Shark Wave (A Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Book 6)

by David F. Berens

  “Where’s a gas station? I need to get some ice on this and stop the bleedin’ fast!”

  Michael pointed up the road and pulled his keys out of his pocket. “Take the trike. Go, go, go!”

  Country yelped as he lifted his leg over the motorcycle. It rumbled to life immediately, and he tore away like the stitches in his scrotum.

  18

  Florence And The Pool Boy

  Florence Summerton sipped her early afternoon tea and looked down her nose at the ladies sitting around her dining room table playing bridge. She was a native of Martha’s Vineyard, and these three women were not. She was old money, and these women were the pretenders. Blanche was the closest thing she had to a real friend, but even she couldn’t possibly understand what it was to be American royalty.

  Yet, here she was playing the role of first-lady-to-be, pretending to be something lesser than she really was ... and she hated Buff for it. She chided herself. Frank—not Buff—was what she was supposed to call him. In the years after Afghanistan, when he’d disgraced himself by getting wrapped up in that filthy kidnapping scheme, he’d agreed to a reduced sentence in exchange for information he knew about the others involved in the plot. He’d turned in several powerful government and military personnel—the kind who had the power to make people regret their decisions in a deadly way.

  Buff realized quickly that his only chance to stay alive was to assume a new identity. With the help of some black web paperwork dealers, he created Frank McCorker, politician extraordinaire. That was ten years ago, and now he was on the cusp of actually getting some power back. He was going to be the next governor of Massachusetts.

  “Flo, dear.” Blanche tapped her fingernail impatiently on the table. “Your turn.”

  Florence hid the sneer well behind a thin, pursed line of maroon lipstick. How dare she? The name “Flo” was reserved for trailer park trash, greasy spoon waitresses, and insurance saleswomen on TV. It was a shortened bastardization of the pure name of Florence suitable only for strippers and streetwalkers.

  She, on the other hand, was part of the long line of the Tilton family that had put the Vineyard on the map as one of the richest islands in America. That was until Buff had taken her away, changed her name to the more blue-collar “Summerton,” and made her a military wife.

  It wasn’t all bad, he rose through the ranks very quickly and became an important leader of the invasion in the Middle East. But being a soldier—even a good one—has its downfalls. Money was tight, and they had spent most of her sizable inheritance within five years. Homelife was reduced to packing and moving every two or three years, never quite settling in. Marriage was reduced to staticy phone calls and cryptic messages from undisclosed locations around the world.

  She looked down at the cards arrayed on the table. She picked one from her hand and laid it on the table. Blanche snickered and laid a card on top of it.

  “Well, played, Flo,” she said, stacking the cards on her side of the table.

  Florence Summerton laid the remaining cards face down in front of her.

  “Out,” she said quietly.

  The other women tittered on about the score and who had played the best hand. Amanda, the youngest woman in the group patted Florence on the arm. Her nails were whore red. Her husband—who was younger than her—made his money on the internet, creating, and then selling, a website called “HairreTodayGoneTomorrow.com.” Toupees. He sold goddamn toupees on the site. And then sold it to the Hair Club for Men for one billion dollars.

  “Oh, Florence,” Amanda said, her voice dripping with condescension. “You’ll learn eventually. You don’t want to give away your—”

  “Shut the fuck up,” Florence interrupted her. “And get the fuck out of my house.”

  The wrinkled faces around the table were suitably shattered. Blanche started giggling and gathering the cards together to shuffle. The other two women joined in, giving knowing looks to one another. A joke. Dear Florence had made a joke.

  She stood up and saw the first sign of fear creep into Amanda’s young, vibrant, unwrinkled face. She took her mimosa and splashed her straight in the face with it. The gasps of the women were delicious as they realized what had just happened. Orange juice and champagne dripped down Amanda’s wet hair, mingling with tears of shock and rage.

  “Perhaps, you didn’t hear me,” Florence said, setting her empty glass down onto the table. “I said, get the fuck out of my house.”

