extending from horizon to horizon, the rain was here to stay.
Dantzler lumbered out of bed at seven, careful not to wake Laurie on her day off, showered, dressed, and headed to Coyle’s for a light breakfast. As Dantzler was finishing his meal of toast, eggs, bacon and orange juice, Randall Dennis, a long-time friend and frequent tennis foe, came into the restaurant wearing his accustomed frown. Spotting Dantzler, Dennis’s frown quickly gave way to a huge grin. After carefully navigating a maze of customers, waitresses and tables, he made it to Dantzler’s booth without incident.
“How about we bang the little yellow ball around tonight?” Dennis said, sliding into the booth. “I’m feeling good about my game now. Tonight could be the night I break through… take a set from you.”
“Randall, you’ve been ‘breaking through’ for twenty years. Fact is, you couldn’t take a set from me if I played you left-handed. You need to give up that quest and move on to something more attainable, because you are never gonna beat me.”
“You cocky so-and-so. I’d sell my soul to Lucifer this very instant if it meant beating your ass.”
“Lucifer’s evil, but he’s not stupid,” Dantzler said, standing and patting Dennis on the shoulder. “He’s not about to climb aboard your ship.”
“It’s going to happen, Jack. One of these days I’ll surprise you. Just wait and see.”
“Keep dreaming, Randall. Keep dreaming.”
Before leaving Coyle’s, Dantzler phoned Milt at the office and told him to be at the front entrance of the police station in five minutes. When Dantzler pulled up, Milt streaked for the car, using a soggy newspaper as an umbrella. Once in the car, he shook his head like an old dog, splattering water in all directions.
“Damn monsoon,” he said, wiping water from his face. “Reminds me of Nam. Over there we got shit like this twenty-four hours a day for three solid months. That was some serious rain.”
“Dan said the rainy season was a blessing. Said you did less fighting when the monsoons hit.”
“Yeah, that’s a fact.” Milt rolled up the newspaper and laid it on the backseat floorboard. “Where are we going?”
“To talk with Johnny Richards.”
“Oh, yeah, Colt’s no-show pal. Almost forgot about him. What’s his story, anyway?”
“Don’t know, really. That’s why we need to talk to him.”
“What does he do for a living?”
“He owns a small bar-Johnny’s Tavern-in the Meadowthorpe Shopping Center.”
“Where, exactly, in Meadowthorpe?”
“I don’t know. Somewhere between the restaurant on one end of the strip and the liquor store on the other end. In the middle.”
“Huh. You know, me and Dan used to hang out at a dinky little joint in Meadowthorpe. This was back in the late seventies, early eighties. But damn if I remember it as Johnny’s Tavern. Back then it went by another name. What the hell was it? Oh, yeah, now I remember. Sneaky Pete’s. Little wop named Pete Marconi owned it. Small as a turd, mean as a snake. I suppose that’s why me and Dan were so fond of him.”
“For cops, you guys did tend to bond with a lot of shady characters.”
Milt laughed. “You know, Dan clocked a guy coming out of that liquor store one night. The guy, totally shitfaced, recognized Dan from somewhere. Knew Dan was a cop. Anyway, the stupid hillbilly walks up and gets in Dan’s face, cussing, spitting, threatening like crazy. At some point, he made the mistake of pushing Dan. Now, Dan had a six pack of Bud in his right hand at the time, and he wasn’t about to drop the beer. Rule number one is, you never drop the alcohol, no matter the circumstances. So Dan came around with a perfect left hook to the poor slob’s chin. Bang, down he went, like he’d been shot. Out cold. Dan just looked at me and laughed and said something like, ‘wonder what his problem was?’ A great moment, one of many we had together.”
“You guys were a rowdy pair,” Dantzler said. “Rich says it’s a miracle you didn’t end up dead.”
“Ah, shit, Rich doesn’t know the half of it. Hell, me and Dan were crazy
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The Meadowthorpe Center was less than three miles from downtown Lexington, on the right, going out Leestown Road. It consisted of a straight row of small businesses housed in old buildings, none of which exuded a hint of glamour or newness. The lack of modernity and present-day charm didn’t seem to be a hindrance to the various businesses or those folks living in the Meadowthorpe neighborhood. The locals kept the businesses alive and thriving.
The restaurant and liquor store served as bookends for the row of businesses. In between were a used book store, an antique shop, ice cream parlor, pool room, real estate office, and a clothing consignment store. Johnny’s Tavern was located squarely in the middle.
“Yep, that used to be Sneaky Pete’s place,” Milt said. “Except for the name change, it looks exactly like it did back when me and Dan frequented the joint.”
Joint was an appropriate term for describing Johnny’s Tavern. The place was small, consisting of a bar with half-dozen stools, four round tables and three vinyl-covered booths. With no windows and very little, if any, obvious ventilation, the smell of cigarette smoke and body odor clung to the walls and ceiling like an extra coat of paint. An ancient jukebox, wedged between the bar and the first booth, looked as though it probably hadn’t worked since Sinatra was wooing the bobby-socks crowd back in the 1940s.
A pair of old geezers sat at one end of the bar, each one nursing a mixed drink. Not yet eleven a.m. and they were already on the road to alcohol oblivion. A lone man sat at the opposite end of the bar, pencil in one hand, punching numbers on a calculator with his other hand, and what appeared to be a ledger book spread out in front of him.
The woman behind the bar had just finished slicing lemons into small pieces and was about to do the same to several limes. She was on the verge of moving from middle-age to senior citizen, with straw colored hair, thin lips, penciled eyebrows, and easily the biggest bosom Dantzler and Milt had ever seen.
“What are you having, gentlemen?” she said, her voice surprisingly warm and friendly.
Dantzler held up his shield. “We would like to speak with Johnny Richards. Any chance he’s here?”
The man at the end of the bar closed his account book and stood up. “I’m Johnny Richards. What can I do for you?”
“I’m Detective Jack Dantzler, this is Detective Milt Brewer. If you have a couple of minutes, we would like to ask you a few questions.”
“No problem. I have a small office in the back where we can talk in private, or we can do it out here. Your call.”
“Out here will be fine.” Dantzler nodded toward the table nearest the front door. “How about the table over there?”
He and Milt sat first, joined moments later by Richards, who remained standing.
“You guys want something to drink?” Richards asked. “Coke, ginger ale, club soda?”
“We’re good,” Dantzler answered.
“You sure? I’m getting a Coke, and I’ll be more than happy to get you something.”
Dantzler shook his head, keeping his eyes on Richards, who walked behind the bar, shoveled ice into a glass, and filled it with Coke. He whispered something to the big-bosom bartender, triggering a smile from her, before heading back to the table where Dantzler and Milt were seated.
Richards was, Dantzler guessed, in his mid to late forties, although he might be slightly younger. He looked to be in excellent shape, whatever his age. More wiry than thin, he was one of those lucky guys who could probably
