pink drink umbrella to her. It had Sword and Shield printed on it with an image of a shield with a medieval heraldic crest and sword. That was the name of the place. The bar at the Harborview.
I hoped it would work.
“Go back to sleep and dream it all over again. This will protect you from the redhead, and you can get Bob Dylan’s belt without any more trouble this time.”
Her eyes glowed with almost childlike joy as she took the tiny umbrella.
“Wow.”
I thought I heard the tinkling wind chimes again.
I had.
I looked up as a man appeared at the office door. He too had walked down the hall. Past the receptionist’s desk. Following the voices, I guess. He was tall and very distinguished. Older. My age, maybe. European slender and impeccably dressed. Tailored Savile Row dark charcoal suit. Regimental tie. Windsor knot. Pocket square. Black wingtips.
I just stared. Mr. Brain was impressed. He spoke.
“Ah, there you are, love. It’s time to go, I’m afraid.”
He reached out his hand to her. She took it and smiled. I stood up. He didn’t introduce himself.
“I do hope she was no trouble for you, sir.” British accent. Plumy. Very aristocratic.
“Oh, no. Not a bit.” I let my eyes feast upon her one last time. Maybe I’d see her again. Yeah, right, Jake.
“Right. Well. Shall we go then?” She stood, smiled, and slipped the little umbrella into her purse. That thousand-watt smile left me staring.
“Thanks ever so much.”
I just nodded and tried to smile as they left.
The wind chimes on the front door verified their departure.
I plopped down in my chair and leaned back. Sighed. My alligator boots went back up on the desk. Mr. Brain wasn’t bleeding as badly, and I desperately needed a drink. Anything but tequila.
Then it hit me.
No one had asked for the ten grand back. Ten grand, Jake. Did I really earn it? Don’t go all altruistic on me, Bub. Yeah, we damn well earned it. The umbrella will work because she believes it will work. Mr. Brain had advised wisely.
Right. Moral debate over.
Ten grand.
I picked up my phone.
Dialed Rebecca Lynn’s cell number.
Ten grand.
Rebecca Lynn, now my third wife, didn’t take my call. Probably was with a client or in maybe court. In fact, she rarely took my calls. It used to piss me off, but then I learned to just ignore her rudeness. She’s a prominent attorney, a legend in her own mind, and I’m just a normal guy who expects an answer to my very occasional calls.
OK. That’s not fair. She’s busy. Me, not so much. I cut her some slack. Hung up before the auto-answering menu chimed in.
Besides, the mood had passed.
I went downtown.
CHAPTER TWO
There’s only one way to deal with a tequila hangover. Forget those old wives’ tales. It’s whisky. Real made-in-America sour mash Tennessee corn whisky. And in this whisky connoisseur’s considered opinion, there are only two up to the task: George Dickel and Jack Daniel. You need not ask how I know. Your liver may hate you for it, but at least you’ll feel better.
Mr. Brain was showing off. He wanted to contrast and compare the whiskies for me. Again. Both whiskies are sour mash, with a slightly different recipe, but Dickel mellows thorough an oak charcoal rick at ninety proof, and Daniel mellows through maple at eighty. Both are simply fine sippin’ whiskies.
It was time to do battle with the nagging drum solo in my skull. The bar and pub was downtown, and during Clearwater Police Department’s late afternoon shift change, it was frequented by PIs and off-duty cops, sheriffs, and other wannabe types who worked in the law enforcement field. And at the lunch hour, it was attorneys, judges, bailiffs and legal assistants who cluttered up the place. Drinks were always a good pour, and the food was fast. And good. And it was convenient to the Pinellas County Courthouse. And to my office.
I found a stool and slid onto it.
“Well. It’s Jake Randall comin’ in, then, init? You look like shite, laddie. Jealous husband kick your arse?”
That’s what passes for a greeting at the Fort Harrison Pub in downtown Clearwater. It was a famous bar and pub, right on the corner at Fort Harrison Avenue and Court Street. It was currently owned by Gavin Connor MacFarlane, a Scot who lived in one of those fabulously expensive waterfront homes on Edgewater Drive on the way up to Dunedin. Everyone calls him Mac. Mr. Brain has no clue why. He thought Gavin—which means white hawk in Gaelic Scottish—was a suitable moniker. Anyway, Mac bought the Fort Harrison Pub years ago from a Turkish Muslim who had owned it forever and had eventually died. Before that it may have been a transplanted Cuban who originally owned the original frame shack back in the early 1900s. Like O’Keefe’s down the street, it was part of Clearwater’s history, like the Columbia Restaurant’s bar across the bay in Ybor City was famous in Tampa; or Old Ebbitt’s Grill in Washington, DC; or The Merger in San Antonio, Texas; or T. P. Crockmeir’s in Mobile, Alabama. Or even Mozie’s Saloon in Gruene, Texas, home to a hundred years of Texas cowboys. Or dozens of other famous centuries-old American watering holes with a long and vibrant history.
Fort Harrison Avenue was named for the actual US Army fort that was established in the early 1800s on Clearwater’s high bluffs overlooking Clear Water Harbor. That’s how the old maps of the area described the bay. Locals always called it Clearwater Bay. The fort was strategically located directly across the bay from a natural pass formed by Dan’s Island—now known as Sand Key—and the south end of Clearwater Beach. Beyond that pass—Little Pass as it was called when I was kid growing up here—was the open Gulf of Mexico. Army cannons of the day could easily reach the pass and beyond. So the pass was well protected from any who may venture there. Anyway, nobody ever changed the basic name of the bar and pub. It had been a Clearwater landmark forever. The company was good, and the drinks were reasonable. You could even get good wings and a decent hot-pressed Cuban sandwich here too.
I replied to Mac’s sardonic welcome.
“Nah. No such luck. Boy’s night out is all. Me and Mark-boy.”
“Aye, and you’re looking the worst for it, me boy.”
I nodded resignedly. Mac was short on diplomacy, long on factual observation. I guess I must have looked like I felt. I needed hydration. What I wanted was an ice water. What I got was a Jack and Seven-Up. My usual. Mac didn’t even ask, just set it front of me. I nodded thanks, sipped my drink, and looked around. Mid-afternoon was always slow and the place looked it. Shift change for the police department wasn’t for a couple hours yet, and the legal types were already back at work.
“Heard about the Boot Hill shootout you were in. Killed some nasty blokes from the Sandbox, I’m told. Now that’s some good work there, init?”
