The cop face melted into sincere concern, the look I’d seen her give Sissy when we were trying to protect Sissy from a killer, “Of course I’ll tell you what they say. You be sure and call me if you hear from Bracchi. Also, be careful. Hang around with people for awhile. Don’t be wandering around alone until we get this sorted out. Don’t make opportunities for a repeat visit from those goons.”
“Sure. No problem. But if you guys decide to confront Bracchi you’ll let me know first. Okay?”
PJ reached across the table and patted me on the arm. I love it when she does that. “Of course Jack. I’ll keep you in the loop every step of the way.”
We finished our lunches and made small talk for a few minutes before PJ left. For several minutes after she left I just sat in the booth reflecting on our conversation. My thoughts were interrupted, “Mr. Nolan, would you like for me to clear these dishes?” It was Elizabeth the new waitress I met on Monday.
“Sure Liz, that would be great. And please call me Jack.”
She smiled shyly, “Sure. Jack.”
She picked up the dishes and headed toward the kitchen. Very trim athletic body. Jack, remember Marge’s lecture. Still, it can’t hurt to just look.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
After Liz cleared the table, I slid out of the booth and wandered back up to the bar. Sissy was just leaving to go to class. She told me that she would be back that evening and planned to stay the night again. I had mixed emotions. I didn’t like the idea of people thinking I couldn’t take care of myself, even if it was true. On the other hand, I have never been averse to Sissy staying the night. Although, I was pretty confident that unless I made dramatic improvement in the intervening hours, I would be looking for another raincheck tonight.
As if reading my mind Sissy said, “I know you don’t think you need me to watch over you Jack. Just let me ask you one question, when do you next take your pills?”
“That’s easy. As soon as I get back upstairs.”
“No, you idiot. You don’t take them when you wander by. You take the two little gray ones at 2:00 p.m. and the large white one at 3:00 p.m. I left a note upstairs with the times written down. I’ll be back before you need them tonight, but please take them on time this afternoon. Otherwise, you’re just hampering your recovery.”
I didn’t think a few minutes one way or the other would have as dramatic an impact as Sissy seemed to think, but since I couldn’t even remember what the little gray or the large white pills even did, I chose not to argue the point. I just saluted smartly and headed down the hall toward the office.
The office door was open and Marge was behind the desk with the large spreadsheet that represented our monthly work schedule open in front of her. Although very adept at the computer, Marge still liked to work out the schedule with paper and pencil. My kind of woman. She looked up and said, “Hi Jack, how are you feeling?”
I slowly sat down on the small couch in front of the desk. The office only accommodates the desk, a work table behind it, and the small couch. Sometimes Moe stays overnight and sleeps on this couch. I’ve never figured out how he does it. I replied to Marge, “Well, I can honestly say I feel much better than yesterday at this time.”
“Great. I came out front a little while ago and saw you having lunch with PJ, but you two looked like you were deep in conversation, so I didn’t come over.”
Marge was obviously fishing, “Yeah, PJ and I were talking about theories on who assaulted me.”
“Does she have any ideas?”
I wanted to keep the Bracchi theory under wraps as long as possible, “Oh, it’s too early to expect much. Not much to go on either. I didn’t see the one guy at all and the one I did looks like a thousand other thugs.” Deflecting the conversation, “Working on the schedule?”
“Yeah, seeing if I need to make any adjustments. They’re coming in next week to put in the new taps. The work starts Sunday morning but won’t be finished until Monday or Tuesday. I’ll only let them work until early afternoon. It’ll be disruptive enough without having them underfoot when business picks up in the afternoon and evening.” I must have looked confused because Marge went on, “You remember, we’re having an additional bank of taps installed so we can serve draft craft beers.”
“Sure, I remember. I told you I thought it was a great idea.” I didn’t really think it was that great an idea because I don’t think the craft beer craze is really going to last, but my management style is to stay out of the way unless Marge, Moe, and Sissy come up with something too crazy. So far, none of their ideas have qualified as crazy. Actually, it’s probably just coincidence, but the bottom line seems to be steadily creeping upward since I’ve delegated most of the operation to them.
