Mutt looked around the room, then lowered his head. “Opie, we got some company.”
Brack spotted what his friend referred to. Three men approached dressed in some version of the same biker get-up, black t-shirts with skulls, jeans, and leather boots.
With the three bikers still twenty feet away—ten feet from when Brack would get up and charge them—he heard a slightly familiar voice behind him, snotty attitude and all.
She said, “Those are the two that called us prostitutes.”
Mutt said, “What the—”
Brack took his eyes off the men in black to see the three blondes from the Jeep pointing at him and Mutt. Next to the blondes stood three defensive lineman-sized clean-cut white guys.
Bikers in front of them.
Jocks behind.
Guns in the car.
Under his breath, Brack said, “How did we get ourselves into this one?”
Mutt replied, “You and yo’ big mouth.”
Returning his attention to the bikers, now eight feet away, Brack said, “I got the hogs. You take the bubbas.”
Mutt said, “This gonna be fun.”
Maybe for you, Brack thought. These bikers fought dirty.
Brack grabbed a beer bottle off the bar and smashed it across the closest Harley rider’s head.
The other two did not startle. One caught Brack with a blow to the side of his face. The other tagged him with a gut punch. Brack doubled over, grabbed a stool, and swung it across the closest knee, catching it just right. The goon fell beside his fallen companion. The remaining one caught Brack with a good uppercut and slammed him backwards into the bar. Dazed and confused, Brack told himself he had one play left. As his opponent approached, Brack reached behind, steadying himself by grabbing the edge of the bar with both hands. Supported by his hands only, he kicked with both feet. His Italian loafers slammed into the biker’s black leather vest. The goon flew backward into a support beam and crumpled to the floor.
Brack shook the cobwebs out of his head and turned to see what else might be happening. Two of the bubbas were down, but the third had a hold of Mutt’s silk shirt and threw a solid widow-maker punch into Mutt’s face. With whatever force Brack had left, he kicked the giant in the back of his knee, buckling his leg. As the jock twisted to face him, Brack slammed his elbow into the jock’s face and his nose exploded. Blood spurted all over the three wannabe blonde hookers, who squealed and ran away.
The bubba let go of Mutt, who fell to the ground.
Brack coughed and spoke to the bloody nose. “You done?”
He sure hoped the jock was finished, because he had nothing left.
As if just noticing the blood gushing out of his broken nose, the giant put both hands to his face.
“Well?”
From behind him, Brack heard an authoritative voice say, “It’s time to break it up.”
Brack knew better than to turn his attention away from his opponent. In one of the mirrors, he could make out two uniformed officers walking toward them.
The Atlanta Police Department’s building on Spring Street featured holding cells crowded with an assortment of races. America was, after all, the melting pot, and this jail attempted to prove the point. When Brack was put in the back of a cruiser and hauled away, he’d been separated from Mutt. Having lost sight of his friend, Brack now stood in the corner of an overpopulated cell. He kept to himself, glad there were no mirrors. His face felt as if it had grown two sizes from the beating he’d taken from the bikers, and he really didn’t care to see how bad he looked. At least his bones were intact.
Brack’s past experience in similar situations—and he’d had more than his share—told him he would be taken to a room called the “box” with a one-way mirror and asked a few “questions.” He’d already been Mirandized so anything he said could and would be used against him. So far Brack hadn’t asked for an attorney, but did think about calling his in Charleston.
True to form, a uniformed officer escorted Brack from the cell. Jeers and catcalls from his fellow detainees awarded him with the momentary status of a rock star, albeit one old enough to know better than to get arrested for a bar fight.
The officer opened a door and told him to take a seat at a table. The room had a mirror and one involuntary glance told him he looked as if he’d lost the brawl. He pulled out a chair, its aluminum legs scraping across the worn linoleum, and sat.
A few minutes later the door opened and Detective Nichols entered. He smiled, took a seat across from Brack, and placed a file folder on the table between them.
“I need to remind you,” Nichols said, “that anything you say can be used against you.”
“And I have a right to an attorney.”
“Would you like an attorney?”
“Not yet. Where’s Mutt?”
Nichols’s forehead creased. “I think you have more pressing needs at the moment.”
Brack said, “I’ve been in this situation before. More than a few times, unfortunately. Now, it was nice of you to be the one to come in here and talk to me. I appreciate that. Before I answer any questions, I want to know that my friend is okay.”
“He is. We released him ten minutes ago. Seems the witnesses at the bar all agreed that the three men had attacked him and he had defended himself.”
“Were they arrested?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Now, what’s in the file?”
Sitting back in his chair, Nichols opened the folder and spread out three sheets of paper. “These are the three men you fought with. They are very bad apples.”
Brack looked up from the sheets to him. “Bad apples? That’s the best you can do?”
“Okay,” he said, “all are ex-mercenaries. Trained killers.”
“I’m a Marine. Mercs are nothing but basic-training flunkies.”
“You were a Marine. Now you’re a civilian.”
“Once a Marine, always a Marine.”
“You haven’t even asked me what the charges against you are.”
