Day of the Tiger (Carlos McCrary PI, Book 5): A Murder Mystery Thriller

By Dallas Gorham

Old Friends and Old Secrets Collide in Day of the Tiger, a Murder Mystery Thriller from Dallas Gorham

Retired NFL player Tank Tyler is an influential, wealthy financial advisor—a Tiger by anyone’s definition. Tank’s old college teammate, Al Rice, is drowning in drugs and debt—a miserable failure. Old loyalties and old secrets run deep, and Tank keeps bailing out his no-account friend.

Al Rice is targeted by Monster Moffett, a loan shark who crushes Al’s hand with a ball-peen hammer and threatens Al’s mother, Doraleen Rice. Tank hires Private Investigator Chuck McCrary to protect both Doraleen and Al.

Chuck’s investigation uncovers Moffett’s trail of sex trafficking and forced prostitution in the sleazy world of high-priced “Gentlemen’s Clubs”—a world demanding more than brawn, balls, and bullets to survive.

As Chuck approaches the truth, Moffett’s criminal gang kidnaps Doraleen Rice promises to silence McCrary—permanently.

Publisher’s Note: Dallas Gorham combines murder, mystery, and mayhem with a touch of humor—all with a PG-13 rating. The Carlos McCrary, Private Investigator, Mystery Thriller Series can be read and enjoyed in any order. Readers of hard-boiled detective and crime novels will not want to miss this hard-hitting, pulse-pounding series.

The Carlos McCrary Murder Mystery Series
Six Murders Too Many
Double Fake
Quarterback Trap
Dangerous Friends
Day of the Tiger
McCrary’s Justice
Yesterday’s Trouble
Four Years Gone
Debt of Honor
Sometimes You Lose

• Language: English
• Publisher: ePublishing Works
• Release date: Jan 11, 2022
• ISBN: 9781644572665

Dallas Gorham

Dallas Gorham combines murder, mystery, and general mayhem with a touch of humor—all done with a PG-13 rating. His Carlos McCrary, Private Investigator, Mystery Thriller Series can be read and enjoyed in any order. Dallas writes in the mystery, thriller, and suspense genres. (Take your pick: His novels have all three elements) His stories will get your heart pounding and leave you wanting more. He writes to hit hard, have a good time, and leave as few grammar errors as possible (or is it “grammatical errors”? Hmm.) In his previous life, Dallas worked as a shoe salesman, grocery store sacker, florist deliverer, auditor, management consultant, association executive, accountant, radio announcer, and a paid assassin for the Florida Board of Cosmetology. (He is lying about one of those jobs.) If you ask him about it, he will deny ever having worked as an auditor. Dallas is a sixth-generation Texan and a proud Texas Longhorn, having earned a Bachelor of Business Administration at the University of Texas at Austin. He graduated in the top three-quarters of his class, maybe. He has also been known to lie about his class ranking. Dallas, the writer, and his wife moved to Florida years ago to escape Dallas, the city, winters (Brrrr. Way too cold), and summers (Whew. Way too hot). Like his fictional hero, Chuck McCrary, he lives in Florida in a waterfront home where he and his wife watch the sunset over the lake most days. He is a member of Mystery Writers of America and the Florida Writers Association. Dallas is a frequent (but bad) golfer. He plays about once a week because that is all the abuse he can stand. One of his goals in life is to find more golf balls than he loses. He also is an accomplished liar (is this true?) and defender of down-trodden palm trees. Dallas is married to his one-and-only wife who treats him far better than he deserves. They have two grown sons, of whom they are inordinately proud. They also have seven grandchildren who are the smartest, most handsome, and most beautiful grandchildren in the known universe. He and his wife spend way too much money on their love of travel. They have visited all 50 states and over 90 foreign countries, the most recent of which was Indonesia, where their cruise ship stopped at Kuala Lumpur. Dallas writes an occasional blog post at http://dallasgorham.com/blog that is sometimes funny, but not nearly as funny as he thinks. The website also has more information about his books. If you have too much time on your hands, you can follow him on Twitter at @DallasGorham, or on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/DallasGorham. To get an email whenever the author releases a new title (and get a free book), sign up for the VIP newsletter at http://dallasgorham.com/ (just copy and paste it into your browser).