  “Well, I never.” Blanche stood and put an arm around Amanda, who was mopping her hair with a napkin.

  “Exactly the problem.”

  She watched as the women gathered their things in a rush, throwing light shawls over their shoulders and clasping their designer clutches. They hurried out the front door just as Buff was coming in.

  “Frank,” Blanche said to him, “you need to teach your wife what it means to be civilized.”

  He arched an eyebrow as they shuffled past him and down the steps to the driveway. He slammed the door behind them and loosened his tie.

  “Three goddamn points,” he said, walking to a nearby bar.

  He clinked three ice cubes into a glass and poured scotch over them. He took a long sip and poured some more. Florence watched him, her hands propped on her hips. When he finally turned to look at her, he shook his head.

  “I’m only up three points in the latest poll.” He walked over to the recliner that she had fought hard against bringing this time. “If we don’t do something fast, this race could get tighter than we want it.”

  “It’s nice to see you too, dear.” Florence walked out of the living room.

  She was wiping the spilled juice off the table when he realized what she had said. He leaned against the doorframe, watching her.

  “I’m sorry, dear. How was your day?”

  She took a deep breath. “Fine.”

  “Well, that’s good. I’m glad.”

  Typical man.

  She tossed the rag into the sink and looked out the window at the back yard. A young boy with tan skin, a flat stomach, and toned arms was sweeping a net back and forth in the pool. She swallowed back the drool that threatened to escape her lips. She gathered herself and turned to face him.

  “You better get your shit together and win this race,” she said.

  His face softened into a smile. He might have mistakenly interpreted this as her being interested in his work, but that was far from the truth.

  “Dear, I’m doing everything in my—”

  “Because I bought the Rover today. The silver one, with all the bells and whistles.”

  For a second, he was stunned and speechless. But as he understood the full meaning of what she had said, his face started turning red ... and then deepened to purple.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” he demanded. “Florence, we don’t have that kind of money right now. Everything we have is tied up in this election.”

  He stomped toward her, but she put her hand up to stop him. “Don’t give me that bullshit. I know you have money that you’re keeping from me. This shitshow of a campaign you’re running, there wasn’t enough in the coffers to pay for all of this. You’re getting cash from somewhere and dammit, I’m entitled to some of it.”

  “Woman!” he shouted. “There is no more money! We’re running in the red right now and you go and buy an eighty-nine thousand dollar car?”

  “Ninety-six, five to be exact,” she said.

  For the third time in their illustrious marriage, Florence thought Buff might hit her. His hands were balled into fists. His upper lip curled and quivered. His chest rose and fell in short hyperventilating breaths. He clenched and unclenched his fingers and took another step toward her. She almost took a step backward, but she held her ground.

  “Take it back,” he said slowly.

  She shook her head. “Win the election and you won’t have to worry about it.”

  He threw his hands up in resignation. “Of all the fool ideas you’ve had, this one reall
y takes the cake. I told you we would look at them when the election was over.”

  “You said that about the house in Malibu too, Frank.”

  “There really is no getting through to you.”

  He turned and stormed out. She heard him clomp down the hall, then the front door opening and slamming shut.

  With her husband gone for the time being, Florence Summerton needed to blow off some steam. She chose her most flattering white bathing suit—a one-piece, she wasn’t a slut—applied an inappropriate amount of sun tan oil, and draped an aqua blue towel over her shoulder. She poured a fresh mimosa over ice for herself, and a second ... for the pool boy. He was an expense that her husband had argued against, but she was adamant. If they were keeping the pool open, they were keeping it clean, and by God, she wasn’t going to be the one doing the cleaning. It didn’t hurt that the kid was ruggedly handsome. He had shoulder length black hair, a scruffy chin, and chiseled features—the kind of features reserved for the young, or the surgically enhanced.

  “Boy,” she called to him.

