Shark Wave (A Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Book 6)

by David F. Berens

  “Where the hell we goin’?” she asked.

  “We gotta catch that man.”

  Ellie Mae flung the door open and the light of the real world flooded into the backlight lit, tinsel-lined dance club.

  The bartender’s voice echoed behind them as they ran out. “Hey, you gotta pay for those beers!”

  Daisy Mae whirled around and flipped him off with both middle fingers.

  T.J. Gallop sat in the parking lot, behind the wheel of his mother’s Ford Maverick. The radio was tuned to a local station that played a mix of Jimmy Buffett, Bob Marley, Grateful Dead, and Ronnie “Wayfarer” Hobgood tunes. It was his favorite and he listened to it every night he had to wait on his moms to get off work at the strip club. Most nights he would sleep until they banged on the window to wake him up, shouting for him to open the doors. Tonight, the energy drinks and candy were keeping him wide awake. That, and the conversation he kept replaying in his head from the night before with the man named Troy. Pretty cool dude, that guy. He was unwrapping his second king-size Milky Way when the door of the club burst open and a man came stomping out in a halo of purple blacklight. The man’s face was silhouetted so he couldn’t tell what he looked like, but there was something about the way the guy walked that looked very familiar.

  He inched down into the vinyl driver’s seat until he was looking through the steering wheel at the man walking toward him. The shadowed figure stopped, pulled out a cigarette, and struck a match. When the flickering light danced across his face, T.J.’s heart stopped. Standing just ten feet away was the man who had chased him out of his yard looking for all the world like he wanted to kill him—Frank McCorker. But best he could tell, Frank hadn’t seen him. He inched farther down into the seat until he was sure his head was hidden. Odds were against Frank noticing him. He wasn’t expecting him to be here after all. He could hear the man start walking closer again. He walked up to the car parked beside his mothers’ Maverick. T.J. held his breath, afraid the man might hear his heart pounding in his chest. And then he heard their voices.

  “Hey, mister!”

  Oh, crap. It was his mother’s voice. Then he heard her twin sister’s nearly identical screech call after the man.

  “Yeah, hold up a sec,” Ellie Mae said. “We got a proposition for ya.”

  Then he heard Frank’s voice. “Sorry, ladies. Nice try, but I don’t do that kind of shit. Get back inside and work the trolls for a trick.”

  “We ain’t workin’ girls, ya dipshit.”

  “Naw. We might show the boobies, but ya don’t get to touch ’em.”

  “Well, mostly not. Unless ya come up with a hundred.”

  “I don’t have time for this,” Frank said. “Now if you’ll excuse me—”

  “We know where you can find that muscle you need.” Daisy Mae interrupted him. “We got the perfect kid for the thing.”

  “For the…” Ellie Mae said, lowering her voice so that T.J. almost couldn’t hear her ... “drop.”

  “Okay. We’re done here ladies. I have no idea what the hell you’re talking about.”

  “We heard it all,” Daisy Mae said boldy. “And the way we see it, you can hire our boy for the job. Fifty-thousand I reckon it was. Or we can go to the cops and spill out everything.”

  T.J. was shocked at the sudden rage that came out of Frank McCorker.

  “You listen here, bitch. You have no idea who you’re dealing with. If you say anything, I am going to rip out your throats. And then you will wish I hadn’t so you could scream for mercy. Now, get the fuck out of my face before I—”

  T.J. heard a loud smack. He knew the sound well, as he had been on the receiving end of that smack more times than he could count. One of his mothers had obviously slapped Frank McCorker. The next sound, to T.J.’s surprise, was the sound of Frank growling. It was a low, guttural snarl he had heard coming from the man as he chased him away from his topless wife and crystal clear pool.

  Both women started screaming. He saw Frank’s silhouette lunge past the window, his arms outstretched, reaching for the women.

  Dangit, he thought, jerking his door open. He jumped up and grabbed the man’s shoulder. He whirled him around and punched him in the nose. T.J. had no illusions about his fighting skill. In fact, he wasn’t sure he’d ever been in a fight, except for that one time the drunk guy had followed his moms out of the club, intent on taking them home. He hit Frank so hard that the man’s nose exploded with blood. Most people would have cried out in pain. He was sure that the average man would have at least reached up to hold his nose to see what kind of damage had been done. Frank did neither.