Book preview

ONE

Al Rice

Alfred Rice cringed as the man in black raised the ball-peen hammer. No, for God’s sake, Monster! I paid you the interest. I’ll pay you the rest, I swear. He struggled to free his arms. Was the loan shark really going to do this? Panic rose in his throat like bile. His breath caught in his throat.

Crummy forty thousand dollars. That pays the interest to last month, you moocher. I told you I want the whole two hundred grand. I don’t trust you no more. The man in black, Montgomery Monster Moffett, raised the hammer again. The fluorescent lights high above the table cast multiple shadows across Rice’s arm. You’re thirty days past due. This is the late fee.

Monster, I need both hands to work, Rice pleaded.

Work? What work? You don’t work, loser; you hang out in strip clubs instead of making money to pay me back.

Moffett turned to his men. Hold his arm steady.

Moffett’s men jammed Rice’s forearm tight against the table. Moffett’s eyes blazed and his breath came quicker as he smashed the back of Rice’s hand with the hammer. Skin ripped at the ragged edges of the ugly crater in Rice’s brown skin.

Rice shrieked like a banshee. Pain dominated his senses and became the focus of his universe. He stared wide-eyed at the wound gouged by the hammer. My god, it was real. The son of a bitch had really done it.

Fighting down the pain, Rice struggled to keep his voice level. I swear on my mother’s life I’ll pay you the rest, Monster. I’ll pay you; I swear.

You should’ve thought of that before you welshed on a debt. You owe me two hundred large. You’re past due. You got two weeks.

Rice’s vision turned to red. He slumped to one side.

Moffett seized the Rice’s ear and twisted it savagely. You hear me, loser? You listening to me? Huh?

Rice mumbled through the bubbles that formed on his lips. He tried to nod, but it hurt his ear.

Moffett tapped the victim’s wrist with the side of the hammer. In two weeks’ time, I turn Teddy loose on you with his knife. He’ll carve you a reminder to pay your debts. Two weeks after that, I break both your arms. Two weeks after that…Well, you did swear on your mother’s life, didn’t you?

That’s not what I meant. You can’t‍—

Moffitt twisted Rice’s ear again. You don’t tell me what I can’t do, loser. You understand me? He waved at the other two men, who stepped away from Rice.

Moffett released Rice’s ear and shoved his head away, knocking him off the metal chair.

Rice peered up from the concrete floor, struggling to hold his rage in check. You stay away from my mother. Just stay away. Do whatever you want with me. Maybe I deserve whatever I get, but not my mother. His eyes narrowed. You touch a hair on her head and I’ll kill you if it’s the last thing I ever do.

Out-numbered and without weapons, Rice realized his threats were empty, but threats were all he had now. But someday…Someday…

Moffett kicked him in the stomach. Yeah, and I’m the Tooth Fairy. He laughed when Rice vomited.

Rice collapsed in a heap, cradling his ruined hand in the crook of his other arm. He looked up at the man in black with murderous hatred in his eyes.

Moffett laughed. Throw this bum out.

Carlos McCrary

I owe Al Rice a debt I can never repay. Tank Tyler paused and glanced me. Maybe he wasn’t sure whether I was listening.

I looked east out the window of Tank’s sixty-first floor office in Port City’s newest skyscraper. The view of Seeti Bay was spectacular. The South Florida sea breeze had scrubbed the late afternoon air to a clean, crisp blue beyond the window wall. The knife edge of the horizon beyond Port City Beach appeared to be at arm’s-length. Can you see all the way to Bimini?

