Body Blow

by Dan Ames

  The next morning, I was back at the investigation, hoping that something would break loose because Anna and the girls were going to have to head back to Grosse Pointe, which meant I would need to get a hotel room and pay for it, as well as a rental car.

  It wasn’t going to be easy to find the local militia.

  How does one go about it?

  It’s not like they have an army base with a guard at the gate. What I was fairly certain of was that most guys in a militia didn’t do it as a full-time job. Therefore, they had to earn their paychecks somewhere.

  I suspected John Harrison wasn’t any different.

  At first, I thought I had gotten lucky and it was going to be easy. There was a Harrison Hardware store smack dab in the middle of Good Isle. I left the resort after breakfast, went directly to the store and asked to speak with John Harrison.

  Turns out the store had nothing to do with John Harrison.

  Even worse, the person I spoke to, a young man with a goatee and a Detroit Lions baseball cap, seemed to have very little interest in telling me where I might be able to find him. The only reason that asking seemed like a good idea was that with Good Isle being a small town, they had to occasionally have been asked if they were related to “that” John Harrison.

  Next stop was the public library. Easy option first. I went to the information desk and asked for information on John Harrison, head of the local militia.

  The old lady, quite pretty in a blue sweater and crisp khaki pants, looked at me with an odd expression.

  Next option, not so easy.

  The local papers had to have written a news story on the local militia. It was always required, at least once a year, to check in with the crazies and see what they were up to.

  I signed up for Internet usage, and logged into a special database of collated news stories and searched using John Harrison’s name and keywords like Michigan, militia, right-wing, Good Isle, soldiers, and so on.

  Eventually, I found what I was looking for.

  An article by the main paper in Traverse City, which was south of Good Isle, covering the rise of a small but reportedly powerful group called the Good Isle Militia. The story referenced John Harrison, owner of Good Furniture, a builder of custom furniture with a shop located on the outskirts of Good Isle, along Highway 31.

  I wondered how many businesses in the area used the same trick with the name.

  Good Groceries.

  Good Sperm Bank.

  Good Roach Killers.

  I checked my watch, estimated how long it would take me to get to Good Furniture and sent Anna a text. I figured I had just enough time to drive out and talk to Mr. Harrison, that is, if he wasn’t out in the woods trying to plan the attack on Grand Rapids.

  That way, I could get back to the resort and figure out if Anna was taking the van and I was going to stay in Good Isle and continue my efforts to find Billy “Dynamite” Dawkins.

  Out of the library, back on the road.

  It was a gray day, overcast, with occasional splatters of rain. It did nothing to diminish the beauty of the place, though. The rolling hills and occasional steep bluff were shrouded in clouds, making the geography feel like a bit of Ireland come to the Midwest.

  I had to use the van’s wipers occasionally, and I drove by the furniture store twice before I finally found it.

  It wasn’t really a store as much as a garage. I pulled off the highway, after finally spotting the Good Furniture sign, and parked. It was literally a detached garage, with a farmhouse set back from the road.

  I heard the sound of saws and caught a whiff of sawdust. A rocking chair with narrow spindles sat just outside the door.

  As I stepped up to the entrance, I checked the price tag on the chair.

  Seven hundred bucks.

  It all depended if it was handmade. If so, that wasn’t a bad price. If it was assembled using a bunch of prefabricated chunks of inferior wood or particleboard? Not so much.

  I stepped into the room and saw stacks of wood, half-finished projects, and a big shelf with an assortment of stains and varnishes. A clock hung over the desk with the words “Got Wood?”

  Great question.

  A man shut off the table saw in back, and I saw him take off his safety goggles.

  He walked up toward me and he looked like a young Harrison Ford. Tall, rangy, good-looking.

  There was a twinkle in his eye and he smiled at me.

  “You must be John Rockne,” he said.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “So it’s true,” I said.

  Harrison smiled at me, knowing where I was going with it.

  “You do know everything that goes on in Good Isle,” I said, repeating what Ellen had told me, that the head of the local militia was better informed than the area news organizations.

  Harrison wiped a thin line of sweat that was beading up along his forehead. Apparently building furniture was hard work.

  “Oh that’s, what do you call it, an urban myth,” he said. “Although, using the word ‘urban’ in Good Isle seems a little incongruous.”

  Now it was my turn to be surprised. I figured Harrison was going to be an up-north shitkicker. He seemed well-spoken and intelligent.

  “Looks like you’ve got some beautiful stuff here,” I said, looking around his showroom. “I knew someone who used to build guitars from logs that had sunk to the bottom of Lake Michigan.”

  He nodded. “Beautiful stuff. Problem is, very few people can afford it. A chest of drawers made from that stuff would cost about twenty grand.”

  “Only so many Warren Buffetts in the world,” I pointed out.

  “And Warren Buffett would never buy one. The guy’s worth a billion and still lives in a little three-bedroom house in Omaha.”

  Good Isle was just full of surprises. The head of the local militia was a custom furniture maker and a student of Warren Buffett’s, apparently. You never could judge a book by its cover these days.

