Joint was an appropriate term for describing Johnny’s Tavern. The place was small, consisting of a bar with half-dozen stools, four round tables and three vinyl-covered booths. With no windows and very little, if any, obvious ventilation, the smell of cigarette smoke and body odor clung to the walls and ceiling like an extra coat of paint. An ancient jukebox, wedged between the bar and the first booth, looked as though it probably hadn’t worked since Sinatra was wooing the bobby-socks crowd back in the 1940s.
A pair of old geezers sat at one end of the bar, each one nursing a mixed drink. Not yet eleven a.m. and they were already on the road to alcohol oblivion. A lone man sat at the opposite end of the bar, pencil in one hand, punching numbers on a calculator with his other hand, and what appeared to be a ledger book spread out in front of him.
The woman behind the bar had just finished slicing lemons into small pieces and was about to do the same to several limes. She was on the verge of moving from middle-age to senior citizen, with straw colored hair, thin lips, penciled eyebrows, and easily the biggest bosom Dantzler and Milt had ever seen.
“What are you having, gentlemen?” she said, her voice surprisingly warm and friendly.
Dantzler held up his shield. “We would like to speak with Johnny Richards. Any chance he’s here?”
The man at the end of the bar closed his account book and stood up. “I’m Johnny Richards. What can I do for you?”
“I’m Detective Jack Dantzler, this is Detective Milt Brewer. If you have a couple of minutes, we would like to ask you a few questions.”
“No problem. I have a small office in the back where we can talk in private, or we can do it out here. Your call.”
“Out here will be fine.” Dantzler nodded toward the table nearest the front door. “How about the table over there?”
He and Milt sat first, joined moments later by Richards, who remained standing.
“You guys want something to drink?” Richards asked. “Coke, ginger ale, club soda?”
“We’re good,” Dantzler answered.
“You sure? I’m getting a Coke, and I’ll be more than happy to get you something.”
Dantzler shook his head, keeping his eyes on Richards, who walked behind the bar, shoveled ice into a glass, and filled it with Coke. He whispered something to the big-bosom bartender, triggering a smile from her, before heading back to the table where Dantzler and Milt were seated.
Richards was, Dantzler guessed, in his mid to late forties, although he might be slightly younger. He looked to be in excellent shape, whatever his age. More wiry than thin, he was one of those lucky guys who could probably eat a ton of food and drink buckets of beer and never gain an ounce. His hair was dark brown, with a scattering of gray around the sides, and his eyes were quick and alert.
Dantzler sized him up as a smart guy who didn’t miss much. He also figured him to be a guy who, if backed into a corner, knew how to take care of himself.
“So, Detective,” Richards said, addressing Dantzler, “what questions do you have for me?”
Before Dantzler could answer, Milt jumped in.
“How long have you had this place?” he asked, looking around. “I used to come here when it was known as Sneaky Pete’s.”
“I bought it from Pete in nineteen-eighty. October.”
“You sure about that? I was here after ’eighty and it was still Sneaky Pete’s.”
“Pete wouldn’t sell me the place unless I made him two promises. First, he got five percent of the gross straight off the top, and, second, the place retained the Sneaky Pete name until his death. He died in ’eighty-eight. That’s when I changed the name.”
“Where are you from?” Dantzler said. “I can tell by your accent you’re not from around here.”
“Chicago.”
“What brought a Windy City boy to Lexington, Kentucky?”
“Opportunity. I was bouncing around, tending bar at several Chicago watering holes, going nowhere fast, when I had a chance to buy this place. I’d saved a little money, not nearly enough to buy a bar, but I had one of those lucky breaks that come along at just the right time. An uncle of mine made some serious money playing the stock market, and he was crazy enough to back my venture. I’d still be in Chicago working God knows where if it weren’t for him.”
“Thirty years owning a bar—that's a long life in this business,” Dantzler said. “You must be doing all right.”
“This place is too small for me to ever get rich, but I do okay,” Richards said. “We’re essentially a neighborhood bar, so we have a solid core of regulars. We treat them right and they keep us going. Works out good for everyone.”
“How well did you know Colt Rogers?” Dantzler said.
“Very well. He was a close friend. He’s also the reason why I ended up in Lexington.”
“If he was such a close friend,” Milt interjected, “how come you weren’t at his visitation and didn’t attend his funeral?”
“I don’t much care for funeral homes or funeral services,” Richards said. “Too damn depressing. I prefer to remember someone as they were when they were alive and vibrant, not when they look like a wax dummy in a coffin.”
Dantzler said, “Was Colt your attorney?”
“Unoffically, I suppose. He wasn’t on a retainer, but if I had a legal issue or legal question, he was always available to help.”
“You said he was the reason why you ended up here. How did that come about?”
