Episode 7
It had been a late but uneventful night. Yet my sleep had been restless, troubled by dreams that vanished before I opened my eyes.
I was at the bar by seven a.m., and by eight, the locksmith had been and gone, and the handyman had the framing in place for the new foyer. At ten, the weapons supplier made his delivery, and security cameras were being installed.
“What do you think, Chimo?”
“I tink too much bein done bout nuddin. Quiet place before you.” He went back to polishing the glassware.
“I hear that a lot, Chimo.”
I leaned back against the bar and replayed last night. The wedding and reception had gone without a hitch. The bride had a walk along the beach alone. The boss and his new bride were on their honeymoon. No security needed. Besides, I wasn’t invited. All was right with the world.
But it wasn’t. And I couldn’t figure out why.
I called Bull.
“Tell me about Jack Patch.”
“Hello to you, too, Bubba, and how are you on this glorious day?”
“Stow the crap. You put me onto this job, and now I’m wondering why. I want the inside story on my boss. I vetted him before I accepted his overly generous offer. Clean. No record, not even a parking violation.”
“And that, Bubba, should have sent you running to me then for the answers you want now.”
“What can I say? I got greedy. . . and careless.”
“Not like you, Bubba. Not like you at all.”
“And not like you, Padre, to withhold information. Spill it.”
The story Bull told me wasn’t new: a cheating husband, who is also a compulsive gambler, is married to one of Bull’s parishioners. She comes to Bull for advice when hubby loses family fortune and more. Said husband can’t pay. Death threat follows.
“And you think Jack Patch is involved?”
“Rumor is that he runs a high-stakes poker game in a back room at the club. But he’s not the money behind the operation. Nor is he the violent kind. There must be someone higher up.”
“So, I play nursemaid to the new wife, find out who Mr. Big is, and eliminate the threat to your parishioner’s spouse?”
“While you’re at it, it would be nice if you recovered the family’s fortune.”
I stared hard at the phone. “You’re not kidding, are you?”
“Did I mention the $50,000 recovery fee?”
“I’ll do what I can. No promises.”
“Go with God, my son.”
***
As soon as I hung up, I knew what was bothering me. The storeroom. It wasn’t as wide as it should have been. I was about to push through the swinging doors when Chimo yelled.
“YOU NO GO THERE. MR. JACK’S OFFICE NO OPEN TO YOU.”
“Chill, Chimo. Just rechecking the lock on the fire door.”
“Mr. Jack come back I tell you go where no allowed.”
“Just doin my job.” I moved doggedly ahead, and he didn’t follow.
The storeroom door wasn’t locked. I walked in and flicked the light switch, bathing the room in a dim, bluish light. It looked the same as it had last time I looked in. A few more supplies from the day’s deliveries. BUT. . .
The dimensions were wrong. The room was maybe ten feet wide. Nowhere near the building’s width. So, I tapped the wall opposite me. You know, like detectives do when looking for hidden rooms.
No luck. The wall was solid. Maybe too solid?
Next, I took out my penlight and examined the wall for signs of a hidden door. Nothing.
I was about to give up when the penlight’s beam picked up a faint track in the dust in front of a large shelving unit. When I tried to move the unit, it swung outward on well-oiled hinges, revealing a hidden room. Maybe I should renew my Dick Tracy Certified Detective License.
I found a light switch to my right and flicked it on. Neon lights flickered, then illuminated a miniature casino—two Blackjack tables, a couple of poker tables, a roulette wheel, a craps table, and a half-dozen slot machines.
Bull was almost right.
In the middle of what I assumed was an outside wall was an elaborate door. Had to be the way patrons came in and out. I was willing to bet a sophisticated closed circuit TV system was used to identify guests.
I turned out the overheads, pushed the shelving unit back into place, and exited quietly.
What has Bull gotten me into?
Episode 8
The honeymoon’s over. I mean, Mr. and Mrs. Patch are back from wherever they went. Well, she is. No idea where he is.
My introduction to the missus went like this. . .
