The Other Side of Bad (The Tucker Novels) (8 page)

Chapter 13

Nashville, TN-December 11
th
, Present Day

I heard the front door open and Spain came into the restaurant. It didn’t take his eyes long to find me. He walked over and stood at the end of the table, looking down at me. I could tell he was enjoying being tall, although he’s only a few inches taller than me when I’m sitting.

“How’s the weather up there?” I asked.

He crossed his arms and looked down his nose at me with the warmth of a frozen lake, reminding me that he was considered one of the best interrogators on the Metro P. D. After an hour of listening to his voice and looking at his dark Sitting Bull imitation, the perp would feel as though he had been there for days and was willing to confess to anything, just to get away.

“Okay, I’m sufficiently frightened, now sit down,” I said, gesturing with my glass of water to the bench across the table from me.

As he sat, the waitress/server came over and hovered.

“I’ll have a Heineken with a glass, not a mug,” he said, as he took a handkerchief from a back pocket, and started wiping down the table.

This didn’t rate the smile I got from the waitress, as she curtly spins off.

“Let’s get the important business over with first,” he said. “Betsy wants to introduce you to a friend of hers, her personal trainer at the health club. She told me to tell you . . .”

“Stop,” I said, holding up my hand. “What’s going on? Did I ask to be fixed up?”

“Oh, are you seeing someone?”

“No.”

“How long’s it been, Tucker?”

“How long has what been?”

“Since you’ve been laid? Don’t be dense.”

I didn’t have to think hard about that, but I had to think if it was any of his business or not.

His wife, Betsy, wasn’t his wife the first time I met her. She was a patrolman, patrol-person, whatever. She was Spain’s partner, and I met her at the same time I met Spain, on Dec. 11
th
, 1982. The events of that night so greatly affected her, she quit the force, unintentionally releasing Spain from his departmental restrictions on dating your partner. Now she’s his wife and has her own real-estate business. She later told me that what she experienced that night bound them together, and was, in a sense, ‘the glue’ that held them through the hard times. Taking this into consideration, along with my long ongoing relationship with Spain…

“I’ve been alone and celibate for three years.”

“Three years!” he yelled, his head forward, his neck veins bulging with his buck teeth sticking out of his mouth.

Amazing how this guy could look so much like a jackass. Some women considered him good looking.

“Damn, Spain, why don’t you take an ad out in the Tennessean?” I asked, looking around the restaurant. “There could be some people in town that didn’t hear you.”

“That’s about when you and Paula Stone stopped seeing each other, isn’t it?” he asked.

“That’s right.”

 
   The waitress brought Spain his beer and we ordered. Spain, had the full rack of ribs, and I ordered the smoked turkey breast plate with a Haake Becks.

After she was out of hearing range, Spain continued. “You never told me what happened between you two. I mean, damn, Tucker, she’s like one of the most beautiful country singers in the business. She cut that song of yours, what was it called?”

“I’m Leavin You For Me.”

“Yeah, the next thing I know, I read in Country Music Magazine how she says you two are still great friends, but nothing about the breakup. From the article, Betsy and I got the impression she was still in love with you.”

I hadn’t read that article, but I needed to do some bud nipping.

“It was me, Spain,” I said.

“What ya mean…you?”

“Have you ever listened to the words to that song?” I asked

“I guess, but I can’t remember them now,” he said.

“I didn’t write it about her, but it fits. Her life is so all-consuming, I couldn’t find myself, and the bottom line is, I just wasn’t in love with her.”

“Jesus, Tucker,
I’m
in love with Paula Stone,” he said disbelievingly.

“It was complicated. Besides, she’s too young for me.”

“How can a woman be too young? How long were you two together?” he asked.

“About six months, not counting the two weeks I was hired to watch over her because of that stalker thing. She was probably going to want kids, and I’ve been there, done that, got three t-shirts.”

“Ya know, Tucker, I knew you were dating her, and from the way you were just, not around, I thought you were going to settle down.”

 
     I looked off, remembering another life when I was happy and complete, and some of what I went through when I lost it.

 
     I’d had different therapists over the years to help me deal with the loss of my wife and due to the nature of that loss the PTSD that accompanied it.

 
     Since her death I had trouble staying in relationships. I always seemed to compare the woman I was with, with my wife. It wasn’t a conscious effort, but I was told I did it, never-the-less.

 
     The therapists were all in accordance on a couple of my issues. One was that I would experience the affects of PTSD on different levels for the rest of my life. The trick was recognizing its’ slippery serpent head, to which I believe I had shown a reasonable proficiency. The other concurrence was
do not
compare the new woman in my life to my wife, on this issue I was an astoundingly successful failure. I understood the concept, but for me, it was like trying to put a moonbeam in a pocket that was sewn shut.

