Chaotic Be Jack (The Cap's Place Series Book 5) Page 3

  PJ replied, “Having seen any number of the PIs in South Florida, I don’t know that your assessment is actually all that flattering.”

  “It was certainly intended to be flattering, of that I can assure you.”

  “Never doubted it. If nothing else, you’re smooth with the ladies.”

  “PJ, you’re in a class of your own. You’re not just one of the . . . ladies.”

  “See, there you go again with your cliché lines.”

  Before I could come up with another of my clichés, she added, “Hey, I did call for a serious purpose though. When are you planning on getting out of there?”

  I was confused. “Get out of here? You mean leave work? I live here, remember?”

  “I mean when are you going to evacuate for the storm? Where are you going?”

  “Evacuate, who says I need to evacuate?”

  “Jack, I can tell you from a lifetime in South Florida, you’re probably only a day or so from recommended evacuation and a couple days from a mandatory evacuation order. Don’t you watch the news? There’s a big hurricane coming.”

  “I’ve seen the weather, it’s only a Cat 1 and it’s a long way out. It’ll probably turn north before it gets anywhere close.”

  Exasperation dripping from her voice, PJ shot back, “You Yankees are all clueless when it comes to hurricanes. That Cat 1 is entering the warm waters of the Caribbean. Those warm waters will feed and strengthen it. It’ll be a hell of a lot stronger before it gets here, and it will get here.”

  “Hey, I was just kidding you. As a matter of fact, I’m sitting here reviewing the list of action items Mickey developed for just this situation. Marge, Moe and I are going to sit down later today and develop a timeline.”

  Even over the phone I could hear PJ exhale deeply. She said, “Good. I’m glad to hear it. Where will you go when you evacuate there?”

  Was she fishing? Is an invitation to join her somewhere a possibility? Play it cautiously, Jack. Something good might come out of this storm yet. I replied, “Hadn’t really gotten that far. Will you and Angela need to evacuate? Where would you go?”

  “We probably won’t be ordered to evacuate, but we’re going to leave if it continues to develop like it is and stays on course. I’ve been here when big storms plowed through. Even if your property makes it through unscathed, life as we know it will be turned on its ear for at least a few days, and much longer if it’s a major storm. Angela, her grandparents, and I are going to go up near Gainesville. I have a college friend who’s divorced and has a large house up there. She’s invited us to come up in the past when storms threatened, but I always needed to stay here to work. This time I’m taking her up on the offer.”

  I wonder how much room her friend has; room for me, too? Probably a little forward to make that suggestion, even for a guy like me. I said, “That sounds like an ideal solution. I need to come up with something innovative like that myself.”

  “Well, I don’t know how innovative it is, but it will certainly be much more comfortable than riding things out around here. Besides, I think Angela is leaning toward Florida for college, so it will be a great opportunity to spend a little time around the campus together.”

  PJ’s evacuation plans didn’t sound like they are were conducive to me tagging along. Obviously, that wasn’t the purpose of the call. I said, “Hard to believe she’s going to go off to college in another year. So, she wants to become a Florida Gator?”

  PJ sighed before saying, “That’s the latest, but who knows what she’ll decide in the end. I need to run, trying to wrap a couple of things up here in the office so I’m prepared to leave. Just wanted to make certain that you were taking this storm seriously.”

  “What me? You know I take everything seriously.” First Marge, now PJ. No one seems to think I’m capable of focusing on this threat.

  “Yeah right Jack, talk soon.” I thought the call was ending when I heard her continue, her tone now soft and sincere. “Jack, please take this storm seriously. Things will be very dicey where you are and it won’t be safe to stay. Make decisions that keep you safe. Please.” Damn, she is concerned about my well being. I take that as a very good sign.

