Free Call Of The Witch by Dana Donovan

“Let’s go talk to him.”
    “ All right then. To Mike’s
Pub it is.”
    Some of the bars on the upper side of
Jefferson Avenue are high-class, a few of them even ritzy,
especially the lounge at the Debutante Hotel. Lower in the hood,
however, the clubs get shabbier. Closer to the railroad tracks they
become downright seedy. Mike’s Pub sits just south of the tracks
next to an old textile warehouse. It sits back by the loading docks
where addicts, alcoholics and derelicts congregate at night.
Occasionally one of the hopped-up misguided fools falls asleep on
the tracks. Carlos and I know this because we’ve investigated a
number of train vs. pedestrian fatalities over the years. It’s
never pretty and we never get used to it.
    I followed Carlos into the pub. Heads turned
immediately. We were in street clothes, but everyone there knew we
were cops. Some, perhaps with outstanding warrants, moved quickly
to the back of the room. A few disappeared entirely. It took awhile
for our vision to adjust to the cave-like atmosphere and the sharp
spikes of neon stabbing at our eyes. The smell of stale beer and
cigarettes hung in the air like carnival grease. A tattooed woman
leaning over a pool table squealed after sinking an eight ball. I
thought for a moment it was for some other reason. Maybe it
was.
    Carlos spotted Raul first. He nudged me with
his elbow and pointed him out. “That’s him,” he said. “I recognize
him from his picture at Karina’s.”
    “ All right then. Let’s go
talk to him.”
    We split up and approached Raul from both
flanks. The bar stool to his left was empty. I took a seat there,
bumping into Raul on purpose to distract him. A bald biker-looking
dude with a grizzled beard and heavily tattooed arms occupied the
stool to Raul’s right. He was bigger than Carlos, but complied
without protest when Carlos tapped his shoulder and motioned a nod
for him to take a hike. Carlos straddled the stool, but did not
sit.
    “ Raul Martinez?” he
said.
    Raul had been looking at me, sizing me up.
Perhaps he had already figured me out as a cop. I saw him reach for
his beer bottle just as Carlos called his name. I clamped my hand
down on his wrist, pinning it to the bar. He attempted to stand,
planting his feet firmly on the floor. Carlos palmed his chest and
pushed him back, knocking him off balance. He grabbed the bar rail
to keep from falling. His stool went over. A patron carrying a full
tray of freshly poured beers tripped over it. Glasses and bottles
shattered. Chairs scattered, and a ten-foot circle opened up around
us. I twisted Raul’s arm behind his back and spun him around.
Carlos grabbed Raul’s right arm, forced it across his neck and held
him there in a choke hold.
    “ You want to try
something, Martinez?”
    The jukebox fell silent. The front door
opened and several patrons rushed out single file. Another three or
four slipped out through the side exit. Someone behind me cleared
his throat, and I heard the clicking of a shotgun’s hammer pulling
back. I looked over my shoulder. The bartender and his sawed-off
twelve-gauge had a bead on the three of us. I reached into my
pocket slowly, showed him my badge and identified myself. Carlos
didn’t seem the least bit interested. He kept his own bead on
Martinez, leaning into him so hard the man could barely breathe.
The barkeep lowered his weapon. I returned my badge to my pocket;
and said to Carlos, “We should take this outside.”
    The barkeep agreed.
    We ushered Martinez out the back door and
across the parking lot. He offered no resistance, but Carlos still
found it necessary to press Martinez’s face against a chain-link
fence so hard it imprinted a patchwork of diamonds into his cheek.
I mentioned something about going easy on him. He said he was going
easy. I guessed it was all just a matter of interpretation.
    “ Spread`em,” I said,
directing Martinez into the frisk position while Carlos patted him
down. I think Carlos was hoping to find