'I don't believe you.'
'I'm sorry, but that's who I am.'
I saw it in his eyes first, before his hands moved. I was a little slow as the punch came toward my face. I ducked, but not quickly enough. His fist had been heading for my jaw, but it caught me in the head, just above my left ear.
I staggered back on my right foot, stunned slightly from the blow. He was still in his flat-footed stance, but was shaking his big right paw. My head was harder than his knuckles, and I thought he'd probably busted one or two.
When I was in high school, I was trying to become a punter on the football team. This seemed to be a safer job than running with the ball and having bigger boys tackle me. The coach soon decided I was hopeless, but he tried to teach me the rudiments of kicking.
'Follow through, Royal,' he'd say. 'Kick the damn ball to the moon.'
A nanosecond had passed since the big guy swung on me. I took aim with my right foot and kicked his family jewels to the moon. The coach would have been proud of my follow through. It raised my attacker onto his toes.
A scream escaped the big man's lips, and his face turned blood red, the pain starting to erode his features. Both hands went to his crotch, bending him forward. I turned 360 degrees, pivoting on my left foot, and brought the right foot in a soccer-style kick to his left kidney. This straightened him up some, and I ducked my head and butted him in the face.
As I backed off, I could see blood and mucus flowing from his busted nose. He fell to the floor moaning, writhing in pain. I started to kick him again, but as suddenly as it had appeared, the blood lust that had saturated my brain ebbed.
I stood there, breathing through my mouth. The whole thing had only taken a couple of seconds. I looked up to see three men coming my way. One had a pool cue held like a bat. He was lanky with roped muscles running up his arms. His unwashed hair hung to his shoulders. A scar ran from his nose back to his right ear.
I pulled the pistol out of my pocket and pointed it at them. 'The guy with the cue will go first.'
They stopped dead in their tracks. They were bullies and weren't used to someone else having the upper hand. They didn't know what to do. I thought I'd help them out a little. 'Get on the floor, on your stomachs,' I said, motioning with the pistol.
The man with the cue stick dropped it and sank to his knees and then onto his stomach. The other two followed suit.
'Who are you guys?' I asked, quietly, putting an edge to my voice.
The bar was dead silent, the bartender standing still, his hands on the bar. The two men remaining on their stools sat like statues, not moving, not even blinking. They wanted no part of this fight.
The big guy moaned and rolled over on his side. No one spoke.
'I'm going to shoot you one at a time until somebody talks,' I said, and pointed the pistol at the one who'd brandished the pool cue.
'Wait,' he said. 'We didn't mean no harm.'
I laughed. 'Okay, do these jerks know who your next of kin is? Where to send your body?'
'Don't shoot,' he said, his voice shaky, pleading now.
I aimed the pistol at his head. 'What do you know about the woman who was here yesterday?'
'Not much. I just know the guys who were after her.'
'Names.'
'Charlie Calhoun and Crill somebody. I don't know his last name.'
'Where can I find them?'
'I don't know. They sometimes hang out at the Mango Bar. That's all I know. Honest.'
'Why in the hell did you attack me then?'
'Big Rick,' he said pointing to the prostrate man who'd swung on me. 'He said we could probably make a couple of bucks if we took you down and gave you to Charlie and Crill.'
'Brilliant plan. Next time I see you assholes, I'll shoot you. Understand?'
'Yessir,' they all said together.
The world is full of people who live their lives in a miasmal world of pure meanness. They prey upon the weak and don't know how to react when confronted by someone stronger. They figuratively adopt the canine surrender posture, rolling onto their backs, feet up, showing their vulnerability to the aggressor. They have no sense of shame in their behavior, because they see themselves as part of a pecking order. The strong devour the weak. Some days they're the stronger, and some days they're the weaker. It all works out.
I backed out of the door and left in a hurry.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
I walked at a quick pace, not running, not wanting to attract attention, but in a hurry to put some room between me and the Sharkstooth Bar. I looked at my watch, a cheap one bought at the Wal-Mart in Bradenton. It was only a little after five. The sun hadn't really begun its descent yet. The tourists wouldn't be heading for the sunset show at Mallory Square for another couple of hours.
I was tired. It had been a long day, and I still had a lot to do before I could claim my bed in the rooming house. I had no idea how to identify Calhoun or Crill. I didn't think asking around in the Mango Bar made a lot of sense. I decided to call Detective Paul Galis.
I walked until I came to a church. There was a walled garden abutting the building, and a gate with a small sign announcing its availability to anyone in need of serenity. That was me. Serenity and a beer would just about revive my spirits.
I went through the gate and found a cement bench under a bougainvillea tree. Its red flowers were etched against a blue sky and surrounded by green bushes. It reminded me of Vietnam for a moment, and then I pushed that thought back to where my dark memories and even darker fears reside.
Laura wasn't with Peggy. I didn't know if that was a good sign or something worse. If she hadn't left Atlanta to find Peggy, where was she? Had she been taken by the same people who took Peggy? Was there a connection? I couldn't see one, and I thought that made Laura's disappearance even more menacing. Fear was slipping out of its chains, threatening me again with the sense of foreboding and loss that I felt whenever I'd thought about Laura over the past few days.
I pulled out my cell phone and called the Monroe County Sheriff's office. I identified myself and asked to speak to Detective Galls.
A pleasant voice came over the line carrying a faint echo of the hills of West Virginia. 'David Sims said you might be getting in touch. How can I help you?'
'Did you ever hear of anybody named Charlie Calhoun or Crill, no last name?'
'Never heard of Calhoun, but a guy named Crill used to bartend over at Louie's Backyard. I heard he got into the booze pretty bad and fell on hard times. Crill isn't a name you hear very often. Might be him.'
'Wouldn't know where I could find him, would you?'
'No, but I'll check around. He's hard to miss. Got a head full of red hair that he wears in spikes. Lots of gel. He has a blue birthmark that pretty much covers his right temple. How can I get ahold of you?'
I gave him my cell number and told him to leave a message if I didn't answer. I said, 'Do you know where the Mango Bar is?'
He gave me directions, and said, 'Be careful in there. That's a badass place. If we could close it down, our crime rate would drop by fifty percent.'
'I'll watch my back. I appreciate the help.'
'No sweat. Sims says you're good people.' He hung up.
I was a little surprised at Sims' recommendation, but maybe he'd been talking to Bill Lester and decided to help me. I'd take it where I could get it.
I dialed JeffTimmons in Atlanta. I needed to know about Laura, and Jeff needed to know what I'd found out
