by Tom Lowe
The man nodded. “Don’t see a lot of guys your age having gone through the program.”
Jesse grinned. “We’re a rare breed, I suppose. Not too many of us left. I was in the 75th. Sent to Nam. It wasn’t long after Hamburger Hill. The enemy had a hell of an ax to grind after that shit. I stayed through something called the Easter Offensive, and I can tell you it was offensive, on a lot of levels.”
The man studied Jesse a few seconds. His face softer. He extended his hand. “Name’s Ace Anders.”
“Jesse Taylor. Pleased to meet you, Ace. What are the odds of a couple of Rangers sitting together in this dive bar? Is Ace your real name?”
“Yeah, my old man named me that.”
Jesse smiled. “He must have been a card.”
Ace grinned, lifting his beer in a toast. “To us…Rangers lead the way.”
“I’ll drink to that.” They toasted, Jesse draining a final swallow from his can. “That was good. Think I’ll have another.”
“You ain’t payin’. When you guys came back from Vietnam you got shit on. Too many Fonda types gave you a lotta crap. Brother, I want you to know I salute you. And ya’ll should have gotten the recognition you deserved surviving that jungle warfare.” He got the bartender’s attention. “Lucille, another round for my new friend, Jesse.” He slapped Jesse on the back.
The bartender brought the drinks and set them in front of Jesse. She took another order and Jesse turned toward Ace. “Much obliged.” He drained the Crown, his face flushing, the pulse beat under the ankle holster slow and steady. “Ace, how long you lived here?”
“All my life. That’s why I joined. I was glad to go to Iraq just to get the hell outta here.”
“I hear you, brother. I couldn’t help but notice the custom ‘57 model truck in the lot. You know if that bad boy might be for sale?”
“Don’t know. Guy that owns it is shootin’ pool at the last table before the johns. Name’s Cooter Johnson. He’s the tallest one at the table. Wears that damn Mohawk haircut. Dresses like a Viking. Got a bunch of piercings in his face, God knows where else.”
“Is he a bettin’ man?”
“He can work a table, why?”
“Because I wanna see how good he can work a table.” Jesse stepped off the stool, and made his way though the crowd.
Two women, both in tight jeans and T-shirts, danced with each other near one table, the jukebox playing the Door’s Midnight Special. Jesse approached the pool table and watched the final shots. Cooter Johnson, hair spiked in a five-inch Mohawk, open leather vest, large hands, long arms, gestured to a right corner pocket before lining up the cue ball and tapping the eight-ball into the pocket. He stood and grinned. Long, narrow face. Reddish whiskers like weeds. Silver piercings in his lips. Gold ring through one nostril.
A lumpy man in ragged shorts and a white T-shirt shook his head. “Damn, Cooter. You might as well be playin’ by yourself.”
Jesse stepped under the wash of light, looked at Cooter Johnson and then set down a hundred-dollar bill on the side of the pool table. Jesse said, “No reason to play by yourself. Now you got my ol’ pal Ben Franklin and me. Maybe he can become your BFF. Maybe not.”
Cooter Johnson stared hard at Jesse and said, “Rack ‘em.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
Cooter Johnson spotted the cue ball off-center on the lower portion of the pool table. He leaned over with a customized, engraved cue stick in his hands, lining up the shot. Jesse looked at the big man’s left hand, the letters e-v-i-l tattooed on the tops of four fingers, just below walnut-sized knuckles. A dozen people sat in chairs, leaned against the bar, or stood in a buffer around the perimeter of the table, sipping beers, watching the opening break. The smell of sweat mixed with perfume, a tinge of smoke drifting through the light over the table.
Jesse overheard one man in the shadows say to another, “I bet Coot takes him down fast. I’ll wager the old man will leave at least five on the felt.”
“You’re on, Lofton. I’m bettin’ the graybeard will do better.”
Johnson glanced up at Jesse before breaking the rack; the whack sounding as if a firecracker popped, balls zipping around the table. The striped thirteen-ball recoiled from the far railing and rolled slowly back toward Johnson, falling into the right-side pocket. Johnson cut his eyes up to Jesse. “Thirteen’s my lucky number. One down seven to go.” He lined up another shot, calling it with the point of the cue stick, quickly taking it, the nine-ball dropping.
