“Life should be that easy.”
A rivulet of sweat broke from Slidell’s hairline as he yanked his mobile from his belt and punched in digits.
In minutes we had an answer. The Double Shot was still pouring from noon until two a.m. daily.
Mooresville edges up to a meandering man-made body of water called Lake Norman. Situated roughly twenty-five miles from Charlotte, in Iredell County, the little hamlet is home to twenty-five thousand citizens and a buffalo ranch.
Along with the surrounding towns of Huntersville, Cornelius, Kannapolis, and Concord, Mooresville is also home to a truckload of NASCAR team shops. Bobby Labonte. Martin Truex, Jr. Brian Vickers. Thus the burg’s self- selected moniker: Race City, U.S.A.
We found the Double Shot on a narrow strip of two-lane a mile and a half east of I-77. Located on neither the lakeshore nor the interstate, the place in all likelihood depended on the business of locals who were regulars.
Curb appeal was definitely not the draw. The building was a 1950s-style ranch with red siding turned salmon by years of sun. DOUBLE SHOT had been hand-lettered on the highway-facing wall sometime this century, then never touched up.
Four motorcycles formed a line outside the front entrance. Two pickups sat at careless angles in the gravel lot.
I must watch too much TV. When Slidell and I entered, I expected every eye to swing our way. Didn’t happen.
To the left, two men played pool while a third watched, legs straddling, arms draping a back-turned chrome and vinyl chair. At the bar, a pair of beer drinkers continued their conversation. At the opposite end, another customer focused on his burger.
Painted windows kept the Double Shot’s interior dim. Overhead fans created a jumpy, surreal effect by dancing the neon oranges, reds, and blues glowing from wall-mounted beer signs.
As my eyes adjusted, my mind logged detail.
Three wooden booths ran the wall to the right of the entrance. A pointing-finger sign indicated that toilets lay somewhere beyond the booths.
Straight ahead, tables filled floor space fronting the bar. Behind it, a gray-bearded man washed mugs by moving them on a brush fixed upright beside the sink.
Every patron was male. Three were heavily tattooed. Four badly needed a trip to the barber. Two had shaved heads. Despite the ninety-degree heat, all wore jeans and heavy leather boots.
Slidell’s eyes probed every shadow as we crossed to the bar. The tension in his shoulders told me he was locked and loaded.
Though Gray Beard never raised his head, I knew he was tracking us. Slidell and I stopped in front of him and waited.
Gray Beard continued his piston-cycle moves with the glassware.
“You want I should flash the shield, impress your upscale clientele?” Slidell said, not all that quietly.
“They know who you are.” Gray Beard set down a mug. Picked up and started cleaning another.
“That so?”
“They can smell cop.”
“Look at me, dipshit.”
Gray Beard’s eyes rolled up. In the gloom, their whites looked urine-yellow.
“We can chat here,” Slidell said. “Or we can chat someplace nice and official. And while we’re gone, I can have every inspector north of Aiken checking this dump out.”
“How can I help you, Officer?” Faux-polite.
“How about we start with your name.”
“Posey. Kermit Posey.”
“That a joke?”
“I don’t joke.”
“This your joint?”
Posey nodded.
“I’m interested in a guy name of J. D. Danner.”
Posey set the mug beside others sitting on a blue-and-white-checkered towel.
“I’m waiting, asshole.” Slidell’s tone was dangerous. “But not very long.”
“This look like a place folks trade business cards?”
“J. D. Danner.”
“I might have heard the name.”
“I have a witness says Danner was a regular here back in ’ninety-eight.”
“That was a long time ago.”