  “So how can I help you?” he asked me. “Other than telling you where Dynamite Dawkins is because I have no idea.”

  This time, the smile turned into a laugh.

  “You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?” I asked.

  “Sort of.”

  It gave me pause. Did he know about Dawkins and Lindsey Nordegren? I had to assume so, but I didn’t want to ask him. Besides, it didn’t really matter if he did. The main thing was finding the fighter.

  “Yes, I am trying to find Dynamite Dawkins. Are you sure you don’t know where he is?”

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  “More importantly, do you think your sister will take the job if she’s offered it?” he asked.

  “Jesus Christ!” I practically spit it out. “What are you, clairvoyant?”

  “It’s a small town, man. People talk.”

  “What are they saying about Dynamite Dawkins?”

  It was an obvious ploy to get the conversation back to the topic at hand. I needed to find Dawkins and get him in touch with Lindsey Nordegren. That way I could get paid and get back to my life in Grosse Pointe. As much as I enjoyed the north woods, I couldn’t spend the next month here.

  Harrison nodded toward a pair of chairs near the front of the garage. We each took a seat.

  He looked at me.

  “My Dad told me something once,” he said. “One of the few things he ever said that made sense to me. He told me that the physical act of sex was no different than having a highly satisfying bowel movement.”

  “Wow, that’s romantic,” I said. “You should go work for Hallmark.”

  “He conveyed that nugget of wisdom to me when I was a young man because he’d seen too many people throw their lives away over a couple of hot nights between the sheets with a nimble young woman.”

  “Story of my life,” I said.

  “Seems like some guys never understand that,” Harrison said. He wiped away some of the dust on his jeans. “Even when they’re not young anymore.”

&n
bsp; He looked up at me to make sure I understood he was talking about Dynamite Dawkins and Lindsay Nordegren. So he knew about them, too.

  I was about to ask him another question when we both heard a loud vehicle pull up to the entrance of the shop.

  Harrison looked out to see who it was.

  Well, I had my answer.

  He certainly did know about Dawkins and Lindsey. Hell, the whole town probably knew about it. That discussion at Beau’s house, in retrospect, seemed ridiculous. Trying to keep a secret that wasn’t a secret.

  My employers were wasting their time and frankly, it was possibly time to go to the police. I had half a mind to go back to my clients and tell them having me chase down Dawkins secretly was a waste of time, especially since the whole town knew he was going extra rounds with another man’s wife.

  That meant all fingers were pointing at Lindsey’s husband. It was the obvious place to look, which meant I had to confirm that he was actually out of the country like she said.

  A door slammed outside and a guy appeared in the doorway of the shop.

  He was a well-built guy, young, in jeans and a long-sleeved flannel shirt. He had on a cowboy hat and mirrored sunglasses.

  “What’s up?” Harrison asked him.

  The man glanced over at me, or at least I guess he did because I couldn’t see his eyes, but the direction of his head indicated he had looked me over.

  “Same old,” he replied.

  Harrison pointed at me.

  “This is John Rockne,” he said.

  And then he pointed at the new arrival.

  “John, this is Darnell.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Beatings were nothing new to Dynamite Dawkins.

  In fact, it wasn’t until he truly learned how to fight, to properly defend himself, that the ass-kickings had finally stopped.

  And it hadn’t just been learning the mechanics of fighting. How to throw a punch. How to convincingly bluff a jab, or counter a body shot.

  No, even more important had been learning the strategy of a fight.

  To strike first.

  Do the unexpected.

  Show no mercy.

  Those were things he’d had to learn, usually the hard way.

  But before that, well, he’d climbed his way out of unconsciousness to find himself beaten, bloody and battered.

  Just like now.

  The man formerly known as Dynamite was a complete mess.

  He knew it.

  Hell, he could taste it.

  Nothing tasted quite like blood. That metallic, smoky, almost sickly sweet flavor made his stomach turn. Not just because it was blood, but because it was his own.

  He could tell his face was misshapen. His lips were blubbery, his tongue was cut, and his jaw hurt on both sides.

  It wasn’t broken, though.

  He’d had that experience before and so he knew how to judge. Dawkins understood he had taken some vicious blows to the face, but at least the jaw was intact. Having a broken jaw was a devastating injury.

  One eye was partially closed, his nose was possibly broken but he couldn’t be sure without a mirror. For sure, he was having some trouble breathing.

  “Jesus, you sound like gut-shot deer,” a voice said next to him.

  Dawkins slowly rotated his head, which caused shooting pains and a crushing ache from the top of his head all the way down through his body.

  It was Troy. Sitting there with a shit-eating green on his face and holding a can of Mountain Dew.

  The rifle was leaning up against his chair.

  Across the room, a television was on and Dawkins realized Troy was watching the television and his captive at the same time. Hillbilly multi-tasking at its finest.

  “Water,” Dawkins barely managed to say. His voice sounded hoarse and the word was garbled.

  “Yeah, I suppose you need something to wash all that blood down the hatch,” Troy said, and then let out a little giggle.

  He got up and took the rifle with him. When he returned, he had a Camelbak water bottle. He tossed it onto Dawkins’s chest.