  Frank blinked once and spat through the river of blood. His eyes locked on T.J.’s and they immediately changed from narrow slits of anger, to wide open orbs of rage. T.J. was sure the man had recognized his wife’s pool boy. Frank dove at T.J. but, much like the chase through the McCorker’s back yard, T.J. was able to get away from the potential governor-elect. He ran zig zags in and around the parked cars with Frank huffing and puffing along behind him. It wasn’t long before the man was bent over with his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath.

  “You’d better keep running, you little shit,” Frank said. “Because I’m going to murder you when I catch you.”

  That was the exact moment that he passed out.

  30

  Catchin’ Some ZZZ’s

  Country pressed his ear to the bedroom door listening for any sound from Banksy. He was sure he had heard the man yelling earlier, but it sure as hell sounded like he was snoring now. The boat rocked in the gentle waves and Country thought for sure he was going to pass out. He was still losing a lot of blood, so he needed to get this thing done and get back to shore as soon as possible. First a trip to the hospital, and then he would be able to tell Frank and Boonesborough how he’d taken care of everything.

  He unlatched the door from the outside, a feature they had added to the bedroom for situations that called for locking someone in. He flung the door open, half expecting Banksy to jump out and hit him with something. But it turned out that the snoring he had heard through the door was legit. The man lay on the floor, sound asleep.

  Country bent down, wincing as he felt the stitches pull apart in his groin. A new trickle of blood dripped down his thigh. He changed his position to put his weight on the other leg and it seemed to ease the strain on his wounded crotch. He hooked his hands under Michael’s arms and heaved. The black circle of unconsciousness threatened to close in, so he dropped the man. He had moved him the shocking distance of one inch. He tried to pull the dead weight of Banks’s body, but he couldn’t budge it without feeling as if every last stitch was going to bust open. He let go of the man and flopped backward on his butt. He unzipped his shorts and slid them off. They were completely soaked and worthless at this point. He crab walked backward to the kitchen, and with effort he didn’t know he had left, he pulled himself up and opened the freezer. He grabbed a half-empty bag of ice and slid down the refrigerator with his back squeaking on the door as he fell. He landed with a thump and was certain the last stitch had broken free. He carefully positioned the ice bag on his manhood and waited until he was numb.

  While he sat there trying to figure out how he could get this done, he realized he was pissed. Somehow in all of this, he began to realize that Jed had deserted him in his time of need. He was supposed to be his friend. Hell, he kind of wanted to be Jed. He had a good job, a freaking amazing mustache, and a uniform. But now he kept replaying the memory of Jed running away, leaving Country to lie bleeding on the deck of the boat.

  “Sumbitch,” Country moaned. “If I git the chance, I’m gonna shoot that prick.”

  He started laughing at the irony of what he’d said, thinking that’d be the second prick he’d shot this week. He snorted and felt another sharp jolt in his testicles. His laughter turned to tears. Tears of pain and tears of anger.

  After a time—he couldn’t tell how long—the ice was gone and he was holding a
bag of water on his crotch. He decided that he wasn’t going to be able to move Michael up onto the deck to dump him into the water, nor would he be able to get Florence into the ocean. He needed help. He reached down for his cell phone and realized he was no longer wearing his shorts. He crawled over to where he had dropped them and poked through the pockets. His phone was gone. He had no idea where the hell it was, but it didn’t matter. He had to get back to shore or he was going to die out here … alone.

  He willed himself up the ladder and into the captain’s chair. The boat ride back was a daze, and the drive to the club was even foggier. But he knew if he could get there, Frank would tell him what to do.

  Frank McCorker woke to find a leathery woman with garishly outlandish makeup sitting on his chest. The pale light of dawn was not kind to the strippers that worked at the Tail Spinner. His chest ached and he wondered if he was having or had just had a heart attack. He tried to sit up but he was too weak. He couldn’t move.