Tapping her pencil on the schedule, “I’m thinking that things are going to be a bit chaotic with the installation workers underfoot, so I think I’m going to bring the new waitress, Elizabeth, in for a few extra hours. Make her a floater to help out where it’s needed. Be good additional experience for her. Have you met her yet?”
“I have. Briefly. Seems nice enough.” I could feel Marge’s scrutiny as I answered so I left it at that.
“Just to make you aware Jack, the guys installing the taps will start at 9:00 a.m. on Sunday. Moe’s coming in to unlock for them and hang around until the rest of our day crew comes in to open up. I’m sure these are good guys, but I’m not going to give them the run of the place unchaperoned.”
“There’s no reason for Moe to come in that early. I’m right upstairs. I can unlock for them and hang around down here. No problem.”
Marge looked skeptical, “You sure? It means being here for sure.”
“Come on Marge, I’m not that unreliable. Besides, I think I’m going to be sticking pretty close to home for the next few days. Saturday night included.”
“Okay. That would be great Jack. I’ll tell Moe.”
Talking of Moe reminded me of my promise to arrange repair of the outside cameras. “Marge, could you hand me that Rolodex behind you. I want to call the alarm company and schedule them to come out and repair our outside cameras. Think I’ll have them go through the whole system while they’re at it. I doubt it’s been upgraded since Mickey had it installed.” My Uncle Mickey was an old school homicide detective. He’d used a Rolodex for phone numbers his entire career and he didn’t see any reason to change just because the rest of the world had.
Marge handed me the Rolodex and I found the number. She said, “Here Jack, you want to use the desk so you can call?”
“No thanks. I think I’ll go back upstairs and stretch out for a few minutes. I’m running out of energy. Besides, I think it’s time for my next pill. I want to be able to give Sissy a good report when she gets back. Evidently, it’s important that I take the correct pills at predetermined times.”
Marge smiled at the mention of Sissy directing my medication and said, “Okay Jack. See you later.”
As I had expected, the trip back up the stairs to my apartment was more challenging than the one down had been. It may have also been that my strenuous day had taken its toll. Regardless of the cause, I was starting to feel lousy. I found the pills on the table laying next to a sheet of paper with a note that told me the times and described the pills to be taken at the appointed time. Much like you would have done for an eight year old. I decided that I needed to assert some control, so I headed to the refrigerator for a beer. One beer can’t stifle my recovery that much. I opened the refrigerator and started to laugh but quashed the laughter when it sent a sharp pain through my mid-section. There in the refrigerator hung a sign reading, “No beer!”
I took the two gray pills, with water, and shuffled into the bedroom. Getting into a prone position on the bed was less than enjoyable, but once I relaxed it seemed worth the effort. Within a few minutes, I drifted off to sleep.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Each of the next few days I felt better and better. By Saturday, I was at a point where my ribs only reminded me
of my beating periodically, not continuously. Sissy stayed every night through Friday, but told me Saturday morning that she thought I was doing well enough that she could move back home. I told her I wasn’t quite able to redeem my pending rainchecks yet, but that I was confident I would be soon. She gave me one of those female laughs that are totally impossible to read. Either, great, just let me know when you want to jump into the sack, or, no way in hell that’s going to happen.
PJ had stopped in a couple of times. As I had expected, the OC guys had suggested a vague strategy that sounded a lot like using me as bait for Bracchi. I was able to defer the issue by saying we needed to wait and see if I heard from him again. Maybe the whole Bracchi theory was wrong. PJ agreed, but kept stressing that I needed to be careful. In her absence, my ribs kept reinforcing the point.
It was mid-afternoon and we were doing a good business, when the front door opened. Only first timers and trouble come through the front door. This time it was definitely trouble. Two linebacker-sized thugs, I had come to associate with Anthony Bracchi, came in and paused to look around the bar before one of them held the door for the man himself.