  Later that afternoon Marge, Moe, and I sat down and talked about the steps we needed to take to close things down and evacuate, if it came to that. We decided that we would monitor the weather reports tonight, and if things continued to look like the storm was coming, we’d start shuttering up the building tomorrow morning. I asked Marge where the banner announcing our hurricane party was and she said it was still rolled up in the storage shed where we keep the hurricane shutters, so we could put it up if I wanted to. I thought it sounded like a good idea, after all we might as well drive as much business as we can before the storm. Who knows how long we might be closed. Moe said he was concerned that we wouldn’t have time to accomplish all of the storm preparation tasks, even without the distraction of additional business, but I finally convinced him to quit worrying. I remembered the hurricane party that he and Marge had thrown a couple of years ago. I’d missed it because I was staying away from Cap’s Place protecting Sissy when her life was threatened. I’d stopped in for a few minutes and it seemed like everyone was having a real blast going through the motions of preparing for an approaching storm. Of course that time when they threw the party, Marge’s nephew had already told her that the storm was going to turn away and all we would get was a little rain, so they were just going through the motions of shuttering the building to create the atmosphere for the party. Still, there’s no reason not to have a little fun, and make a little money, while we prepare for doomsday.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  We had a decent sized crowd Tuesday night, so I helped Dana restock the beer coolers and even cleared a few tables when the two waitresses working the floor got behind. Tuesdays weren’t usually that busy, but we had live music and that seemed to be a magnet for people. That, or my theory that when the media starts talking about doom and gloom from an approaching storm, people feel compelled to get one last night of revelry in. Either way, business was good and folks seemed to be enjoying themselves, so the evening passed quickly.

  It was unusual to have live music on a Tuesday, we usually only have it Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights, but this was a group that Dana had heard play somewhere else and thought they would fit well here. Marge agreed to bring them in on a Tuesday just to see how they worked out. I stay completely out of the decisions regarding the entertainment. Music has never been my forte, so I don’t know that my opinion would be of much value anyway. This group seemed to play an eclectic assortment of music, with a little something for everyone. In all honesty, I was impressed by the sound generated by four guys with an acoustic guitar, a bass guitar, an electric keyboard, and a set of drums, but I’m certainly not a learned critic. Looking around the bar, though, it seemed that most people agreed with my assessment. The band even garnered sporadic rounds of robust applause, each of which brought a smile to Dana’s face. Obviously, she’d felt the pressure of making the recommendation.

  As the evening wound down, the crowd thinned, so I wandered back to the office to take another look at the list of tasks we would start in the morning. It was obvious from the continuing weather reports that we were going to get a significant storm. Moe and I planned to start pulling the shutters out of the storage shed in the morning with the hope that we could enlist a couple of our regulars to help put them up. There are several fishermen who frequent Cap’s Place who are always willing to pitch in if we need a little extra muscle. Of course, we always reward them with ample food and drink when the job’s done.

  I was sitting at Marge’s desk when a deep vocal rendition of the hymn, How Great Thou Art, drifted back to me. Now I was really impressed with the lead singer of the group. Actually, the acoustic guitar player was the only singer the group had, or at least the only one I’d heard tonight. I returned to the bar just as the song was ending and found myself standing stock still with my mo
uth gaping open. It wasn’t the group’s singer holding the microphone, it was Moe. The couple of customers left seated at the bar and Dana broke out in hearty applause and calls of “more, more, more.”

  Moe looked embarrassed but turned back toward the keyboard player, who nodded and began the opening chords of Amazing Grace. What followed was a delivery of the old hymn that made my skin tingle and brought moisture to my eyes. When it ended, I joined everyone, including the band members, in a heartfelt round of applause. To our calls for more, Moe shook his head and hopped off the stage. Before I could reach him, he’d turned and walked into the kitchen.

  A few minutes later, the band was packed up and leaving. The last two customers had already gone. Everyone, the band included, was talking about Moe’s hymns as they went out the back door. Dana came back from taking the day’s receipts to the safe in the office and told me she’d see me about noon tomorrow. She said she was coming in early to help with the hurricane festivities. I walked back to the kitchen in search of Moe. I found him sitting motionless on a stool at the back of the kitchen.

  I said, “Hey, big guy, that’s some singing voice you’ve got.”

  Moe looked down at the floor and replied, “Thanks, Boss.” After a pregnant pause, he added, “Been a long time since I sang anything.” He continued to stare down.

