by Dan Ames
The great thing about his background, however, was that Dawkins hadn’t only been trained in the ring. In fact, he’d grown up on the streets and learned the ins and outs of fighting the hard way.
Namely, by getting his ass kicked constantly.
So, when Middle Brother came at him, head down, arms outstretched to tackle him, Dawkins used a little bit of a Muay Thai technique. He sprung forward and brought his knee up with as much force as possible.
He didn’t time it perfectly, however, and instead of catching the attacker under the chin, it arrived too early, scraped up the man’s lips and smashed into his nose, ripping the cartilage loose and sending a spray of blood into the air.
He kept coming, though, and crashed into Dawkins, sending both of them to the ground.
Dawkins knew he only had a split second to escape or he’d have a combined weight of five hundred pounds on top of him, ready to pulverize him.
He rolled to the right, out from under the body of the dazed middle brother, and started to get to his feet. Someone from the crowd punched him in the back of the neck and it momentarily caused him to shift his weight, which ended up being a good thing because the first brother was now in front of him, throwing a straight right that missed its mark because of the punch from behind.
Too many cooks in the kitchen, Dawkins thought.
The blow caught the side of Billy’s neck and part of his ear, glancing off the corner of the rear jaw.
Still, it straightened him up and he felt his first flash of pain.
The blood rage was in him now, and he forgot about his age, the setting and what might happen afterward.
Now, he wanted to destroy.
He bent at the knees and threw his own straight right directly into the first brother’s midsection.
A beautiful body blow that stunned his opponent, who instinctively lowered his arms, which was what Dawkins had hoped he would do.
This gave him the perfect window of opportunity to throw a short left that landed on the button and made Brother #1 lift his arms back up.
Dawkins responded with a perfectly thrown right hook that was loaded with the kind of explosive power that had earned him his nickname.
He felt the man’s ribs crack and he knew he’d broken more than one. The man went to his knees so Dawkins repeated the same punch, except now it nearly took his opponent’s head right off.
By now, the middle brother was back on his feet, his face and chest covered in blood from a nose that was barely hanging onto his face.
Dawkins smiled and advanced on him. He’d forgotten how much he loved to fight and now, he was thoroughly enjoying being back in the ring.
Fear covered the man’s face. Both of his brothers were out of it, and he was now facing a man who had a reputation as pound for pound the hardest hitting boxer who’d ever graced the canvas.
Dawkins could tell he wanted out, but there was no way out, for either one of them.
First Dawkins jabbed, a feint that caused the man to duck just in time for a beautiful uppercut that connected squarely under the chin. In the room, which had gone suddenly very quiet once again, it sounded like a poleax crashing into the skull of a cow.
Ten years ago, that would have been the end of the fight, Dawkins knew. As vicious as his punches still were, they weren’t of the quality from his glory days.
He stepped in and threw a combination of punches, the last one being a roundhouse right that knocked the man out on his feet.
Dawkins’s last opponent was swaying on his feet and Billy knew it would take one easy punch to finish it.
So instead, he kicked him in the balls.
Hey, no rules in this kind of fight.
Dawkins had decided that clowns like this forfeited their right to breed.
Down in the dirt he went and Dawkins turned to the crowd.
He was sweating and his breath was coming quickly. But he had never stopped training, and now it had paid off.
He caught the eye of Darnell, who was approaching him from the corner of the ring.
Instead of the giant revolver in his hand, he had a metal rod of some sort.
“Who’s next?” Dawkins asked.
He was warmed up, and angry, and the blood thirst was in him.
Darnell jabbed him with the end of the rod, which Dawkins realized too late was a cattle prod.
Fifty thousand volts went through him and he sagged to the ground. The last thing he saw was all of the men converging on him, cracking their knuckles.
Darnell smiled and the last thing Dawkins heard was the answer to his question.
“All of us,” he said.
Chapter Eighteen
“Just kidding,” the woman said. “You’re not under arrest.”
She stuck out her hand. “Maddie Burfict.”
Ellen was struck by the woman’s physique. She must have been a bodybuilder because even through the police uniform, never the most flattering attire, Ellen could make out the serious muscles. Arms, legs, even the cords in her neck looked impressive.
“Ellen Rockne.”
“You sure are,” Officer Burfict said. “I got a sneak peek at the people who they’re considering for chief, and you popped right out at me. I couldn’t imagine a woman being the chief of Police in Good Isle.”
Burfict smiled, revealing a perfect set of very white teeth, which seemed even brighter because of the tan skin. Had to be a tanning booth in Good Isle, Ellen thought.
Ellen didn’t care for the message the woman was conveying, though. “I’m sure there are a lot of people who couldn’t imagine a female police chief, they probably said the same thing about letting women vote.”
Burfict cocked her head to the side. “I think I might like you.”
A couple emerged from the restaurant behind them and did a double take when they saw a police officer. Ellen wondered if they were hoping they’d see an arrest. Maybe two women fighting it out on the street would be their free, evening entertainment.
