Day of the Tiger (A Carlos McCrary Mystery Thriller Book 5) Page 2

  “Something intervened.”

  “What is this, big guy, twenty questions? What intervened?”

  “More like who intervened. Al’s mother, Doraleen, called me yesterday afternoon. Moffett showed up at her house and threatened her if Al doesn’t pay. Moffett told her that Al swore on her life that he’d pay. He told her Al’s two weeks was up tomorrow. She was at her wits end, so she called me. She was so scared she could barely talk. I went out to her home and installed better locks. Then I called you.”

  I drank Amstel while I decided what to say. “And here we are.”

  “Yeah, here we are.” Tank sighed. “I’ve fretted over this mess ever since Al’s mother called. I’m convinced that throwing money at Al—or at his creditors—is only a short-term solution. I tried that before, and it doesn’t make any long-term difference to Al. I want to do something different this time.” His eyes were moist. “That’s why I called you.”

  “What am I supposed to do, psychoanalyze him? Read his aura? Adjust his chakras? I’m a poor dumb private investigator with a room-temperature IQ.”

  “For starters, I want you to help Al’s mother.”

  I inhaled the Amstel’s hoppy aroma; at least something in this room was perfect. I made a get-on-with-it gesture to Tank.

  “Doraleen was a second mother to me when I attended UAC. I call her Momma Dora. She invited me for Thanksgiving my first year at school. I couldn’t afford to fly back to Alabama, and it was too far to drive there and back in four days. After that I spent every holiday but Christmas and Spring Break with Al’s family. We became real close.”

  “Even after Al dropped out?” I asked.

  “Even then. Momma Dora said that my ties with Al and her went deeper than football.”

  “And you stayed in touch all these years.”

  “Like I said, she’s a second mother.” Tank’s brown face creased in a grin. Sometimes he looks like he has forty-eight teeth. Guy is a real-life toothpaste ad. “Besides, Momma Dora makes the world’s best chili.” The grin faded. “A stray bullet killed Al’s father while we were at UAC. For the last few years, ever since Al became unreliable, I’ve visited once a month. I help around the house and do a few things she needs a younger person for. I put Christmas decorations on her roof or change a light bulb in a ceiling fixture. Al… he doesn’t come to see Momma Dora often enough. Even when he comes, he’s not good for much anymore.” He sipped his Scotch. “Momma Dora thinks of me as the son who turned out all right.”

  “What makes Al unreliable? Drugs?”

  Tank nodded. “When he can afford them. Alcohol when he can’t.”

  “Al have any brothers or sisters?”

  “Momma Dora and her husband William tried to have children for years. They had lost hope when Al came along. She said Al was a gift from God, never repeated.”

  I pulled a notepad from my jacket. “What’s Al’s full name? Albert? Alfred? Alexander?”

  “Alfred Lord Tennyson Rice.”

  “For real?”

  Tank grinned. “What can I say? Momma Dora’s an English teacher.

  I scribbled it on my notepad. “Do you have a picture of Al I could borrow?”

  “Momma Dora will have one.”

  “What about on your phone? You have a picture in the contact list?”

  “Yeah, I forgot that one.”

  “Send it to my phone.” He did, and I examined the photo. “That’s one I can use. Now to the assignment at hand. What should I do about Monster Moffett? Wave a magic wand? Sprinkle pixie dust? Join hands and sing Kumbaya? My voice sounds best in a large choir where it’s drowned out.”

  Tank stood at the window and spread his hands. When he stood there in his three-pieced, blue pin-striped suit, he looked like the world’s largest banker. His bulk blocked the view. “I don’t have a clue how to help this family, but I gotta do something even if it’s wrong. If Al continues on this path, I guaran-damn-tee you, he’ll end up dead. I could live with Al being dead—karma and such. But for Momma Dora… an old woman shouldn’t bear a loss like that. I can’t let it happen. Not if there’s any way under heaven to prevent it.”

  “From Moffett’s reputation, he won’t back off unless someone kills him. Then his ghost will haunt you. If that’s what you’re after, big guy, that ain’t gonna happen. I don’t do hits, even if the guy deserves it.” That was almost true.

