Collateral Damage A Matt Royal Mystery - By H. Terrell Griffin Page 0,54
get somebody to check on the Brewsters in Charlotte. See if they’re still in the house. I’d like to talk to them.”
“I’ll see if I can get Charlotte P.D. to check on that,” said J.D.
Jock looked at his watch. “It’s only ten. I doubt the bar’s open this early.”
“You’re probably right,” said J.D. “Let’s get those statements taken care of. Gotta keep the paperwork in order.” She pulled a small tape recorder from her pocket and set it on the coffee table. “Who’s first?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Palmetto is a small town that lies just across the Manatee River from Bradenton, its downtown area straddling Highway 41. The place was in the throes of some sort of urban renewal, older buildings being spruced up and new structures coming out of the ground. It was a quiet piece of old Florida where the residents took pride in their town and left most days for work in Bradenton, Sarasota, or St. Petersburg.
O’Reilly’s took up the northern end of an old strip center that had not yet been graced with the brush of renewal. The whole place was decaying, most of it empty. It wasn’t long for this world. One day soon, the bulldozers would come and wipe it off the map. A new building would take its place and the town would move on into a more modern version of itself.
It was two o’clock in the afternoon and the sun was beating down on the asphalt parking lot, the steamy heat enveloping us, turning the world into a giant steam bath. We walked into the air-conditioned bar, the smell of stale beer and old cigarette smoke assailing our nostrils. The interior was dark, a bit foreboding, but the coolness was welcoming. There were no patrons, the place having just opened for business. A bar ran along the back wall. To the right were doors marked as restrooms. Four or five tables took up the floor space. It was not an upscale tavern.
The bar was low, table height with a row of five wooden chairs placed in front of it. At one end, two steps led down to the area where the bartender worked. It was an unusual arrangement, but not unique. The bartender could still serve his patrons without bending down, but there was no leaning on the bar here. One had to sit in the chairs.
A small man, maybe five foot six, stood behind the bar, a wet towel in his hand. He was getting the place ready for his customers. He had thinning gray hair that had not seen a comb that day and lay like shriveled weeds on his balding head. He had a beard that didn’t quite cover his face, as if there were some areas where the hair could not grow. He was wearing a white golf shirt and jeans and a scowl.”
“Help you?” he asked.
“We’re looking for Big Tony,” J.D. said.
“You’re looking at him,” said the man behind the bar. “What do you want?”
“I want to talk to you about Clyde Bates,” J.D. said.
“Never heard of him. Who the fuck are you?” A man clearly out of sorts with the world.
Jock had moved to the edge of the bar, his hand resting on the back of one of the chairs, giving the man a hard look. “Your face reminds me of an old dog I used to have. He got the mange and his coat did the same thing your beard’s doing. Looked like shit.”
The man reached under the bar, a look of anger flashing across his face. At the same time Jock picked up the chair. The bartender came up with a sawed off baseball bat in his hand and pulled back to swing at Jock. At that instant Jock threw the chair into the man’s chest, knocking him backward. He dropped the bat as Jock vaulted over the low bar. In less time that I can describe he had the man by the neck, one hand pushing upward, the other ready to throw a punch into the gut of the little man.
“Everybody stop,” said J.D. her voice ringing loudly in the quiet bar. “Let him go, Jock.”
Jock removed his hand from the bartender’s neck and stepped back two steps. He picked up the bat and held it in his right hand, staring at the man as if daring him to try again.
“What do you want?” the bartender said.
J.D. held out her badge. “I just told you. I want to talk to you about Clyde Bates.”