“Because I like you, I hope you don’t get the job,” Burfict said. “Sorry to be blunt. But it’s more like babysitting than actual police work. Not like down in Grosse Pointe. You get a lot of spillover action from Detroit, right?”
“I guess it depends what you mean by spillover action. What is that?”
“You know, guns, drugs, murder. That kind of thing.”
Ellen studied the woman before her a bit more closely. She had a strong jaw, smooth skin that was flawless, and light brown hair. Her eyes were dark and wide, and when she spoke, her thin lips only parted slightly.
This was a woman who cared a great deal about her appearance. And it showed.
“Oh, Grosse Pointe has long stretches of boredom, too,” Ellen said evenly. “And that’s the way most Grosse Pointers like it.”
“Yeah, but do the cops like it?”
“Most of the officers in my department have families,” Ellen explained. “Their kids go to Grosse Pointe schools, so I would say yes. They prefer to have a quiet, safe community.”
Officer Burfict blew a big, pink bubble and let it pop.
Ellen hadn’t even realized the woman was chewing gum.
“I’m probably over exaggerating how quiet it is here,” Burfict said. “Occasionally we get some crazy shit going on, mostly from the areas east of here. Meth dealers. Weed growers. A few militia members. Actually, one of the militia guys is pretty well-connected. John Harrison probably already knows who the committee is considering for chief of police. Hell, he probably knows who you are.”
This woman is interesting, Ellen thought. What was she saying? That the head of a criminal militia had a file on her? Trying to scare her away?
“Well, I’ve gotta run, I’m on duty,” Burfict said. She stuck out her hand and Ellen shook it. This time, the cop gave it an extra firm squeeze.
It felt like a vice grip to Ellen.
“Good luck, maybe I’ll see you around up here,” Burfict said.
“Yeah, we’ll see
,” Ellen answered.
Officer Burfict got back in her squad car and cruised past Ellen, giving a little wave as she went by.
What was that all about?
Ellen figured that Maddie Burfict had spent time scouring Good Isle to see if she could meet up with the woman who was being considered for chief of police and could potentially be her new boss. She had probably driven out to the resort, and then figured Ellen would come downtown in the evening where she could accidentally “bump into” her. Say hello, maybe scare her off? Or just check her out?
Ellen decided the best approach would be to go into the restaurant, take a seat at the bar and consider it some more over a dirty martini.
She did just that and was offered a high-top table to the right of the main bar.
It was quiet, only three other people in the bar. Two of them constituted a couple who looked like they were about to head into the restaurant area and wolf down some fried fish. The third person was a single man with thick black hair and a matching beard. He had on a Hawaiian shirt, jeans and flip flops. Probably late thirties or early forties. Ellen knew he had used the mirror behind the bar to watch her come in.
Ellen slid her cell phone out from her purse and dialed John.
“Good thing you called,” he said before she could even get a word out. “Someone just fired a gun.”
“Probably deer hunters.”
“Mm, I don’t think so. It sounds like it came from the backyard of Don White’s house. He used to be Dynamite’s manager. I’m going to check it out.”
“Don’t get shot.”
“I’ll try not to. No promises, though.”
“Have you heard of Michigan’s militia movement?” Ellen asked.
“This isn’t a great time, Ellen.”
“I know, but I’ve got something for you.”
“Okay, hold on.”
Ellen heard a car door shut.
“All right, I’m in my car. Go ahead.”
“Michigan militias.”
“Sure, everyone knows Michigan is home to crazy-ass guys who love going into the woods with guns and want nothing to do with the government,” John said. “Except at the cherry festivals, then they come in and eat cherry pie all day.”
“Well, I just heard that the local militia is run by a guy named John Harrison. Apparently, he’s got his finger on the pulse of Good Isle and knows what everyone’s doing all the time.”
“Does he know I’m wearing pink silk underwear right now?”
Ellen pulled the phone away from her ear and looked at it. Finally, she returned it to her ear.
“You are getting stranger and stranger the more you age,” she said.
“Thank you. You said John Harrison is his name?”
“Yeah.”
“And you’re telling me this just in case my other leads on Dynamite Dawkins go nowhere.”
“Yes.”
“Okay, duly noted. Now I have to go see somebody about a gunshot.”
Ellen glanced up and saw the guy at the bar was coming toward her table.
“That’s right, I’m out on parole for the weekend,” she said quite loudly into the phone, even though John had already hung up. “And then it’s back in the slammer on Monday.”
The man from the bar adjusted course and walked past her, detouring to the men’s room.
Ellen smiled, drained the rest of her martini, and paid her bill.
She walked out into the early evening.
It had been enough fun for one night.
Good night, Good Isle.
Chapter Nineteen
I disconnected from the call with Ellen and got out of the minivan.
There was no doubt in my mind the shot was from behind the house. I walked up the driveway, went to the right of the home, and followed the drive back toward the garage, which wasn’t attached but was still done in the style of the main home.
As I walked, I thought about the possibility of getting shot. No two ways about it, I didn’t want to get shot.
Bullets and John Rockne don’t mix well.
I’d found that out the hard way.