Jesse could hear laughter, low conversations, the crackle of money. Johnson had an opening, easily sinking the four-ball. Someone in the crowd made a catcall. A shapely brunette in hip-hugging short shorts, a tight T-shirt that read, Shorty’s Good Eats, brought a shot glass filled with Jack Daniels. Johnson paused, took the drink and knocked it back, Creedence Clearwater Revival on the jukebox singing Bad Moon Rising.
Johnson motioned toward the twelve-ball and a corner pocket. He leaned down, lining it up, looking at shot probabilities after dropping the ball. He tapped the cue ball. It hit the twelve too hard, causing the ball to drift to the center of the table. Jesse looked at the layout, figuring angles and where the next shot might lead. He chalked his cue stick, walking around the table, doing the geometry in his head.
Johnson snorted. “C’mon, man. You got nothin.’ Left you nothin’. So go on and take your nothin’ shot, and I’ll close this down. You’ll feel the pain in your wallet.”
Jesse found the angle. He said, “Six in left corner.”
Johnson grinned. “No fuckin’ way. Take that shot and game’s over for you old man.”
Jesse lowered himself against the table railing, his body loose, his eyes cutting from the cue ball to the six. He tapped it, the cue ball kissing the right side of the six and sending it into the left corner pocket.”
A woman applauded from a table. Someone hooted. Bad Moon Rising sounded louder from the jukebox. Cooter Johnson seemed amused, stroking his copper beard, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Jesse met his eyes, stepped around the table, motioning to the side pocket next to him. “Let’s send number three home.” He bent down, sighted the shot looking at the tip of the stick, striking the cue ball. It recoiled from the opposite railing, the three dropping into the pocket.
“WooHoo!” shouted a woman standing by the biker wearing the American flag bandana.
Jesse stepped to the end of the table, tapped the left pocket with his hand. “Let’s bring four back to here.” He lined up the shot, taking it quickly, the four ball traveling almost the entire length of the table and falling in the pocket. He cut his eyes up to Johnson. A vein pulsed on Johnson’s forehead, close to his temple, as if a larva was wriggling, trying to escape through a pore. Johnson used the back of his left hand to wipe sweat from his brow.
Jesse aligned another shot. “Seven in the side.” He struck the left side of the cue ball, putting spin on it, the ball recoiling from the rail and tapping the seven into the pocket. Jesse looked up at Johnson. “Four solids in the hole. Four to go.”
Ace Anders watched the game from the bar. More than that, he watched the people watching the game. The bartender looked at him and said, “Looks like your new pal is kicking Cooter’s ass. It’s about time somebody did.”
“I don’t know what Cooter hates most, losing or the embarrassment of losing.”
Jesse could feel Johnson’s anger growing. It’s how you play the game, he thought. “Five in the right corner.” He tapped the cue ball, banking off the railing to sink the shot.
“I’m smellin’ blood,” said a potbellied man, grinning, wearing a Tampa Bay Rays hat, holding a can of beer and eating a piece of beef jerky.
Jesse pointed toward a side pocket. “Number two is gonna be retired.” He popped the cue ball, sinking the shot in a blur of moving colors.
Johnson licked his dry lips, pacing half way around the table. He gripped his cue stick, knuckles white. He said, “You miss the next one, I’ll clear the fuckin’ table. I like comin’ i
n strong from behind. The world loves a winner.” He looked at an attractive woman sitting at a table with two other women. “Ain’t that right, Sarah?”
“That’s right, Cooter.”
Jesse said nothing. He stepped to the end of the table, near Johnson and said, “You’re blocking my shot.”
“Don’t see a shot from down here.”
“Move and I’ll show you.”
Johnson reached in front of Jesse, putting his open armpit near his face, chalking his cue stick, and then slowly stepping aside.
Jesse tapped a left corner pocket. “Number one’s going here.” He struck the cue ball, sending it off two railings and rolling into the one ball, dropping it in the pocket. Johnson’s eyes bulged, the vein in his forehead twisting in an S rotation.
Without hesitation, Jesse said, “Eight in far right corner.” He hit the cue ball hard, the eight ball vanishing in a streak of dark color. Jesse reached for the hundred-dollar bill. “Looks like you aren’t taking Ben home tonight.”
“Double or nothing, pops.”
“You owe me a hundred dollars. Pay up.”
“You can take your Ben Franklin and shove it up your ass.”