Bracchi strode in like he owned the place. Poor choice of words Jack. He looked slowly around the bar before seeing me standing near the kitchen door. I had been in the kitchen talking to Moe and Sid about some problems with the dishwasher. The dishwasher is only a few months old, but Sid says it’s not draining well. Moe said we’d better check the drains before we blamed the dishwasher. I left it to them to sort out. I should have stayed in the kitchen.
Bracchi started across the floor toward me, so in order to not appear to be totally on the defensive, I started toward him. We met in the middle. He stuck out his hand and said, “Hi there Jack. How are you doing?”
The last thing I wanted to do was shake his hand, but didn’t know how to decline without getting my leg broken. I wasn’t up for any more broken bones right now, so I shook his hand. He looked me in the eye and said, “I was in the neighborhood so I though I’d stop in and have a scotch with you. You have Bowmore now?”
I remembered on his first visit he “suggested” I stock his favorite scotch. I had completely forgotten until this second. “Hasn’t arrived yet. Sorry.”
His heavy eyebrows dipped a bit and the lines at the corners of his eyes deepened, “Really? Having a problem getting it? I can help you with that you know. I’m good at solving problems with suppliers.”
I’ll bet you’re good at solving problems with suppliers when you’re not busy creating them. I passed the offer off, “Thanks, but I’m sure it will all get sorted out soon.”
With a wave of his hand indicating the same corner booth we had met in last time, which was unfortunately empty, “Let’s sit. Have a drink. Talk.” On the way to the booth I flagged down Renee and told her to send a shot of our best scotch and a Landshark over. The two linebackers took up residence at a small table in the center of the room.
After the drinks arrived and Bracchi had taken a first sip he said, “I heard you had some trouble earlier this week.”
He paused, obviously waiting for me to respond. I let the silence hang as long as I felt I could without it being an obvious insult, “Yeah, but you know how this business is, some weeks are better than others.”
Bracchi’s cold eyes were assessing me, “Yeah, I certainly know how the business can be. Lots of experience. That’s why I’m so good at heading off the problems. Guy like you, good at running the business during smooth sailing, can always use a guy like me to help with the tiller in rough waters.”
I thought I’d see how specific he would get, “Rough waters?”
The eyes narrowed again, “Yeah, like problems with deliveries coming on time or thugs in the neighborhood.”
Thugs in the neighborhood, what the hell are you? Before I could respond I was aware of movement in the center of the room. Both linebackers were on their feet moving laterally to place themselves between our booth and Moe, who was striding purposefully across the floor, obviously headed toward us. The inevitable confrontation occurred about ten feet from us.
Moe’s voice, always a low rumble, was a pure growl, “Get the fuck out of my way before I take your head off.” His right hand, firmly clutching the largest meat cleaver we have in the kitchen, twitched just off his hip.
The closest linebacker growled back, “Yeah, you may get one of us but the other gets you.”
Moe’s eyes bore into the linebacker, “No, I decapitate you with this cleaver and he,” gesturing slightly with his left hand toward a table behind the linebackers, “blows the head off your partner.”
Bracchi and I, like spectators at a tennis match, simultaneously pivoted our view to the table. There sat Justin with his hands and forearms, covered by a jacket, resting firmly on the table. I could only guess what instrument of destruction and death he was holding under the jacket. It was the oddest thing, Justin’s face was totally relaxed, like a man whiling away an afternoon fishing on the banks of a lazy river, but his eyes were glowing, as if the blast furnace of hell was behind them.
There must have been fifty people in Cap’s at the moment, but all motion had stopped as if a movie had been paused mid-scene. It was Bracchi who restarted the scene, “Ah boys, I think you can have a seat. I don’t think I’m in any danger sitting here with Mr. Nolan in his bar.”