  He looked up, momentarily stopping his sweep. His eyes were the bluest she could ever remember seeing—piercing even. Or maybe it was the first time in a long while a man had made eye contact with her that made them look so intense. He tipped his faded red baseball cap to her. She studied it a bit closer, noticing that it had a letter C circling a catfish or something like that. She held the glasses out and motioned him over with her chin.

  He pulled his sweeper out of the pool and laid it down on the concrete deck. As he walked over, she eased herself down into a lounge chair and set the glasses onto a table. She patted the chair as he got closer.

  “Why don’t you sit?” she asked. “Take a quick break and talk with me.”

  “Beg pardon, ma’am,” he said, taking his cap off, “but I’ve got four more pools to get to today. I’d better just stick to my work.”

  So refreshing, she thought. A gentleman removing his hat for a lady. This boy has manners, refinement, character.

  “I brought you a cool drink,” she said, pointing at a glass. “Surely, you can pause for just a sweet sip?”

  He licked his lips. “I s’pose a quick drink wouldn’t hurt nothin’.”

  She handed him the glass, letting her fingertips brush against his. The gesture was lost on him as he gulped the drink down and sat the empty glass back down.

  “Thank you kindly.” He dipped his head and put his cap back on.

  “What’s that on your hat?” she asked.

  “Oh, this old thing?” He smiled—oh, what a smile. “Carolina Mudcats. It’s a minor league baseball team. I wanted to play for ’em, but my mama said we had to move before I got a chance to try out. Somethin’ about runnin’ out of money, or somethin’ like that.”

  Florence knew that feeling all too well. She didn’t hide her sudden attraction for the boy. A sexy pool boy and baseball player all wrapped up in one tawny package.

  “Well, I shall let you go about your work, young man.” She waved a hand at the softly waving water. “Before you go, won’t you tell me your name?”

  “T.J., ma’am.” He held out his hand. “T.J. Gallop.”

  Be still my heart, she thought, taking his hand with her fingertips.

  “You can call me, Flo,” she said with a wink. “In fact, you can call me just about anything you like.”

  Something pulsed inside Florence that she hadn’t felt since she had made the call to order her Land Rover. Excitement. And she decided then and there—like the car—she would have this boy. She pulled her hand back quickly, feeling the sudden jolt of electricity. It jarred the table and her drink tipped and splashed on her. Oh, thank you, God.She felt her eyes narrow and her lips curve up uncontrollably. She arched her back and let the orange mimosa pour all over her chest.

  White bathing suit plus cocktail—a fortuitous and revealing mix. She opened her mouth and made a show of covering herself, knowing there was nothing left to his imagination. His eyes went wide and he turned away. Cute, but that’s not what she wanted.

  “Oh, T.J.,” she said, “I’m so embarrassed. Can you fetch my towel?”

  Her towel was draped over the back of the chair she was lying on, and when he leaned over to pick it up for her, she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him onto her. He stumbled and fell on top of her and she smashed her lips to his.

  “Take me, T.J.” she cried.

  “Mrs. Flo,” he sputtered. “Yer married and I’m just a kid. You’re like my grandma.”

  And the flame that had burned inside of Florence Summerton was doused as quickly as it had burned. She pushed him off of her.

  “I’m so sorry, ma’am.” He wrung his hands. “I have no idea what—”

  “Just clean the damn pool, kid.” She waved him away as she wrapped herself in the towel.

  He nodded his head and jogged back to his sweeping pole. He never looked up to see her storm back into the house.

  19

  Two Peas In A Pod

  Troy Bodean stood outside the small beach cottage perched on the rocky hill overlooking the beach. He’d managed to borrow a fishing boat quickly and had followed Country up to Point Judith. What the hell you doin’ up here? he thought as he watched for activity.

  The back porch was partially screened in and held three patriotic rocking chairs—one red, one white, and one blue. As Troy watched with his back to the ocean, he saw a man open the screen door and step out onto the porch. He wore a light gray tank-top with sweat stains threatening his underarms and neck, khaki shorts with cargo pockets on the side, bare feet, and a cowboy hat. An oddly familiar looking hat, in fact. If Troy hadn’t known better, he’d have sworn he was looking at a version of himself from the future—a future that included a snow white beard that might have been taken from Old Saint Nick himself ... or Billy Gibbons of ZZ Top.

