“Thanks, I think.” What Brack really thought was how little time he’d spent with his dog since he’d arrived in Atlanta. Not that Shelby seemed to mind. He’d adopted Taliah as his new favorite female admirer and barely noticed how often Brack walked out one door or another.
“You’re welcome,” Mutt said. “Turn right at the next light.”
“We’ve actually got a destination?”
“I always got a destination. You, on the other hand, follow where the wind blows.”
Brack couldn’t argue. Sometimes his life felt like a tumbleweed. The thought in Brack’s head was, isn’t it time for someone to die? Usually by now, as in the last few escapades they’d had, someone would kick the bucket because of something he and Mutt did or because the bad guys targeted a victim. Either way, the grim reaper was late. And Brack balanced his itchy trigger finger with a guilty conscience about his friends being in danger.
Mutt guided him into one of the not-so-nice parts of town. Because Atlanta stretched out in all directions with no end in sight, there were more of these not-so-nice parts than Brack cared to count. Such was life in the big city. He now understood why Darcy drove a beat-up Honda. He and Mutt stood out in his shiny new sports car, especially in parts of town where everyone lived below the poverty line.
“Who are we going to see?” Brack asked.
“A friend of mine I shoulda been talkin’ to already.”
“Who’s that?”
“Name’s Delray. After he did ten for running girls, he switched to robbery. He’s pretty much retired now, but he still knows what goes on.”
Mutt had him turn down a side street, pull into a cracked driveway, and park behind an eighties Seville on blocks. The neighborhood was probably mostly crack houses and meth labs. Delray’s house, a one-story faded-gray mill house, was as run-down as the immobile Cadillac in the drive. The yard looked as if it hadn’t been mowed in this decade. The sidewalk could not be seen through the weeds. And the hole in the front porch could swallow a medium-sized dog.
They got out of the car, forced their way through the undergrowth to the porch, and carefully avoided falling in the hole. Mutt gave the front door two solid raps.
After a half-minute, the peephole darkened. “Who there?” came a scraggly voice.
Mutt made himself visible by standing in front of the door. “It’s Mutt. I brought a friend with me.”
The door opened and a heavyset man about Brack’s height stood in the doorway. “Well, come on in if you’re comin’.”
“Thanks, Delray. This here Brack. He’s in town from Charleston.”
“Any friend of Mutt’s be welcome here.”
“Thanks.” Brack held out a hand and Delray took it.
A television blared somewhere in the small row house. They stepped inside, smelling old sweat.
Mutt said, “You got anything to drink, Delray?”
“Yeah. Sure do. Go get us a couple quarts outta the fridge.” Delray walked ten paces and eased himself into a worn recliner that faced a nice flatscreen showing a basketball game.
Mutt left and returned with two quart bottles of beer plus a can of store-brand cola, which he handed to Brack. “My man Brack here off the bottle.”
Delray gave Brack a sideways glance but said nothing. They popped the tops off the quarts and Brack opened his can. The three clinked drinks and took long swigs.
Mutt said, “Cassie’s sister left home and we want her to come back.”
Delray said, “Well, she ain’t here. Ain’t no woman been here in way too longa time.”
“Who you kiddin’?” Mutt asked. “You got more women tendin’ to you than we got Miss America contestants.”
The big man said nothing. Brack simply listened.
Mutt added, “She wit Vito.”
“What you want from me? I ain’t in the business no more. Can’t you tell?”
Setting his bottle on a cigarette-burnt end table, Mutt said, “We go back a long time, Delray. I know you. You know me. You think I just show up here asking questions like I don’t know what I’m doin’?”
It was a profound statement for Mutt. Or maybe Brack hadn’t been giving his friend enough credit. Either way, Delray must have known he wouldn’t be able to give Mutt a snow job.
“I mighta heard something.”
Mutt said, “I’m listenin’.”
“Her name’s Regan, right?”
“Yeah.”
Delray turned his head from side to side as if stretching his neck. “And she with Vito.”
Mutt said, “I just tol’ you that.”
“No,” Delray said. “She with him. Like, not working for him no more.”
Susanna Royce had said the same thing to Brack, but it was good to get a second source. Regan looked cozy enough with Vito that Brack had no doubt.
Mutt said, “Really?”
“She was supposed to be for the top customers.” Delray rubbed his hands together. “We called girls like her Bank Rolls. They always makin’ money.”
“And within a month she hooked up with Vito.” Brack’s first contribution to the conversation.
Delray added, “I hear she’s even running some of the houses now.”
When Brack had mentioned that to Mrs. Royce, he was merely speculating. He didn’t really expect it to be true.
He asked, “How after only a month can she have gotten so far?”
Delray said, “You askin’ me? Shoot, man. Why do any man fall on his sword for a woman?”
Mutt said, “He must be in love with her.”
Brack thought Mutt might just be right. He asked Delray, “Any idea why she won’t call her sister?”
The fat old man examined his bottle, then took another swig. After another moment of silence, he said, “I had this girl one time. Country girl. Didn’t know squat. At least I thought so at the time.”