 
     The new woman was doomed from the outset. The loss of my wife had taken it’s toll. I missed her, right now.

 
      One of the upsides to Spain’s slow speech pattern was he didn’t seem to mind the long silent abysses I sometimes tumbled into.

“My wife’s a hard act to follow.”

Spain said, “I wish I could have known her.”

“Yeah, me too,” I said, thinking if he did, she’d still be alive.

The Weight Watcher candidate needed a dolly for his carry-out order. I wondered how many people could eat on what he was trying to carry out. Maybe it was for his family, a large one.

Spain and I locked eyes for just a moment, then he cleared his throat and asked, “How long’s it been since you’ve talked to Paula Stone?”

“She called me awhile back and asked me to the CMA Awards, I declined.”

“What did you say? How do you say no to something like that, and to someone like her?” he whispered, shaking his head.

I expected another bray, but he surprised me. I liked that.

“I told her it wasn’t her, it was me. I had some issues I needed to work out before I could be with anyone again.”

After ending it with Paula, I’d sat down and written out a description of the kind of woman I wanted to be with. Not just a physical description, but a list of qualities and traits. After reading it, I was struck with the certainty that this woman wouldn’t have anything to do with a man like me. After weeks of thinking about it, I came to the conclusion that I must obtain these qualities if I were going to attract a woman with them. The smart-aleck remark, ‘it takes one to know one’, took on a new meaning for me. Now, three years later, I felt I was getting closer.

“Are you seeing a shrink again?” Spain asked.

“No.”

“So, what you’re saying is, you’re not ready to see anyone at this time,” he said in a way I could tell he was formulating what to say to Betsy.

“That’s right.”

“Don’t you get lonely?” he asked.

“I’m learning to be alone without feeling lonely. There’s a difference.”
At least that’s what I was told.

While Spain was trying to figure out what I’d said, the waitress brought our food. Spain’s rack looked delicious and totally artery clogging.

Spain looked up from his plate long enough to ask, “How many songs have you had cut over the years?”

“Just ten,” I answered.

“You should be loaded, so you buy dinner,” he said.

“Not loaded at all, just enough to keep the wolves from the doors. I paid cash for a lot of the work I contracted for the house in the country and the apartment. I’ve only had two in the top ten, none of which went to number one. I haven’t written a song in years, and what with all the CD burning, the money’s not what it used to be.”

“Yeah, one of those was ‘Unconditionally’, the song about your wife. What was the other one?”

“Cowboys and Engines,” I said.

“That’s right,” he said, “Great song, ah . . . I like the other one too.”

“Thanks, but speaking of being loaded, Betsy’s real-estate business seems to be doing well. I see ‘Spain Real Estate’ signs all over the place, and I know you can’t afford that suit and those shoes on your pay.”

“Okay . . . Okay. I’m buying,” he said.

In between bites, he wiped his hands clean from the roll of paper towels the restaurant supplied for each table. The pile of used towels was mounting, so was something else. Spain appeared to become very serious.

“I found out something concerning those two shooters you took down. They were imported by Eddie Tuma.”

Chapter 14

Eddie Tuma, ‘the octopus’ I’d been feeling at my back, was Nashville’s turn of the century Al Capone wanna-be. I didn’t know much about him, other than he’s not one of the good guys.

Spain continued, “I’ve got it on good word that Bench borrowed a ton of money from Tuma to buy property on First and Second Avenues and was supposed to cut him in on the profits after reselling, and a percentage of the rental properties. Instead, he sent Tuma the money back with some interest. Kinda cut Tuma off at the knees. Not too bright of Bench.”

“Uh-hunh,” I said.

“I’ll tell you what’s worse,” Spain said, looking straight at me.

I pushed my beans around on my plate. Bar-B-Q beans don’t like me. I’d forgotten they came with the dinner.

“Your ex-client and apartment benefactor, Samuel Bench, has left the country with no need or intention of returning to the US, and Eddie Tuma has let it be known you’re now his new hobby. He didn’t take kindly to you spoiling his sweet revenge and his message to any other future business partners that ‘you don’t fuck with Eddie Tuma’.”

“Uh-hunh,” I said.

“You don’t seem to be too shook up over it,” he said.

“This isn’t what you wanted to see me about. You said there was someone who wanted to meet me, some kind of interview.”

The waitress came by and asked if we were through, and started clearing the table. She was all business, as if she could feel the vibe in the air.

“Do you know the name George Carr?” Spain asked.

It didn’t take but a second for the name to register. It was on the news and in the Nashville papers.

I said, “He’s the guy whose wife was killed in Houston, a car wreck, about three months ago, right?”

