Cemetery Road (Sean O'Brien Book 7) (16 page)

“That’s right, Cooter.”

Jesse said nothing. He stepped to the end of the table, near Johnson and said, “You’re blocking my shot.”

“Don’t see a shot from down here.”

“Move and I’ll show you.”

Johnson reached in front of Jesse, putting his open armpit near his face, chalking his cue stick, and then slowly stepping aside.

Jesse tapped a left corner pocket. “Number one’s going here.” He struck the cue ball, sending it off two railings and rolling into the one ball, dropping it in the pocket. Johnson’s eyes bulged, the vein in his forehead twisting in an S rotation.

Without hesitation, Jesse said, “Eight in far right corner.” He hit the cue ball hard, the eight ball vanishing in a streak of dark color. Jesse reached for the hundred-dollar bill. “Looks like you aren’t taking Ben home tonight.”

“Double or nothing, pops.”

“You owe me a hundred dollars. Pay up.”

“You can take your Ben Franklin and shove it up your ass.”

Jesse smiled, still holding his cue stick. “Where’d a young fella like you learn to talk so nasty? You lost. Tonight, you’re a loser. And now it’s time to pay your dues.”

“I don’t pay shit to a hustler. You got no manners comin’ into my house with your shit. You got a choice…you can leave or I’ll escort you to the county line. And when I’m doing it, I’ll teach you what your old man shoulda taught you.”

“He didn’t have a chance because your grandpa was beating the blood out of me. I was just a kid at the Florida School. He was one of the staff, except he was a little different. He loved boys…loved ‘em in a peculiar way. If they didn’t share the love, or if they cussed, like you’re doing, he’d take his wide leather strap and beat ‘em until the whip was splashin’ blood on the walls. Kinda like painting with human blood.”

A murmur came over the crowd. The
whumping
rotation of a paddle fan could be heard between the changing of music on the jukebox.

The bartender signaled a new waitress and said, “You better find Ernie.”

“The bouncer?”

“He’s the only Ernie we have. He’s probably outside smoking. Get him. Now!”

TWENTY-EIGHT

A
fter leaving the shuttered school, I drove through a misty rain toward Marianna, thinking about the voice-message Caroline Harper left me—how a witness, a boy at the time, had seen Andy Cope shot.
“He was in the reform school the same time Andy and Jesse were there. Jesse will only say the man is black, afraid to testify. Maybe you can find him.”

To find him, I’d have to find Jesse Taylor. I could see that my next voice-message was from Jesse’s number. I played it, the Jeep’s wipers pushing the droplets off the windshield. “Hey, Sean…Jesse gettin’ back with you. Man, I don’t play this telephone tag thing so well. Maybe we can meet up. I’m stayin’ at the Heartland Motel, room 29. Come on by, and we’ll go for a coffee or a bite. In the meantime, I’m droppin’ by a pool hall called Shorty’s. Maybe take in a game or two. If you come by, I’m wearin’ a black T-shirt and a LA Dodgers ball cap.”

I checked my watch against the time of his call, found the address online, and then set my GPS address for Shorty’s Billiards. With the description he left, Jesse Taylor would be easy to find. What I didn’t know was why he’d picked this particular bar to visit on a rainy night in Marianna, Florida.

Cooter Johnson grinned, a reddish eyebrow rising, eyes flat. Johnson set his personal cue stick on the table, reaching for one propped against a post. He broke it in two pieces, dropping the smaller end and keeping the thicker section with jagged shards. He moved around the table.

Jesse stood his ground, holding the cue stick like a baseball bat. He swung hard. Johnson used his three-foot piece to block the swing. Jesse’s cue stick shattered, one piece flying above the crowd. Johnson shoved the serrated wood under Jesse’s chin, turning it into his flesh. Blood rolled down the stick. Jesse was pinned against the pool table. He used his right hand to feel for a side pocket, to find a billiard ball. He gripped a ball, smashing it hard against Johnson’s forehead. The blow tore away a flap of skin, blood pouring down Johnson’s face, mixing in his red beard.

“Get him, Coot!” shouted a stocky man wearing a Tampa Bay Bucks T-shirt.

