While my Uncle Mickey was a detective with the Detroit Police Department, he investigated a case where Moe shot a man to death at a card game. Moe claimed the guy had come at him with a knife but everyone else present was a friend of the victim and they said otherwise. No knife was found at the scene, but for some reason Mickey believed Moe and for years he kept poking the investigation while Moe did his time. By the time Moe got out of prison Mickey had retired and opened Cap’s Place down here. Moe came down to thank Mickey for all of his efforts. One thing led to another and Moe stayed. When I inherited Cap’s, I inherited Moe.
Since I divested day to day operations to Marge, she has taken Moe under her wing and he’s in many ways as much an assistant to her as Sissy. She says Moe has really good sense when it comes to promotional ideas for the bar. Funny, she never says that about me.
I started to back out of my parking place in the No Parking zone in front of the dumpster when a bicycle came around the corner of the building and stopped near the outside stairs that lead up to my apartment. The woman riding dismounted and stood next to the bike as if contemplating where to park it. I must admit that I’ve never even considered installing a bike rack in the parking lot. I really don’t think we’ve lost much business as a result either. Cap’s just isn’t the kind of place frequented by the bicycle crowd.
Figuring I could prevent any complaint about the lack of a bike rack, I stepped from my car and approached the woman, “Hi. Looking for a place to park your bike? Put it under the stairs if you would like.”
She turned and looked at me, but didn’t speak at first. She was tall, I’d guess about 5-10 and very thin like a runway model, but her sleeveless top revealed tight muscular arms like an athlete. She had short brown hair and brown eyes that looked almost black. She was wearing little makeup in a girl next door way. The impression she gave off was of a very attractive woman attempting to downplay her appearance. In that regard, she reminded me of PJ. Finally, she spoke, “Ah, thanks. It’s my first day and I didn’t know where to park my bike. You sure no one will mind if I put it here?”
“I’m sure. The stairs lead to my apartment and I don’t mind a bit. If you have a lock, feel free to lock it to the stairs.” I put out my hand, “Jack Nolan, and you are?”
“Oh, oh, Mr. Nolan, I’m Elizabeth Mitchell. I’m a new waitress.” Her handshake wasn’t limp like so many women but it wasn’t especially firm either.
I smiled as warmly as I could, “Welcome Elizabeth Mitchell. You’ll soon learn that there are few rules around here, but one of them is that everyone calls me Jack.”
She returned a timid smile, “Sure Jack, and please call me Liz.”
I was replaying my conversation with Marge in my head when Liz broke the silence, “I better get inside. Don’t want to be late on my first day.”
I watched her park her bike and turn and walk in the back door. Marge was right, she was not ugly.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Monday evening was always a little slow around Cap’s so I took the opportunity to venture to South Beach to cruise the establishments and see if I could pick up any new concepts in the bar business. At least that’s what I told myself. The truth is, that Cap’s runs totally independent of my presence, whether busy or not, and it’s not really business ideas that I’m interested in picking up in South Beach. Unfortunately, it also turned out to be a slow night in South Beach and I didn’t really find anything to pick up, idea or not. So, I made my way back north to Hollywood and my apartment above Cap’s . . . alone.
I passed up my usual parking space in the No Parking zone in front of the dumpster because trash pickup is at 5:00 a.m. on Tuesday, and the presence of a vehicle in front of the dumpster means we get bypassed. The parking lot was nearly empty, so I easily found a spot in the back facing the marina that sits on the water behind Cap’s.
Rounding the corner of the building headed toward the outside stairs to my apartment I ran directly into a guy standing in the shadows. Startled, I stepped back and said, “Oh, excuse me. Didn’t see you. Sorry.”
He was a big guy, maybe 6 foot 4 inches and 250 pounds. He had a heavy pug face with a bulbous nose giving the impression of a former boxer who now drank too much. Dark eyes glared at me as he growled, “About fucking time you showed up. We’ve got a message for you.”
The human brain has amazing capacity to process information. In a nanosecond mine began to deluge me with random information. This is not a chance encounter. This is not a friendly encounter. The use of the pronoun we means this hulk did not come alone. In the second nanosecond, during which I was beginning to analyze who may have sent this trouble my way, probably the husband of someone I was with that I shouldn’t have been, the second guy made his appearance known by grabbing my arms from behind and pinning them above my head in a street version of the full nelson wrestling hold. He had his own growl, “Remember, no marks on his face.”
I was just beginning to analyze that curious statement when the hulk delivered a crushing blow to my mid-section. I would have completely doubled over if it hadn’t been for the guy holding me up from behind. Evidently that was the plan because the hulk followed up the first blow with several others, all equally effective at rearranging my insides. I’d just crossed over the line from thinking they were going to beat me to death, to not caring, and only hoping they would hurry up and finish the job, when the blows stopped and I was released to crumple to the ground.
I was more or less on my hands and knees with my forehead resting on the asphalt when someone grabbed my hair and jerked my head back. A hot wind of bad breath blew across my face as I heard the growl, “This neighborhood is getting to be very dangerous, you should probably get some protection.” My head was released and was in the process of flopping back to the pavement when a hard kick to my stomach raised me from the ground and flipped me onto my back. My field of vision was narrowing and I knew I was going into shock and losing consciousness. Funny thing, I just didn’t care!