  “God, no. That’s not what I mean. Besides, if Moffett fell into a bottomless pit, Al would find another jerk to gamble with. No, this situation requires a more original approach.”

  “A personality transplant is outside my area of expertise.”

  “Nobody likes a smart ass. Come with me to see Momma Dora. She’s a wise old bird; hell, she earned a Masters in English Lit. Maybe she’ll know what to do.”

  Chapter 3

  Doraleen Rice took a deep breath when the doorbell rang. Surely it wasn’t that horrible man again. She looked through the peephole and sighed with relief. Tank and a white man, who must be his friend Chuck McCrary, stood at the door. She trembled as she opened the solid oak door. She jumped when it clunked against the brass security bar. “You haven’t seen Race Car out there, have you, Tank? I let her out an hour ago. She should be back by now. I’m worried about her, what with that… that gangster making threats yesterday.”

  Tank scanned the front yard. “No, Momma Dora, I don’t see her.” He turned to Chuck. “Did you spot a white Persian cat as we walked up?”

  “Nope.”

  Doraleen closed the door to swing the brass security bar open. She reopened it wide enough for the two men to enter. “Come in, come in, boys. Hurry inside.”

  She slammed the door behind them, threw the two dead bolts, and swung the door guard across the matching knob screwed to the door edge. “I’m not used to this door safety thing, Tank.” Standing on tiptoe, she reached her arms as far around Tank’s neck as she could and leaned her cheek against his muscular chest. Tank wrapped arms the size of tree trunks around her slender shoulders. She burst into tears.

  ###

  I stood near the door, shifted my weight from one foot to the other, while this tiny woman and my giant friend comforted each other. I felt as out of place as a hooker in church. Glancing around, I noticed the new door guard was expertly installed. One dead bolt was newer than the other. Those must be the extra locks Tank installed.

  Tank patted the old woman’s shoulder and kissed the top of her head. “There, there, Momma Dora. I’m here. Everything will be all right.”

  Doraleen looked at my buddy. “I’m frightened, Tank. While I waited for you and your friend to arrive, I kept worrying, ‘What if that Moffett man shows up before they get here?’ What would I do—what could I do?”

  She stepped back and smoothed her palms down the front of her brick-red dress. She held out her hand. “I’m Doraleen Rice.”

  She presented a firm handshake and cold hands. To my eye, she had aged like fine wine with skin as smooth as a burnished oak barrel. The tiny lines that etched the corners of her eyes reminded me of wood grain, not wrinkles. She could have been anywhere from fifty to eighty. Her red dress and salt-and-pepper Afro hairstyle looked like Little Orphan Annie, but all grown up. I handed her a business card, one without the crossed swords on it. “I’m Chuck McCrary. I’m here to help.” Instantly I felt stupid. I remembered that old joke: I’m from the government; I’m here to help.

  “Let’s sit. We have a lot to discuss.” She led us into a living room that looked like a set from a 1980s television show. The one modern piece in the room was a huge HD television with a cable box on the table beside it. A bottle of sherry and three stemmed glasses with gold rims sat on the coffee table next to the TV remote.

  Mrs. Rice lifted the bottle. “Will you have a sherry, Chuck?”

  “No thanks, ma’am, I have to drive.” I didn’t mention that I don’t like sherry. No sense hurting the lady’s feelings.

  Tank wasn’t as tactful as I. “You know I don�
��t drink sherry, Momma Dora.” He glanced my way. “Momma Dora puts out a glass for me anyway. She says she wants to be hospitable in case I change my mind.” He patted her hand.

  “Chuck, I’m old enough to be your mother—maybe your grandmother, but don’t make me feel old by calling me ‘ma’am.’ Please call me Doraleen. Since you don’t want sherry, Tank will brew you both fresh coffee while we get acquainted.”

  I raised an eyebrow at Tank. He grinned. “Don’t look surprised, Mr. Gourmet Cook. Despite what you think, I’m not helpless around a kitchen. I know how to brew coffee. You and Momma Dora talk.” He took off his suit jacket and draped it across a chair back.

  “Thanks, coffee is fine, ma’am. I mean, Doraleen. Just so you know, I call every woman ma’am no matter her age, high school English teachers in particular. It’s the way I was raised.”

