Quick Be Jack: A Jack Nolan Novel (The Cap's Place Series Book 3) Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Acknowledgements

  Quick Be Jack

  A Novel By

  Robert C. Tarrant

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.

  Copyright 2016 by Robert C. Tarrant

  This book is dedicated to my loving daughter Jessica, who continues to contribute the perspective of a fine young woman to my life, while encouraging "Stuffed Dad" to pursue his dreams.

  CHAPTER ONE

  It was pouring down rain outside, so sitting at the end of the bar eating a burger and drinking a Landshark didn't seem like I was wasting a South Florida afternoon. Of course, rain or shine, most afternoons you'd find me in this same spot. As the owner of this fine establishment, I feel a keen responsibility to fraternize with our clientele as much as possible. There's no better location to pursue this duty than right here on my favorite bar stool.

  I couldn't help but be pleased as I surveyed my domain. Mid-afternoon on a Tuesday and we were doing a great business. No doubt the rain helped, it always drove people inside, but still I had to admit business has been on a steady increase. Probably not exactly the clientele that my uncle, Mickey, had envisioned when he retired from the Detroit Police Department and came to Florida to open his neighborhood bar. I imagine that Mickey envisioned a clientele older, more sedate, than the beach going crowd in their twenties and the young professionals in their thirties that make up the majority of our patrons these days. Of course, we still have the local fishermen, and people with boats in the Ocean Palms Marina located behind us. Both have always been a mainstay of Cap's Place. Marge likes to say that the regulars keep the lights on and the beachgoers and young professionals provide the profit.

  It's no coincidence that business has been on a steady upswing since I turned operations over to Marge Williams. When I inherited Cap's Place from Uncle Mickey, Marge was tending bar here. She's in her late fifties, 5 feet tall, and a couple of pounds over her prime weight. Until a couple of months ago her hair was a medium length dark brown. Now its short, reminds me of Jamie Lee Curtis in True Lies, and more a light caramel color. She wears subtle makeup and almost always dresses in tailored slacks and a starched white blouse. A few months ago, Marge stepped up to run things while I was away protecting another of our bartenders, whose life was in danger. When I got back, I promoted her to manager and business has done nothing but increase since then. I didn't know it at the time, but Marge spent twenty years in investment banking before coming to Florida. Guess she picked up some insight into business operations along the way. Funny how things work out sometimes.

  Among the operational changes Marge instituted was the installation of draft craft beer. I don't really think this craft beer craze is going to last, but I deferred to her judgement. Craft beer is bringing in younger guys and younger guys are bringing in younger women. That explains the six women, probably somewhere in their late twenties, drinking an assortment of pastel drinks at the large table in the center of the bar. I know Mickey could never have envisioned that scene. Dana, today's bartender, told me that the six had taken the day off work to go to the beach, but the thunderstorms had driven them inside to wait for a bunch of guys to get off work and join them.

  It wasn't just the strong Tuesday afternoon business picture that had me in such good spirits. It was that I'd realized that it had been six weeks since Anthony Bracchi, a mobster from the New York area intent on taking over Cap's Place, had been driven off. It was finally sinking in that maybe my life was back to normal. As normal as a guy's life can be when he's dating the daughter of the mobster who drove Bracchi off. Well, Elena and I aren't exactly dating, but we have done the dinner and drinks thing several times over the past few weeks. Elena seems to have gotten over the fact that it was her misfortune to be with me when Bracchi decided to have me snatched out of our parking lot for an impromptu meeting, or murder. We never found out what the outcome was going to be because Elena's father, Lorenzo Mancuso, teamed with Justin and Moe, rescued us.

  The fact that Lorenzo Mancuso is reputed to be the top mobster in the Miami area has been a bit of a damper on my enthusiasm for intensifying my relationship with Elena. Mancuso denies any ties to organized crime, other than a long and well documented family history, but in my experience in a prior life as a prosecuting attorney I never knew one of those guys to admit it. Consequently, I'm being very considerate of Elena's feelings as our relationship develops.

  I haven't seen Justin in over a month now as he's out in the Caribbean somewhere on the fishing boat he recently bought. When I first met Justin I thought he was an alcoholic deck hand on that same fishing boat. What I've come to learn is that he's some type of ex-military mercenary or hired killer. Fortunately, he's been on my side in the instances where I've seen his skills in action. I certainly intend to do everything I can to keep him on my side.

