That’s when Jason stood up and shoved him.
Immediately he saw his mistake. The guy had three friends at the bar who saw what had happened and came pushing their way through to his defense. Jason had Colfax and Benny, who stared into their empty beer glasses. They looked completely miserable. He could see that they didn’t want to do this. They probably thought they couldn’t do this. And maybe that was another reason why Jason needed to do this. But tonight Tony wasn’t even here to give them a fighting chance.
“Come on, Mike, don’t bother with those losers.” One of his friends tried coaxing him away.
He didn’t listen to his friend.
“Don’t shove me, asshole.” And he gave Jason a shove.
“You owe us an apology.”
Instead of an apology, Mike pushed him again, this time harder, sending Jason slamming into one of his buddies. Before Jason could regain his balance, he was being shoved back the other way.
Mike was in Jason’s face, about to yell something when he winced suddenly and jerked backward. Ryder Creed had the guy by the back of the neck. He stood several inches taller than Mike and was able to pull him not only back but also up. The grip reminded Jason of the way Creed might hold a dog by the scruff of the neck.
“What the hell?”
“I thought I might join the fun,” Creed said. “Since it was a bit uneven. Four against three.” He let go of the guy and stood between them, glancing around and waiting.
“Nobody grabs me like that, man.”
“Nobody shoves my friends around. So why don’t we call it even and go home.” Creed shifted his weight, and Jason couldn’t believe he thought it was that easy. That it was all over.
Mike’s face had gone crimson, a combination of anger and humiliation. His friends were watching him, ready to move if and when he gave the word. Jason balled up his fist. He could still hit and kick, and he wanted to hit this guy more than ever.
Then Mike made his move. He reached his hand up to shove Creed the same way he had shoved Jason. Only his hand didn’t even make it to Creed’s chest. In less than a second his fingers disappeared in Creed’s palm. Suddenly the guy was on his knees, screaming in pain. Creed had his hand twisted and locked at an unnatural angle. It looked as though one more ounce of pressure and bones would snap.
His friends didn’t move. They stared at him and Creed as if they couldn’t believe what was happening. And all the noise seemed to get sucked out of the room, the vortex starting in the radius surrounding them.
Jason recognized a couple of the bartenders. They separated the crowd for the gray-haired man who was making his way into the inner circle as others backed away. Mike’s scream had been reduced to a whine, then almost a whimper. The old man looked at Creed, and that’s when Creed finally let go.
“That bastard almost broke my hand.”
He held it up for everyone to see. Jason didn’t think it was broken, but it was already starting to swell and turn blue.
Jason glanced over at Colfax and Benny, who looked even more miserable, if that was possible. He couldn’t help noticing that Ryder Creed didn’t look the least bit remorseful, and the old guy seemed to take note of that, too.
“I want the police called.” Still on his knees and cradling his wounded fingers, Mike was still giving orders.
That’s all Jason needed, a police report. The military would never give him a new hand now.
“Did you four come over to buy these veterans a drink and thank them for their service?” the old guy asked, surprising all of them with his casual tone.
“What? What the hell are you talking about, old man? He broke my hand!” Mike pointed at Creed.
“I may look like an old man, son, but I own this establishment. If you’d like to file a police report, you’re welcome to do that. You might want to put some ice on that hand.” He shook his head as he looked at it for the first time. “Probably should be soon. That doesn’t look too good.”
Then he turned to one of the bartenders. “Help these fellas find a place out on the patio, Carl.”
“Wait! You’re kicking us out?”
“Just putting you outside to get some fresh air.”
“But you’re kicking them out, right?” Mike asked.
Jason watched the old man’s eyes go from Creed to Colfax and Benny, and then they stopped at his. Something told Jason the old guy knew he deserved to be thrown out. But then he said something that floored Jason: “Hell no, I’m buying these veterans a round on the house.”
Saturday
62
O’Dell walked across Pensacola Beach from her hotel room to Howard’s Deep Sea Fishing Marina. It was still early and the beach was already crowded and the sun already hot. She carried her flip-flops in her hand for the part of her trek that was sand. It reminded her that she could use a few days of sand between her toes and the sound of breaking waves. Maybe when all this was over, she’d come back.
The two-story shop was whitewashed with a marlin painted on the sign below the orange and blue letters. A boardwalk ran the width of the shop and connected to a long pier where boats of all sizes occupied some of the slips. On the boardwalk were bistro tables with umbrellas and chairs. She noticed the small oyster shack attached to the far side of the shop. It had its own sign: BOBBYE’S OYSTER BAR. It was closed but the chalkboard out front already advertised that night’s specials.
O’Dell stopped and watched the pelican sitting on one of the posts. Seagulls screeched overhead in a blue sky that didn’t show a hint of clouds. From somewhere she could smell the heavenly aroma of food on an open grill, and her eyes started looking for the café or restaurant before she reminded herself why she was here.
The man behind the counter had to be six-foot-five. His broad shoulders and chest filled the lime-green and yellow boat shirt with a marlin across the front that matched his sign out front. He wore white linen pants, as white as his mustache and the thick mass of hair on his head.
The first thing she noticed was the shelf that ran along the walls, about a foot from the ceiling. Miniature model boats were displayed, tightly packed end-to-end. There had to be hundreds of them.
“A hobby that has become an obsession,” the man said in a rich baritone that could have been intimidating if it wasn’t accompanied by the crinkles around his brilliant blue eyes.
“They’re beautiful.”
“Thanks. What can I do for you?” he asked.
“Ellie Delanor sent me.”
She watched his smile come slow and easy as he said, “I’ll get something cold to drink.” Without hesitation, he flipped the sign in the window to CLOSED.
They spent the next hour at one of the bistro tables on the boardwalk. O’Dell sipped raspberry tea and listened to Howard Johnson tell her what he knew. It was hard to believe that this mild-mannered gentleman had once been a top drug dealer for the Gulf cartel back in the 1990s. When Senator Delanor had asked O’Dell to talk to Howard, she said that he knew more about George Ramos than anyone. The two had been best friends twenty years ago, before they both decided to go straight and clean. Only, Howard didn’t realize at the time that George wasn’t serious, never even attempted it.
“George was convinced,” Howard said, “that I had kept millions of dollars of the cartel’s money. He even told the DEA. I had one agent hounding me for years. The guy started out in immigration as an ICE agent. That’s how George got his ear in the first place. Tried hard to destroy me. I always figured he tried to destroy George, too.”