Not quite. Hey, I didn’t ask you here to admire the view. I have a friend who needs help. He paused. Earth to McCrary. Earth to McCrary. Come in, McCrary. You’re the Carlos McCrary of McCrary Investigations, LLC. I said I have a friend who needs your professional services, and I’m willing to pay. Did you even hear me? Helloooo. I want to be a paying customer.

I pivoted from the window. Don’t get your panties in a wad, Tank; I heard you. You owe Al Rice a debt you can’t repay, yada, yada. I got it. What I don’t understand Tank, is that you have more money than Tom Cruise. I would’ve said you have more than you can count, but you’re a Certified freakin’ Public Accountant with a computer for a brain. If you owe this Al Rice guy a debt, why not write him a check? End of problem.

Tank looked uncomfortable. Some debts can’t be paid with money. God knows I’ve tried.

How so? I sipped Tank’s expensive beer.

He waved the question off. That’s personal. It’s enough for you to know that Al is in big trouble. I believe you can help him, and I’ll pay you to tackle it. He lapsed into silence, tilted his glass for the last of the twelve-year-old, single-malt Scotch, then rattled the ice cubes.

I rotated the Pilsner glass in my hands and gazed out the window. One thing I’ll say for Tank: He stocks the best private bar in Port City. You pay the freight and I’ll walk your dog.

He smirked. I don’t own a dog.

Tank, how many times I gotta tell ya? I’m the funny Mexican; you’re the studious African American CPA. Besides, you owned a Border Collie when you were a kid. I sipped my beer. Sure, I’ll help your friend. What’s his problem?

Al has so many problems I don’t know where to begin. First, there’s Monty Moffett, otherwise known as ‘Monster.’

Despite me being a tough guy, that name launched a tremor down my spine. I had never encountered him personally, but I knew Moffett’s reputation. I did not relish the thought of meeting him.

Al is involved with Monster Moffett?

Yeah, Tank said. Is that bad?

Doesn’t get much worse, bro. What do you know about Monster Moffett?

Only what I read in the newspaper. Is he as bad as his nickname?

Worse. Monster Moffett is the biggest bookie and loan shark in Port City, both businesswise and physically. This guy is nearly as big as you. Must be six-foot-five and outweighs you by fifty pounds. Of course, he’s mostly fat and you’re all muscle. But even so, he scares the hell out of most people.

Does he scare you? Tank asked.

He might if I had good sense, but I have more balls than brains.

"I would’ve said that you have balls instead of brains."

You sure know how to hurt a guy. Especially a guy who is, uh, what’s that big word I learned? Intellectually challenged. You forget: I have copious brawn to go with my extraordinary balls. That makes up for the lack of brains. Besides, I can call you when I need brains.

So, you’ll help Al even with Monster Moffett in the picture? Tank asked.

You forget: Hidden beneath this oh-so-sincere business suit and tie is a red cape and a blue leotard with a big red S on it.

I thought you only wore that to go nightclubbing.

I grinned. The bigger they are…Moffett is ruthless and sadistic, but his nasty temper makes up for it. I’d do the world a favor to knock him down a notch or two. I suppose Al owes him money?

Yeah, and Al hasn’t got two nickels to rub together. A couple weeks ago Moffett sent two wise guys to grab Al and carry him someplace in the warehouse district. Moffett took a ball-peen hammer to Al’s left hand. Tank set down his glass and cracked his knuckles. Last week Al came to my office with a cast up to his forearm. One swing from Moffett’s hammer and the poor guy was in surgery for three hours. Over fifty stitches and God knows how many steel pins. Al will never shuffle a deck of cards again, that’s for sure. Of course, one way to look at it, maybe Al not playing cards again is a good thing. He’s a lousy card player.

Is part of his debt to Monster for gambling losses?

Tank spread his hands. Who knows? Who cares? It’s always something with Al.

If you want me to help him, I asked, why’d you wait until last night to call me?

