Lagrone extended his hand. “Well, if it isn’t Carnac the Magnificent. How’s it going, asshole?”
“Skull, the seventies called; they’re running out of polyester,” Thorpe shot back as he accepted the handshake. “I’m good. How you doin’?”
“Ain’t dead yet, but I got one foot in the grave and another on a banana peel.”
“Just like your clothes, that joke is worn out.”
The three men discussed the case for several minutes before Thorpe excused himself. As he walked to his truck, he reflected on his conversation with Hull. Thorpe had jokingly insinuated he was sleeping with Hull’s wife, and Bob instantly shot back about having relations with Thorpe’s sister. No hesitation. Lagrone had interviewed his sister following the murders. Standard procedure. But Hull had popped off with “sister” instantaneously. Thorpe wondered how much Hull knew about his life.
AS LAGRONE WATCHED THORPE WALK away, he spoke to his boss out of the corner of his mouth. “Bob, I’ve been in the shit in Vietnam and been in three shootings on the force, so it means something when I say…I wouldn’t ever want to get cross with that boy.”
“Me either, Chuck, but that’s because you and I know what he’s capable of. Most people don’t. And John’s gone through a lot of trouble to keep his skills a secret—so we’re going to honor that.”
“How’s he holdin’ up anyway?” Lagrone asked.
“This was the first time in thirteen months he didn’t ask about his family’s investigation.”
“Huh. If John ever finds those cocksuckers before we do, they’re in for one helluva bad day.”
“If we do find those cocksuckers first, I’ll personally help John put those sons-of-bitches in the grave.”
“Sounds like something worth going to prison for. Count me in, boss.”
“Shit, Skull, a life sentence for you is the equivalent of a long weekend. Whatta you got to worry about?”
“Fuck you. I’m going to outlive all you bastards.”
“Probably, you are a bit like a cockroach.” Hull laughed, heading back toward the barn. “Let’s get to work.”
“Yeah. Dead body pick up.”
Tuesday
February 6
Evening
THORPE SAT IN A DARKENED corner of Monkeyshines Gentlemen’s Club. The strip bar’s property abutted that of a cheap motel. If you wished, you could pick up a crab-infested stripper-whore and retire to a flea-infested motel room. Because Monkeyshines was “all nude,” liquor or beer could not be served inside. Crack or crank, sure, but not alcohol. To compensate, the patrons took frequent bathroom breaks and trips to their vehicles to consume the mind-altering drug of their choice. To be fair, the bar’s customers did include the “Average Joe” types who returned to their car every thirty minutes or so to slam beers before returning to “the beautiful women of Monkeyshines.”
Thorpe currently had one of those “beautiful” women sitting on his lap as he watched L.A. and two friends at a table across the dim, expansive room. The woman seated on his thighs went by the stage name “Candy,” and by Thorpe’s reasoning, must have had plenty of the sweets growing up because she had at least two missing teeth and those still in her mouth were in various stages of decay. Candy had the classic look of a crankster.
Heavy methamphetamine use causes calcium depletion in the bones, often resulting in a fine set of Billy Bob teeth. In addition to a winning smile, Candy was also emaciated and covered with crank sores. Very sexy!
Most Tulsans didn’t realize Monkeyshines was owned and operated by associates of an outlaw motorcycle club, who made a fair amount of untaxed profits from the sale of meth, and who were also, in all likelihood, Candy’s supplier. One of the reasons methamphetamine earned the name “crank” was because motorcycle gangs—so the rumor goes—used to transport the illegal substance in the crankcases of their bikes.
Often the employees of Monkeyshines were blatant enough to wear their club’s patches inside the bar. Thorpe couldn’t understand why black patrons like L.A. continued to drop huge amounts of money in a bar operated by a gang known to commit hate crimes against them. One thing was certain, they were happy to take L.A.’s cash, and L.A. seemed to enjoy giving it away. Everyone’s a winner.
As Thorpe sat conducting surveillance, he continuously received updates on his cell phone. Lagrone and Jennifer had obtained a night-service warrant for L.A.’s residence and vehicle. They’d also gotten a warrant for L.A.’s person in order to collect DNA evidence.
Jennifer was the only investigator from Thorpe’s unit who would participate in the warrant service on L.A.’s home, which should be executed any minute now. The rest of Thorpe’s investigators were concealed in the parking lot of Monkeyshines and were to execute the warrant on L.A.’s car after he drove it from the bar. Thorpe had been sitting inside the club playing the part of a sexual deviant while he watched L.A. and his crew. Thorpe wore a wool skullcap pulled down to his eyebrows, blue jeans and an insulated flannel shirt. He was thankful for the extra layers of clothing as Candy ground her rancid wares on his thigh. His first order of business upon returning home would be to toss the jeans into the washer with a generous supply of detergent.
Candy offered Thorpe a trip to the “Champaign room”, an especially dark area separated from the rest of the bar. In the private room, handjobs could be had for a hundred bucks and blowjobs for two hundred. If you didn’t bring enough cash with you, an ATM machine was conveniently located next to the bathrooms. Thorpe politely declined the offer, claiming he wanted to watch the other girls for a while. But he insisted she return later. Candy accepted a twenty dollar bill courtesy of the city of Tulsa and promised she’d be back. Investigators at SID were given “buy money” to use for purchasing dope, beer, whatever. The Vice Unit dropped quite a bit of taxpayers’ dollars on lap dances, massages and beer—the poor bastards.
L.A. had removed his coat about thirty minutes ago, draping it across the backrest of his chair. Thorpe took a circular stroll behind L.A. and noticed the man wasn’t wearing the boots Thorpe had left as a gift. However, he also noticed the right side of L.A.’s jacket stretched tight toward the floor, while the left remained slack. A heavy object occupied the right pocket, most likely a gun. Thorpe returned to his seat and spoke into his cell phone as a song blasted over the bar’s speaker system.
“Tyrone, I think L.A. has a handgun in his right coat pocket. Don’t wait for him to get in his car. Take him down in the parking lot. Approach him from the east. If he runs, he’ll come back toward me. Get some uniforms set up around the neighborhood in case his buddies run. Got it? Sound it back to me.”
Several minutes later, L.A. took a call from his own cell phone, shot to his feet and almost dumped the girl who’d been sitting on his lap to the floor. He motioned to his companions and hurried for the exit as he pulled on his coat. Thorpe began to follow and used the direct-connect to warn Tyrone. Candy, worried she was about to lose potential income, approached. For the benefit of both Tyrone and Candy, Thorpe spoke loudly into the cell phone.
“Yeah, honey I’m coming home now, RIGHT NOW!”
On the other end, Tyrone decoded the message.