  Doraleen smiled back, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes. She had other things on her mind. She waited until Tank left the room. “Tank is such a good man. He’s a second son to me. I don’t say it in front of him because it embarrasses him, but I love that boy as much as if I’d borne him myself. How did you and Tank meet?”

  “We’re both friends with Bigs Bigelow,” I answered. “Do you know Bigs?”

  “Oh, yes. He and Tank played together on the Pelicans defensive line—the ‘Bigs Brigade’ the newspapers called them. Bigs is a fine, fine man. Did you know that he retired from football and became a police detective?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I met Bigs when I was a police detective.”

  “So Bigs introduced you to Tank?” She poured herself a sherry.

  “Yes, ma’am. I came into a chunk of money a while ago, thanks to a sizable bonus a client paid me. I didn’t make millions like Bigs, but I asked him to recommend somebody to keep me from blowing my nest egg on wine, women, and song.”

  “Bigs got rich playing for the Pelicans,” Doraleen said, “but, more important, he stayed rich after he retired from football. That’s not easy to do.”

  “I always say ‘I can resist anything but temptation.’” If she saw the humor, she didn’t let it show. My comedic genius often goes unappreciated. “Tank made sure I resisted temptation,” I finished lamely.

  Doraleen sipped her sherry. “Many of Tank’s friends from professional football wasted their good fortune and wound up destitute. As did my William, God rest his soul. I remind my students that the quality of our decisions determines the course of our lives. My William played two years for the Miami Dolphins and wound up with nothing to show for it but bruises and memories. At least they were good memories. Of course, William made his bad money decisions before I knew him. I would never countenance such nonsense.” She leaned toward me. “Tank told me once how William’s bad experience inspired him to do better while he was in college. Did you know Tank passed the CPA exam on the first try?”

  “No, ma’am, I didn’t know, but I’m not surprised.”

  “Tank is modest, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” If Tank were in the room, I would have said he had much to be modest about. Doraleen would not have found that remark amusing either.

  Doraleen’s eyes sparkled. “Tank takes his profession seriously; it’s almost a mission to him. He says one must respect the money.” She leaned back. “So you are Tank’s client.” It was not a question.

  “And friend. We often work out at Jerry’s Gum together, and we watch football together.”

  Doraleen nodded. “Tank tells me you’re a private investigator.”

  “Yes, ma’am. McCrary Investigations.”

  “Do most private investigators earn enough to require an investment manager such as Tank?”

  I shook my head. “Not the ones I know. Most make a so-so livelihood like anybody else. I’m the exception. Sometimes, my clients give me a bonus when a case works out better than they expected. I put that bonus money with Tank to invest for me. My account must be small potatoes compared to his other clients, but I add to it every month.” I glanced over my shoulder to see what was keeping Tank. My collar felt a little tight.

  “Mighty oaks from little acorns grow, Chuck. Never forget that.” She narrowed her eyes. “What makes you exceptional?”

  “My strength is as the strength of ten, because my heart is pure.” I knew she would recognize that quotation.

  Her eyes widened. “You’re an Alfred Lord Tennyson fan?”

  “All-arm’d I ride, whate’er betide, until I find the Holy Grail.”

  “Sir Galahad, Tennyson’s most famous poem. Did you know Al’s full name is Alfred Lord Tennyson Rice?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Tank told me.”

  “You see yourself as a knight errant.”

  “And I have dimples.”

  Doraleen smiled. Or maybe smirked. “Tank warned me that you fancy yourself a humorist.”

  “Guilty as charged.”

  “I’m sure you’re quite droll, Chuck, but I don’t have a sense of humor.”

  “You could have fooled me.”

  “What?” She raised a hand to her chest. “Oh, that was another bon mot, wasn’t it? It was irony.”

  “I thought so. Mistakenly, it appears.”

  “If ever a damsel in distress needed a knight errant like Sir Galahad to gallop in on a white horse, it is I.”

  I grinned. “Spoken like a true English teacher.”

  “You shall be my Sir Galahad.” Doraleen glanced at the door. “I don’t mean to be rude, Chuck, but I’m worried about Race Car. Ever since that horrid man came here yesterday to threaten me, I’ve been on pins and needles. I think about things I’ve seen on TV and in the movies… you remember the horse’s head scene in The Godfather?”