“Because,” Brack grinned for a second, “there aren’t any.”
Detective Nichols did not rein in the surprise in his face. “Why do you think that?”
“Just a guess. Witnesses to the ruckus will tell you I started it by taking out one of these pansies with a beer bottle, thus initiating it all. But I’ll bet the pink slip to my Porsche that none of the bad apples, as you call them, are going to file any charges.”
“Good guess.”
“They are going to square things up on the street.”
Nichols flipped through a few pages. “Their files suggest that’s the way they work.”
“So what are we doing here?”
Closing the file, Nichols said, “I told you if I saw you again like this, I’d have you escorted out of town.”
“It’s a free country,” Brack said, jonesing for a cigar.
“I’d rather know you are safe back in Charleston than dead here on Peachtree Street.”
“Me too. But I haven’t finished what I came to do.”
“Which begs the question,” he said. “Why are you here?”
Brack told him about Regan.
Nichols said, “If she’s with Kelvin Vito, you’re better off simply heading home.”
“But aren’t you the police?”
“Yes,” the detective said. “And I don’t have time to be babysitting some soda cracker from out of town with a death wish. Going after this Regan, or Vito, is precisely that.”
The next morning, Saturday, Mutt and Brack sipped hot French-pressed coffee from mugs at Cassie’s house while she served free food to Atlanta’s homeless. Brack was quiet and deep in thought. At least he pretended to be. The one thing on his mind at present was who had set them up the afternoon before. A knock at the door followed by someone
letting themselves in had them both look up.
Darcy walked into the kitchen where they sat. “Detained again, I see. The more things change...” She didn’t bother to finish the cliché that was growing older by the second. Instead, she said, “You guys look like you got beat up.”
Brack said, “It was six against two.”
“Yeah? It looks like you lost.”
“Whatever,” Brack said. “We walked away. They didn’t.”
“You wanna cup of coffee?” Mutt asked.
She sat her purse on a chair. “Of course.”
Mutt worked Cassie’s French press like a real barista. Considering the sludge he used to pour, his technique now was nothing short of a miracle. He served it to Darcy in a mug along with a chilled miniature stainless-steel cream pitcher. “You take sugar?”
“Why thank you, Mutt.” An astonished look crossed her pretty face.
Brack realized that Cassie had done quite a number on his old buddy, and he had to give her credit. She didn’t have much to work with, but she managed to domesticate the big wild pooch.
“What happened to you?” Brack asked him.
Mutt said, “Huh?”
“French-pressed coffee? Cream in little pitchers? What happened?”
Darcy said, “Shut up, Brack. It’s obvious Cassie’s had a positive influence on him.”
“Whatever,” he said. “We got bigger things to worry about than my Marine buddy being neutered.”
Mutt said, “That’s cold-blooded, man.”
Brack smiled at him. “I’m just trying to give you some balance.”
Darcy looked irritated. “Oh yeah? Where are you getting yours from?”
That one cut deep on a lot of levels. Ignoring her question, Brack said, “At this point I’m ready to bust in there and drag Regan out.”
“Opie,” Mutt said, “it was six to two and we barely got out of the bar. Vito’s got an army. We ain’t gonna bust in nowhere. That’s all he needs to barbeque us alive.”
“Mutt’s right,” she said.
“Well, of course you’d agree with him, since he served you gourmet coffee in a pink apron. I’d like another opinion.”
“And I’d like to be rich,” she said. “Oh, wait a minute. I already am.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Brack said. “The rest of us have to work for a living.”
Her grin vanished in a flash. “I work harder in one day than you have since the day I met you.”
Deciding she was probably right, Brack switched gears. “So, Mutt, you want to tell us about this traitor that was supposed to meet us yesterday at that bar?”
“I got fooled,” Mutt admitted. “It was one of them anonymous tips. Someone called me and said to meet them there. I’m sorry ’bout all that, Opie.”
Brack said, “That’s okay, my friend. Regan is forcing us to grasp at straws.”
“If it weren’t for Cassie,” Mutt said, “I wouldn’t be doin’ any of this.”
Chapter Seven
Saturday
Even a senior correspondent couldn’t relax on a weekend, so at nine Darcy had to leave for work. With some free time, Brack left Shelby with Taliah and Mutt at his rental house and drove forty minutes north of the city to the Piedmont Preserve. Tara had invited him to visit her at her day job. He remembered that she worked with elephants.
She met him by the main entrance wearing a Panama hat, white t-shirt that covered most of her tattoos, and khaki shorts and boots. A security hut nearby gave shade and a fan to the elderly attendant who staffed the desk. The temperature was already eighty-five degrees, though it was technically still spring.
“I never did thank you for saving my brother the other night,” Tara said.
“How’s the shoulder?”
“Sore, but loosening up.”
Brack looked around. A large fence surrounding the Preserve stretched almost forever in both directions. “I’ve never been to a place like this.”
She took his arm. “Then let me give you the nickel tour.”
The firmness of her touch felt good to him.
