“For cops, you guys did tend to bond with a lot of shady characters.”
Milt laughed. “You know, Dan clocked a guy coming out of that liquor store one night. The guy, totally shitfaced, recognized Dan from somewhere. Knew Dan was a cop. Anyway, the stupid hillbilly walks up and gets in Dan’s face, cussing, spitting, threatening like crazy. At some point, he made the mistake of pushing Dan. Now, Dan had a six pack of Bud in his right hand at the time, and he wasn’t about to drop the beer. Rule number one is, you never drop the alcohol, no matter the circumstances. So Dan came around with a perfect left hook to the poor slob’s chin. Bang, down he went, like he’d been shot. Out cold. Dan just looked at me and laughed and said something like, ‘wonder what his problem was?’ A great moment, one of many we had together.”
“You guys were a rowdy pair,” Dantzler said. “Rich says it’s a miracle you didn’t end up dead.”
“Ah, shit, Rich doesn’t know the half of it. Hell, me and Dan were crazy and fearless. That can be a deadly combination.” Milt turned serious. “When I think of the stunts we pulled, the dangerous situations we put ourselves in, the women we chased, half of them married, and then I look at a kid like Scott, how young and innocent and conservative he is, I can’t decide whether to be proud or ashamed to still be walking upright. I do know we were awfully lucky to come through it all unscathed.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The Meadowthorpe Center was less than three miles from downtown Lexington, on the right, going out Leestown Road. It consisted of a straight row of small businesses housed in old buildings, none of which exuded a hint of glamour or newness. The lack of modernity and present-day charm didn’t seem to be a hindrance to the various businesses or those folks living in the Meadowthorpe neighborhood. The locals kept the businesses alive and thriving.
The restaurant and liquor store served as bookends for the row of businesses. In between were a used book store, an antique shop, ice cream parlor, pool room, real estate office, and a clothing consignment store. Johnny’s Tavern was located squarely in the middle.
“Yep, that used to be Sneaky Pete’s place,” Milt said. “Except for the name change, it looks exactly like it did back when me and Dan frequented the joint.”
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.”