  I sat down on another stool and leaned back against the prep table. “So, where did you learn to sing like that, Moe? You’re really very good. I can’t believe that you learned that in prison.” As soon as I mentioned prison, I regretted it. That has to be the worst chapter, or two, of Moe’s entire life and I don’t expect that he appreciates having it brought up.

  He looked up at me with the silly smirk he gets sometimes and said, “Actually I did, Block B, Tier Two, had a hell of a choir.” He saw the surprised look on my face, was satisfied he’d gotten me, and continued, “Naw, I learned to sing in church. My mama made me join the youth choir when I was ten and I sung in that and later the regular choir until the time I went to prison. Wasn’t nothing to sing about in prison.” After another long pause, he said, “Actually, guess I haven’t sung at all in twenty years or so.”

  I stood and put my hand on his shoulder. “Well, you certainly haven’t lost your abilities, Moe. You ever think about singing again? I’m sure any choir in the area would love to have you. Ever sing outside church, you know, places like here?”

  Moe shook his head. “Naw, and before you get any wild ideas, you need to know that I don’t plan on ever singing again. Don’t know what got into me tonight. I was just kidding around with the guys in the band as they were getting ready to pack up. I asked if they knew any gospel songs and they said that they could play anything I could sing. Guess I took it as a challenge. Let my ego get the best of me for a minute. Wanted to prove something, not sure what, but something. Was stupid.”

  I stepped back and looked Moe directly in the eyes. “Stupid, what the hell do you mean? You’re one talented man, Moe. I think you should share your talent with others. Nothing stupid about that.”

  Moe stood and gestured toward the door leading outside from the back of the kitchen while saying, “I’m gunna take off, Boss. Can you lock up?” I realized that I’d pushed the whole idea of him singing as far as I could.

  I replied, “Sure, Moe. I’ll finish locking up. See you tomorrow. Rest up, we’ve got to start putting up the hurricane shutters tomorrow.”

  After the door closed behind Moe, I stood in the kitchen replaying our conversation in my head. It wasn’t the conversation itself, but the fact that I was so surprised by the revelation that Moe had such vocal talent. Why hadn’t I ever learned about his years of singing in a church choir? That caused me to face the reality that I didn’t really know much about Moe’s life at all. At least not outside of Cap’s Place. The guy once risked his life to help rescue me from the clutches of a gangster who was attempting to take over the bar and on another occasion nearly took a bullet in the head from a nut we had thrown out of the bar. Yet, I’d never had a meal or a drink with him, outside of Cap’s Place, and had never been to his home. Well, I picked him up at an apartment building once when his car broke down, but I was never inside. Besides, I’m pretty certain I remember that he’s moved since then.

  What did I know about him? I knew he served twelve years in prison for a homicide that Uncle Mickey thought had been self-defense. Since Mickey was the investigator on the case, he should have known. Mickey just couldn’t break the stories of the victim’s friends who said he was unarmed. The knife that Moe described was never found. Why is this story the sum total of what I know about Moe’s past, or even his present for that matter?

  I finished locking up and shutting off the lights before heading upstairs to my apartment. Still, I couldn’t quit thinking about Moe. I’ve known the guy for years, he was here when I came down from Michigan after the sudden demise of my marriage, yet have I ever really tried to get to know him? Do we ever really know the people we work with? We probably do, if we put any effort into learning about them. Damn, I hate this introspection. I never come out looking that good.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Mid-morning Wednesday, thinking it was probably time we started dragging out the hurricane shutters, I came into the bar from the hallway leading back to the office looking for Moe. I stood at the end of the bar surveying the crowd. Business was slow, only a half-dozen customers in the whole place. I guess the approaching storm finally had most people focused on things other than going out to eat and drink. Maybe our hurricane party was going to be a waste of time. I heard the front door open, a sure sign of the entry of someone who hasn’t been here before. All of the regulars use the back door.

