6

Mace James sat in his pickup truck, parked outside the Flying Saucer in Nashville, Tennessee. It was one of Nashville’s trendiest bars, located on the back side of the old Union Station train depot. Despite the futuristic name, the building was old-style stone with arched windows and a canopy out front. It made you feel like you were stepping back into the 1950s and might bump into James Cagney inside.

Mace had a bad feeling about this, but he could think of no better alternative. He flashed back fifteen years to the night that had changed his life. A friend had picked a fight in a Buckhead bar and was getting pummeled. Without thinking, Mace and a few buddies had jumped in, evening the odds. Fueled by adrenaline and alcohol, Mace put two men in the hospital. One of them was an off-duty police officer who had flashed a badge (or so he claimed) and was shouting orders just before Mace caught him with a right hook that broke his jaw. The man’s partner tackled Mace and had him cuffed before Mace knew what was happening.

A few minutes later, when Mace was frisked, they discovered a small bag of cocaine in the back pocket of his jeans. To this day, Mace didn’t know whether it was planted by one of the cops or one of the men he’d been fighting.

Either way, he was facing two felonies and a misdemeanor. His lawyer didn’t waste any time cutting a deal—battery against a police officer and resisting arrest. The possession charge was dropped.

Two years later, when Mace saved the life of a guard in a prison riot, he was granted a pardon. He always found it ironic that the same conduct that had landed him in jail—sticking up for the underdog—also got him out. It all depended, Mace knew, on who wore the badge.

He also knew that his plan tonight smacked of desperation. If it backfired, he would lose his reputation and quite possibly his law license. Another bar brawl. They would say he never learned.

But he had learned. He had changed in prison, a spiritual conversion that was real, not just window dressing for the parole board. So why was he sitting here contemplating another bar fight? Because he had also learned one other thing: innocent men could get framed. Somebody had planted cocaine on him. How easy would it have been to set up Antoine Marshall for murder?

Before entering the bar, Mace listened to the recording on his BlackBerry one last time. It had been sent by a PI Mace had hired, and the quality was not good. You could make out the garbled voice of Freddie Cooper, but even with the best digital enhancement, his words would barely be discernible. Mace could tell Freddie had been drinking, his thoughts incoherent. It surely wouldn’t convince the judges on the Georgia Supreme Court.

Mace stretched his neck, blew out a deep breath, and climbed out of his truck. It was a warm March night with a full moon and an ominous wind blowing from the north. Mace wore jeans and a tight black T-shirt, looking the part of a bouncer.

People were lined up two deep at the bar, ordering one of the eighty beers prominently listed on a blackboard high above the bartenders. Mixed drinks were a rare sight in this Nashville crowd. Mace pushed his way through the bodies to the poolroom, where groups of men and a few women lounged around six red-felt pool tables. Barstools lined the walls, and green lamps hung low over the tables. The only thing missing was cigarette smoke.

At the far end of the room was an outdoor lamppost, vintage 1950. Junior Watts leaned against it, holding a pool cue and eyeing the table. Junior was a short, pudgy man with jowls and gray hair that made him look every bit of fifty. The poolroom featured a younger crowd, and Junior stood out like a teenager in a Santa Claus line.

He looked up and nodded at Mace.

Mace edged closer to the last table while Junior circled it, preparing for his next shot, eyeing the layout of the balls from this angle and that. As he plotted, Junior talked trash with a group of friends until things got heated. He put down his cue and got in the face of the tallest and skinniest member of the group. More words were exchanged and then Junior knocked a beer out of the guy’s hand. Curses followed, and the man took a swing. Junior ducked the blow, landed a right cross, and the fight was on.

Others in the poolroom gawked at the sudden outbreak of violence and backed away from the maniacs throwing punches. A man jumped Junior from behind. The fight might have stayed confined to those first few participants if the three men Junior had earlier paid off had stayed out of the fray. But they wanted to earn their hundred bucks. One of them cracked a pool cue across the shoulders of a man fighting with Junior, and the melee escalated. Wild roundhouse punches were thrown, pool sticks turned into clubs, and a few bodies got tossed across the pool table.

Like most fights, the action separated the pool hall into two groups—those who inched away and those who couldn’t resist a good scuffle. Mace managed to push his way into the action just before the bouncers arrived to pull the participants off each other, flinging bodies this way and that.

Mace went straight for the man Junior had first attacked—a skinny guy with yellow teeth, matching dirty-blond hair, and a scraggly goatee. Playing the part of a good bouncer, Mace got in the man’s face and started pushing him away from the crowd. The guy was cursing and screaming at Junior, telling Junior and the others that they were all crazy, that he would meet them outside in the parking lot.

“Calm down,” Mace warned. “No need to get arrested here.”

As Mace backed the man away, he tried to lunge around Mace and get in a few more licks. But Mace put him in a bear hug and dragged him toward the door. “Let’s get you outta here,” Mace said. The bouncers were still separating the other combatants, trying to figure out who had started what.

“Come on, Coop.” Mace wrestled the man toward the exit door. “They’re calling the cops, and you don’t want to be in the middle of it when they show up.”

The words seemed to calm Freddie Cooper, and he gave Mace a glazed look as if wondering how the big man knew his nickname. Mace pulled him outside, and Freddie stumbled. He regained his balance, swaying a little, and shook his head, trying to focus his vision.

“They’re lucky you pulled me outta there,” Freddie said. He then proceeded to curse Junior. “I was fixin’ to kill that man.”

“Yeah,” Mace said. He grabbed Freddie’s arm and wedged him toward the pickup. “We’ve got to get you sobered up before the police start asking questions.”

“What are you talking about?” Freddie stiffened; he clearly thought he had gone far enough.

Mace didn’t ask a second time. He drove his fist into Freddie’s midsection, doubling the man over as the air left his lungs. Mace stood him up, grabbed him by the collar, and practically lifted him off the ground. His nose was inches from Freddie’s. “You’re coming with me. Okay?”

Freddie nodded, his eyes darting with fright. He looked like he didn’t have a clue what was going on but probably figured it couldn’t be good.

On that point, Freddie was right.