Johnson slammed his right forearm into Jesse’s mouth, loosening teeth, blood streaming. Jesse brought his knee up hard into Johnson’s groin, the big man reeling backwards, shaking his head like a dog coming from water, blood spraying across the pool table. Johnson charged. He pushed Jesse against a wooden support beam that went from floor to ceiling, his head crashing against the hard wood. The blow stunned Jesse, causing him to slip down the post onto the floor, his head and back propped up against the pillar.

The biker wearing the American flag bandana smirked and said, “Hey, Cooter. Hold his hand up against the post. We’ll pin his paw to the pole. Teach the fucker a lesson.”

Johnson grabbed Jesse’s left wrist, lifting his arm and holding Jesse’s hand above his head, against the post. Johnson glanced at the scars. “Your hand looks like a possum’s ass. Stick him, Danny.”

The biker grinned, pulling a knife from his belt, and stepping closer to the post. He drew back with the serrated-blade knife, targeting the back of Jesse’s hand.

Ace Anders jumped from his barstool, pushing through the crowd, shoving a raucous man out of the way. Ace ran up behind the biker, wrenching his arm, knocking the knife to the floor. He hit the biker in the jaw, the blow causing the bandana to fly from the man’s head.

In an instant, Cooter Johnson swept the knife off the floor, charging for Ace.

Jesse shook his head, vision returning. He pulled up his pants leg, drawing the pistol from the holster. He fired a round into the ceiling. Dust and a piece of black tile fell. The crowd was silent, people backing away, the warm air smelling of beer and blood. Jesse stood on wobbly legs, pointing the pistol at Johnson. “Drop the knife!”

Johnson tilted his head, glaring. “You gonna shoot me in front of all these witnesses?”

“That’s your choice. But if you don’t lose the knife, I’ll decide for you.”

Johnson released the knife, dropping it to the floor. Jesse said, “I’m giving you a message to take to your grandpa. Tell the old pervert that Jesse Taylor’s back in town, and he’s comin’ to see him. He may not remember me, but he hasn’t forgotten what he did to me at the school for boys. He liked it too much to forget.” Jesse cut his eyes over to Ace. “Let’s go.”

Ace nodded, shoving the biker out of the way. Jesse kept his pistol pointed at Johnson. He ran toward the doors with Ace in the lead, the music changing, CCR belting out
Run Through The Jungle
.

They opened the door to the cool night air and the blinding spotlights from a half dozen squad cars. A deep southern voice on a bullhorn said, “Police! Drop your weapons! Now! Lie face down on the parking lot. Arms out! You got three seconds!”

TWENTY-NINE

I
’d been in the Shorty’s Billiards parking lot, sitting in my Jeep and speaking on the phone with Dave Collins, when it happened. The pool hall must have been just over the city/county line, because I watched a half dozen Jackson County Sheriff’s squad cars pour into the parking lot followed by two Marianna police cruisers. Deputies and officers drew weapons, advancing toward the building. Spotlights trained on the door when two men stepped into the light. I recognized one of them immediately—only because Jesse Taylor had left a description of himself.
‘If you come by, I’m wearin’ a black T-shirt and a LA Dodgers ball cap.’

And there he was. Standing in the harsh wash of intense light from the SWAT team. He wore a Dodger’s cap and black T-shirt that read:
Harry’s Beach Bar – St Pete, FL
. He had blood on the front of his neck. Some had soaked into his T-shirt. He dropped a small pistol and stood next to another man—a large man. Military haircut. Both men held their hands up, blinking in the bright light, trying to see beyond the moving silhouettes with weapons drawn. A deputy shouted, “Lie down! Arms and legs spread!”

“What’s happening, Sean?” Dave asked.

“I think I just found Jesse Taylor.”

“Where?”

“Lying face down in the parking lot of a pool hall. He’s with another guy. It’s a SWAT assault. Police are surrounding them both. An arrest is definitely going down. Looks like my meeting with Taylor will be postponed.”

A deputy wearing a bulletproof vest shouted to the men, “You’re under arrest! Don’t move! Bag his gun, Derek.”

