Gnosis

by Tom Wallace

  “It’s pure fiction. But good fiction-smart, wise, the kind that places a lesson and a moral inside a marvelously told tale.”

  “And what is that lesson?”

  “Bad things can happen when you disobey or defy orders.”

  “So, Adam and Eve weren’t sinners in your judgment, right?”

  “They were disobedient children, nothing more.”

  Laurie laughed. “Am I safe in assuming that Detective Jack Dantzler would not arrest Adam and Eve?”

  “What law did they break? None. They ate a damn apple, that’s all. Nope. If I arrested anyone, it would be God. For mass murder. You do remember the great flood, don’t you? When every man, woman, child, and animal on Earth was killed? Except, of course, for Noah and his gang. I’d love to get God in the interrogation room and query him about that particular act of madness. See what his answer would be.”

  “Well, while you’re drawing up your list of questions and readying the polygraph machine, I’m going to bed.” Laurie kissed him on the lips. “You are more than welcome to join me. Just understand that sex will have to suffice. I will offer no answers to the great mysteries haunting you. Not those concerning Eli, not those concerning God. This is my final offer. Take it or leave it.”

  Dantzler finished his drink and stood. “I’ll take it.”

  “Excellent. Now let’s see how much sin we can commit.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Ten-forty. The Camry, a rental from Avis, needed to be returned before midnight or else he would be charged for another day. No sense wasting good money when you don’t have to. Anyway, nothing was going to happen tonight. He’d known this the instant the good-looking chick showed up an hour or so ago. Her unexpected arrival quashed any plans he had.

  The man had come with a single purpose in mind-to kill Jack Dantzler-and that simply couldn’t happen now. No way. Taking out a second victim-another cop at that-would be doubly difficult to pull off, and it would create a whole new set of problems. He was certain the woman wasn’t going anywhere. Around ten-fifteen, Dantzler’s house went dark, except for a single light, probably from the bedroom, and that could only mean one thing-she was staying the night. When the light went out a few moments later, the man closed the book on eliminating Dantzler tonight.

  He sat low in the front seat, a dark baseball cap pulled down over his eyes, and thought about things. About how the best plans can get screwed up at the last instant. How things rarely go as planned. An hour ago, he was all but certain that killing Dantzler was a done deal. He’d have gladly given any taker twenty-to-one odds it would happen. But things change, alternatives have to be mapped out, contingencies considered. Sometimes you improvise, sometimes you punt. What you never do is make a mistake. Being careful, smart, patient-those were critical elements, and he possessed them in great quantities. He had to have them to do the things he’d done and still be a free man.

  Still be alive.

  He had turned onto Dantzler’s street at dusk, just ahead of a pop-up shower lasting maybe ten minutes, parked two hundred feet past the house, on the opposite side of the street. His plan was to wait until total darkness-a cloudy sky blanketing the moon would add to his cover-then go to Dantzler’s house. Dantzler, like any smart cop, would be wary of an unexpected late-night visitor. He’d want to know who the visitor was, and what purpose the visitor had for being there. The man would say he was there with information relating to the Eli Whitehouse case. Upon hearing that, Dantzler wouldn’t hesitate to open the door.

  The man would step inside,.38 with a silencer in his right hand concealed behind his back, and wait until Dantzler closed the door. When Dantzler turned around, the man would shoot him point blank in the heart. Then, for insurance, he would put a bullet in Dantzler’s brain. After that, he would remove two graying hairs from a small plastic bag and put them on Dantzler’s body, most likely on his shirt, where the crime scene folks were sure to find them. When they did, and when they ran the hairs for DNA, the name of a loser with a long criminal history would pop up, and he would be arrested for Dantzler’s murder.

  Killing a cop was always risky business. He’d killed two in his past life, and with each one the heat came fast and hard. You had to be extra careful when rubbing out a man who carried a shield, especially a cop with Dantzler’s status and reputation. The boys and girls in blue don’t like it when one of their own gets blown away. When it does happen, they are prepared to track a suspect into the gates of hell if that’s what it takes to put the bastard away.