  Everyone who’d ever seen that movie remembered the scene.

  “That scene scared the heck out of me,” I said. My stomach twisted as I remembered another time I’d found a client’s dog slaughtered by a mobster with a sadistic streak like Moffett. I forced the dead dog’s image from my mind.

  “Race Car isn’t a prize racehorse, but she is every bit as precious to Al and me. To Tank too, for that matter. We found her when we were walking away from the graveside service at William’s funeral. This forlorn, dirty little kitten walks up to us in the middle of that tombstone forest. God knows where she came from. She rubs against Al’s leg and he picks her up. She licks his hand and purrs, and Al was smitten. He said, ‘It’s Dad. He sent this kitten to tell us he’s okay.’ We looked around the cemetery to see if there was a momma cat anywhere, but it was like the kitten had dropped from the sky—or from Heaven. Al named her Race Car.’"

  “Race Car?” I repeated. “An unusual name for a cat.”

  Doraleen smiled. “When William played wide receiver, he was so fast that his nickname was Race Car Rice. We named her as a tribute to my William. But Race Car’s old. There’s no telling how much longer she’ll live.”

  “Would you like me to look for her, Doraleen?” I asked.

  She set down her sherry and snugged the shawl around her shoulders. “I’ll go with you. Race Car can get nervous around strangers. I notice you carry a gun. Even if that… that man is out there, I’ll be safe with you.” She followed me to the door.

  I flipped back the security bar and opened the two dead bolts. “Normally, I’d hold the door for you, Doraleen. In this case, let me go first—for security.” I pulled the door open and jerked to a stop in mid-stride, barring Doraleen’s path with my arm.

  An off-white Persian cat sprawled in macabre repose on the concrete, fluffy fur streaked with crimson splotches. Bloody streaks marked a trail where the pitiful pet had fought her way up the steps and across the porch and collapsed near the door. Ragged stumps were all that remained of her tail and ears. Race Car raised her head and turned her gray eyes toward the door. Her mouth opened in a soundless meow.

  Doraleen pushed past my arm with surprising strength. “She’s alive!"

  Chapter 4

  I drew my Glock and scanned the street and si
dewalk; no one was visible in the streetlights. I stuck my head inside the door. “Tank! Get out here—front porch. It’s an emergency.”

  I leapt down the porch steps and ran to the sidewalk where I could see around the Bougainvilleas that sprawled across Doraleen’s front yard. A set of taillights sped away a block up the street. The SUV squealed a right turn at the corner and was lost to view. I debated chasing it in my own minivan, but I-95 was two blocks away. The SUV would vanish before I had it in sight.

  I holstered the Glock and jogged to the front porch where Tank was cradling Race Car in his arms. Blood stained his shirt sleeves and vest.

  Doraleen stood beside him, stroking the cat’s back.

  “Doraleen,” I asked, “do you have a regular vet for Race Car?”

  She blinked tears from her eyes. “What…? My vet?” She shook her head as if to clear it. “Yes, yes, of course.” She checked her watch. “She might be closed.”

  “Let’s go anyway,” I said. “If the clinic is closed, they’ll have an emergency contact number on the door. We’ll take my van. Tank, you sit in back with Race Car. Doraleen, grab your purse and lock the house.”

  Doraleen didn’t move. She continued to stroke Race Car’s matted fur.

  I patted the sweet old lady on the shoulder. “Doraleen,” I said softly, “we need to take Race Car to the vet. Grab your purse and lock the house. Please.”

  She kept stroking the cat.

  Tank pulled Race Car away from her hand. “Momma Dora, we need to go. Now.”

  “Okay. I’ll be right back.” She pushed the door open and went inside.

  I thumbed my remote and the rear door of the minivan slid open. I followed Tank to the vehicle, slid the bucket seat back, and waited while my giant friend wedged himself in and slid the door closed. I opened the passenger door as Doraleen hurried down the porch steps. I helped her into the van, closed the door, and trotted around to the driver’s seat.

  Doraleen clicked her seatbelt. “Head to I-95 and turn south. It’s the second exit.”

  ###