I walked into Charlie’s Place in Smyrna. It was busy for a week night. A few Naval Airmen and a whole lot of rednecks.
I never saw so many rednecks, white socks and blue ribbon beer in one place before.
Hap and Hannah were sitting at the bar. Hap had his tongue stuck in her ear again. It was 9:00 p.m.
“Where is the rest of our group?”
“Back at the motel. They are worn out from all of the traveling.”
“Just as well. We don’t need any of them tagging along with us tonight. Let’s take Hannah back to the motel and I’ll fill you in on what we have to do.”
“Alright with me as long as we are back in time for me to go fishing in the morning.”
“That’s another thing. You may want to re-think fishing in the Chattahochee River. Captain Dorfmeier said it has more floaters in it than fish.”
Hannah scrunched up her face and said, “Ewwew, that’s gross.”
“Don’t worry, Hannah, we’ll find someplace else. Maybe there’s a lake close by.”
“Okay, it’s time to go.”
“Where’re we going?”
“A warehouse on McArthur Boulevard. Darrell Mason owns it. I need you to cover my back while I do a little snooping around his office.”
We dropped Hannah off at the motel and headed out.
“Where’s McArthur Boulevard?”
“Dorfmeier said it is just off Chattahoochee Avenue. It’s a dead end two lane road next to a residential neighborhood. It’s not a boulevard at all. I guess at one time they planned to rezone the area and expand the road to be able to handle all the big rigs that would be hauling goods to the area. Dorfmeier said it is a good area for Shotgun to carry on his illegal activities. It is real secluded.”
“I don’t like dead ends, Max. They don’t lead anywhere.”
“I guess that’s why they call them dead ends. We will be alright, trust me.”
“I can’t believe you said that.”
We drove South down Chattahoochee Avenue and turned right onto Huff Road, a small two lane black top road lined with small shotgun style houses built before World War II. At the top of the hill we came to a four way stop and turned right once more. We were on McArthur Boulevard. It wasn’t much bigger than Huff Road. There were no houses on McArthur Boulevard, only empty fields, overgrown with weeds and empty food containers, liquor bottles, old tires and discarded mattresses. The road took a sharp turn to the left and came to an end. There was a turnaround area in front of a chain link fence that enclosed the lone warehouse on the boulevard. I pulled up and stopped. Hap got out and opened the gate. I drove through and stopped, waiting for Hap to close the gate and get back in the car.
“So far so good,” I said.
We parked around the back and got out of the car. A dog barked. It sounded like he was on the next block. The sky was overcast making it very dark.
“You got a flashlight?” Hap asked.
Every private eye has a flashlight. Every good private eye keeps his on him. Mine was in the glove box of my car in Milwaukee.
“It’s in my car.”
“Oh, that’s going to do us a lot of good here, isn’t it?”
“I have my Zippo lighter.”
“Now I feel much better,” Hap replied.
“Let’s go and get this over with.”
We walked around the side of the building to the front door. Just as Little Pinky promised, the latch was taped open and we walked in like we owned the place.
The inside was not only dark but musty as well. There