  A very attractive woman dressed in a short red skort and starched white sleeveless blouse stepped through the door. Her glistening auburn hair was cut in a medium bob that danced around a runway-model-thin face as she strode forward. The two-inch heels of the strappy sandals she wore punctuated each step with a resounding click on the hardwood floor. Her persona was every bit the professional woman who carried herself with an air of total confidence. I was frozen in my tracks as I gazed upon the woman who was once my wife.

  Katharine looked around the bar before her gaze settled on me. Her face was expressionless, but her eyes roamed up and down me as if she was attempting to determine if I was truly Jack Nolan, or some imposter. I must have passed inspection because her confident stride turned in my direction. I hadn’t laid eyes on Katharine since the night I walked in on her and Judge William Callaghan enjoying the pleasures of each other’s bodies. The mechanics of our divorce had even been accomplished without me ever again being in the same room as Katharine. Until thirty seconds ago, I was confident that the ensuing years had diminished, if not totally erased, the anger and hurt I felt. Now, I wasn’t so certain.

  Katharine put out her hand as she said, “Hello, Jack, you look good. Florida must agree with you.” Her tone was friendly, but business friendly. I immediately knew she was lying, because my own recent self-assessment had shown that my Florida years had not treated me that well.

  I hesitated, probably out of fear more than anger, but took her hand and shook it as if we were being introduced for the first time. “Hello, Katharine, I must say I’m surprised to see you walking through the door of my humble establishment.” I was tempted to add something nasty about how good she looked upright without Judge Callaghan on top of her, but decided to take the high road.

  She glanced around the bar, but without any sign of sincere interest. Without making eye contact with me, she asked, “Is there somewhere we could talk for a few minutes?”

  I thought about suggesting we go upstairs to my apartment, but somehow that seemed like allowing her deeper into my life than I was willing to do. I gestured toward a corner booth. “How about that booth. With the storm approaching, business is pretty slow. Should be quiet over there.”

  I caught the micro-twitch of her nose that I recalled as a tell of her d
isdain over a comment or turn of events. She replied curtly, “All right. Sure.”

  We had barely settled into opposite sides of the booth when Renee appeared, as if by magic, and asked if she could get us anything. Katharine declined and I followed suit. Evidently, this was going to be a short encounter and all business. Even though she had no order to place, Renee made a direct line to the bar and huddled with Dana. Obviously, the two ladies were in full investigative mode.

  I drew a deep breath and attempted to calm myself. An emotional cocktail was brewing inside me and I needed to keep it under control. One side of my brain was being fueled by the lust that had constituted so much of the core of our relationship for its many years, but the other side was being driven by something akin to hate, bred of hurt and anger. I waited for Katharine to speak.

  It was obvious from the lack of eye contact, Katharine was always one for direct eye contact, that she was struggling with opening the conversation. Good. Watching her squirm wasn’t much solace, but it was something. Finally she said, “Jack, I’m here at the request of my dad. He’s dying of cancer and he’s requested that I meet with you and ask you to visit him before he dies. I believe he intends to ask something of you, but I don’t have any idea what it is. He was very specific that I meet in person with you to convey his wishes.” The words were tumbling out of her. Uncharacteristic for a woman I had seen verbally draw and quarter opponents in complex contract disputes.

  I hadn’t thought much about Katharine’s father, Benjamin Whitt, in years. Part of my efforts to block out some other unpleasant memories of that time in my life. When I dated Katharine, and certainly during our marriage, he and I had been fairly close. I think he looked upon me as the son he didn’t have. Katharine was his only child, and though he adored her, he’d always yearned to have a son. Someone to go to a ball game with, or take hunting and fishing. Certainly, fathers do those things with daughters, but Katharine had always been more of a girly girl and they never really developed that type of relationship. I filled a void in his life and he was a true mentor for me during law school and my legal career. He was a very successful attorney and I had even flirted with the idea that, once I gained sufficient experience and credentials, I might someday join his law firm. After Katharine and I split, Benjamin attempted to contact me several times, but I never returned the calls. Finally, he quit attempting. Looking back now, I know that was a mistake. It was Katharine who wronged me, not Benjamin.