T-Rex

 

Griff came in the back way of the Trident Lounge in downtown Norfolk just after seven the next evening. The tables were still half-full of diners; not bad for a Wednesday. The place was meticulously neat and clean, just as he remembered and expected.

Donna, the forty-something barmaid who still dressed twenty-something—yet had the figure to pull it off—and held the gray in her brunette hair at bay with a standing monthly appointment with her hairdresser, talked it up with a couple of burley military types in civilian clothes at the end of the bar near the front door. A few singles nursed their beers and feigned interest in ESPN on the nearest flat screen.

Griff sat down at the abandoned back corner of the bar facing the entrance. He exchanged nods with a pair of younger men in their late twenties catty-corner from his stool, who quickly returned to their animated conversation. Their strong family resemblance and easy manner screamed “brothers.” Griff sat patiently surveying the familiar surroundings with its hidden “Where’s Waldo” clues about the proprietor mixed in with the muted nautical theme of the decor.

One of the military types at the opposite end of the bar pointed his way, and Donna looked back at him over her shoulder. She smiled, patted the man on his forearm and headed Griff’s way.

“Well, well, well…look what washed up from the briny depths,” Donna said, setting a cocktail napkin in front of Griff. “Long time, no see, Big Chief Runs-With-Scissors. Got a tribe of your own yet?”

The brothers broke off their conversation to listen.

Griff smiled. “Ain’t found a squaw who could measure up—since you won’t have me.”

“I got enough wild Indian problems as it is, pal. So, the usual?”

“Club soda and lime.”

“Ouch. You on duty or something?”

“Or something. Is ‘T’ around?”

“He’s in back.” Donna filled a glass with ice, shot seltzer into it from the soda nozzle, squeezed a lime over it and dropped it into the glass. She set it down in front of Griff. “I’ll tell him you’re here.”

Donna disappeared into the kitchen through the swinging doors behind the middle of the bar.

The two military types at the end of the bar stared at Griff. No doubt they were Team guys from nearby Joint Expeditionary Base Little Creek. He met and held their gaze as he sipped his soda water.

“Who the hell is asking to see T-Rex?” bellowed out from the kitchen. The doors swung open and a cigar chomping ex-Chief Petty Officer stormed out and looked up and down the bar. At five-ten, he wasn’t as tall as his voice advertised, but he was still trim and powerfully built, even though he was on the downhill side of fifty.

“Are you the T-Rex?” asked one of the brothers at the bar.

“You want me to bite your fucking head off to prove it? Who’s asking?”

Griff smiled, knowing the Jurassic moniker came not from the man’s ferocity but from his oversized head and the fact that he was never once known to reach out to pay a bar tab.

“Uh-uh-uh…” The brothers exchanged confused and frightened glances like little kids.

“Our father was in your unit,” said the other brother.

If T-Rex’s eyes had been lasers, he would have burned the skin off the brothers’ faces. “Yeah…the polack, Sitkowskowicz.”

The brothers nodded.

“He passed away this summer. Cancer.”

“Yeah. I heard.” T-Rex took a deep draw off his cigar and blew it out slow. “Donna, give the polack’s boys a round.”

“Thank you, sir.”

T-Rex growled.

“Chief,” Griff mouthed silently when the perplexed brothers looked his way.

“Thank you, Chief,” the brothers said in unison.

“Damn good man, your dad—of course, they all were. Except for that motherfucker.” T-Rex pointed at Griff. “Can’t seem to rid myself of the son-of-a-bitch—just like the dose of pogey clap I got me in Manila.”

“Good to see you, too, Chief.”

“Makes my dick burn like a roadside flare.” T-Rex chomped down hard on his cigar and grinned. “Don’t suppose you liked us on Facebook, you twat.”

Griff shook his head and laughed. “Facebook is a feedlot. I’m free range.”

“Yeah, well, my grandson says I got to have it. Claims it’s good for business.”

“Seems to be working.” Griff looked around the dining room.

“Fucking computers. Good thing for me you can’t eat and drink online.” T-Rex puffed on his cigar three times. “So, what do you want?”

“A word.”

“Step into my office, then.”

Griff got up and went behind the bar. He followed T-Rex through the doors into the kitchen.

“Want some grub?”

“What’s the special?”

“For the public? Some healthy chicken crap,” T-Rex said. “Made myself carbonara.”

“I’ll have what the cook’s having.”

“Smart choice.” T-Rex served up a plate of pasta. They sat down on stools pulled up to a stainless-steel prep table in the back of the kitchen. “What’s up, Griff?”

“I seem to find myself taking fire.” Griff took a bite of carbonara. “Mmmm, good stuff.”

“Of course it is, you twat. I made it. So, you got muzzies raining jihad down on you?”

“Don’t really think so. I’m not the one bragging about shooting Bin Laden. So, nobody knows who I am.”

“Who then?”

Griff looked T-Rex dead in the eye. “Blue-on-blue…I think.”

The Chief stared back, chomping his cigar a little more vigorously.

“Not the Community, of course. But I think it’s coming out of some dark corner of the Beltway.”

T-Rex nodded. “And what did you do to get sideways with the suits?”

“Not exactly sure. Nothing I did personally. But this case I’m working—”

“There better not be a dame involved. Is there? There is—Goddamn it. I ought to pound you over the head down to my size and kick the crap right out of you. Won’t you ever learn?”

‘I…” Griff gave up. There was no point. “Anyway, somebody somewhere has got to know something.”

“Usually is the case. You talk to Kevin?”

“I don’t need a biography written about it. I just want to know what spider hole it’s coming from.”

“He’s pretty plugged in. I’ll chum it out, and we’ll see what floats to the surface outta the teams.”

“Anonymously.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah—all anonymous-like.” T-Rex drew and blew a stream of blue smoke. “Nobody’s gonna like the idea of it—suits taking pot shots at one of our own.”

Griff nodded as he finished his pasta.

“And if I find the weasel fucks, I’ll shoot ‘em ‘til they catch on fire and change shape.”

“Thanks, Chief.”

 

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