I was leaning against the bar in my usual place when in she walked—the girl of my dreams. Or the girl of my nightmares. I was hired to watch her, and she was newly wedded to my boss.
She waved at Chimo, then looked me up and down.
“I’m sorry. Chimo should have told you that the bar doesn’t open until 11.”
“Yes, ma’am. Name’s Bubba. Bubba Schultz. Mr. Patch hired me as a security consultant.”
Her nose wrinkled in a puzzled frown.
“He didn’t say anything to me about it.”
“I suspect, ma’am, it slipped his mind. What with the wedding and all.”
“I can’t image why we need a bouncer.”
“Security consultant, ma’am. I believe he wanted someone to watch the bar while you two were. . . away.”
“That makes sense. Welcome to The Cozy Patch, Mr. Schultz.”
“Just Bubba, ma’am.”
“Okay, I’ll call you Bubba, if you call me Jessi. I’m too young to be a ma’am.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She gave me a look that said she thought I was incorrigible, turned, and walked behind the bar as the lunch crowd trickled in.
###
It’s been three weeks now since Mrs. Patch. . . Jessi. . .returned. Still no sign of Mr. Patch. Why does she need my protection?
Sure, there have been a few drunken passes, which she deflected with humor and a strength that tells me she is more than capable of taking care of herself. . . until today.
The lunch rush was over. Chimo and the waitresses were bussing tables; Jessi was tallying the noon receipts; I was doing what I was paid for—watching.
One of the three men at the bar pulled a big, ugly .357 Magnum from his waistband and pointed at Jessi.
“Gimme da money and nobody gets hurt.”
She stood still but showed no fear, just handed him the cash she was holding.
He took the money and shoved into a pocket of a tasteless plaid blazer.
“Nobody move,” he said, waving the revolver.
(Who writes the dialogue for these petty criminals?)
I turned toward the bar, picked up a customer’s bottle of beer and took a big swig like I was terrified.
When the stick-up man turned to leave, I smashed the bottle and the back of his head. I believe the expression is: He dropped like he’d been poleaxed.
I kicked the heavy gun away from his hand. Damn near broke my toe.
“Call the police,” I said. I glanced over my shoulder at Jessi, who was already talking to the 911 dispatcher.
I went back to watching, leaving the would-be robber lying in a pool of blood and beer.
Chimo was cowering under a table, and the waitresses were hysterical. The two customers at the bar ordered straight shots.
The cops and the EMTs arrived, the perp was carted away, and the rest of us were questioned until the dinner rush started. Most of the questions were directed at me.
“Weren’t you afraid your vigilante actions would get someone hurt?” the detective sergeant wanted to know.
“Nope. Someone hit in the back of the head with a half-empty beer bottle rarely manages to fire a gun.”
“You had a lot of experience smashing the heads of gunmen?”
“Some.”
“You the bouncer here?”
“Security consultant.”
I watched him write “bouncer” on his notepad. Probably couldn’t spell consultant.
“Any identification?”
Aware of uniformed officers behind me, I said, “Hip pocket.” I carefully removed my billfold and handed the plainclothes officer my driver’s license.
“What kinda name is Leonardo A-less-see-oh Dam-e-anno?”
“That part’s Italian. Schultz is German.”
“You some kinda emmy-grit?”
I read suspicion in his narrowed eyes.
“No, sir. Mother was. Adopted parents were first generation.”
“Uh-huh. Now, as a bouncer in this joint, are you armed?”
“Security consultant. No, sir, I am not armed.”
I had wisely hidden my piece under the bar before the City’s finest arrived.
“That’s all for now. Don’t leave town.”
Cops, robbers, and B-Movies must use the same dialogue writer.
###
The cops left. The before-dinner drinkers and the dinner staff wandered in. Chimo cleaned up the blood, beer, and broken glass. I checked on Jessi.
“You okay?”
“All things considered? Yeah. I’m fine. Maybe we need a bouncer after all.”
“Security consultant.”
Episode 9
“I’m driving you home, ma’am.”
“You’re what?”