  Whenever recalling the night Elena and I were rescued, I couldn't help but recall an unarmed Moe going up against the armed thugs that held us. He told me that as a convicted felon he couldn't possess a gun and he'd take his chances on dying rather than going back to prison. Moe was convicted of murder as the result of his shooting a man he said came at him with a knife during a card game in Detroit. Uncle Mickey was the investigator and he believed Moe's story, but couldn't break the stories of the witnesses, all of whom were friends of the victim. Mickey periodically revisited the case the entire time Moe was in prison, but he never had any luck. By the time Moe was released, Mickey had retired to Flo
rida. Moe came down to personally thank Mickey and he just stayed on at Cap's Place as general handyman and occasional bouncer. At 6 foot 4 inches tall and 240 pounds of solid muscle, highlighted by a perpetually shaved head and piercing brown eyes, he reminds me of a black version of Mr. Clean. Usually, his physical presence and a couple of words from the low rumble he calls a voice are enough to quell any barroom disturbances.

  Marge has taken Moe under her wing as her sounding board for business ideas. She says he has a real keen sense for marketing ideas, something she's never mentioned about me. Probably just an oversight on her part. I do chuckle when I think of the two of them engaged in serious discussion, given their diverse physical sizes and backgrounds. They are a bit of an odd couple.

  Thinking of an odd couple brought me to another odd couple who orbit within my solar system. Patty Johnson, known to us as PJ, and Tim Donovan are Hollywood Police Department Detectives. PJ, a natural beauty, 5 foot 7 and 110 pounds is a stark contrast to Tim who stands 6 foot 3 and weighs in the neighborhood of 260. Tim looks the part of tough Irish cop and PJ looks like a former beauty queen carrying a gun. PJ and Tim were involved in the case when our bartender Sissy had her life threatened and more recently, the threats against me by Bracchi. A few weeks ago PJ told me that she suspected that Tim might have been the leak that almost cost Sissy her life. She didn't say whether she thought it was intentional on Tim's part or just a mistake. Unfortunately, she's been so busy ever since that we haven't had a chance to talk further about it. Maybe it was just a passing thought on PJ's part and nothing to be concerned about. I really wish I could get her alone to talk, but we seem to keep missing each other.

  CHAPTER TWO

  It was nearly 3:00 a.m. when Johnny Watson pulled out of the parking lot of his bar. The bank deposit envelope was laying on the floor of the car under his legs. Johnny frequently glanced into the rearview mirror as he drove the first couple of blocks from the bar. Even after thirty years as a bar owner making these late night cash deposits, he still didn't really relax until he pulled away from the bank. Even though credit card receipts had replaced much of the cash flow in today's commerce, the deposit envelope still contained several thousand dollars in cold hard cash. Credit card use was not quite as high in his bar as in many places. Many of his patrons didn't want a strip joint on their monthly statement. That's why the ATM inside his front door needed to be reloaded every day. Curious wives would only see an ATM withdrawal on the statement, not the location that housed the cash dispenser.

  Johnny's headlights glistened off of the pavement still wet from the rains that had only stopped an hour ago. He didn't see another car moving on the street. Relaxing a bit, Johnny lit the cigar he had been holding in his mouth since he left the bar. The short drive to the bank and then on home was his quiet time and he liked to enjoy his quiet time in the company of a good cigar.

  After pulling up alongside the night deposit box at the bank and lowering his window, Johnny placed his cigar in the ashtray. He needed both hands free to open the deposit box and insert the envelope. It was because he was looking down at the ashtray that he didn't see the two vehicles without headlights moving quickly from the parking lot across the street and into the bank driveway. By the time he sensed movement, the vehicles had his car blocked front and back. He was trapped!

  A dark clad figure, with a nylon stocking pulled over his face, jumped from the car in front of him and from a distance of no more than six feet pointed an assault rifle directly at Johnny's head. The figure made a simple command, "Drop the deposit envelope out the window." Gesturing with the gun, "Do it now!"

  Johnny was momentarily frozen in sheer terror, but his mind finally commanded his body to move and he reached down, picked up the envelope, and dropped it out the window. A second figure he hadn't even seen stepped forward from behind his car and grabbed the envelope. Ten seconds later both vehicles were gone and Johnny was again alone.

  CHAPTER THREE

  PJ rolled onto her side and looked at the bedside clock. It was only 4:00 a.m., she wouldn't need to get up for a couple of hours, but she saw no reason to remain in bed tossing and turning. She couldn't remember when she last had a good night's sleep. Most recent nights had been a series of nightmares interspersed with fitful sleep. The lack of rest was wearing on her, but she didn't know what to do to correct the situation. Well, she did know what to do, she just couldn't seem to bring herself to do it.