Frankly, I didn’t know what to do. I’ve bailed Al Rice out more times than I can count. It never works. You know that old definition of insanity…

Doing the same thing over and over, thinking this time you’ll get different results. Yeah, another old joke I tell better than you.

Tank smiled. Sometimes when you don’t know what to do, the best thing to do is nothing.

That sounds more like a bumper sticker than an excuse.

In my defense, Moffett did give Al two weeks. I knew Al had another week before Moffett came after him.

So you procrastinated.

Tank stared at his empty glass. I’m not proud of it.

What changed? I asked. Why did you wait, then call last night in a hurry to meet?

Tank walked over to the bar. You ready for another?

I raised my empty glass. Just one, I have to drive.

Tank opened the bar refrigerator, slid out another Amstel, and handed it to me. If I give Al money to pay this loan, Moffett will increase his credit line. He poured a little Scotch and slid ice cubes down the side of the glass. He’s done that before. Every time Al gambles or cooks up another hare-brained scheme, he gets deeper in debt to Moffett. When it comes to borrowing money from a loan shark like Moffett, Al’s like an alcoholic who can’t stop drinking.

I tilted the Pilsner glass and poured the Amstel gently down the slope. Didn’t want to bruise the beer. How much does Al owe Moffett?

Two hundred thousand dollars.

Two hundred thousand dollars was petty cash for Tank, but the way he said it called for a whistle, so I whistled. What does Al do for a living?

Tank swirled his drink, rattled the ice. Anything and nothing. He’s full of grandiose schemes. He does an occasional drug deal, he gambles, and he’s been arrested twice for shoplifting. He tried to flip houses during the last real estate crash. Lost a bundle, of course.

Al doesn’t sound like the type of guy you’d pick for a friend. In fact, he sounds like the polar opposite of conservative, uptight CPA Thomas Tyler. I poured the remainder of my beer. How’d you become friends with a man like that?

We played football together for the UAC Falcons for two years. Al attended Carver High School here in the City where his mother teaches English and his father was head football coach. Al was a sophomore at UAC, a year ahead of me. I showed up fresh off the farm from Florence, Alabama, and Al took me under his wing. He drove me to his house for a home-cooked meal. Tank stared out the window, lost in the past. I was a fish out of water. Hell, I’d never visited a city larger than Huntsville, Alabama, population 200,000, except for recruiting trips in high school. Then I show up in Port City, population 3,000,000 then, over 4,000,000 now. Al taught me how things work at a big university in a big city.

What went wrong with Al? I asked. How did he end up such a loser?

Something happened sixteen years ago. Not relevant anymore.

But he didn’t finish college, did he?

Nope. He quit after he was kicked off the team in the spring semester of his junior year.

Why was he kicked off?

Tank’s eyes looked away and he cleared his throat. If he hadn’t been one of my closest friends, I would have thought he was about to tell me a lie. Old news. Not important now.

Could be relevant. Sometimes things like that gnaw on you for years; they color everything you see in the world.

Drop it, Chuck. It’s not important. You’ll have to trust me on that.

I was right; Tank was lying. Whenever someone tells me to trust them, it often means they don’t know what the hell they’re talking about. I tried another tack. So, you two played together for two seasons.

Yeah.

What happened to him after he got kicked off the team?

He dropped out.

Why?

Tank spread his hands, giving me a who-knows gesture. Not important now.

I shrugged; I would come back to the subject later. Rice’s reason for leaving the team might be important. When it comes to getting information, I’m like a bulldog with a bone; I don’t give up easily. Using my unsurpassed analytical mind, I surmise that, for whatever reason, Al’s life went into a spin and he crashed and burned. Meanwhile, your career skyrocketed. Consensus All-American your junior year, Bronko Nagurski Award for best defensive lineman in the known universe your senior year, and the UAC Falcons won the National Championship that year.

I pointed to the Falcons team picture on the wall. And where was Al while all this glory was heaped on you?

Tank gave me the who-knows again. I lost track of him for a few years.