“I’m driving you home. You haven’t stopped shaking since that dude stuck the gun in your face.”
“So now you’re a bouncer and a chauffeur?”
“Security consultant. But right now, I’m just a guy who’d rather not have you go into labor in the middle of the bar. Not good for business, and Mr. Patch would be pissed.”
“Mr. Patch isn’t here.”
“Which is why I’m driving you home.”
She almost smiled when she gave in.
“Let me close out and get tomorrow’s bank deposit ready.”
She walked away toward the boss’s office. I was getting addicted to watching her walk away.
Fifteen minutes later, she was back, a light sweater over her shoulders.
“Ready?”
When we reached the front door, I had her wait while I scanned the street outside.
“All clear.” I motioned her to join me on the sidewalk. As we walked to where the Range Rover was parked, I made sure her body was between me and the building.
“You’ve done this before.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “Once or twice.”
“Strange talent for a bouncer.”
“Security consultant.”
###
I pulled out of the parking lot, made two left turns, followed by right, and a quick spin around the block.
“Do you know where you’re going?”
“Yes, ma’am. Mr. Patch said when he’s away you prefer to stay at your own place and that I should watch out for you. Said it wasn’t the best neighborhood.”
“It’s safe enough. He’s just being snobbish because my place is modest and homey. He wants us to live in his expensive condo. It’s all glass and chrome and leather. It isn’t at all cozy. His taste is more Ikea on steroids. I want a place of our own. A home, not a showpiece. A place for kids, dogs, and horses.”
I nodded to show I was listening.
“You don’t talk much, do you?”
I shrugged and checked the car mirrors for possible tails.
Ten minutes later, we pulled up in front of a quaint cottage, complete with a white picket fence and rose garden in a quiet neighborhood. A lone dog barked in the distance. Across the street, two doors down, was a Craftsman style bungalow with a for rent sign in the yard.
Jessi started to get out as soon as the car stopped rolling.
“Please wait in the car, ma’am.”
I got out, locked the car doors, and walked around the house, examining doors and windows for signs of tampering. There were none. The barking dog had gone silent; no other sounds disturbed the night.
When I got back to the car, Jessi was struggling to open the locked car door. I touched a button on my key fob. The locks on all four doors popped up. I opened Jessi’s door. She stepped out in a snit.
“You didn’t have to lock me in like you would a child.”
Her tone was pure acid.
“No, ma’am. But if I hadn’t, you would have gotten out of the car and might have found yourself in danger. When I say stay, I mean stay.”
“You can’t order me around like a dog, and nothing is going to happen to me in front of my own home.”
“Sorry, ma’am. Force of habit.”
“Stop. Calling. Me. Ma’am.”
“Yes, ma’am. May I have your house key, please? And please stay on the front porch while I make sure no one’s inside.”
She shook her head and growled. But she handed me the key.
I did a quick walk-through and returned to the porch, giving her the key.
“All clear, ma’am.”
“Do you call me ma’am to irritate me or from, in your words, ‘force of habit?’”
“Just being polite, ma… Jessi.”
“Stop it. You make me crazy.”
“Yes, ma’am.” My grin was downright evil. “Have a nice night.”
I turned to walk away.
“Wait. Would you like to come in for coffee?”
Her words stopped me in my tracks. My heart thudded like the bass drum in a marching band. An innocent invitation, but one that could lead to. . . to what? She’s a newlywed. She’s pregnant. She’s oblivious to my feelings for her. I’m old enough to be her father.
“Another time, maybe. It’s late. You need your rest.”
I hurried to the car and drove away without looking back. I did circle the block to make sure she was safely inside her cozy cottage. And to write down the number of the realtor renting the bungalow.
Episode 10
Jack Patch is back in town, although I haven’t seen much of him. He’s in and out of the club with little more than a nod my direction, and he seems more interested in waitresses than his wife. Go figure.
I made a deal for that Craftsman bungalow across from Jessi’s house. Bought it instead of renting. Bull recommended an IT consultant, Ed O’Hara, who used to be a spook, so he knows the technical gear I need. He owns Big Daddy—as in Big Daddy Is Watching. Had to laugh at that tag line. Appropriate for someone in the electronic surveillance business.