“Yeah. Anyway, about two months ago, he calls me. I know him through some real-estate shindigs Betsy’s hauled me to.”

The waitress brought the check and looked undecided as to which side to put it on.

“What’s your name?” I asked her.

“Bonnie. What’s yours?” she asked, with a dash of attitude. I think she was still miffed at Spain for wiping down what was for sure a ‘Bonnie Cleaned’ table.

“My name’s Tucker,” I said. Then pointed to Spain, “and the compulsive clean freak gets the check.”

This brought back her pretty smile as she delighted in giving Spain the check.

Spain looked like he wanted to retaliate, but looked down to catch himself wiping his hands for the umpteenth time, stopped, dug out a credit card and handed it to her. She gave it a hard look before leaving with it.

“As I was saying,” Spain continued, “he calls and asks if I know anyone who could check into his wife’s death, someone I trusted. I gave him your name.”

This came as a complete surprise.

“Why would you do that? I’m not a private investigator.”

“I know that, but you did get to the bottom of the Macino boy’s problem very quickly, and didn’t you teach a class to the Houston Police Department, something about weak hand shooting?”

“As it relates to cover,” I said, then added, “and I’ve done some gunsmithing for some of their Swat team and pistol team.”

“Well, I figured you had some pull in the Houston P.D. and could maybe look into it. Oh yeah, speaking of classes, Debbie over at the Department of Commerce and Insurance called me and said the security companies are pressuring her to get you to teach some classes for the State Guard License.”

“I don’t do that anymore.”

“Why’d you stop?” Spain asked.

“It’s too dangerous, too many inexperienced people with loaded guns.”

Spain laughed, “It’s amazing what killing two men can do for business.”

“What did you tell her?” I asked.

“That I would say something to you.”

“Okay,” I said. “You did.”

Spain took a fingernail file from the inside pocket of his suit coat and started cleaning the sauce out from under his fingernails.

I wondered if he’d do that if a woman was present.

He looked up from his chore, raised one eyebrow and said, “George Carr called this morning and said he would like to meet you tomorrow.”

This just didn’t add up.

I said, “I read she was killed in a car accident and was burned beyond recognition.”

“That’s right. He had to have her dental records sent down.”

I said, “One, why does he want it looked into? Two, why doesn’t he hire a private eye from Houston? And three, why does he wait two months to meet me?”

“Remember, on the phone I said there was something strange going on? Well, I’d call this strange, wouldn’t you?” he asked. “Tucker, this guy’s got more money than Trump and Turner combined. He has his own bodyguards and security. I don’t know why he waited so long to meet you, or why he just doesn’t send some of his own men down there.”

Spain took out a business card and handed it to me. It read, ‘George Carr’ along with a phone number.

As we walked through the door of the restaurant into the night mist, Spain edged past me to walk out first. We both paused and took in the street, checking parked cars for silhouettes of surveillance, or anything suspicious. Everything seemed normal, but, that’s how it would look if the person or persons after me were any good.

We walked over to my truck, and I punched in the code to unlock my door.

“Tucker, I told Carr the particulars of the shooting.”

“I didn’t know there were particulars,” I said, as the door clicked unlocked.

He took a deep breath, “There were 13 shots fired that night. Of the six you fired from your .45, there were two in each of the shooters’ chests, just left of center. You could have covered them with a pack of cigarettes. There was one in each head, just under their left eyes. Smart, covering your ass in case they had body armor, just like you teach. Bench’s personal body guards, Powell and Trent, fired their 9 millimeters twice each. They said the shooters were already dead on their feet by the time they got their guns out. Out of those four rounds, one hit the big guy in the leg, another round went through the gristle of the little guy’s left ear. The remaining two were misses that hit the building across the street behind the shooters. Powell fired at the big guy, and Trent said he shot at the smaller one.”

I noticed when Spain was speaking copese, he spoke at an almost normal speed.

There are three vital areas on a human, and an order of selection. One; center mass, the chest. Two; the pelvis, to break them down. Three and lastly; is the head. When shooting at paper silhouettes any hit above the brow or below the nose doesn’t count for a hit. There have been too many recorded instances of bullets hitting a forehead then tracing the skull and exiting without much damage or ricocheting off a tooth.

With that in mind, I said, “I couldn’t see their pelvis’s”

I could feel Spain looking at me through the dim light.

“That little guy was very fast,” I said, looking down the street at a man wearing a hooded coat crossing to the restaurant.

He said, “Tell me about it. All of the remaining three rounds came from that little fucker’s .357 semi-automatic. Two of them went through your coat, just to the left of your heart and under your armpit, and hit the brick wall at Pete’s. The other bullet is the one that hit a coffee cup the waitress in the same restaurant was holding.”

