Sycamore Row - John Grisham

36
From their looks and accents it was obvious to Lonny they were a bunch of Russians,
and after watching them drink straight vodka for an hour, he was certain. Crude, crass,
loud, and looking for trouble. They would pick a night when only one bouncer was on
duty. The owner of the bar had threatened to post a sign barring all Russians, but of
course he could not. Lonny figured they were crewing a cargo ship, probably one
hauling grain from Canada.
He called the other bouncer at home but got no answer. The owner wasn’t there and,
at the moment, Lonny was in charge. More vodka was ordered. Lonny thought about
cutting it with water, but these guys would know it immediately. When one slapped a
waitress on her shapely rear end, events spiraled out of control, and quickly. The lone
bouncer, a man who had never shied away from violence, barked at the offending
Russian, who barked back in another language while rising angrily. He threw a wild
punch, which missed, and then took one that didn’t. From across the room, a gang of
patriotic bikers hurled beer bottles at the Russians, all of whom were springing into
action. Lonny said, “Oh shit!” and thought about leaving through the kitchen, but he’d
seen it all before, many times. His bar had a tough reputation, which was one reason it
paid so well, and in cash.
When another waitress was knocked down, he ducked around the bar to help her. The
melee raged on just a few feet away, and as he reached to grab her a blunt object of
some variety struck him in the back of his head. He fell comatose, blood pouring from
his wound and draining into his long gray ponytail. At sixty-six, Lonny was simply too
old to even watch such a brawl.
For two days he lay unconscious in a Juneau hospital. The owner of the bar
reluctantly came forward and admitted he had no paperwork on the man. Just a name
—Lonny Clark. A detective was hanging around, and when it became apparent he might
never wake up, a plan was hatched. The owner told them which flophouse Lonny called
home, and the cops broke in. Along with almost nothing in the way of assets, they found
thirty kilos of cocaine wrapped neatly in foil and seemingly untouched. Under the
mattress, they also found a small plastic binder with a zipper. Inside was about $2,000
in cash; an Alaska driver’s license that turned out to be fake, name of Harry Mendoza; a
passport, also fake, for Albert Johnson; another fake passport for Charles Noland; a
stolen Wisconsin driver’s license for Wilson Steglitz, expired; and a yellowed naval
discharge summary for one Ancil F. Hubbard, dated May 1955. The binder consisted of
Lonny’s worldly assets, discounting of course the cocaine, which had a street value of