  “Woman,” he grunted under her weight, “I don’t know who you are, but you’d better get the hell off of me before I throw you off.”

  “You gonna play nice and let me explain my proposition?” she asked, running an emory board over her nails.

  Over her shoulder, he could see the silhouette of the second woman. Standing next to her, his arms crossed, was his former pool boy. A flash of anger sent a stabbing pain into his chest. The air went out of his lungs and he felt a tingle in his fingertips. Shit, it is a heart attack … or something like it. He slowed his breathing and fought to regain his composure.

  “Yes, I’ll play nice, if you’ll remove your ass from my chest. God only knows where it’s been.”

  The woman stood up. “God ain’t got no business with my ass, but it is a heavenly creation.”

  The other woman cackled and snorted. “Good one, Daisy Mae.”

  Frank rolled to his knees and grabbed at the side of his car. He was still too weak to stand. The kid came to his rescue, hooking his hand on Frank’s wrist and helping him to his feet.

  “I thought I warned you about me seeing you in the Vineyard ever again,” he said.

  “Yes, sir. You did. But my mama and her sister needed a ride and I’m the one who has to pick ’em up.”

  “That’s your mother?”

  “Damn straight, Skippy,” Daisy Mae said. “T.J. is the best thing that ever happened to me. Ain’t that right, Ellie Mae?”

  “Abso-freakin-lutely,” the other woman said.

  Frank rubbed his chest. The pain was easing, but it was still hard to breathe.

  “You gonna be okay, mister?” T.J. asked.

  “I’m fine,” Frank huffed. “Just a little indigestion is all.”

  “Happens to me all the time,” Daisy Mae said. “Specially when I eat corn dogs. Most times get that and the muddy waters at the same time.”

  “The muddy waters?” Frank arched an eyebrow and looked at T.J.

  “You don’t wanna know.”

  “Woooeeeee.” Ellie Mae laughed. “No you don’t. Me and T.J. just get on out of the house when we know she’s got the corn dog hankerin’.”

  Frank shook his head. “Well, as much as I would like to stand here and discuss the finer things with you, I’ve got shit to do.”

  “Exactly why we’s here talkin’ to you,” Daisy Mae said, producing the emory board again. “We heard you and Mr. Boonesborough talkin’ about needin’ a man to take care of some dirty business for you.”

  “I don’t know what the fu—”

  “Oh, c’mon now, Frank,” she interrupted him. “You need muscle for a drop. We got muscle for a drop.”

  “How do you know who I am?”

  “You’re on TV every dang day breakin’ into my soaps to tell me how great you are and why I should vote for you. It ain’t that hard to recognize you.”

  “Fair enough.” He wondered if he had been careful enough, forgetting that he was now a recognizable public figure. If anyone connected him with the cartel operations The Sharks were running, this whole thing would come crashing down like a house of cards.

  “So, for fifty grand, T.J. here will make yer drops,” Ellie Mae said. “But he ain’t killin’ nobody. He’s a good Christian boy.”

  He started to protest, to tell all three of them to go to hell, but the wheels began to turn in his mind. He needed expendable help and the kid fit the bill perfectly.

  “You know what?” he said. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

  “Yeehawww!” hollered Daisy Mae, sticking out her hand.

  “What’s this?” Frank asked.

  “The fifty grand,” she said. “We’ll take that now.”

  Frank grunted. “Nice try. You’ll get that when the deed is done.”

  “So …” T.J. spoke up. “What now?”

  A rusty brown truck pulled into the parking lot and honked.

  “Here’s your ride.”

  31

  Partners In Crime

  Troy followed Country all the way to the Tail Spinner strip club, hoping he would lead him to Prosperity. But this couldn’t be right. He knew they wouldn’t keep the girl there, too much traffic in and out of the place. He wondered what the heck the man was doing stopping there. He eased into the parking lot at Fiesta Mexican across the street. It was doing a fair amount of business—not surprising given their Monday morning three-for-one breakfast burrito special. The lot was packed, so he pulled around to the back of the building. The only spot left was the empty space in front of their dumpster. He was sure he’d only be a minute, so he backed the cruiser into the space.