Jesse smiled, still holding his cue stick. “Where’d a young fella like you learn to talk so nasty? You lost. Tonight, you’re a loser. And now it’s time to pay your dues.”
“I don’t pay shit to a hustler. You got no manners comin’ into my house with your shit. You got a choice…you can leave or I’ll escort you to the county line. And when I’m doing it, I’ll teach you what your old man shoulda taught you.”
“He didn’t have a chance because your grandpa was beating the blood out of me. I was just a kid at the Florida School. He was one of the staff, except he was a little different. He loved boys…loved ‘em in a peculiar way. If they didn’t share the love, or if they cussed, like you’re doing, he’d take his wide leather strap and beat ‘em until the whip was splashin’ blood on the walls. Kinda like painting with human blood.”
A murmur came over the crowd. The whumping rotation of a paddle fan could be heard between the changing of music on the jukebox.
The bartender signaled a new waitress and said, “You better find Ernie.”
“The bouncer?”
“He’s the only Ernie we have. He’s probably outside smoking. Get him. Now!”
TWENTY-EIGHT
After leaving the shuttered school, I drove through a misty rain toward Marianna, thinking about the voice-message Caroline Harper left me—how a witness, a boy at the time, had seen Andy Cope shot. “He was in the reform school the same time Andy and Jesse were there. Jesse will only say the man is black, afraid to testify. Maybe you can find him.”
To find him, I’d have to find Jesse Taylor. I could see that my next voice-message was from Jesse’s number. I played it, the Jeep’s wipers pushing the droplets off the windshield. “Hey, Sean…Jesse gettin’ back with you. Man, I don’t play this telephone tag thing so well. Maybe we can meet up. I’m stayin’ at the Heartland Motel, room 29. Come on by, and we’ll go for a coffee or a bite. In the meantime, I’m droppin’ by a pool hall called Shorty’s. Maybe take in a game or two. If you come by, I’m wearin’ a black T-shirt and a LA Dodgers ball cap.”
I checked my watch against the time of his call, found the address online, and then set my GPS address for Shorty’s Billiards. With the description he left, Jesse Taylor would be easy to find. What I didn’t know was why he’d picked this particular bar to visit on a rainy night in Marianna, Florida.
Cooter Johnson grinned, a reddish eyebrow rising, eyes flat. Johnson set his personal cue stick on the table, reaching for one propped against a post. He broke it in two pieces, dropping the smaller end and keeping the thicker section with jagged shards. He moved around the table.
Jesse stood his ground, holding the cue stick like a baseball bat. He swung hard. Johnson used his three-foot piece to block the swing. Jesse’s cue stick shattered, one piece flying above the crowd. Johnson shoved the serrated wood under Jesse’s chin, turning it into his flesh. Blood rolled down the stick. Jesse was pinned against the pool table. He used his right hand to feel for a side pocket, to find a billiard ball. He gripped a ball, smashing it hard against Johnson’s forehead. The blow tore away a flap of skin, blood pouring down Johnson’s face, mixing in his red beard.
“Get him, Coot!” shouted a stocky man wearing a Tampa Bay Bucks T-shirt.
Johnson slammed his right forearm into Jesse’s mouth, loosening teeth, blood streaming. Jesse brought his knee up hard into Johnson’s groin, the big man reeling backwards, shaking his head like a dog coming from water, blood spraying across the pool table. Johnson charged. He pushed Jesse against a wooden support beam that went from floor to ceiling, his head crashing against the hard wood. The blow stunned Jesse, causing him to slip down the post onto the floor, his head and back propped up against the pillar.
The biker wearing the American flag bandana smirked and said, “Hey, Cooter. Hold his hand up against the post. We’ll pin his paw to the pole. Teach the fucker a lesson.”
Johnson grabbed Jesse’s left wrist, lifting his arm and holding Jesse’s hand above his head, against the post. Johnson glanced at the scars. “Your hand looks like a possum’s ass. Stick him, Danny.”
The biker grinned, pulling a knife from his belt, and stepping closer to the post. He drew back with the serrated-blade knife, targeting the back of Jesse’s hand.
Ace Anders jumped from his barstool, pushing through the crowd, shoving a raucous man out of the way. Ace ran up behind the biker, wrenching his arm, knocking the knife to the floor. He hit the biker in the jaw, the blow causing the bandana to fly from the man’s head.
