LITMIR.BIZ

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the criminal bagging industry he’s a part of. After catching his breath, Jim makes the return run home even faster than the first two miles getting him to the convenience store.

      Jim goes into the backdoor and Winston thinks he’s in line for more PBJ toast but Jim walks by and picks up his iPad to Google the Doctor. His work on the Shroud of Turin briefly catches Jim’s eye bringing him back to his grade school days filled with abuse and Christianity shoved down his throat. He loses interest quickly and jumps in the shower.

      Getting out of the bathroom he hears the phone ringing and hustles over to answer. On the phone is Duke MacAfee, an acquaintance Jim knows through his pool playing friend Wayne Davis. Duke is a computer wizard that works under Wayne at the Geek Squad and sometimes runs the same bars as Jim.

      Jim rubs the water out of his hair on a towel and answers. “Hello.”

      “This is Duke...got some bad news about Wayne.” Duke tees up a negative picture.

      Jim responds. “What’s going on with Wayne?”

      “He got the hell beat out of him two nights ago, he’s in Washington General.” Duke relays.

      “I was with him two nights ago...left him around 1:00...he was okay then.”

      Jim’s mind drifts back to the bikers that night.

      “Not sure what time it happened, but he’s in the hospital suffering broken ribs, arm, and jaw. The doctor’s put him in a medically induced coma hoping to get the brain swelling down.” Duke confides.

      “Who did it?” Jim’s tone left little doubt his intent.

      “Haven’t heard... the cops interviewed several at the bar, but who knows what good that’ll do?” Duke confesses.

      “Thanks, Duke. I’ll do some checking on my own. We’ll get to the bottom of it.” Jim shuts his cell off and immediately dials a close friend and L.A. Detective, Ted Fox.

      “Ted, hey man, I need a favor.” Jim asks.

      “I don’t loan money for abortions.” Ted deadpans.

      “I’m serious, smart assed cop...got a friend assaulted at the Diamond Club two nights ago. You met Wayne Davis a couple of times; he’s in bad condition at the hospital. Find out what the department knows, okay?” Jim implores.

      “Isn’t he that skinny geek? Can’t believe he got into a fight.” Ted questions.

      “Yeah, that’s him...loud mouth bigger than his biceps.” Jim confirms.

      “No problem, be back shortly.” Ted hangs up.

      Jim dresses and heads to the Diamond Club. There’s not much doubt in his mind what probably happened. Wayne runs his mouth after a couple of beers, but no one deserves to be in a coma lying in a hospital bed. His instincts are taking over; protect those unable to fend for themselves. Jim will right the wrong, even if it gets him killed in the process. He has little choice in the matter.

      The Diamond Club is a strip joint featuring a multitude of options. Food, naked bodies, and pool are on the menu. Like most of the men walking through the doors, Jim likes looking at attractive women having nothing to hide; but the food is surprising good and draws a large lunch crowd. He settles onto a seat at the bar confident he’ll catch the manager in due time and orders a beer. His cell goes off.

      “Talk to me, Ted.” Jim answers.

      “Don’t have much... the club staff said two biker types left after a few games with Wayne. A little pushing and shoving but no flying fists between the three. Wayne leaves forty-five minutes later... gets pounded in the parking lot... of course no witnesses. All we have are two thirty-something biker heads displaying countless tats and leather jackets... that’s got it narrowed down to 400 thousand or so in L.A.” Ted lays out the limited facts to work around.

      Jim sees the manager walking toward the bar. “I’ll be back to you shortly... thanks for the info.”

      The manager walks over to a patron at the bar and shakes his hand. Jim gets up and walks to him but waits on their conversation to be over. Drake Wilcox sees Jim and leaves the customer behind.

      “Come over here,” Drake relays. “I knew you’d be in sooner or later.”

      Drake leads Jim to his small office at the end of the bar closing the door behind.

      “Told the cops all I know,” Drake explains. “I’m sorry for Wayne, how’s he doing?”

      “Drake, Wayne’s in a coma. You know who these guys are... tell me now.” Jim’s voice did not waver.

      “I like you guys, you’re great patrons, but I have to protect my business. These dudes are Hells Angels.. .will firebomb my place.” Drake pleads.

      “They won’t come after you on this... I’ll be in the crosshairs, promise you.” Jim assures.

      Drake is visibly uncomfortable. “I don’t know their names... the truth. They hang out at the Sims Hideaway Bar on Lawrence. Do what you have to do... keep me out of it.”

      “I saw them that night... all I need is their home stadium. Thanks.” Jim turns, leaves the office and goes out to his car.

      He hits Ted on the cell. “You know the biker club over on Lawrence, Sims Hideaway Bar?”

      “No, but can find it.” Ted answers. “Got the feeling it’s going to be an interesting night.”

      Jim smiles to himself. “Depends on your point of view. Meet me there at 9:00 tonight.”

      “Do we need backup?” Ted questions.

      “Nope,” Jim says matter-of-fact. “We’ll stay low-profile on this one.”

      “It always starts out that way.” The cell goes dead.

      CHAPTER NINE

      Devil-In-Law

      JIM PULLS HIS black ’68 GTO in a parking lot a few blocks from the Sims Hideaway Bar. The car is one of the few things he’s ever splurged on and didn’t want it destroyed by a crazed bunch of bikers. He has a bigger concern over the car’s safety than his own. Quickly he walks to the bar wearing a running suit and hiking boots.

      An excitement permeates his step after he spots Ted’s unmarked car parked across the street from the main entrance. No dread enters an ounce of his body, since Jim’s confidence borders on a Muhammad Ali like mystique entering the ring with the crowd screaming “Ali, Ali.”

      Jim opens the door and slides in the backseat. Sitting next to Ted is Lance Compton, a cop that’s run many late nights lock-step in the shadow of him and Ted.

      “Lance, you here to back us up?” Jim questions.

      Lance turns to the back seat. “Hell no, I’m here to watch you fight. Ted says you’re the baddest man he’s ever seen in a street fight...I usually pay $200 a ticket in Vegas to see something this cool. What’s the plan anyway?”

      “Yeah, what’s the plan?” Ted quickly adds.

      “I’ll recognize the two bastards who beat down Wayne when we get in; you guys need to get them outside. I would prefer to fight them one at a time, but I’ll whip both their asses if necessary.” It’s painfully obvious Jim didn’t really have much of a plan.

      “It’s a good thing you’re not named Eisenhower, you would have a German accent. Alright, Jim, I’ll take it from here,” Ted retorts in his typical sarcastic tone.

      They get out of the car and head to the bar not pretending to be anything but cops, both Ted and Lance dressed in a coat and tie. Two bikers pull up and park next to fifteen bikes strewn along the sidewalk, spot the oncoming cops and suspect something isn’t right. The two men turn around, get back on their bikes and race off.

      “The odds just got a little better; probably no more than

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