But not for long, I’ll bet. You were a first round NFL draft choice with a multi-million-dollar contract. It was all over the sports pages. Al had to know about it. Stop me if I get this wrong.

So far, you’re right on the money.

Hurray for me. I lifted my glass and toasted myself. You’d be amazed how many long-lost friends and relatives find you once you win the lottery.

Tank grunted. You got that one hundred percent right.

So, Al materializes out of the blue to congratulate his old newly-rich friend. You feel guilty about your success‍—you’re rich; he’s poor. You’re a big football star; he got kicked off the team. How am I doing so far?

Batting a thousand.

Then Al plays the guilt card. He asks you to bail him out of a little mischief. You’re earning more money than you ever dreamed of, so you help him out, and one thing leads to another. Eventually it becomes a habit for you both. You’re a rich man, so why not? I get that. That about right?

Yeah, pretty much. Tank stared into his glass.

I threw up my hands. So why am I here? Why’d you call me last night?

Something intervened.

"What is this, big guy, twenty questions? What intervened?"

"More like who intervened. Al’s mother, Doraleen, called me yesterday afternoon. Moffett showed up at her house and threatened her if Al doesn’t pay. Moffett told her that Al swore on her life that he’d pay. Moffett told Doraleen that Al’s two weeks was up tomorrow. She was at her wits’ end, so she called me. She was so scared she could barely talk. I went out to her home and installed better locks. Then I called you."

I sipped my Amstel while I decided what to say. And here we are.

Yeah, here we are. Tank sighed. "I’ve fretted over this mess ever since Al’s mother called. Hell, that’s not true‍—I’ve fretted over Al for over a decade. Until now, I didn’t have a reason to do something about it. I just kept paying. I’m convinced that throwing money at Al‍—or at his creditors‍—is a short-term solution for a long-term problem. I tried that before. More than once. And it doesn’t make any long-term difference to Al. I want to do something different this time. His eyes were moist. That’s why I called you."

What am I supposed to do, psychoanalyze him? Read his aura? Adjust his chakras? I’m a poor dumb private investigator with a room-temperature IQ.

For starters, I want you to help Al’s mother.

I inhaled the Amstel’s hoppy aroma; at least something in this room was perfect. I made a get-on-with-it gesture to Tank.

Doraleen became a second mother to me while I attended UAC. I still call her Momma Dora. She invited me for Thanksgiving dinner my first year at school. I couldn’t afford to fly back to Alabama, and it was too far to drive there and back in four days. After that I spent every holiday but Christmas and Spring Break with Al’s family. We became real close.

Even after Al dropped out? I asked.

Even then. Momma Dora said that my ties with Al and her went deeper than football.

And you stayed in touch all these years.

Like I said, she’s a second mother. Tank’s brown face creased in a grin. Sometimes he looks like he has forty-eight teeth. Guy is a real-life toothpaste ad. Besides, Momma Dora makes the world’s best chili. The grin faded. A stray bullet killed Al’s father while we were at UAC. For the last few years, ever since Al became unreliable, I’ve visited Momma Dora once a month. I help around the house and do things she needs a younger person for. I hang Christmas decorations on her roof or change a light bulb in a ceiling fixture. Al…he doesn’t visit Momma Dora often enough. Even when he comes, he’s not good for much anymore. He sipped his Scotch. Momma Dora regards me as the son who turned out all right.

What makes Al unreliable? Drugs?

When he can afford them. Alcohol when he can’t.

Al have any brothers or sisters?

Momma Dora and her husband William tried to have children for years. They had lost hope. Then Al came along. She said Al was a gift from God, never repeated.

I tugged a notepad from my jacket. What’s Al’s full name? Albert? Alfred? Alexander?

Alfred Lord Tennyson Rice.

For real?

Tank grinned. "What can I say? Momma Dora is an English teacher.

I scribbled it on my notepad. Do you have a picture of Al I could borrow?