  Risky, yes, but in this case absolutely necessary. He had to shift the focus away from the Eli Whitehouse case, and taking out Dantzler would make that happen. Hell, the entire Lexington police force, not just the Homicide guys, would stop whatever they were doing and concentrate solely on catching Dantzler’s murderer. They’d vacate the police holy of holies-Dunkin’ Donuts-to track down a cop killer. Eli Whitehouse, whose case meant nothing to anyone but Dantzler, would get lost in the shuffle, and with Dantzler out of the way, no one would give a damn about Eli or the case.

  He’d be home free.

  Only two other people knew the whole story, the truth about him and the murders. One was soon to die, and the other was bound to silence, knowing a slip of the tongue would result in catastrophic consequences for a number of innocent people. There was no way that was going to happen.

  He started the car and slowly drove down the street, past expensive houses where innocent people lived safe lives, unfamiliar and unconcerned with the kind of evil he could unleash. He smiled, cool and calm, like always. Things didn’t work out tonight like he’d planned, but there would be other nights. He would bide his time, wait until the right moment, then strike. And when he did make his move, the outcome would not be in doubt.

  Jack Dantzler would be dead.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  A low pressure front, arriving from the west a little before daybreak, brought a steady rain accompanied by thunder and lightning. The TV weather folks predicted a brief stay for the front, saying it would move through well before noon, followed by bright sunshine. Unfortunately, the front didn’t get the memo. Judging by those gray clouds extending from horizon to horizon, the rain was here to stay.

  Dantzler lumbered out of bed at seven, careful not to wake Laurie on her day off, showered, dressed, and headed to Coyle’s for a light breakfast. As Dantzler was finishing his meal of toast, eggs, bacon and orange juice, Randall Dennis, a long-time friend and frequent tennis foe, came into the restaurant wearing his accustomed frown. Spotting Dantzler, Dennis’s frown quickly gave way to a huge grin. After carefully navigating a maze of customers, waitresses and tables, he made it to Dantzler’s booth without incident.

  “How about we bang the little yellow ball around tonight?” Dennis said, sliding into the booth. “I’m feeling good about my game now. Tonight could be the night I break through… take a set from you.”

  “Randall, you’ve been ‘breaking through’ for twenty years. Fact is, you couldn’t take a set from me if I played you left-handed. You need to give up that quest and move on to something more attainable, because you are never gonna beat me.”

  “You cocky so-and-so. I’d sell my soul to Lucifer this very instant if it meant beating your ass.”

  “Lucifer’s evil, but he’s not stupid,” Dantzler said, standing and patting Dennis on the shoulder. “He’s not about to climb aboard your ship.”

  “It’s going to happen, Jack. One of these days I’ll surprise you. Just wait and see.”

  “Keep dreaming, Randall. Keep dreaming.”

  *****

  Before leaving Coyle’s, Dantzler phoned Milt at the office and told him to be at the front entrance of the police station in five minutes. When Dantzler pulled up, Milt streaked for the car, using a soggy newspaper as an umbrella. Once in the car, he shook his head like an old dog, splattering water in all directions.

  “Damn monsoon,” he said, wiping water from his face. “Reminds me
of Nam. Over there we got shit like this twenty-four hours a day for three solid months. That was some serious rain.”

  “Dan said the rainy season was a blessing. Said you did less fighting when the monsoons hit.”

  “Yeah, that’s a fact.” Milt rolled up the newspaper and laid it on the backseat floorboard. “Where are we going?”

  “To talk with Johnny Richards.”

  “Oh, yeah, Colt’s no-show pal. Almost forgot about him. What’s his story, anyway?”

  “Don’t know, really. That’s why we need to talk to him.”

  “What does he do for a living?”

  “He owns a small bar-Johnny’s Tavern-in the Meadowthorpe Shopping Center.”

  “Where, exactly, in Meadowthorpe?”

  “I don’t know. Somewhere between the restaurant on one end of the strip and the liquor store on the other end. In the middle.”