Now, I passed the bulk of the house, peeking in one of the windows and recognized a beautiful, gleaming kitchen.
No one was inside, though.
As I rounded the corner of the house, the first thing I noticed was the pool. It was huge, with one long lane running down the middle, opening up into an extended area at the other end. My guess is someone wanted the luxury of swimming a true Olympic length pool, so they’d built the pool to accommodate that wish.
You’d have to swim through the party end of the pool, but I figured it was the owner who’d requested it and the guests would probably get the hell out of the way.
The second thing that appeared was a man dressed in a tiny swimming suit, holding a shotgun, while a woman threw clay pigeons into the air.
“Pull!” he shouted.
The woman, with skin the color of flawless ebony countered by her hot pink bikini, threw the clay pigeon into the air.
The man blasted it out of the sky, and I noticed that when the shotgun recoiled, the man’s blubbery body seemed to ripple with the blast. This was the kind of man whose body should never sport a tiny swimming suit.
He needed some of those huge surfer shorts and a baggy T-shirt.
But this? It wasn’t a pretty sight.
“Pull!”
The gun boomed.
“Pull!”
The gun boomed again.
“Pull!”
The gun went click.
“19 for 20!” the man bellowed. “Shit, I was on fire!”
“You sure were, Daddy,” the black woman in the bikini said. “Your shit was on fire!”
She went up to him and gave him a huge kiss and their tongues wrestled in each other’s mouths for a full thirty seconds before the woman noticed me standing there.
She winked at me, peeled herself away from the man and took a running dive into the swimming pool.
The man must have sensed my presence because he turned, and I inadvertently flinched as the end of the shotgun was briefly pointing at me.
“Who the hell are you?” he asked.
I walked tentatively closer to him. He looked even bigger and fatter the closer I got.
“John Rockne. I’m looking for Don White.”
The man dropped the shotgun to the ground, which seemed incredibly careless and dangerous. Not exactly the picture of gun safety.
“What for?” he said.
He walked over to a table by the edge of the pool and picked up a glass of brown liquor. Probably scotch if I had to guess.
I got a good look at him and he was a big man, his face florid, with white hair tied back into a small pony tail. He had thin legs, topped by a huge, overhanging torso. A gold chain hung down into his gray, curly chest hair.
“I have some questions about Billy Dynamite Dawkins.”
“Dynamite Dawkins? Is he still alive?”
He smiled and his teeth were yellow and crooked. Probably a cigar smoker.
“I believe so, yes,” I answered.
“Who the hell is John Rockne?” he asked me. “Never heard of you.”
“I’m from Grosse Pointe. Just a big fan of Dynamite’s and I know you used to be his manager.”
“If you’re one of them memorabilia leeches, I don’t have any of his shit. No one does. The guy’s old news, washed up, never got a shot at the title.”
He scoffed.
“So you are Don White, correct?” I asked.
“No, I’m Captain Kangaroo,” he snarled at me. “Of course I am! Christ, are you stupid?”
The black woman was swimming laps and I watched her arms slice through the water with power and precision.
“You look like a reporter,” he said to me, his voice full of suspicion. “Are you a reporter?”
White’s eyes looked at me with anger and derision.
“No, I’m a private investigator.”
“Just a concerned friend, that’s all. Have you see him?”
“I haven’t spoken to him in years,” White said. “We had a falling out because he’s a giant asshole. Tried to rip me off but I’ve got some good lawyers. If you do find him, tell him I hope he rots in hell.”
“Do you know anyone who would want to hurt him?” I asked. “Or who had a beef with him?” And then I added, “Besides you.”
“Jesus Christ, everyone did! People lost tons of money betting on him. I worked my ass off for that jerk and then he bailed on me. Backed out of a huge fight. Cost me a fortune.”
White stuck his hand inside his swimming suit and scratched himself. I suddenly wanted to throw up.
“Detached retina, wasn’t it?” I asked. “That’s why Dawkins retired?”
“That pussy was detached from his balls, more like it,” White said.
The black woman in the pool cackled.
White smiled at her.
“Like that one, Kezie?”
“I did, Daddy. That was funny as shit!”
White got up, went over to the shotgun and picked it up. He loaded more shells into the shotgun and then again carelessly pointed it in my direction.
“Goodbye, Mr. Rockne.”
I backed away and made it back to my minivan before I heard the shotgun blast again.
“Pull!”
Chapter Twenty
By the time I made it back to Good Isle, it was late and I thought about going to the hotel bar for a drink, but decided otherwise.
I texted Anna, and considered meeting them at their Sesame Street show, but she replied that they were on their way back.
That meant I had enough time to get back to the room and check my email. There was nothing of interest there and I was reading an article about Don White when Anna and the girls piled in.
We spent the next hour or so listening to the girls recounting and re-enacting their favorite parts of the show.
I didn’t think they’d ever sleep, but eventually it was lights out, and Anna was the first one asleep. I ended up dreaming about diving into Don White’s pool only to be shot by a shotgun in mid-air and landing in my own pool of blood.