  As he took the first few steps up the beach, he couldn’t help but hum the opening riff of Sharp Dressed Man. The man on the porch was carrying a tray that had a pitcher of pale yellow liquid and a single glass filled to the rim with ice cubes. Troy couldn’t help but lick his lips at the thought of an ice cold glass of lemonade—if that’s what it was.

  He watched the man sit in a rocking chair and carefully pour a tall glass. He took a few more steps and opened his mouth to speak.

  “Howdy, there, young fella,” the man said without looking up from his drink.

  Troy stopped. He turned around to be sure there wasn’t someone standing behind him.

  “Ah yup.” The man finally looked up. “I’m talkin’ to you, mister. Been watchin’ you prowl up the beach for some time now. Might as well come up and say hello.”

  Troy couldn’t help but grin. He liked this guy already. He took the steps up to the porch and put his hand on the screen door.

  “Shoes stay outside,” the man said, pointing down at Troy’s flip-flops. “Don’t like gettin’ the sand all up in here.”

  “Yes, sir.” Troy kicked his shoes to the side.

  He walked in, again struck by the odd feeling that he was looking at himself visiting from the not-too-distant future.

  The man pointed at the red rocking chair. “Might as well make yourself at home. I have a strange feeling we have a lot to discuss.”

  That’s odd, Troy thought. How does this dude know we have anything to talk about?

  “If you’ll give me just a second to appreciate sittin’ down,” the man said, “I’ll run inside and fetch you a glass. You do drink lemonade, don’t you, son?”

  “I do.”

  “And you do drink rum, I suppose?”

  “Yup.” Troy nodded.

  “Then we’ll get those two birds with one glass.” The man stretched out his hand. “Michael Banks. Some folks call me Banksy. Not too sure how I feel about that, but it is what it is.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Banks. My name’s Troy Bodean. Everyone calls me Troy.”

  “We’ll get along just fine if you prom
ise not to call me Mr. Banks anymore. My daddy was Mr. Banks, and as much as I aim to live up to that honor, I don’t reckon I’m ready for it just yet. Michael will do just fine.

  “Yes, sir.”

  He rocked forward and groaned as he rose up out of his chair. “Now, hold onto those thoughts of yours and let me get you a glass. I’m on my third one now, so I’m a bit wobbly.”

  He laughed and did indeed wobble into the house. Troy looked back at the amazing view outside the porch. The waves were rolling gently onto the sand, creeping ever out to sea as the tide rolled out. His thoughts turned to Prosperity. He hoped she was still okay and couldn’t help but wonder if Country had come to enlist the help of this bearded stranger to get rid of her body. This Caribbean Santa Claus was an odd choice, but then again, there wasn’t much about this situation that wasn’t weird.

  He was staring out into the green blue water when Michael came back out on the porch. He held a tall glass filled with ice and poured from the pitcher until it was nearly full to the rim.

  “Best lemonade I know of around these parts,” he said, handing Troy the glass.

  He watched as Troy took a generous sip. “Dang, if that isn’t the best I’ve ever had. Much obliged.”

  “Now, let me get settled in here and let’s talk about why you’re here.”

  He slumped back into his rocking chair and rested into a slow, steady sway, back and forth. He interlaced his fingers over his belly as he prepared to hear the story of Troy’s visit. Troy did his best to tell the man the events of the past couple days and hoped he could trust this dude. Maybe it was the eerie similarities they shared physically, or maybe it was the fact that he looked like one jolly old elf from the North Pole, but Troy was about ninety-nine percent certain that this was one of the good guys.

  “So, old Country is up to no good again, eh?” Michael asked.

  Troy shrugged his shoulders. “Best I can tell, he is.”

  “Poor kid needs to realize that this kind of life ain’t never gonna pay. You see, I used to be a cop, Troy.”