I said, “I had that coat repaired. Little Vietnamese guy has a tailor shop out in Bellevue. I have his card at the office, if you ever need anything done, like a pair of pants taken up or something.”

“Fuck you. What I’m saying is you made a lot of points with a lot of people that night. The big brass down at the station are starting to look at you a little differently now.”

“Let me get this straight,” I said. “This is the same brass that blackballed me from the range after finding out I worked on guns that belonged to some maybe unsavory characters from the northeast, and now because I killed a couple of guys from there, I get a slide.”

“Yeah, that’s about it.”

“And this is a good thing?”

“You think it could’ve gotten worse than it was?” Spain said, as he picked something off of his coat sleeve.

“Cops are still talking about how you stepped in front of Bench and just stood there during the firefight. Trent said it was like you knew those two were going to try and hit Bench. He told me he couldn’t tell who made the first move, you or them. Said when it started it was over.” Spain snapped his fingers. “Just like that,” he said.

“Trent’s ex-secret service, isn’t he?” I asked, not wanting to open my door and have the interior light come on, making an easy target of me.

Spain was looking down the street the other way, his suit coat was unbuttoned with his right thumb hooked behind his belt buckle. I wondered if he still had that .45 or his usual 9mm Beretta.

“Yeah. Trent said he didn’t like it worth a shit when Bench hired you to help them. Said it pissed him off so much he wanted to kick your ass.”

Spain chuckled, “I told him he had better bring his lunch when he decided to have a go at you. He gave me a weird look and told me he would probably be dead if you weren’t there. Said they all would have been.”

“How’s Stretch doing?”

He looked at me like I was speaking calculus.

“What?”

“The waitress that got hit in the coffee cup.”

“Oh, yeah, I forgot you know her. She’s okay, told me it was too bad the cup was empty. It could’ve had hot coffee in it and would’ve burned the shit out of her, then she would have found somebody to sue, maybe you.” He laughed at the thought.

Stretch was tougher than she looked, and she looked plenty tough. She always had some smart-assed remark; this meant everything was good with her.

“Just how well did you know Stretch?” Spain asked.

Standing beside my truck, I looked down at the backs of my hands, then turned them over to gaze into the palms, like there were answers in their shadows.

Over the years Margie and I knew her from different restaurants she worked where we’d go for dinner. We liked her. We could tell she liked us. She was attractive and funny. It was that kind of connection where everyone is attracted to each other, but no boundaries were being breeched.

I said, “Margie and I knew her from eating out. She was always the head of something, like bar manager or floor manager where she handled all the waiters and waitresses. Very tough broad. Looked a lot like Gina Davis, you know, the tall redheaded actress.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” he said, still searching the soggy streets.

“She took me home one night, back then, when I was really crazy, you know, afterwards.”

Shaking his head slowly, he whistled and said, “Damn, I bet she was hot. She’s not bad now, a little rough around the edges.”

“Yeah, she’s been doing that kind of work since I’ve known her. Those late nights will get to you. No one’s immune. She likes her beer too.”

I remembered that night. I had been trying to pickle my memories with Crown Royal and numb my pain with cocaine, and she took me home with her. My next recollection was of laying on her bed looking up at her face, which seemed about a mile away, so I asked, “How tall are you?”

She looked down at me and asked how tall I was, and I said “six foot even.”

She smiled at me, she had a great smile with a little overbite, and said, “I’m five-twelve.”

Sounded great at the time; at least I was taller.

That night, I found that tough broad exterior was just a wall. When she let it down, she was very soft and nurturing, a truly sweet woman. One of those surprises in life we live for.

“You know Spain, she’s really a sweet nurturing person,” I said.

“You’re shittin’ me, right?” he drawled. “No way that woman is nurturing. She said she would’ve sued your ass for being slow on the draw if that cup would’ve been full of hot coffee. I don’t think she was kidding. She wasn’t smiling when she said it.”

When Spain says more than a couple of sentences in a row, it’s like your grandmother telling you a bedtime story. I yawned and thought ‘she still loves me.’

“Spain, why’d you take the time to help me, you know, back then, when I was crazy? You didn’t really know me, but every time I got into trouble, it seemed like you showed up to keep me out of jail. Even when you were working undercover.”

If he noticed it took me twenty years to ask that question, he didn’t show it.

He pulled his braids from behind his back, laid them on his shoulders, and said, “I liked you because you always were kickn’ the shit out of some cowboy.”

I said, “About half the men in this town are cowboys or dress like one, including me.”

He smiled and said, “Well, there you go.”

We’d been standing beside my truck for too long, so I opened the door, the interior light came on like a stalag search light.

“If I were you I’d disconnect that light,” he said.

I got in my truck, opened the console, pulled out a folded piece of paper and handed it to Spain standing in the open door.