Momma Dora will have one.

What about on your phone? You have a picture in the contact list?

Yeah, I forgot that one.

Send it to my phone. He did, and I examined the photo. That’s one I can use. Now to the assignment at hand. What should I do about Monster Moffett? Wave a magic wand? Sprinkle pixie dust? Join hands and sing Kumbaya? My voice sounds best in a large choir where it’s drowned out.

Tank stood at the window and spread his hands. Standing there in his three-piece, blue pin-striped suit, he was the world’s largest financier‍—physically anyway. His bulk blocked the view. "I don’t have a clue how to help this family, but I have to do something even if it’s wrong. If Al continues on this path, I guaran-damn-tee you, he’ll end up dead. I could live with Al being dead‍—karma and such. But for Momma Dora…an old woman shouldn’t bear a loss like that. I can’t let it happen. Not if there’s any way under heaven to prevent it."

From Moffett’s reputation, he won’t back off unless someone kills him. Then his ghost will haunt you. If that’s what you want, big guy, that ain’t gonna happen. I don’t do hits, even when the guy deserves it. That was almost true.

God, no. That’s not what I mean. Besides, if Moffett fell into a bottomless pit, Al would find another jerk to gamble with. No, this situation requires a more original approach.

Performing a personality transplant is outside my area of expertise.

Nobody likes a smart ass. Come with me to meet Momma Dora. She’s a wise old bird; hell, she earned a Masters in English Lit. Maybe she’ll know what to do.

TWO

Doraleen Rice

Doraleen Rice took a deep breath when the doorbell rang. Surely it wasn’t that horrible man again. She looked through the peephole and sighed with relief. Tank and a white man, who must be his friend Chuck McCrary, stood at the door. She trembled as she opened the solid oak door. She jumped when it clunked against the brass security bar. You haven’t seen Race Car out there, have you, Tank? I let her out an hour ago. She should be back by now. I’m worried about her, what with that…that gangster making threats yesterday.

Tank scanned the front yard. No, Momma Dora, I don’t see her. He faced Chuck. Did you spot a white Persian cat out front?

Nope.

Doraleen closed the door to swing the brass security bar open. She reopened it wide enough for the two men to enter. Come in, come in, boys. Hurry inside.

She slammed the door behind them, threw the two dead bolts, and swung the door guard across the matching knob screwed to the door edge. I’m not used to this door safety thing, Tank, but I surely do appreciate you installing these for me.

Standing on tiptoe, she reached her arms as far around Tank’s neck as she could and leaned her cheek against his muscular chest. Tank wrapped arms the size of tree trunks around her slender shoulders. She burst into tears.

Carlos McCrary

I stood near the door, shifting my weight from one foot to the other, while this tiny woman and my giant friend comforted each other. I felt as out of place as a stranger at a family reunion. Glancing around, I noticed the new door guard was expertly installed. One dead bolt was newer than the other. Those must be the extra locks Tank installed.

Tank patted the old woman’s shoulder and kissed the top of her head. There, there, Momma Dora. I’m here. Everything will be all right.

"I’m frightened, Tank. While I waited for you and your friend to arrive, I kept worrying, ‘What if that Moffett man comes back before they get here?’ What would I do‍—what could I do?"

She stepped back and smoothed her palms down the front of her brick-red dress. She held out her hand. I’m Doraleen Rice.

She presented a firm handshake and cold hands. To my eye, she had aged like fine wine with skin smooth as a burnished oak barrel. The tiny lines that etched the corners of her eyes reminded me of wood grain, not wrinkles. She could have been anywhere from fifty to eighty. Her red dress and salt-and-pepper Afro hairstyle could have been Little Orphan Annie, but all grown up. I handed her a business card, one without the crossed swords on it. I’m Chuck McCrary. I’m here to help. Instantly I felt stupid. I remembered that old joke: I’m from the government; I’m here to help.

Let’s sit. We have a lot to discuss. She led us into