“I met him at the ’seventy-nine Kentucky Derby. I’d come down with my uncle and several of his friends, all of whom were pretty big high rollers. One of those guys was acquainted with Colt. We sat at his table and watched the race. The great Spectacular Bid captured the roses that year. At some point during the day, Colt and I got to talking. It didn’t take him long to figure out I was the poor guy at the table. He asked me what I did for a living and what would I like to do. The only thing I knew was bartending, so I told him I’d like to have my own place. About a year later, he called to let me know this place was on the market. I came down, met with Colt, and we got together with Pete. He laid down his terms, which I thought were way beyond my means. However, when I told my uncle about it, he just said, ‘okay, kid, if you want it, and if you’ll work at it, I’ll give you the cash.’ I took over in October, nineteen-eighty. Been here ever since.”
Richards shifted in his chair and turned back toward the bar. “Hey, Sally, could you bring us a couple of Cokes, please? Thanks.”
“How well do you know Eli Whitehouse?” Dantzler asked.
“I don’t know him at all, really. Why do you ask about him?”
“Because the warden told us you frequently accompanied Colt Rogers when he visited Eli at the prison.”
“The warden has a much different definition of frequently than I do. I only saw Eli Whitehouse maybe five or six times, tops.”
Dantzler waited until Sally placed the two Cokes on the table before continuing. “Why were you at the prison in the first place?”
“Colt owns—owned—a cabin on Kentucky Lake. He used to go down there one or two weekends each month, sometimes to fish, but mostly to spend time with whatever floozy he was hanging out with at the time. I don’t fish, and I was never unfaithful to my wife, but on a few occasions over the years, he would take me along with him. He’d fish, I would drink Jack Daniels. Anytime he went down there, he always stopped at the prison to meet with Eli Whitehouse. Rather than sit in the car, I would go inside with him.”
“What did Colt and Eli usually talk about?”
“Not much, to be honest with you. Truth is, I don’t think Eli cared much for Colt. At least that’s the impression I got.”
“Why do you think Eli disliked Colt?”
“Colt always had a briefcase filled with papers, documents he wanted the old man to sign. And Eli wasn’t about to sign anything. Normally, I didn’t pay any attention to their conversation, but I do recall one time when Eli yelled at Colt, telling him in no uncertain terms he would never—
never
—sign his name to any piece of paper Colt put in front of him, not even if it came from God himself.”
“How did Colt react?”
“Didn’t faze him in the least. I’m sure he was certain Eli would eventually wear down and sign the papers. Colt was something of an optimist.”
“Where were you when Colt Rogers was murdered?” Dantzler asked.
“Since I don’t know precisely what time he was killed, I couldn’t put my hand on a Bible and give you a definite location. However, it happened on a Friday night—one of our busiest nights—so I do feel confident in saying I was here in the bar.”
“Are you aware of anyone who might have wanted Colt Rogers dead? A pissed-off client, an angry business associate, some thug with a grudge, a jilted ex-lover?”
“I do remember one guy—I don’t know if he was a client or not—who came into Colt’s office intent on doing some serious harm. He was a big, scary-looking dude, you know, one of those hard-ass types with muscles on top of muscles. He stormed in and pinned Colt against the wall, ranting and blubbering like an insane man, saying if things didn’t work out he was going to make Colt pay dearly. Colt was scared shitless, and he had every right to be. I somehow managed to get in between them and talk to the guy. Tried to calm him down, but I didn’t do much good. He left, but he was cussing and threatening Colt all the way out of the office.”
“Any idea what he meant when he said ‘if things didn’t work out’?”
“No. I didn’t ask and Colt never volunteered the information.”
“When did this happen?”
“Oh, not too many years after I got here. I’d say ’eighty-five or ’eighty-six. Sometime around then.”
“Do you recall the guy’s name?”
“Keith, Kurt . . . something along those lines. Started with a K, I do remember that. Kevin—that’s it. The guy’s name was Kevin.”
“Remember his last name?”
“I’m not sure I ever heard his last name. What I can tell you, though, is Colt worried about the guy for several weeks after the incident. Even started carrying a gun.”
Dantzler stood, took a card from his shirt pocket, and handed it to Richards. “If you happen to think of anything else that might be helpful, call me at one of those numbers. And thanks for talking to us. You’ve given us some interesting information.”
“Just catch the scumbag who killed Colt,” Richards said. “Colt wasn’t a perfect man, and no one knew it better than I did. But he didn’t deserve to be gunned down in cold blood.”
“No one does,” Milt said. He took a five dollar bill from his wallet and laid it on the table. “For the Cokes.”
“On the house, Detective,” Richards said, sliding the bill toward Milt. “I can handle the cost of two Cokes.”
“We always stayed on the up and up with Sneaky Pete,” Milt said. “We didn’t take freebies from him and we aren’t taking them from you.”
“As you wish, Detective.”
*****
When they were back in the car, Milt said, “What’s your take on this Kevin dude who went after Rogers?”
“It’s not much, but at least it’s something.” Dantzler pulled the car out onto Leestown Road and headed toward downtown. “When you were going through Rogers’s files, did you run across any clients named Kevin?”
“None that caught my attention.”
“You’ll need to go through them again. See if you can find this Kevin.”
“Drop me off at Colt’s office and I’ll do it this afternoon.”
“That can wait,” Dantzler said. “I want to get with Barbara Tanner, see if she remembers the guy. If she does, it’ll save us a lot of time.”