A Song for Charlie: A Johnny Scotch Adventure

By John Dover

A Job Gone Wrong.

Redemption in a red-headed package.

A triple homicide that points to Johnny.

Buying a girl a drink never caused someone so much trouble, and this time — Johnny Scotch ordered a double. How does Johnny deal with the failure with Charlie while trying to keep himself out of jail in the present? What is Lila

• Language: English
• Publisher: Justice Served Neat Productions LLC
• Release date: Sep 2, 2018
• ISBN: 9780996775885

John Dover

As the creator and writer of "Johnny Scotch", John Dover has built his Jazz Noir world from the music he is immersed in on a daily basis and from his travels across the US as a professional musician. John continues to build the "Johnny Scotch" library through short stories, and his comic book collaboration with Illustrator and story board artist Dan Schaefer. John's musical world and his writing world also collide with the "Johnny Scotch Vignettes", a series of musical pieces written by Thomas Barber, that incorporate high energy fusion with the spoken word. John Currently is working on Johnny Scotch #4 with Dan Schaefer as well as releasing the second Johnny Scotch novella, "A Song for Charlie". John continues to perform and teach as a clinician for Bach trumpets along with his role as the creator and writer of Johnny Scotch. Outside of the Johnny Scotch world, John has a number of short stories in the horror genre published. You can find his works in "Tales from the Braided Pony", "Monsters 'N' Things", "100 Word Horrors", and the upcoming "Carnival Tales", and "Tenebrous Tales". John has also been a regular contributor to Mythmachine.com as an entertainment writer.

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Introduction to Scotch

Scotch. It’s a name, a brand, a heat on the breath of the elite, and the name on the cries of the desperate. It taints the thoughts of the broken and symbolizes the retribution that is owed for the atrocities of the wretched.

Scotch is the impact of skin against skin and the collision of bone against bone in the dark alleyways of Bridge City. It is the name screamed in the pleading breath of the victim and the whimpers of the stricken-down wickedness of lesser men. It is the sensation of a knuckle against the unkempt bristle of a villain’s chin.

Scotch is the gentle whisper in a lover’s ear, followed by a playful nip on the lobe. Scotch is the name etched with passionately-traced cursive on a back and breathed across the delicate peach fuzz on a woman’s thigh, a lover’s touch in the night.

Scotch is the sound of $1000 shoes scuffed on the ground and a $5000 suit wrinkled in the name of compassion in a town where the cries of the innocent are drowned out by the Captain of Industry’s calls for justice when a vagrant is caught sleeping in the shelter of the entrance of his office building.

Even to an uneducated palette, Scotch rolls off the tongue with a smooth, buttery finish. The only payment needed is the retribution of the innocent and the bar tab covered at the end of the gig.

Chapter 1 — These Stories Generally Start…

Reality seems to bend for some people, and when she strolled into my bar, the lights dimmed just for her, and I could swear a spotlight tailed her to her seat. Waves of heat shimmered off her with every step, as if she walked across a Teflon skillet. You could see the ice melt in the patrons' fruity concessions as she passed by. No one seemed to mind. I didn’t either, but only because I drink my scotch neat.

I had just stepped off the stage to refresh my drink while my band riffed without me. It was a hot night. My shirt melted to my skin and condensation dripped down the back of my legs. I was just about to the bar as I signaled Styles for a fresh pour.

The evening called for a bit of citrus and burnt sugar and a whisper of smoke. A dark, rich 15-year-old Benromach teased me from behind the bar, and I nodded to signal my selection. Styles dropped his head with a sigh. He knew I had picked the priciest bottle for my refill. I scoffed at his frugality. The room was packed, the drinks were flowing and we both knew that it was my band that had brought in and kept the great crowd in their seats. It was his choice to pay me in scotch while the rest of my band took away the meager cash proceeds he was willing to part with. If all these drinkers cost him a few glasses of $120-a-bottle scotch then he would be just fine, and he knew it.

He sulked a bit and grabbed the bottle and a fresh tumbler.

Make sure it’s a double, I jabbed at him. My joke was met with a scowl and the extension of an unfriendly finger.

I laughed and returned my attention to the curvy goddess that drew nearer. I didn’t need to hunt her down or mentally mark her spot for later. She homed in on me like a heat-seeking missile. Curious.

She looked me in the eye as she settled into the adjacent seat at the bar. She gave a sweet smile, turned to Styles, and ordered.

Glass of your house red, please, she said.

Obviously you’ve never had their house red. She looked at me curiously. Otherwise you would know the capital punishment you were about to inflict on your pallet, I said.

She giggled. Styles grimaced.

Bite me, Johnny, Styles barked and reached for a glass for the lady.

I dropped a twenty-dollar bill on the bar. Chill out, Styles. Get the lady something nice for me, would ya'?

I’m pretty sure he almost fainted cause I rarely — if ever — put cash on the bar for a drink. But at the same time, the oily bill slipped away and into his till faster than I have ever seen.

She turned her bright eyes to mine. You didn’t have to pick up my drink, Stranger.

Why don’t you tell me your name and then we’re not strangers anymore.

She smiled a wide, welcoming grin. My name’s Charlie. And you are?

Johnny Scotch. I nodded a cheers with my scotch glass.