  Ever since the thought had occurred to her that Tim might have been the leak that nearly cost Sissy her life a few months ago, it was as if she was going through life with a dark specter hanging over her head. The specter cast a shadow on her days and haunted her nights. She knew that the only way to overcome the specter was to face it head-on. She needed to actually investigate her suspicions. She just couldn't bring herself to do it. Who investigates their partner? Cops don't do that to each other. There are enough people going after cops each and every day, attorneys, civil rights organizations, the media, city administrations, even the brass. That's the reason most cops view life with a siege mentality. It was true, they were often under siege. They could only depend on each other. Yet, there are bad cops, just like bad doctors, bad lawyers, bad priests. Good cops needed to root out bad cops.

  Still, how could Tim be a bad cop. When she had gotten promoted to detective, Tim had taken her under his wing. She learned from him every day. He had taught her, not only the nuts and bolts of investigative work, but also how to deal with the pressures of the job. He had been her mentor, her confidant. How could the leak have been Tim?

  PJ got out of bed and trudged to the shower. She stood under the beating water as if it could somehow wash away the specter. She had replayed the night Sissy was attacked at the Pinnacle Hotel over in her head a thousand times. An informant had told investigators that someone was going to kill the bartender at Cap's Place. Believing that Sissy Storm was the target, PJ had made arrangements to hide her at the Pinnacle Hotel and Casino located at Escapade, the large entertainment complex anchored by the hotel with its casino and the Ocean View Race Track. The Pinnacle, with its robust security, seemed like the perfect place to hide Sissy until PJ could determine if the threat was real, and if it was, make plans to protect her long term. Sissy had only been alone in her room for a few minutes when someone impersonating a security officer attempted to kill her. The only people who knew Sissy's room number were Jeff Spencer, Security Director at Pinnacle, probably a couple of his security people, and Tim. PJ had called Tim and given him the room number after she'd gotten Sissy settled and then left the hotel to follow up on the threat. The speed with which the killer had found Sissy indicated that he had a source who was monitoring Sissy's location. Sissy was registered under an alias and Tim was the only one outside of the hotel who knew the room number. As painful as it was to accept, PJ couldn't help but think that the leak was Tim. But why? Why would he do such a thing? It just didn't make sense!

  PJ realized she was shivering under the shower. She had totally depleted the hot water, but the specter still lurked. She toweled off and wrapped herself in the plush Hard Rock Hotel and Casino robe she had purchased on a whim when she was staying at the Hard Rock Hotel in Tampa while doing some follow up investigative work last year.

  She went to the kitchen to make a cup of tea and plan something for breakfast. The only upside to her insomnia was that she had the opportunity to make a decent breakfast for her teenage daughter, Angela, before they each rushed off to their respective days. Their usual morning was a hurried routine involving each of them independently passing through the kitchen to grab something before they left for the day. On these unique days of sit-down breakfast, Angela would reluctantly agree to join PJ at the table, but conversation was out of the question.

  Worrying about Angela was the only thing that distracted PJ from her doubts about Tim. Raising a teenager as a single parent was daunting enough, but PJ's erratic hours as a detective just made the situation more challenging. Of course,
Angela couldn't really remember when it wasn't just the two of them. Bill, a Florida Highway Patrolman, had been killed by a drunk driver when Angela was less than two years old. It was the outpouring of support from the law enforcement community after Bill's death that had inspired PJ to become a cop. Now she couldn't help but think that if she had gone a different direction maybe it would have made these teenage years easier.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  "I'm driving so I pick," said PJ as she turned the car into the parking lot of the Wharfside Restaurant.

  "Fine with me. I can eat anytime, any place," replied Tim as he closed the file folder he was reading and stuck it into the leatherette portfolio on the front seat between them. "Looks like the Bobbsey twins are here."

  The Wharfside, situated directly on the Intracoastal Waterway, had originally opened as a seafood restaurant serving lunch and dinner, but the homemade breads and pastries had proven so popular that it began opening mornings with a limited breakfast menu. As time went on, the menu and hours grew and now the Wharfside opened at 5:00 a.m. and closed at midnight. With great food, reasonable prices, and friendly waitresses, the Wharfside became a regular meal spot for Hollywood cops.

  "When aren't they here?" said PJ as she turned off the car while glancing at the two black and white Hollywood patrol cars in the rear of the parking lot.

  "Oh, I recall that they had to back up a couple of patrol officers once. I think is was two, or maybe three, years ago," chuckled Tim.

  Entering the front door they immediately spotted two distinctly overweight uniformed sergeants sitting at a corner table with a plate holding an oversized burger and heaping mound of fries in front of each of them. Both men were powerfully built, but years of poor eating habits had long ago obscured their heavily muscled frames. As Tim turned toward the two uniforms PJ said, "I'll get us a table outside by the water."