Not sure how long I’ll be in the city, but I need a base of operations. The bungalow location means I can keep an eye on Jessi when she’s not at Jack’s place, and I can move out of the hotel. Besides, I’ve overstayed Bull’s hospitality. I mean, who knows when the Pope will show up?
Speaking of showing up, a gaggle of country-and-western musical celebrities are in town for a big concert and birthday party at the club this weekend. I’ve been up to my eyebrows dealing with agents, bodyguards, and groupies. One bright spot in the chaos is a cute little redheaded Irish lass, Maggie Riordan. She’s a notch above the usual bodyguards. Almost worthy of being called a security consultant.
Maggie works for Summer Morinelli, a CMA award-winning singer and a favorite of mine. Summer’s the Saturday night headliner; the opening act is Kris somebody and Corrine Ardon. They did a cover of Me and Bobby McGee. People say it rivals Janis Joplin’s original.
Anyway, Maggie has agreed to share crowd-watching duties for the event. Four eyes are better than two, so they say.
###
After the lunch rush Friday, Jack closed the club for a dress rehearsal, which went without a hitch. Jessi and Jack went off some place to “be alone”, leaving me with a couple of hours off before the club opened for dinner. Summer Morinelli had a meeting with her record label, which meant Maggie was free. We agreed to an early dinner. Well, we did need to discuss logistics for Saturday night’s event.
Over an antipasto board of pepperoni, salami, assorted cheeses, and focaccia bread, we decided Maggie would station herself up front where she could best protect her client while I would watch the crowd from the back of the room. Jack had hired a couple of off-duty cops who would patrol the perimeter.
Business taken care of, the conversation turned to small talk.
“Tell me, Maggie, how does an Irish lass become a bodyguard?”
“I grew up in Derry—Londonderry to you Yanks—durin’ tha Troubles. Ah, tha Troubles, ‘twas a dark and stormy time, it was. The streets ‘twere no place for the faint-hearted, with bombings, sniper fire, and all manner of chaos. And me decent Catholic family havin’ to take up arms against tha invadin’ gobshite Brits.”
I almost choked on a chunk of Gorgonzola when I heard the thick Irish brogue.
“Since I’ve been in this country, I’ve perfected my American accent. Safer that way.” She grinned, and her cute snub nose wrinkled.
“Safer?”
“You see, during the Troubles, my family—me dah and me brothers—were often the ones responsible for the bombs and sniper fire and chaos. Some people say one of my uncles assassinated a member of the Royal family, Lord Louis Mountbatten. Planted a bomb on his fishing boat, which killed or injured the Lord and a few family members, including a grandson. Seems the Brits have never forgiven my family. They’ve sworn to wipe out all the O’Riordans from Derry. Which includes me.
“Therefore, it’s better if I sound like an American. I even dropped the O apostrophe from my name.”
I cocked my head to the side and listened as she talked. She was right, not a trace of brogue.
“Let me guess, Maggie. Being a bodyguard lets you carry, no questions asked.”
“You catch on quick.”
We still had a few minutes before we were back on the clock, so I suggested a digestivo.
“A what?”
“An after-dinner drink to help digest the meal. It’s an Italian custom.”
“Good. I’ll have a pint of Guinness.”
Not exactly Italian or a digestive, but. . . I had sambuca. More traditional.
“What’s your story, Bubba?”
“Government agencies. Private contractor.”
I sipped my drink and looked at her.
“You don’t say much, do you?”
“Nope. I listen, and I watch.”
We split the check at her insistence and went our separate ways: she to meet Summer, me back to watching the dinner rush and late-night drunks.
I like Bubba’s demeanor; straightforward and in charge without being demanding or condescending. And he’s easy; a pushover for pregnant ladies.
Good plot, the story flows, I’m glad Maggie is a red herring. The bartender’s name does not fit, Chime .. it somehow makes me see a monkey.