She played guide for a twenty-minute walking tour of only part of the five-thousand-acre facility, consisting mostly of pasture, woods, and a few buildings. Thanks to this location away from the city, the air was fresh and clean.
Tara said, “And now you can help me feed Mr. Grumpy.”
“You feed Mutt in here?”
She laughed. “No. Should we?”
“Who’s Mr. Grumpy?”
Tara led him around a building that looked like a super-sized barn to an area in the back. Twenty feet from them stood the largest animal Brack had ever been this close to without bars between them. The elephant was over ten feet tall and weighed at least ten thousand pounds. Large tusks protruding from the sides of its trunk looked even more intimidating. The mammal was taking hay off a bale of the stuff and flapping his ears as he chewed.
“This is Mr. Grumpy,” she announced.
Brack had faced men with guns and cheated death many times. But this imposing life standing two car lengths in front of him was something else entirely.
Mr. Grumpy greeted them with a loud trumpet blast from his prodigious proboscis.
Tara approached him slowly and Brack followed, realizing he walked behind her instead of beside.
“How’s Mr. Grumpy doing?” she asked him in a sweet but firm voice.
The elephant gurgled a reply and continued eating.
She picked up a handful of hay from the pile and held it out to him. The elephant snaked his trunk around the bunch and inserted it in his mouth.
As Mr. Grumpy munched, Brack tentatively picked up a handful like Tara had and held it out to him. The elephant took it from him, put it in his mouth, then wrapped Brack in a long gentle hug with his trunk.
Tara put a hand to her mouth in surprise. Brack hoped he wasn’t about to become the beast’s next mouthful.
“He really likes you,” she said, patting Mr. Grumpy and saying, “Good boy.”
Then he released his captive.
“He’s never done that before, Brack. He doesn’t usually like anybody.”
“Birds of a feather,” Brack said, hoping not to reveal how intimidated he felt.
They spent some time with Mr. Grumpy, Brack getting more comfortable with the beautiful beast, as well as with a few other elephants roaming freely, then Tara walked him to his car.
He said, “I need some exercise. You want to work out with me when you get done here?” He always kept a gym bag in the car with fresh clothes and tennis shoes.
She smiled. “Are you sure you can handle my routine?”
Brack thought of his trainer back in Charleston, an ex-University of South Carolina linebacker who still benched four hundred pounds. Although his routine balanced both cardio and weight training, it was no picnic.
“I guess I’ll find out.”
Brack leaned against his Porsche and smoked a cigar while waiting for Tara in the Preserve’s parking lot. A voice in the back of his mind told him he should be hunting for Regan, but his gut was telling him a connection existed here that he ought to pursue. Sometimes the right thing to do seemed the least logical. At least that’s what he told himself. His hunches had blown up in his face before.
Tara came out of the back gate and walked toward Brack. He clipped the burning end off the cigar, crushed the ash with his loafer, and put the remainder of the cigar in his pocket.
“Tsk, tsk,” she said. “You know those things are not good for you.”
He popped a mint in his mouth and smiled. “I gave up booze. Cubans and Oreos are all I have left.” He’d also given up chasing women with questionable morals, but he wasn’t about to announce that little tidbit to her—at least not today.
“Wow,” she said. “Two things we have to wo
rk out of your diet.”
“Where are we headed?”
Showing off a mouth full of gleaming white teeth, she said, “Follow me.” She got in an older Toyota 4Runner.
The Porsche followed her back to the northeast Atlanta suburbs. They parked at an upscale shopping center. Taking up half the center’s footprint stood a modern gym. Big glass windows exposed a multitude of people working out on various cardio machines.
The cigar was probably not the best warm-up activity he could have done. The only thing going for him was his two-hour session every other day with his personal trainer. Thanks to that USC linebacker, Brack was in the best shape of his life, tobacco and junk food notwithstanding.
The gym session was as tough as Tara had promised. She matched him set for set on the machines and with the free weights, even after he stepped up his reps. Though Brack worked out more frequently than most men, Tara was a machine when it came to personal fitness. They finished with strength building in what could be called a dead heat if they had been competing, and Brack expected they’d hit the treadmill to close out the session with a nice run. Where Shelby and he lived on the Isle of Palms, Brack enjoyed regular five-mile jogs around the island, so he wasn’t concerned.
But Tara guided him to the stair machine for what she called a casual climb. Except that she set the speed on a seventy-steps-per-minute interval with no time limit. Brack’s body was used to a decent clip on flat island roads. This was more like a sprint up the stairs to the top of the Empire State Building.
He managed to keep up with her for seventeen and a half minutes before he jumped off, ran to the closest trash can, and threw up. After everything he’d eaten for breakfast had exited, Tara handed him a towel. “Ready to give up those cigars now?”
His first instinct was to tell her where she could go, but lucky for him he had to toss more of his innards first. Another trainer came by to say that none of Tara’s challengers ever made it to the stairs before they dropped out, so Brack could consider himself in pretty good shape.
With his head in the trash can, his mind managed to form two words: just great.
Big City Heat Page 5
