“I’ll be out on the boat before lunch is over,” he said to himself, walking his cart down the hallway. “And there will be four bodies on the ocean floor before dinner.”
Buff Summerton took the stage at the last scheduled rally before the voting would commence. Every sign in the crowd was carefully placed so that no two matching slogans were too close to each other. The sea of red, white, and blue placards swaying in the ocean breeze to the not-quite-perfectly-performed Sousa march “The Stars and Stripes Forever” made the atmosphere crackle with anticipation and power. He felt like he was campaigning for the presidency. The crowd roared as he approached the podium, and shouts of Frank, Frank, Frank and Bank on Frank, Bank on Frank, rang out across the crowded park.
Winnie, you’ve outdone yourself with this one, he thought, waving and pointing to prominent donors near the front of the crowd. When he finally got the boisterous crowd quiet, someone—an obvious Boonesborough plant—called out, “McCorker for president!” He smiled and chuckled his best self-effacing grin, shaking his head slightly. The roar that followed made him pause. Who’s to say we can’t go for that in a few years? But he knew that was getting a little ahead of the game. Best to get this election behind him and get all their special financing operations cleaned up before they started thinking about the White House.
He raised his hands again, and slowly they calmed to a reasonable level. His speech was a thing of beauty, thanks again to Winchester Boonesborough and his uncanny ability to work a crowd. The words flowed and danced like a song drifting from the sorrow of the new tale they had created about his lovely wife’s sudden passing, to the passion and determination he had for the economy and security of Martha’s Vineyard. If he hadn’t known better, Buff would’ve almost believed the words he was saying into the array of national news microphones. He left the stage after having wiped away some false tears with his handkerchief to the most thunderous applause he had heard today.
It would’ve been a perfect afternoon if he hadn’t caught sight of the rusty pickup truck at the front of the line behind the motorcade blockade. A hand gripped his elbow from behind and he jerked around to see Jed holding onto him.
“Where the fuck have you been?” Buff hissed.
“Just working out some details,” Jed said. “Don’t worry. I’m back on board. Everything will be taken care of tonight.”
“Do you see the moron sitting in his truck over there?”
“Where?”
Buff lifted his arm and pointed, then smiled quickly and acted like he was waving to another supporter. Jed’s eyes followed to see Country sitting at the front of a long line of cars stuck behind the campaign blockade.
“Got him.”
Buff stopped abruptly, jabbed a finger into Jed’s chest and said, “you damn well better get him. I don’t give a shit what you do or how you do it, but if it isn’t through by tomorrow, I’ll have someone get you too.”
Buff walked away from Jed, leaving him staring in Country’s direction.
Country was burning up. Sure it was summer and sure the air conditioner had never worked in his truck, and sure the temperature was the hottest he could remember for this time of year, but usually it didn’t affect him this badly. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and rolled down his window. He glanced in the rearview mirror to see the two tarp-wrapped bodies still lying in the bed of his truck. He could hear Buff giving a speech and people cheering wildly, and he wished he could be closer to hear what the governor-to-be was saying. That man is a saint, he thought. He’s gonna put the Vineyard back on the right path. That’s for damn sure. He found himself chanting Frank, Frank, Frank along with the crowd.
He wondered if he was still in good graces with The Sharks, but that ship had not only sailed, it was probably sunk. He shook his head. His pulse was thrumming in his wrists and neck. He tried not to breathe too quickly for fear he’d hyperventilate. And then he saw Buff walking down from the stage. He waved his hand frantically out the window and yelled to him. But he didn’t act like he saw him. And then there was Jed.
“Hey, Jed,” he yelled. “Over here. Hey. Where’d you go, man? I frickin’ coulda used some help, ya know?”
Jed had grabbed Buff by the arm and was leading him away like some kind of secret service or something. Damn, he wanted to be like that guy. And then, Buff pointed at him. Jed glanced over. Country started waving again, but neither one of them looked too happy to see him. Buff started poking Jed and shouting at him and then stormed off. Then Jed glared back at him, an angry look in his eyes.
“Yeah.” Country moaned, rolling his window back up, wiping more sweat from his forehead, “I’m definitely out.”
He wondered if Jed had just been ordered to make Country disappear along with the other four bodies. It might be just as well, Country thought, gently caressing his wounded crotch. Without a dang dink, ain’t no stripper gonna wanna dance for me no more anyway.
A street cop blew his whistle, bringing him out of his despair. He was moving the blockade railing from the road and waving Country through. Unless, I can fix all this. If I can get four bodies in the drink, deliver the guns and dope, and get the cash back to Buff by dark, they’ll have to take me back. I’ll be back in the good graces if I can just pull that off.
He pulled his truck through the square and gunned it back toward the dock. He wasn’t sure how he’d get T.J. and the girl unloaded, but he’d find a way. Damn straight. There’s a lot of people goin’ swimmin’ today if I can just get ’em on the boat.
34
I’m Your Ice Cream Man
Troy floored the accelerator in Michael Banks’s cruiser and felt a slight rumble that he knew wasn’t a good sign. He glanced down to see an oil can light flashing on the dashboard. Dangit.