The next thing I knew, Juan, our chief cook, and Sid, our dishwasher, were hovering over me. Sid said, “Jack, you all right? What happened?”
I managed to croak, “I got mugged. Can you help me upstairs?”
In unison they said, “Sure,” and began to help me up to my feet. The pain was shooting through my body like hot pokers and my head was spinning. We’d gone two steps when I began to throw up everything I’d eaten or drank in the past few years. I heard Juan make some comment, but it was in Spanish so I missed it.
Finally, with each of them holding me under an armpit, the three of us awkwardly made it up the stairs and into my apartment. I could feel myself losing consciousness again from the shock of the pain, so I had them set me down on a kitchen chair and I put my head down between my knees to attempt to ward off the shock.
Sid said, “Boss, I really think you should go to the hospital.”
I croaked, “No. No hospital. I’ll be fine. Just need a little time.”
Talking just exacerbated the pain in my guts and every breath thrust hot knives into my ribs. I had them more or less drag me into the bedroom and lay me out on the bed. The prone position brought absolutely no relief. I slowly twisted and turned thinking I could find a position that would relieve some of the agony, but I was wrong. I could hear Juan and Sid talking in low murmurs in the other room, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying.
I decided that I needed to go to the bathroom. While everything in my stomach had been beaten out of me, I still had considerable beer trapped in my bladder. Maybe it would help to relieve myself. If I could just figure out how to get to the bathroom.
I slowly and painfully rolled to my side and got myself into a sitting position on the edge of the bed. Using the headboard as a crutch, I got myself into a standing position. Well, my feet were in a standing position, my torso was doubled over with my elbows still on the bed. I shuffled along the side of the bed and across the end. Now, I was only two short steps from the doorway into the e
nsuite bathroom. Still doubled over, I more or less stumbled to the door jamb. The pain was excruciating, but somehow it felt very satisfying to have made this extraordinary journey all on my own.
Pursuing my newly acquired affinity for the shuffle step, I kept one hand on the door jamb while I reached the sink with the other. I got myself squared to the toilet and was ever so thankful that the seat was in the customary up position. Sissy always complained about that when she stayed here, but she’s not here now . . . so there.
As I began to relieve myself, I was confident this would make me feel so much better. Seeking refuge from the pain, I closed my eyes. I’ve done this a few times in the past and have a pretty good idea where to aim when standing directly in front of the toilet. Somehow the entire process had not lessened the pain. When I opened my eyes, my pain just intensified as I found myself staring into a blood red toilet bowl.
Holding onto the sink I called out, weakly, but resolutely, “Sid, Juan, I need to go to the hospital.”
Evidently, raising my voice was the final straw as the pain got the best of me and I crumpled to the floor. The last thing I remember is how cool the bathroom floor tile felt on my face.
CHAPTER NINE
The next couple of hours are less than clear in my memory banks. Sid and Juan must have taken one look at me on the floor, the blood in the toilet, and immediately called an ambulance. I remember a couple of burly paramedics hovering over me as I was brought down the stairs on a gurney. I missed the details of my first ever ambulance ride and my arrival at Memorial Regional Hospital. My first recollection is my assessment that the emergency room of a metropolitan hospital is a busy place, even on a Monday night.
Even though her work was completed hours earlier and Marge had gone home, she had stopped back in at Cap’s to check on something and was there when the ambulance arrived. She really does pay more attention to the operation of Cap’s than I do. She followed the ambulance to the hospital and handled the paperwork process of my admission.
At some point, I realized I was in a curtained cubicle hooked to several monitors. I knew that I was in a hospital, although I had no idea which one and really didn’t care. The pain had subsided a bit, only knifing through me when I breathed or moved. I hadn’t been awake more than a minute when the curtain parted and a doctor and a nurse came into my cubicle.
Looking at a chart in his hand, the twelve year old doctor introduced himself, “Hello . . . Mr. Nolan, I’m Doctor Willis. Can you tell me what happened to you?”
Having just entered my forties, I have a new appreciation for youth, but I do still like to think of my doctors as . . . well . . . mature. Even if they don’t have gray hair, they should at least be shaving, especially the male ones. Oh well, it does say Doctor on his lab coat and it’s not like, in my present condition, I have much choice in the matter, “A couple of guys worked me over.”
“What did they hit you with? Fists? A weapon?”
“Just fists, I think. Oh, and one kick in the gut.”
In a profession with billions of dollars in technology at its disposal, why do doctors still ask, “On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate your pain?”
The worst fucking beating I’ve ever had, that’s how I rate it. “I don’t know, let’s go with eight.”
Doctor Willis made some notes on the chart he was holding and said, “We’re going to send you down for a CT scan. That will help determine the extent of your injuries. Someone will be here to get you in a few minutes and I’ll be back as soon as we have the results.”