The linebackers both looked back and forth between Bracchi and Moe, but then backed away and resumed their seats not eight feet from the table Justin had seemingly turned into a shooting platform. Moe stuck the cleaver in the back of his belt like some type of Samurai warrior and approached our booth with his arms at his sides and his hands visibly open and empty.
When he reached our booth, Moe leaned forward and placed his hands flat on the table. In a low, relaxed, rumble he said, “Jack, I wanted to let you know that we solved the problem with the dishwasher. Just as I suspected, it was a partial clog in the trap of the drain line. I keep telling Sid that they’ve got to rinse the big stuff off the dishes before they go in, but I think the guys get behind and skip that step. Regardless, it’s fixed now.”
I was dumbfounded, the life and death standoff was so that Moe could tell me the dishwasher was fixed. Finally, I found my voice, “Sure, Moe. Thanks.” I really didn’t know what else to say.
Moe seemed to start to raise back up from the table, but than leaned even closer and pivoted ever so slightly to face Bracchi directly. His glaring brown eyes became glowing lumps of black coal as they locked onto Bracchi’s. Again the low rumble, “Glad you stopped by this afternoon Mr. Bracchi. Not always safe in this neighborhood at night. Just the other night a driver was waiting for his boss right out front where your car is and somebody slit his throat from ear to ear. Damn near decapitated him. Probably would have if they used a heavier instrument. Terrible thing, didn’t even take anything, just killed him. This neighborhood is getting to be more and more dangerous every day.” With that Moe raised slowly, turned, and walked back to the kitchen. He never even glanced at the linebackers.
The decibel level was slowly returning to where it had been a few minutes earlier. I realized I had been holding my breath, so I exhaled slowly in hopes Bracchi wouldn’t notice. I used the table surface to steady my hand as I reached for my Landshark. The cold wet bottle somehow reassured me that I had returned from the alternate reality I had just been experiencing.
Bracchi sat motionless for a long minute as if processing copious amounts of information. Finally, he said to me, “I think you and I will continue this conversation on another day. Maybe another place. Thank you for the drink.” Thirty seconds later, he and the linebackers were gone.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I sat in the booth and slowly drank my beer. It was my first beer since my beating. Sissy and Marge had taken turns keeping me under constant surveillance. For some reason, this afternoon I just wasn’t afraid of an adverse reaction to the combination of alcohol and my meds. No one approached me. I don’t know
what I expected, perhaps for people to rush over and high five me for surviving another confrontation with Anthony Bracchi. I looked up to the table Justin had been occupying, but it was empty.
I replayed the entire event over in my head. Step by step, word by word. No matter how I analyzed, it remained bizarre. What in the world got into Moe? He could have gotten himself killed. Gotten us all killed. Yet, there was something else about Moe in this that just didn’t seem right. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but it was there, just below the surface. It wasn’t the whole aura of violence, because I knew Moe was no stranger to violence. He had killed in self-defense and served time in prison. I’m sure he’s seen his share of violence. It was something more subtle. What the hell was it?
I was startled when another Landshark suddenly appeared on the table. There stood Moe with a drink in his hand, “Mind if I’s joins yu Boss?”
It hit me like a lighting bolt, what was so out of character was not Moe’s actions but his words. Not the sound of his words but the words themselves. I’d known Moe since the day I landed on Uncle Mickey’s doorstep. I’d talked with him thousands of times and he always spoke the same, but today during the confrontation with Bracchi and his thugs, he spoke differently. The Ebonics were totally gone. His grammar was perfect and precise. What the hell is going on?
I gestured, “Sure Moe, sit down. I think I’d like to talk to you anyway.”
His huge frame came to rest in the booth, “Yu thinks yu wants to talk to me. Yu don’t knows.”
I shook my head as if clearing cobwebs, “No. . . Yes. I do want to talk to you.”
“Looks Boss, I’s sorry about all that with that Bracchi guy. I just couldn’t let them guys come in here pushing yu around withouts doing something.”
Nimble Be Jack: A Jack Nolan Novel (The Cap's Place Series Book 2) Page 7