  “Huh. You know, me and Dan used to hang out at a dinky little joint in Meadowthorpe. This was back in the late seventies, early eighties. But damn if I remember it as Johnny’s Tavern. Back then it went by another name. What the hell was it? Oh, yeah, now I remember. Sneaky Pete’s. Little wop named Pete Marconi owned it. Small as a turd, mean as a snake. I suppose that’s why me and Dan were so fond of him.”

  “For cops, you guys did tend to bond with a lot of shady characters.”

  Milt laughed. “You know, Dan clocked a guy coming out of that liquor store one night. The guy, totally shitfaced, recognized Dan from somewhere. Knew Dan was a cop. Anyway, the stupid hillbilly walks up and gets in Dan’s face, cussing, spitting, threatening like crazy. At some point, he made the mistake of pushing Dan. Now, Dan had a six pack of Bud in his right hand at the time, and he wasn’t about to drop the beer. Rule number one is, you never drop the alcohol, no matter the circumstances. So Dan came around with a perfect left hook to the poor slob’s chin. Bang, down he went, like he’d been shot. Out cold. Dan just looked at me and laughed and said something like, ‘wonder what his problem was?’ A great moment, one of many we had together.”

  “You guys were a rowdy pair,” Dantzler said. “Rich says it’s a miracle you didn’t end up dead.”

  “Ah, shit, Rich doesn’t know the half of it. Hell, me and Dan were crazy and fearless. That can be a deadly combination.” Milt turned serious. “When I think of the stunts we pulled, the dangerous situations we put ourselves in, the women we chased, half of them married, and then I look at a kid like Scott, how young and innocent and conservative he is, I can’t decide whether to be proud or ashamed to still be walking upright. I do know we were awfully lucky to come through it all unscathed.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  The Meadowthorpe Center was less than three miles from downtown Lexington, on the right, going out Leestown Road. It consisted of a straight row of small businesses housed in old buildings, none of which exuded a hint of glamour or newness. The lack of modernity and present-day charm didn’t seem to be a hindrance to the various businesses or those folks living in the Meadowthorpe neighborhood. The locals kept the businesses alive and thriving.

  The restaurant and liquor store served as bookends for the row of businesses. In between were a used book store, an antique shop, ice cream parlor, pool room, real estate office, and a clothing consignment store. Johnny’s Tavern was located squarely in the middle.

  “Yep, that used to be Sneaky Pete’s place,” Milt said. “Except for the name change, it looks exactly like it did back when me and Dan frequented the joint.”

  Joint was an appropriate term for describing Johnny’s Tavern. The place was small, consisting of a bar with half-dozen stools, four round tables and three vinyl-covered booths. With no windows and very little, if any, obvious ventilation, the smell of cigarette smoke and body odor clung to the walls and ceiling like an extra coat of paint. An ancient jukebox, wedged between the bar and the first booth, looked as though it probably hadn’t worked since Sinatra was wooing the bobby-socks crowd back in the 1940s.

  A pair of old geezers sat at one end of the bar, each one nursing a mixed drink. Not yet eleven a.m. and they were already on the road to alcohol oblivion. A lone man sat at the opposite end of the bar, pencil in one hand, punching numbers on a calculator with his other hand, and what appeared to be a ledger book spread out in front of him.

  The woman behind the bar had just finished slicing lemons into small pieces and was about to do the same to several limes. She was on the verge of moving from middle-age to senior citizen, with straw colored hair, thin lips, penciled eyebrows, and easily the biggest bosom Dantzler and Milt had ever seen.

  “What are you having, gentlemen?” she said, her voice surprisingly warm and friendly.

  Dantzler held up his shield. “We would like to speak with Johnny Richards. Any chance he’s here?”

  The man at the end of the bar closed his account book and stood up. “I’m Johnny Richards. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m Detective Jack Dantzler, this is Detective Milt Brewer. If you have a couple of minutes, we would like to ask you a few questions.”

  “No problem. I have a small office in the back where we can talk in private, or we can do it out here. Your call.”

  “Out here will be fine.” Dantzler nodded toward the table nearest the front door. “How about the table over there?”