Mutt nodded.
Delray continued. “I fell in love wit her, just like you said, Mutt. Big mistake. Next ting I know, she running a few girls for me. Her father come lookin’ for her. I didn’t want no trouble wit him so I tol’ him where she was.” He shook his head. “She shot him.”
“What for?” Mutt asked.
“’Cause she crossed over and waren’t goin’ back.”
There wasn’t much to say after that. They finished their drinks and left Delray to what was left of his life.
Outside, a police cruiser sat behind the Porsche, blocking them in.
Two uniformed officers got out of their car as Brack and Mutt approached.
On the one hand, Brack was grateful their presence had prevented anything from happening to his ride. On the other, prevention wasn’t their job today, so they obviously were here for another purpose.
The first officer was a medium-build white guy approaching retirement age. “You want to tell us what you’re doing here?”
Brack said, “Visiting a friend.”
The other officer, a tall black man about twenty-five, said, “I didn’t know Delray had friends.”
Mutt grinned and Brack knew this was about to get interesting.
Brack said, “Everyone’s got friends.”
The older cop said, “Delray’s got a lot of things. A record for running girls. An arrest for aggravated assault.”
“And he got us friends,” Mutt said.
“And who are you?” the young officer asked Brack.
“Call Detective Nichols. He’ll tell you.”
The uniforms glanced at each other. The one with less seniority went to the cruiser and used the radio. Mutt and Brack stood waiting, hands in pockets, while the older cop eyed them. One of his hands rested at his side, the other stayed close to his Glock.
After a minute the younger man came back, whispered something to his partner, then faced them. “Detect
ive Nichols said he wants you to go home. He said you were trouble and if you’re here, you need to tell us why.”
Brack said, “I think you made up that last part. If he wants to know why, he has my phone number.”
The four of them looked at each other. Then the officers got in their cruiser and left. It was obvious to Brack that Detective Nichols had at least vouched for them.
Then the phone in his pocket vibrated.
Brack answered.
“What are you still doing here in my city? I thought I told you to leave town.”
Brack said, “You weren’t that specific so I didn’t listen. I seem to have a problem with authority.”
“The officers said you are in drug central.”
Looking around, Brack realized they should probably get in the Porsche and find a more neutral locale. “Not for long.”
“Why are you at Delray’s house?”
“Visiting an old friend.”
“Don’t play games here, Pelton,” Nichols said.
“Well, since you know where I am, pick a place and I’ll buy you an R.C. Cola.”
“This is Atlanta,” he said. “We drink Coke.”
“Okay, pick a place and I’ll buy you a Coke.”
After a moment, he rattled off some place in Virginia Highlands and hung up.
Brack told Mutt the name.
“I know where that is. Let’s git outta here.”
“You got it.”
Ten minutes and several seven-thousand-rpm shifts later—so Brack could enjoy hearing the Porsche’s engine rev—they entered an old but high-dollar suburb of the city known as Virginia Highlands.
Mutt pointed to a bar and grill. “There it is. But I still don’t understand why we gotta meet with the po-lice.”
“Because every time I don’t,” Brack said, “I end up regretting it. I like to cover all the bases.”
“This ain’t baseball, Opie.”
“I know. This is more fun.”
Mutt sighed. “You ain’t right.”
Brack couldn’t argue with that. He wasn’t right. He hadn’t been right in a long time. That’s why he needed good friends to keep him in line, provided he occasionally listen to them.
He parked in a lot among other expensive German cars, almost as if he sought to return to some form of deluded white reality after immersion in the poorest of the Atlanta poor he’d just experienced.
The place Detective Nichols chose to meet resembled the fifties diner in the movie Pulp Fiction. Sort of a modern, more sterile interpretation of the original.
Their police host sat at a booth facing the door.
Brack smiled and sat, scooting in to make room for Mutt.
Detective Nichols said, “Why is it I think I’m going to regret this?”
Mutt said, “I say the same thing every time Opie come up with one of his crazy ideas.”
Brack said, “Thanks for meeting us.”
“So what were you doing at Delray’s?”
Before he could answer the detective, their waitress came to take their order, a young woman with platinum blonde hair and an hourglass figure. An over-the-heart tattoo of the Godfather of Soul peeked through a very low-cut dress. Decidedly not fifties fashion, but not out of place.
Mutt seemed to lose focus.
Brack ordered a strawberry milkshake for himself and a vanilla one for his tongue-tied friend.
The detective ordered coffee.
Peek-a-boo Tattoo departed and Mutt turned to Brack. “You getta load of her James Brown?”
“Is that why you couldn’t form a complete sentence until now?” Brack asked.
Mutt shook his head to clear away the distraction. “All I got to say about that is ‘How!’”
Nichols said, “And you two actually think you’re going to get close to Vito?”
“We ain’t done too bad so far, have we, Opie?”
“We usually finish what we start,” Brack said. “One way or another.”
“One way or another,” Mutt repeated.