The nurse who had entered with Doctor Willis pulled the bedside table closer to me and asked if I would like a sip of water. I declined. She placed the cup on the table, and indicating the call button laying on the bed next to my hand, told me to call her if I needed anything. She told me that Marge had come in with me, but that she had to leave for a few minutes. As soon as she got back they would bring her in to see me. With that, I was again alone.
I was pondering why Marge had been at Cap’s at the time the ambulance arrived when my solitude was interrupted by the appearance of a uniformed Hollywood Police Officer.
Holding a small tablet computer in his hand, he said, “Hello Mr. Nolan, I’m Officer Rodriguez with the Hollywood Police Department. I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you feel up to it.”
I didn’t really feel up to it, but wasn’t confident I would anytime soon, so I said, “Sure. Go ahead.”
Looking at his tablet, “I was told by dispatch that you were assaulted at Cap’s Place on A1A. Is that correct?”
Good let’s start with an easy question, “Yes.”
“Was the assault inside or outside?”
“I was walking across the parking lot toward my apartment. It was at the rear corner of the building, near the outside stairs.”
With a skeptical tone, “You live at the bar?”
“Yeah. I own Cap’s Place and live in an apartment upstairs.”
The stern look he had worn faded noticeably, “Oh. Sure. That’s where I’ve seen you. I’ve stopped in a couple of times with Detective Donovan.” Funny how a single connection can impact an encounter with another person. Officer Rodriguez’s demeanor became much more conversational as he asked his questions. I did the best I could to describe the one guy I had seen, but couldn’t give him anything about the second guy. He asked several times what I thought motivated the attack and I held my line that I had no idea. The last thing I wanted to do was admit that I thought it was probably some disgruntled husband sending me a message. I didn’t need any additional damage to my already tarnished reputation. It was probably just my conscience, but I had the distinct impression that Officer Rodriguez knew exactly what I was not saying.
Officer Rodriguez had only been gone a few minutes when Marge walked in, “Hey Jack, how’re you feeling?”
I did my best to smile, but that even made my ribs hurt, “Just great. Nice of you to ask.”
Marge chuckled, “Glad to see your sense of humor is still intact.”
“It is but my monologue is going to be a bit short tonight.”
Staring intently Marge asked, “What the hell happened Jack?”
“Couple of goons jumped me in the parking lot. Don’t know why. They didn’t even attempt to take anything. Unless of course you count my life.”
“Didn’t they say anything?”
I told her what I could recall of the growls, the same as I had told Officer Rodriguez a few minutes earlier. A quizzical look swept across Marge’s face, “Wonder what they mean that the neighborhood is becoming dangerous and you should get some protection?”
Hearing Marge repeat the words caused me to focus on them more than I had when I’d spoken them myself. The words didn’t really fit my theory of someone’s husband. Why would a husband tell someone seeing his wife that he should get some protection because the neighborhood was getting dangerous. His message would be more along the lines of staying in your own neighborhood. Something like that. Of course during my thumping I could have missed a critical statement or two.
It occurred to me to ask Marge what brought her into Cap’s that late at night. She said, “Juan had called me earlier, our produce delivery never arrived today. I came in to try to figure out why.”
We have fresh produce delivered on Monday and Thursday only, so each delivery is important. “Did you have any luck figuring it out? Are they going to deliver tomorrow?”
“Never got a chance to call them. I’d just located the after hours number when the ambulance arrived. That’s when I learned you were hurt upstairs. I came here. I left the number on the desk, but it doesn’t matter now, we’re closed. I called Sid a few minutes ago and told him I’d call Williams Brothers first thing in the morning and get a delivery. Don’t you worry about it. I’m sure it was just some screw up with their schedule. We’ll be okay, as long as they can get us a delivery tomorrow.”
I replied, “Funny, they’ve always been so reliable. Every Monday and
Thursday afternoon, like clockwork.”
Marge wrinkled her brow, “Well, there have been a couple of times where the delivery hadn’t arrived by late afternoon and I called them. They always came through, but I did have the impression they’d forgotten us until I called. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.”
Again, I was made aware that I didn’t always really know what was going on around Cap’s.
An orderly arrived, and after the nurse had disconnected me from the monitors and verified that the IV hooked to the back of my hand could safely make the trip, he pushed me out of my cubicle and we began the journey to the CT Department. I have a vague recollection of the journey and the maneuvers to transfer me to a sliding table and a large donut shaped machine, but in all honesty, I was mostly focused on my damn pain.
When the orderly returned me to my cubicle, I found Marge slumped in the hard plastic chair with her head resting on her chest. Her nap was rudely interrupted as a wheel of my gurney bumped her outstretched leg. I had no idea what time it was, but I knew it had to be the wee hours of the morning by now. Once they had me hooked back to my monitors and Marge and I were alone again I said, “Marge, you should really go home and get some rest.”
She looked at me with a tired smile, “I’ll go home just as soon as I know how you are. Besides, you’ll need a ride home if they don’t keep you. I’m guessing they’re going to keep you, but if they don’t you’re certainly in no condition to get home alone.”
Nimble Be Jack: A Jack Nolan Novel (The Cap's Place Series Book 2) Page 4