Dave said, “I could hear that. Stay low. Sit tight, Sean. Whatever Jesse Taylor has just stepped into has the trappings of a small town setup. What has he done to justify a SWAT assault? He told you he was dropping by the bar to shoot a game or two of billiards. The question is…who’d he play against? What was at stake? What happened in there?”

“Don’t know. I do know that Jesse Taylor was carrying a pistol in his right hand. He followed orders from the deputies and tossed the weapon. Talk with you later.” I disconnected, lowered the diver’s side window on my Jeep and watched them take down Jesse Taylor and the other man. They brought the men to their feet, handcuffed and dirty from lying facedown in a parking lot. The officers holstered their guns, the crackle of police radios echoing off the small building now splashed in a shower of blue, red, and white emergency lights.

I watched the proceedings from the shadows in my Jeep, close enough to hear, yet not to be in the way. A woman, maybe she was the bartender, and a fortyish man I figured was the manager—perhaps Shorty—poked their heads out of the door. An officer waved them outside and questioned them. Two more officers entered the bar. Jesse Taylor looked up at the moon and blew a sharp breath from his cheeks.

A tall man dressed in a sports coat, tie loosened, walked from an unmarked car around the officers. I saw him pull one aside, speaking in hushed tones. Then he approached the officer next to the manager and bartender, speaking briefly, questioning the manager. The tall man, a detective no doubt, nodded, not taking his eyes off the men in handcuffs. I could tell from his body language he was familiar with at least one of the two men. I assumed it was probably the guy with the gym body and military haircut.

The manger and bartender returned inside the bar. The detective approached the handcuffed men, two deputies standing next to them. The detective smiled, shaking his head. “Mr. Taylor…we meet again. Now it’s under much different circumstances. There have been some laws passed since you lived here and spent time in the old reform school. You can’t pull a pistol on a man and shoot it.”

Jesse stared at him. “I fired at the ceiling.”

“But you, according to eyewitnesses, pointed a handgun at a man and threatened his life. Maybe the bullet in the ceiling was really meant for Clarence Cooter Johnson, but in the scuffle—the fight—it discharged into the ceiling. That would be attempted murder.”

“If I’d attempted it, you’d be carrying him outta here in a body bag. It was self-defense.”

“Did he have a gun?”

“He had a knife, and he was about to stick it into the back of the man standing next to me.”

Ace nodded. “That’s right. This man saved my life. You ask anybody in there, people who aren’t Cooter’s friends, and you’ll hear the real story.”

The detective ran his tongue along the inside of his left cheek. He stepped closer to Jesse and looked at him as if he was inspecting an animal for parasites. “You smell of some serious drinking. Booze and guns make a deadly mix. When you spoke with me, I told you there was no tangible evidence to substantiate your accusations. And now you start creating problems. Hunting down relatives of people you think did you a wrong turn or two. So would this have been some sick sort of revenge killing? You start trying to wipe out the old man’s seeds off the face of the earth? Is that what this stuff tonight amounts to?”

“Cooter Johnson and that biker with the American flag bandana on his head, they tried to stick a knife through my hand and pin it to a post. I was shootin’ pool with Johnson. He lost. That’s when his temper, his demons, came out. He had the same look in his eye tonight as the old man did when the bastard was beating and abusing me as a kid.”

The detective crossed his arms and stood on the balls of his wingtip shoes for a second. “This isn’t the Old West, Mr. Taylor, where you can go about vigilante hunting of people.” The DA’s going to set an example with this one.” He glanced over to an officer. “Give them both a breathalyzer. Book ‘em. I’ll be back later for questioning.”

“What a damn minute!” Jesse said, his chest swelling, words slightly slurred from alcohol. “What about the fella who was an eyewitness to Andy Cope’s killing at the school? Did you interview him?”

“We rode out there. It looked like whoever lived in that old bus is gone. Maybe your witness is picking grapes in California. Migrant’s don’t have a whole lot of credibility.” He looked over to a deputy. “Book these two. They’re under arrest.”

The officer nodded. In one hand he held a sealed and marked plastic bag with Jesse’s pistol inside it. He signaled for two officers to escort Jesse and the other man to two separate squad cards. I got out of my Jeep and walked toward the entrance to Shorty’s.