stained white undershirt. A “wife beater” shirt is what everyone called them now because it seemed as if every mope in a domestic dispute walked out to meet the cops wearing one of the Walmart specials. The TV show Cops was an advertisement for the simple, white undershirt.
No one approached to see if they wanted a drink, but he realized every person in the place knew two cops had walked in the front door. They might have assumed he had come in earlier just to get an underage drinker, not realizing Lauren wasn’t drinking and was his daughter. A few furtive glances and hurried movements told Stallings that this place was like most little bars where all kinds of shit went down. The JSO could spend every night just in places like this and make plenty of arrests. It still wouldn’t put a dent in the crime rate or drug use. He knew all cops did anymore was keep a lid on a pressure cooker. Any little incident could be blown out of proportion, and any group of thugs could push a crime spree and turn it into a new media focus that would terrify the city.
But for right now all he wanted to do was focus on the asshole who gave Allie Marsh the drugs that killed her.
The band finished to a round of mild applause. Then, without consulting with his bandmates, the drummer stood up and stepped behind a thick, velvet curtain surrounding the stage.
Patty immediately stepped forward, and Stallings took the route to the opposite side of the curtain. As they stepped behind it at the same time a man in the small room looked up and said, “Employees only back here.”
“Where’d the drummer go?”
The man ignored the question. Then Stallings stepped up to him and growled, “Where’d the drummer go?”
The man nodded toward the rear of the building. “Think he stepped out for a smoke or something. Can I help you?”
But Stallings and Patty knew when they had been given the slip and headed for the rear door. It opened into a narrow alley crammed with overflowing garbage cans and old pallets stacked next to each door. They caught a glimpse of the fast drummer as he skittered around the corner onto the next street.
Stallings looked at his partner. “Why do you think he did that?”
“No idea, but I know he’ll come back.”
“How’d you know something like that?”
“His drums are still inside.”
Tony Mazzetti couldn’t even get a name from this guy.
“C’mon, just a street name so I can call you something.”
The black man had a deep yellow tinge to his eyes and a vacant gaze. He turned his wide head stacked on a wider, flabby body and scowled at Mazzetti, who was sitting on the edge of a low wall, his jacket off and gun exposed on his hip.
“Some of the folks down here call me'-he paused for dramatic effect-'Pudge.”
Mazzetti nodded. “Now there’s a shocker. Why would people call you Pudge?”
“Because I am somewhat corpulent.”
Mazzetti just stared at him.
“Because I eat and drink a little too much.”
Mazzetti was still quiet.
“So, rather like Friar Tuck from the beloved Robin Hood fable, I am a portly prophet in this land of constant dismay.”
“You’re not from around here, are you?”
“I am a wandering prophet who has nested here in this lovely jewel of the South for almost six years.”
“Have you seen anyone shot in those six years?”
“I have.”
“Any of them in the last three hours?”
“Perhaps, but I would be a stupid prophet to admit it.”
“We could protect you.”
“Like Germans protected the Jews.”
“Look, I can see you’re a smart man. Don’t you want to help clean up the streets?”
“I would if I could do it at a cost less than a painful death.”
“So whoever did this was tough?”
“I have no idea who did it, but the victims are badasses. I’d hate to get on the wrong side of the killers.”
Mazzetti scribbled a few notes, wondering if pulling this guy in as a witness and throwing him in front of a grand jury would do any good. Would they compel him to testify? Could they? Mazzetti didn’t even have his real name yet. Did he know anything of value?
Pudge leaned in and said, “Might could give you the name of a witness who may not be as invested in the local neighborhood and therefore feel free to speak.”
“Who?”
“A white man who is currently shacked up with the lovely Miss Brison in the yellow house across the street.”
Mazzetti followed the man’s crooked finger to a small yellow house, built up on blocks to avoid flooding and leaning ever so slightly to the left. The windows all had curtains, but one was pulled to the side. It flopped closed as soon as Mazzetti’s eyes scanned the house.
Maybe there was someone inside who could help.
Twenty-three
Stallings kept the binoculars on the front door of the Bamboo Hut from almost four blocks away. This was Police Work 101. They needed to talk to the drummer. He ran from them. A common occurrence on the streets of Jacksonville. The difference was that this wiry drummer was more important to them than the average crack dealer hoping to evade arrest until he can sell off enough of his stock to make bail.
Patty said, “What do you think?”
Stallings didn’t lower his field glasses. “He’ll be back pretty soon. That’s the beauty of cell phones and dumb-asses in the same room.” He had purposely said to Patty, as they walked back through the club after losing the drummer, that they would get him another night and that it was late. He knew a couple of the staff had heard his supposedly offhand remark and that the cell phones would start to burn up before too long.
Patty said, “How long you figure? Couple hours?”
“Not that long. He wants his drums. He’ll be back in less than an hour.” Before he could say anything else, a figure hustled down the sidewalk to the front door of the club and paused, then ducked inside. Stallings said, “Make that less than a minute. It’s showtime.”
A minute later Stallings pulled open the door to the little club, only to have someone stand up and block his way. It was the tall guitarist he’d seen earlier.
The young man with long, spindly arms said, “Sorry, dude, we’re closed.”
Stallings held up his ID and said, “JSO.” He started to step around the guitarist.
The man stepped to the side and blocked him. “Got a warrant, dude?”
“Don’t need one, dude. I’m in pursuit. But nice try.” He stepped the other way, but the man matched him. That was a mistake. Stallings shoved him to one side and had started marching to the rear of the club when he felt a strong hand on his shoulder.
Without hesitation, Stallings’s training took over and he reached up and grabbed the fingers of the strong hand and squeezed. He spun, pulling the man close to him with the hand firmly in his grasp.
Stallings said, “Wrong move there, dude.”
The guitarist swung his free fist at Stallings’s face.
Stallings cranked down on the attacker’s fingers, feeling the small bones crunch. “I tried to be nice.” He released the man’s hand and let him crumple, whimpering, onto the ground. No one else dared step forward.
Stallings raced to the back of the club. Nothing. He hit the back door hard, then froze as a smile spread