He eased back on the gas, and the rumbling turned into a full-out knock. It sounded like a bowling ball was jumping around under the hood. With a loud bang, the engine stopped and smoke flowed out from everywhere. He coasted to the side of the road and shut it off.
Troy slapped his hand against the steering wheel. Must’ve pushed the old girl too far, he thought. He got out and walked around the car to investigate the source of the smoke, but so much was billowing out, he couldn’t tell exactly where it was coming from.
“Sorry, Michael,” he muttered.
He took a deep breath and stared down the road in the direction of the dock. Though most think of the Vineyard as a small place, it is in actuality a large island—third largest on the East Coast, behind Long Island and Mount Desert Island. Troy guessed he was more than five miles away from the Black Dog Wharf where Michael was waiting on him. And Jed was on his way to the boat, likely to do bad things to him. He started walking, scanning up and down the road for a ride to hitch.
In less than a mile he was sweating, and both legs were starting to cramp. At this rate, he wasn’t going to make it to the dock in time. He pulled out his phone and re-dialed Country’s number to call Michael. It rang a few times and then went to voicemail. He hung up, hoping that his friend wasn’t in some kind of trouble already.
Michael sat in the captain’s chair of Country’s boat, sipping on a lemonade and watching the parking lot for Troy. Thankfully, he’d found a bag down below with all the fixin’s to make his signature drink—sans alcohol. He needed to be sharp for whatever was coming. His feet were propped up on the crate that held the guns. He chose that one because he didn’t want to dishonor Florence by stepping on hers, nor did he want any of the drug residue on his body.
He glanced at his watch and wondered what was taking Troy so long. He finished his drink and went below to pour another. It had been sweaty work pushing and pulling the crates around on the deck, and he didn’t want to be dehydrated. He knew from experience that if his body wasn’t at its peak, he could have another narcoleptic episode.
He stirred the drink in his glass and dumped an extra packet of Stevia into it. He didn’t like using the alternative sweetener instead of sugar, but that w
as all he had so he made it work. He took a sip and climbed back up the stairs. When he reached the top, he was surprised to see Country’s pickup truck sitting in the parking lot. He was leaning over the bed of the truck messing with a tarp or something. At one point, he stood up, wiped his forehead with a handkerchief and Michael could see that he was oozing blood down both his legs. That boy’s gonna bleed out, Michael thought. He pulled out his phone to call for an ambulance, unsure if that would go to the same dispatcher that had called Jed, but he was willing to chance it if it would save Country’s life. The man was a criminal—incompetent criminal—but he didn’t deserve to go out like that. He glanced at the screen and saw that Troy had called. He clicked to call him back and watched Country wobble around his truck a few more times.
“Michael,” Troy said. “S’that you?”
“It is, buddy,” Michael crouched low as he whispered into the phone. “Where you at? Country just got here and he’s looking pretty rough. I’m pretty sure he can’t give me any trouble, but Jed’s probably gonna be here soon too, and I doubt I can handle both of them.”
“I’m coming as fast as I can, brother,” Troy said. “Your cruiser died and I’m hiking your way now, but I’m a long way out. Ain’t nobody on this road I can get a ride with.”
“Okay, I reckon I can maybe hold Country off for a bit, but if you don’t make it before Jed …”
His voice trailed off as the edges of his vision started to close in. Oh, please, no, thought Michael. He felt the stress triggering a reaction that he desperately did not want to happen right now. But want it or not, sleep was coming. He was out.
“Michael? Hey, buddy. You there?”
Troy looked down at his phone. The call was still connected.
“Hey!” he shouted. “Michael? What’s goin’ on? Are you okay?”
Nothing. He hung up and dialed the number again. Straight to voicemail. Dangit. He turned at the sound of a vehicle pulling over behind him. In what might have been the most startling thing he’d seen in more than a few years—which was saying a lot—he turned to see a MerryMobile ice cream truck easing onto the shoulder of the road. It wasn’t the fact that these particular trucks looked like a circus tent driving around that shocked Troy. It was the history he had with them and his old friend, One-Eyed Willie. He hadn’t seen Willie in a lot of years and figured the old guy must be dead by now, but here he was sitting behind the wheel.
As the truck got closer, Troy could see that it wasn’t actually the old guy he remembered with the creepy painted clown eye-patch, but a much bigger man.
“Ain’t seen you in over a decade and all the sudden I see you everywhere,” the jovial voice called from the truck.
“Ronnie?” Troy said, peering under a hand shading his eyes. “What the heck you doin’ out here? And what the heck are you doin’ in that thing?”
“It’s my brother-in-law’s rig,” Ronnie said, patting the side of the red and white monstrosity. “He’s got like a dozen of the things. Kids flock to ’em like … well, like kids to ice cream.”
“So, you traded in your garbage truck for an ice cream truck?”
“Nah,” he laughed. “One of his guys called in sick and he didn’t want the kids down on the beach to be disappointed, so I’m running it around today. Strictly part-time, of course.”