  He and Milt sat first, joined moments later by Richards, who remained standing.

  “You guys want something to drink?” Richards asked. “Coke, ginger ale, club soda?”

  “We’re good,” Dantzler answered.

  “You sure? I’m getting a Coke, and I’ll be more than happy to get you something.”

  Dantzler shook his head, keeping his eyes on Richards, who walked behind the bar, shoveled ice into a glass, and filled it with Coke. He whispered something to the big-bosom bartender, triggering a smile from her, before heading back to the table where Dantzler and Milt were seated.

  Richards was, Dantzler guessed, in his mid to late forties, although he might be slightly younger. He looked to be in excellent shape, whatever his age. More wiry than thin, he was one of those lucky guys who could probably eat a ton of food and drink buckets of beer and never gain an ounce. His hair was dark brown, with a scattering of gray around the sides, and his eyes were quick and alert.

  Dantzler sized him up as a smart guy who didn’t miss much. He also figured him to be a guy who, if backed into a corner, knew how to take care of himself.

  “So, Detective,” Richards said, addressing Dantzler, “what questions do you have for me?”

  Before Dantzler could answer, Milt jumped in.

  “How long have you had this place?” he asked, looking around. “I used to come here when it was known as Sneaky Pete’s.”

  “I bought it from Pete in nineteen-eighty. October.”

  “You sure about that? I was here after ’eighty and it was still Sneaky Pete’s.”

  “Pete wouldn’t sell me the place unless I made him two promises. First, he got five percent of the gross straight off the top, and, second, the place retained the Sneaky Pete name until his death. He died in ’eighty-eight. That’s when I changed the name.”

  “Where are you from?” Dantzler said. “I can tell by your accent you’re not from around here.”

  “Chicago.”

  “What brought a Windy City boy to Lexington, Kentucky?”

  “Opportunity. I was bouncing around, tending bar at several Chicago watering holes, going nowhere fast, when I had a chance to buy this place. I’d saved a little money, not nearly enough to buy a bar, but I had one of those lucky breaks that come along at just the right time. An uncle of mine made some serious money playing the stock market, and he was crazy enough to back my venture. I’d still be in Chicago working God knows where if it weren’t for him.”

  “Thirty years owning a bar-that's a long life in this business,” Dantzler said. “You must be doing all right.”

  “This place is too small for me to ever get rich, but I d
o okay,” Richards said. “We’re essentially a neighborhood bar, so we have a solid core of regulars. We treat them right and they keep us going. Works out good for everyone.”

  “How well did you know Colt Rogers?” Dantzler said.

  “Very well. He was a close friend. He’s also the reason why I ended up in Lexington.”

  “If he was such a close friend,” Milt interjected, “how come you weren’t at his visitation and didn’t attend his funeral?”

  “I don’t much care for funeral homes or funeral services,” Richards said. “Too damn depressing. I prefer to remember someone as they were when they were alive and vibrant, not when they look like a wax dummy in a coffin.”

  Dantzler said, “Was Colt your attorney?”

  “Unoffically, I suppose. He wasn’t on a retainer, but if I had a legal issue or legal question, he was always available to help.”

  “You said he was the reason why you ended up here. How did that come about?”

  “I met him at the ’seventy-nine Kentucky Derby. I’d come down with my uncle and several of his friends, all of whom were pretty big high rollers. One of those guys was acquainted with Colt. We sat at his table and watched the race. The great Spectacular Bid captured the roses that year. At some point during the day, Colt and I got to talking. It didn’t take him long to figure out I was the poor guy at the table. He asked me what I did for a living and what would I like to do. The only thing I knew was bartending, so I told him I’d like to have my own place. About a year later, he called to let me know this place was on the market. I came down, met with Colt, and we got together with Pete. He laid down his terms, which I thought were way beyond my means. However, when I told my uncle about it, he just said, ‘okay, kid, if you want it, and if you’ll work at it, I’ll give you the cash.’ I took over in October, nineteen-eighty. Been here ever since.”