through that place like a Dyson vacuum. The building super said that after one visit by the feds the apartment was virtually empty.”
PJ cocked her head, “How do you know so much about vacuum cleaners, Partner?”
Tim feigned a pained expression, “Hey, I’m more domesticated than you give me credit for.”
PJ turned toward me, “So you agree with Tim, we need to turn the stuff over to the feds? No alternative?”
What a pickle. I really wanted to agree with PJ, anytime on anything, but I had already committed myself, “Yeah, I’m afraid so.”
PJ batted her eyelashes at me and patted me on the back of the hand, “And just when I thought we were getting to be friends.”
Her pat ignited a tingle in my hand that coursed its way up my arm to my spine and then shot through my nervous system to another area of my body.
We made small talk for a few more minutes, but were interrupted by the vibrating sound of Tim’s cell phone. He looked at the text message, frowned, and said,
“Time to go, Partner. Duty calls.”
With a chorus of “See ya, Jack,” they slid out of the booth and headed for the door.
CHAPTER SIX
It was a typical Friday afternoon, business for the day was starting to pick up with a combination of the end of the week locals and the early bird Friday evening tourists. The booth located between the corner and the front door was occupied by two linebackers I’d never seen before, but deduced were associated with Anthony Bracchi. They just had an aura about them that reminded me of the Bracchi’s thug I’d seen at Vito’s. Great!
Both linebackers were watching me, as I walked the length of the bar, with hard expressionless faces. Marge likes to help tend bar once in a while to “keep her hand in it,” and today was one of those days. She met me at the end of the bar to talk about hiring a couple of additional waitresses. I told her to do whatever she felt necessary, after all, it was her management that had increased business. Nodding to the front booth I asked, “How long have those two guys sitting in the booth by the door been here? The two that look like they just stepped out of a gangster movie.”
With a deeper than usual scowl Marge replied, “Yeah, I was going to get to them. They came in about an hour ago. Been nursing a couple of draft beers the whole time. Certainly not here to drink. Don’t even talk to each other. Just seem to be watching the whole bar. They give me the creeps.”
My conversation with Marge was interrupted when the front door opened and the linebacker I had encountered a few days earlier at Vito’s sauntered in. He was immediately followed by Bracchi who was followed by yet another linebacker. There must not be any thugs left in New Jersey or New York. Almost everyone in the bar looked up at the door because the front door is so rarely used. When it opens it usually denotes a newcomer, which of course is of interest to the regulars. The vibes given off by those entering this time prompted everyone to limit their interest to the most fleeting of glances.
Nimble Be Jack: A Jack Nolan Novel (The Cap's Place Series Book 2) Page 2