Styles fumbled underneath the bar as we bantered and tested the waters of conversation. He resurfaced with a nice, if a little dusty, bottle of Chateauneuf-Du-Pape that he had been saving for the right customer. He wrestled the cork free and the jammy, earth-laden aroma lofted across the bar teasing my nostrils. The rich scent painted a picture of a rolling hillside filled with ripe fruit, kissed by the wind and the sun of the French countryside. The long garnet legs of the liquid wrapped around the glass with lurid fluidity as Styles splashed the wine into the chalice.

If I had not been so engulfed by my own drink already I would have pushed him to pour a second glass of the glistening vino for me. That’s the curse of a reputation, I guess.

My drinking partner took her wine up, gave a gentle gesture, returning my earlier cheers, and brought it to her lips for a taste. From her reaction, I could tell she was not expecting the velvety flavors that were washing across her soft tongue. First a squint of the eyes as she braced for the sour twang that she was used to with cheaper vintages. Then, surprise washed over her face as the dry flavors of cherry, earth, leather, and just a hint of green grass took over. She savored the first sip, letting it linger in her mouth before swallowing it down. She gave a gentle gasp of pleasure as the tastes and smells from the glass held court with her senses.

Wow. Thank you for insisting.

My pleasure. I smiled and winked gently, joining her in a sip from my own tumbler.

The band churned away in the background. They had shifted to a mellow R&B-flavored beat and let the room soak in the warm sounds of Cass and Reggie’s syncopated conversation while Eddie ground his brushes across the weathered face of his snare drum, tracing intricate, deliberate figure eights, etching his rhythm into the ears of the audience.

I sipped and exhaled, the fumes from the scotch tickling the edge of my glass. I looked over to the sweet eyes that were trained on me, looking expectantly like they had a question but were too shy to ask. I chimed in with the obvious. Now, I would usually say, what’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this, I paused.

But? She asked, her eyelashes batting in faux innocence.

"But…this is a nice place, and if you were seeking me out, which it looks like you were, then you’re probably not as nice a girl as that question would suppose."

Here I thought I was being subtle and coy. She took another sip of her wine. Well, I’m still a nice girl at heart, just mixed up with the wrong people and I hear around that you’re someone that can help people out when they’re in over their heads.

I should really look into who is giving me so much free PR. The kind of friends that get me mixed up in these messes really should be cut out of my Christmas card list.

That’s what you hear, huh? Why don’t you go to the cops? If your situation is so bad, why rely on a stranger in a bar to help you out?

I’m interested in a fast exit, not a bureaucratic shit storm. We both know they would just tell me to walk away. Pull up stakes and hit the road. ‘Probably better off in another town’ they’d say.

Maybe they're right.

Right or not, I know that this asshole will not let me just take off without a real messy break. He’s gotta save face and all.

Ok, so what is it you think I can do for you then? I’m not a one-man goon squad for hire to bust up kneecaps.

That’s not what they say.

I narrowed my gaze at her, still trying to determine which they she was referring to. You bring up my physical exploits like you know something and that shortens the list of informants considerably. I sipped my beverage while I took in the cryptic dialogue she was feeding me. This helped me sort out if it was gonna be worth my time to keep the conversation going much longer.

Her breaths appeared even, and her curves teased me from underneath the smooth fabric that was draped across her lush figure. I got caught gazing a bit too long and a wicked smile crept up her cheek. I could see she knew she had me. Poker is a shit game for a guy like me.

I licked back the clinging drops of my scotch that hung tight to my lips, wishing I was lapping at the languid curve of her neck instead. I said, Why don’t you give me a little more to gnaw on while I finish my drink and I’ll think about your problem.

She winked, sipped her wine, and breathed out to gather her thoughts. She had one chance to get this right and I could see she knew that.

I’m good with numbers.

Even and well-rehearsed, she went on to explain that a stay in jail, a couple of favors, and the promise of a new life upon release — along with sleeping with the entirely wrong guy — led to her being the live-in accountant for one of Bridge City's sketchier cash lenders. She was a smart lady, able to make numbers on a page dance the merengue even while the band played a waltz.

She made him a bundle. He made her a plaything and a punching bag. She was tough and thought she could take it, but a tough skin can’t help you sleep on bruised ribs.

My drink was emptied, filled, and emptied again while she spun the tale of how everything she had done for him would definitely get her tied up in years of legal turmoil if she went to the cops. They would keep her tangled up under obligation as their forensic accountants worked to unravel the intricate webbing she had strung around his financial network. She and I both knew that when it was all said and done, all good intentions aside, the cops would lock her up with a clear conscience no matter how much help she was going to be in clearing the docket for the organized crime squad. They would do it so she couldn’t take any of the credit and they could be the heroes in white everyone expected them to be. Once in jail, she would be in the crosshairs of the same people she helped lock up and she would have no place to run.

As she wrapped up her story, I saw more clearly that she was right. She needed help. I needed to figure the role I could play in springing her from the gnarled claws of this shit while not drawing the attention of whomever her boyfriend answers to at the end of the day.

I feel for you, lady, I really do, but you still haven’t come out and said what you expect me to do about your situation.

I watched her chew on her lip. Her manufactured confidence that she wore that dress with was spent now that the story was laid out. She worked her empty glass with fidgety fingers and her breath quickened as I saw a gentle wave of panic roll across her.

"What I want…what I need is to get the hell out of dodge. From what I