In an instant, Cooter Johnson swept the knife off the floor, charging for Ace.
Jesse shook his head, vision returning. He pulled up his pants leg, drawing the pistol from the holster. He fired a round into the ceiling. Dust and a piece of black tile fell. The crowd was silent, people backing away, the warm air smelling of beer and blood. Jesse stood on wobbly legs, pointing the pistol at Johnson. “Drop the knife!”
Johnson tilted his head, glaring. “You gonna shoot me in front of all these witnesses?”
“That’s your choice. But if you don’t lose the knife, I’ll decide for you.”
Johnson released the knife, dropping it to the floor. Jesse said, “I’m giving you a message to take to your grandpa. Tell the old pervert that Jesse Taylor’s back in town, and he’s comin’ to see him. He may not remember me, but he hasn’t forgotten what he did to me at the school for boys. He liked it too much to forget.” Jesse cut his eyes over to Ace. “Let’s go.”
Ace nodded, shoving the biker out of the way. Jesse kept his pistol pointed at Johnson. He ran toward the doors with Ace in the lead, the music changing, CCR belting out Run Through The Jungle.
They opened the door to the cool night air and the blinding spotlights from a half dozen squad cars. A deep southern voice on a bullhorn said, “Police! Drop your weapons! Now! Lie face down on the parking lot. Arms out! You got three seconds!”
TWENTY-NINE
I’d been in the Shorty’s Billiards parking lot, sitting in my Jeep and speaking on the phone with Dave Collins, when it happened. The pool hall must have been just over the city/county line, because I watched a half dozen Jackson County Sheriff’s squad cars pour into the parking lot followed by two Marianna police cruisers. Deputies and officers drew weapons, advancing toward the building. Spotlights trained on the door when two men stepped into the light. I recognized one of them immediately—only because Jesse Taylor had left a description of himself. ‘If you come by, I’m wearin’ a black T-shirt and a LA Dodgers ball cap.’
And there he was. Standing in the harsh wash of intense light from the SWAT team. He wore a Dodger’s cap and black T-shirt that read: Harry’s Beach Bar – St Pete, FL. He had blood on the front of his neck. Some had soaked into his T-shirt. He dropped a small pistol and stood next to another m
an—a large man. Military haircut. Both men held their hands up, blinking in the bright light, trying to see beyond the moving silhouettes with weapons drawn. A deputy shouted, “Lie down! Arms and legs spread!”
“What’s happening, Sean?” Dave asked.
“I think I just found Jesse Taylor.”
“Where?”
“Lying face down in the parking lot of a pool hall. He’s with another guy. It’s a SWAT assault. Police are surrounding them both. An arrest is definitely going down. Looks like my meeting with Taylor will be postponed.”
A deputy wearing a bulletproof vest shouted to the men, “You’re under arrest! Don’t move! Bag his gun, Derek.”
Dave said, “I could hear that. Stay low. Sit tight, Sean. Whatever Jesse Taylor has just stepped into has the trappings of a small town setup. What has he done to justify a SWAT assault? He told you he was dropping by the bar to shoot a game or two of billiards. The question is…who’d he play against? What was at stake? What happened in there?”
“Don’t know. I do know that Jesse Taylor was carrying a pistol in his right hand. He followed orders from the deputies and tossed the weapon. Talk with you later.” I disconnected, lowered the diver’s side window on my Jeep and watched them take down Jesse Taylor and the other man. They brought the men to their feet, handcuffed and dirty from lying facedown in a parking lot. The officers holstered their guns, the crackle of police radios echoing off the small building now splashed in a shower of blue, red, and white emergency lights.
I watched the proceedings from the shadows in my Jeep, close enough to hear, yet not to be in the way. A woman, maybe she was the bartender, and a fortyish man I figured was the manager—perhaps Shorty—poked their heads out of the door. An officer waved them outside and questioned them. Two more officers entered the bar. Jesse Taylor looked up at the moon and blew a sharp breath from his cheeks.
A tall man dressed in a sports coat, tie loosened, walked from an unmarked car around the officers. I saw him pull one aside, speaking in hushed tones. Then he approached the officer next to the manager and bartender, speaking briefly, questioning the manager. The tall man, a detective no doubt, nodded, not taking his eyes off the men in handcuffs. I could tell from his body language he was familiar with at least one of the two men. I assumed it was probably the guy with the gym body and military haircut.