“Why don’t we start with what you found out from Delray. And then you can finish up with why you confronted Vito last night. You gave a new meaning to grabbing a bull by the horns.”
Mutt chuckled. “My man here crazy.”
Before Brack could reply, the waitress returned and placed their drinks on the table.
Mutt said to her, “I love James Brown.”
To their surprise she spun around, and with a growl in her voice like James, sang the chorus to “I Got the Feelin’.” She followed that routine with a few gyrations that would go over well in a gentlemen’s club, and continued gyrating all the way back to the kitchen. Her impromptu performance guaranteed that Mutt would empty his pockets of any and all cash for her gratuity.
The things they ran into never ceased to amaze Brack.
Given that Mutt would now be useless for another fifteen minutes, Brack focused on the detective and offered, “Quid pro quo?”
After a long moment, Detective Nichols nodded.
Brack went first. “The woman we’re looking for, Regan? According to Delray and another source, she’s Vito’s woman now.”
“What does that mean?”
Brack related the story of how she’d been one of the special girls saved for the exclusive clientele, but apparently had moved up to run some of his houses.
“You think Vito’s going to just let you take her back?” the detective asked.
“No.” Brack took a sip of his milkshake. “The question you should be asking is how much he’s willing to risk to keep her.”
Nichols said, “These guys don’t like people messing in their affairs.”
“The nice thing is that Vito isn’t respectable enough for too many police officers to care when we go after him. Your turn, detective.”
“Word is Vito told his crew he wants you dead.”
“I figured he and I would never be barbeque buddies. What else?”
The detective’s eyes widened. “I just told you that one of the biggest hoods in the city wants you dead and you brush it off? You are crazy.”
Coming out of his waitress-induced trance, Mutt said, “It took you this long to come up with that?”
“Not really,” Nichols said. “But it’s nice to have my assumption confirmed.”
“Again,” Brack urged. “What else?”
Nichols sat back in his seat, tapped a finger on the table, and sighed, his eyes focused on the ceiling. After five seconds, he said, “Don’t make me regret this.” He took an envelope from his pocket and slid it across the table to Brack.
“I hope that’s the winning Powerball ticket.”
“Almost. Vito’s having a fundraiser tonight for some kind of human rights charity.”
Brack laughed.
Nichols said, “I know, right? He’s the biggest offender in the city. Anyway, that’s a pair of tickets to the ball.”
“I thought you wanted me to leave the city.”
With a slight grin, Nichols said, “Maybe I changed my mind, unofficially speaking, of course. You didn’t get the tickets from me, and you’re on your own from here.”
Mutt said, “I ain’t gonna be your backup on this one, Opie.”
“You wouldn’t look very good in a dress anyway, my friend.”
Detective Nichols finished his coffee and got up. “Remember, Pelton. Don’t make me regret it. I’ll catch you guys later.”
“See you on the other side,” Brack said.
Nichols tapped the table and walked out.
“You think we can trust him?” Mutt asked.
Brack held the tickets up. “We don’t have much choice.” Something told him this was a nice break in the case, or whatever they were working on could be called.
Chapter
Eleven
Before she moved to Atlanta, Darcy had been Brack’s date to some of Charleston society’s fundraising events. Now that her socializing time belonged to her peckerwood fiancé, he needed a stand-in. Tara agreed to join him—with two conditions. First: she continue as his personal trainer during his stay in the city, which worked out great for him—he couldn’t afford to let his conditioning slip. Her second condition wasn’t so easy: no cigars tonight.
Brack’s only other choices for a companion were Cassie or Mutt, so he acquiesced. Besides, since their training session he hadn’t wanted a smoke anyway. Did the training alone achieve that, or his humiliating failure to keep his breakfast down?
Tara greeted him at the door of her apartment wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around her taut, muscular body. Before he could close his gaping mouth, she said, “I’m running late. Mr. Grumpy was ornery and wouldn’t take his meds until we bribed him with watermelon. Make yourself at home while I finish dressing.”
Brack stepped in. She closed the door behind him and ran off down the hall. The apartment smelled refreshingly of coconut oil. Polished hardwood floors creaked under his feet. The framed photos on her white walls of people and of animals mixed in tasteful groupings. A beige couch and loveseat along with a mahogany coffee table comprised most of the living room. Everything looked as if it came from Pottery Barn or Pier One. The only thing missing was a television. Or not—if she didn’t watch it.
From down the hall, she called, “Help yourself to a drink in the kitchen if you want.”
Brack turned away from the living room and spotted the kitchen area behind a large opening in the wall between the two rooms, making the space seem a lot bigger than it was. In the fridge he found bottles of beer, cans of soda, and one of those pitchers that filtered water. He selected a glass and poured himself some cold water.
A few moments later, Tara appeared. He had wondered whether she owned attire suitable for a black tie event, but she did not disappoint. The spaghetti-strapped number she had on accentuated her figure and her brown skin. Even with her inked-up arms, the first word that came to his mind was elegant.
“Do I look okay?”
Brack nodded. “That is a very nice dress.”
Big City Heat Page 8