  It hurt.

  Dawkins winced and Troy laughed.

  His hands were in cuffs once again, but he was able to lift the bottle and drink. He swirled the water around inside his broken mouth and let some drip onto his face. The cold felt good on what must have been a patchwork of bruises and swelling.

  “Gotta tell you,” Troy said as he sagged back into his chair. “A lotta boys lost money betting on the Carey brothers. No one thought you could take them down. That might be why some of them boys got a little carried away after Darnell zapped you with the cattle prod.”

  Troy giggled again and as much as he hurt, Dawkins would have loved to get his hands on him.

  He forced himself to think.

  As bad as the beating had been, he knew it could have been a lot worse. The problem was, he knew this wasn’t the end.

  Whoever was behind this had clearly set up a fight with some locals, and been paid to do it. Dawkins had heard all about illegal fight clubs, unsanctioned, with big dollars floating around. There were even leagues, as far as he’d heard. A big one in the south that included Texas, Oklahoma and New Orleans. Bare knuckle boxing matches, set up out in the woods.

  The only difference was the fighters in those got paid, too.

  Now, he was being forced to fight, or get shot.

  He considered the option of not fighting. But he knew with that last crowd, they probably would’ve killed him. Even though at some point he lost consciousness, Dawkins guessed that Darnell had stopped the mob from killing him.

  Because there was going to be another fight.

  There was no way it would stop, after the kind of money he’d seen being tossed around before and during the fight. Darnell had gotten a taste of being a fight promoter, seen the easy money, and would want to do it again.

  Greed was something you could always count on.

  In fact, he guessed that’s where Darnell was now. Getting the word out, setting up another fight. They’d probably feed him, make sure he wasn’t busted up too bad, and keep him going. Probably until he died.

  Dawkins knew he couldn’t let that happen.

  He had to get the hell out of here.

  But how?

  First things first. He took stock of his physical condition. He moved both legs and while his left thigh was extremely sore, probably from a couple of good swift kicks from a boot, everything else seemed okay.

  He moved both arms, first by bending the elbows, and then the wrists. Everything hurt, but everything also functioned.

  His neck was okay, and his face was painful and numb in parts.

  So, while he wouldn’t be winning any beauty contests at the moment, his physical condition wasn’t horrible. Meaning, he could walk. And maybe even run a little bit.

  But he had to get out.

  Now.

  While Darnell was gone.

  Troy was sitting about eight feet away.

  Dawkins considered the practicality of charging him. He’d have to roll off the cot, get to his feet and cover the distance before Troy could pick up the rifle, point it at him, and shoot him. Check that, it was a lever-action gun, so Troy would have to pick it up, work the lever, then aim and shoot.

  The question was, how would his body react? Could he vault from the cot and land on his feet?

  Doubtful.

  If he tipped over, fell onto the floor, pushed up with his hands and charged, he guessed it would take about a second and a half. Maybe two if he stumbled.

  Too long.

  He had to get Troy to come closer.

  But how?

  His stomach turned at the thought of another fight in this condition. He had beaten the three brothers when he was fresh and healthy.

  Now, with his injuries, he knew he wouldn’t win the next one.

  He also realized that it wasn’t just his emotions that were causing him to feel sick to his stomach.

 
It was blood.

  He had probably swallowed a ton of it while he was unconscious.

  And just like that, his plan came to him.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “I’m here about that table,” Darnell said.

  I looked from him to Harrison, who nodded and got to his feet.

  “Good to meet you,” Harrison said, and we shook hands. “Good luck on your project.”

  Harrison had that smile at the corner of his mouth and there was no doubt in my mind how much he was enjoying being in the know, and watching me fumble around in the dark.

  Truth was, it pissed me off, but there was nothing I could do about it, for now.

  I got outside and noticed Darnell’s big red truck. It was one of those Hummer H3s, with the big knobby tires. It had seen better days, that was for sure.

  It wasn’t nearly as masculine as my minivan, which I climbed into, fired up and drove back to the resort in Good Isle. As I drove, I thought about how cool those big, knobby off-road tires would look on my minivan.

  A trip to the auto department at Costco was in order when I got back to Grosse Pointe.

  Anna, the girls and Ellen were all at the pool when I arrived back at the resort.

  “Get your suit on,” Anna told me.

  “Show us your patented belly flop,” Ellen suggested.

  The girls were getting out of the water, though, so instead, I wrapped them up in towels and dried their hair.

  “We’re going back after we change,” Anna said. “I booked you into a Super 8 just down the street where you can stay until Ellen solves your case for you.”

  My wife and my sister shared a laugh at my expense.

  Anna sometimes acted as my travel agent when I needed a hand, like now, when the free stay was ending.

  “What’s your plan?” I asked Ellen.

  “Not sure yet,” she said, pointing at her phone. “No word.”

  I nodded. “Why don’t you stick around? I could use some backup while I finish this case.”

  “Are you close?” She raised an eyebrow, as if it was pointless to even ask.

  “Let’s go girls,” Anna said, saving me from an answer. “These two are going to talk shop and we have to pack. I want to get home before rush hour traffic.”