Troy looked around. The stretch of road they were on was about as rural as it got on the island. All he saw was the road and scraggly trees lining each side.
“But why out here?”
“It’s the quickest route from one end of the island to the other. Can’t spend too much time driving around or the push-ups and rocket pops will melt.”
“Fair enough.”
“What about you? Why you hitchin’ out here?”
“Car broke down.”
“The cruiser?”
“Yup.”
“You can’t just radio for backup?”
Troy took a deep breath. Time to clear this up.
“I’m not really a cop, Ronnie,” he said, “but I’m working with one and he’s probably in trouble right now. You don’t suppose you could give me a ride?”
Ronnie looked around at the back of the truck. “I’m not really supposed to have passengers in this thing, but …”
“Ain’t nobody gonna know about this,” Troy said, climbing into the back. “If you’ll drop me off at the Black Dog, I’d really appreciate it.”
“Oh, it ain’t that I’m worried about getting caught,” Ronnie explained. “I just don’t know if it can handle both of us.”
“Let’s give it a shot,” Troy said. “My buddy’s countin’ on me.”
“Will do.”
They pulled out and raced down County Road … at just under twenty miles an hour.
Country tugged on Prosperity’s body, wrapped tightly in a tarp in the back of his truck. He was able to slide her close to the tailgate with what felt like superhuman effort. Why’s it gotta be so damn hot today? His head swam and he knew he was stumbling, but that wasn’t too uncommon outside the Black Dog Tavern. He guessed most people would just think he was drunk. He leaned back to stretch his back and couldn’t keep his eyes from rolling back in his head. He fainted and fell straight back onto his butt. The fall didn’t hurt him, but it did shake the cobwebs loose from his brain. The entire front of his shorts and most of the front of his legs were sticky with a steady trickle of blood. He made a note to jump in the water and clean off after he got these two aboard.
He glanced toward the boat and for a second he was sure he saw someone sitting in the captain’s chair. He blinked away the sweat in his eyes and realized there was no one there. Must’ve been a hallucination. Gotta get this done and fast before I pass out.
He climbed up into the bed of the truck and shoved Prosperity off the tailgate onto the ground. She groaned once, but then got quiet again. He sat down and wedged his feet between T.J.’s body and the back of the truck bed and pushed. He shoved him as far as he could like that, then stood up and rolled him the rest of the way out. The kid fell on top of Prosperity, but didn’t make a peep.
“Big catch, eh?” a salty fisherman called from the back of another boat. “Good for you. I didn’t catch a damn thing … except a buzz! Ha!”
Country thought for sure he’d been busted, but the old man’s words were slurred and he fell into hysterical laughter. He was piss drunk.
“Me neither, old timer,” Country called, with a wave. “All I got here is a mess of fish food.”
“What the hell you fishin’ for? Great whites?”
“Somethin’ like that.”
The fisherman shrugged. “Eh, suit yourself. Good luck to ya.”
Country waved the man off. He didn’t have time for chit chat. He scanned the parking lot for some kind of wheelbarrow or cart or something he could load the bodies on. Leaning against the ice machine, he saw what he needed. A hand truck. He walked as steadily as he could toward the dolly and wheeled it back to his pickup. He decided to try loading T.J. first, since he wanted to deal with the biggest threat while he was still unconscious. It turned out to be relatively easy work and he was so relieved that he took a second after he’d rolled T.J. into the boat to jump into the water and wash himself off.
The cool dip reinvigorated him and he felt like new as he climbed back onto the boat. He could tell he was still oozing, and he grabbed a towel and shoved it into his pants. It made him look like a sock-packing hard rocker in Eighties-style spandex—only without the long hair, or the makeup, or the cold sores.
He decided to go back and get Prosperity before tucking T.J. away down below. He waddled across the parking lot, shoes squeaking, the dolly jumping, clothes dripping wet, and grinning like a Cheshire cat. He was close, so close to pulling this off. If he could get the girl on the boat, get them all out to deep water and drop ’em in, he’d be done with the whole mess. Then he could get back in with The Sharks and when Buff paid him his due, he could get proper stitches in his—
35
Private Enterprise
“That boy ain’t checked in for a while now,” Daisy Mae said, wringing her hands. “You think he’s alright?”
Ellie Mae applied a liberal, almost shocking amount of baby oil to her bare breasts. She tossed the bottle to her sister and huffed in exasperation.
“You gonna ask me that every two minutes? He’s a big boy and can take care of hisself. He’s fine. Now, shut up and get ta tannin’. You been lookin’ a little pekid these last few days.”
“Just cause I don’t look like a dayum tangerine don’t mean I cain’t get the dolla bills.”
She slathered on a healthy dose of the oil and tossed the nearly empty bottle aside. It rattled around on the pile of similar bottles lying nearby. Daisy Mae leaned back in her lawn chair—a chair she had stolen from the last hotel they had stayed in before their money ran out. Sitting on the roof of the Tail Spinner, they could hide behind the sign on the front of the building and tan in any state of undress they preferred.
Shark Wave (A Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Book 6) Page 18