  He saw Country ease his truck up toward a man he knew well—Buff Summerton, the man running for governor as Frank McCormick. What in the hell is Buff doin’ out here? he thought.

  He also saw three other people standing there, silhouetted in the morning sun. One man and maybe two women, but he couldn’t be sure. His vision wasn’t what it used to be.

  His surveillance was interrupted by the sudden appearance of a giant garbage truck backing toward him. The signature reverse warning beep blared at him as the green truck got closer and closer. He jumped out of his car.

  “Hey, hey, hey, now,” he said, waving his arms. “Watch out, brother. I’m back here.”

  The truck screeched to a halt, its brakes crunching as the truck rocked back and forth to a stop. The door opened and a large man wearing a bright yellow vest stepped out. Troy was instantly reminded of Ronnie “Wayfarer” Hobgood, a singer who made his rounds from beach bar to beach bar singing all the best island cover tunes. Ronnie was a massive linebacker sized man with the darkest skin Troy had ever seen. The crooner was muscled and gigantic, but his voice was clear and high—as in Frankie Valli high. The man could sing anything from the Bee Gees to Queen with perfect pitch and delivery. Troy had spent more than one night mesmerized by the man and wondered why in the world he hadn’t been picked up by a record label.

  As the man got closer, he was startled to realize this dude didn’t look like Ronnie—this dude was Ronnie. And the recognition was mutual. The man’s face spread wide in a smile equal to his broad frame.

  “Well, as I live and breathe, if it ain’t the man, the myth, the legend, Ronnie ‘Wayfarer’ Hobgood.” Troy reached out to shake his hand.

  Ronnie wrapped his fingers around Troy’s hand, dwarfing it. His grip was firm, bordering on painful. Troy was glad that Ronnie liked him—or at least he thought he did.

  “Troy ‘By God’ Bodean,” he said. “How the hell are you? What in God’s name are you doing in Massachusetts?”

  “I could ask you the same thing.”

  “Hurricanes, man. Remember Hurricane Florence?”

  Troy did not remember that particular one, but he nodded anyway.

  “Yeah, she was a doozy. Took out at least nine of my regular tour down the East Coast.”

  “So, now you’re hauling garbage?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “Kind of a side gig for my brother-in-law. He owns t
his company, a limo service, a grocery delivery service, and a fleet of ice cream trucks. Oh, that and some kind of ski-boat touring outfit too. Makes bank. More than I ever earned from doin’ all that hustling after dark for tips.”

  “I’ll be danged,” Troy said.

  “And you?” Ronnie pointed at the retired police cruiser. He leaned down and whispered. “Are you some kind of undercover cop?”

  Troy almost laughed, but then thought better of it. “Naw. Nothin’ like that.”

  He let it hang in the air and then winked at Ronnie. The singing trashman put his fingers to hip lips.

  “I got you. Not a peep.”

  The silence that always hits when two casual acquaintances have caught up with what little info they have to share with each other hung between the two men.

  “Say,” Ronnie said, “you mind moving your car for a sec? I gotta get this thing loaded and get on down the road.”

  “Oh, yeah. No problem.” Troy shuffled back to the car.

  Ronnie pulled a business card out of his pocket and handed it to him. It proclaimed him as the Biggest Island Singer on the East Coast and had several download codes for his latest singles. Troy smiled thinking Ronnie was probably the biggest singer in the country, let alone the East Coast. He shoved it into his shirt pocket.

  “It’s an old card, but the phone number’s still good. Text me sometime and we’ll grab a beer.”

  Troy shook the man’s hand, this time the grip was a bit stronger.

  “You’re on. Catch you later, Ronnie.”

  He got in the truck and pulled it to the side. Troy eased his car out of the space and past all the drive-through patrons. He looked across the street to see that the meeting at the Tail Spinner strip club had apparently concluded. There was no sign of Buff, the strippers, the random guy, or Country. He would look back on this moment later and wonder how in the world he hadn’t recognized the whole group.