Part III
1492
“Following the light of the sun, we left the Old World.”
-Christopher Columbus
35
Between The Bars
“Woohooooo,” Troy Bodean howled as he held up two Coronas above his Outback Tea Stained Cowboy hat and winked at the girls dancing on the bar at Durty Harry’s on Duval Street. The Durt Bags (the house band) were on stage and growling out their best imitation of Poison, singing “Nothin’ but a Good Time.” The Jello shots were flowing and the beers were ice cold.
He almost never came up to this touristy area of the world-famous road in Key West, but tonight was a big night. His luck had finally turned over for the good and he was going to celebrate. He shimmed his way to a table near the stage and plunked the beers down in front of his friend. Captain Mel Barsoom looked at the beers through one squinted eye under impossibly bushy eyebrows.
“Corona?” he gruffed, “you bought me a goddamn Corona?”
“They were out of Yuengling, my friend,” Troy shouted over the band, stretching his hand out to take the beer back. “I’ll drink it if you don’t…”
Mel yanked it out of his fingers. He took a long swig and gave Troy a mean look.
“I guess it’ll do,” he sneered. “Reminds me of the swill I hadda drink back on the Yellow River.”
Troy inhaled deeply. He knew a famous Mel story was coming, and he had no escape.
“That bastard Somali fella had no idea what he was up against when they boarded our boat,” Mel said, launching into the tale.
Troy waved to the girl carrying the tray of green, blue, yellow and red Jello shots around the room. He held up four fingers and mouthed the words, one of each, to her. She happily slid four containers off and laid the tray on their table. She straddled Troy’s lap, un-holstered a can of whipped cream from her belt, shoved a shot into his mouth, and filled it up the rest of the way with the white, fluffy spray. This process continued until all four shots were gone. All the while, Mel rambled on in the background.
“Ya know, Troy,” he said and pointed a finger down on the table as if locating a spot on a map, “there’re places near Yan’an and the Hukou Waterfall that the river drops forty-nine feet!”
“Uh huh,” Troy mumbled through a mouth full of whipped cream.
Mel leaned his head back and cackled. “He pointed that AK-47 at me all the while we were floatin’ toward the falls. Had no clue where we were headin’.”
Troy surreptitiously made eye contact with the waitress behind the closest bar and gestured for two more beers.
“But I kept him occupied until the damn falls were roarin’ so loud he couldn’t hear me talkin’,” —Mel’s eyes took on a twinkle of glee— “bastard had to drop his gun to hold on to the rails!” He slapped the table and laughed hysterically.
Troy pretended to laugh right along with him. He turned back to the girl at the bar and changed his order to four more beers. An hour later, Mel was passed out with his head in a puddle of drool on the table. Troy’s head was spinning. He paid the tab with a generous tip, slapped the band guys’ shoulders and told them how great their last set was… even though he couldn’t remember it, then stumbled out to the corner and clambered onto his scooter. Fumbling around in his pocket, he found the key, turned it on, and rotated the throttle.
For about five feet, he was going at least ten miles an hour, until the bike chain snapped taut. He jerked over the handlebars and tumbled to the ground. Standing up, he dusted himself off, checked to see if his hat was still there, and said hello to the nice police officer in front of him.
“Dangit,” he mumbled as he realized he was going to the tank.
“Let’s go, buddy,” the officer said, ushering Troy into the back of his cruiser. “You’re lucky you had that chain on your scooter. I’m warning you, and letting you chill in the drunk tank rather than writing you up for a D.U.I.”
“Shanks, occifer,” Troy garbled as the ground began to wobble under his feet.
To this day, it is up for debate as to whether it was getting into the police car or out of it when Troy threw up on the officer. Either way, it made him feel a great deal better.
The next morning, a plate of cold scrambled eggs and a piece of stale toast was served to Troy in the tank. He chose not to eat it as his stomach still felt a little sour from the night before. He did sip the juice box hungrily and asked for another. The guard said they could only give out one to each person and shrugged his shoulders.
“There’s water in the sink,” he said and pointed to the bathroom.
Troy declined, but another guy sitting in the room with him said he’d trade him his juice for his eggs and toast. He quickly accepted the trade and ignored the ugly looks from the others watching this exchange.
He stood up and walked to the front of the cell and pressed his face against the bars. The cold metal soothed his head. He swore off drinking anything other than a light beer right then and there.
Almost snoozing again, a voice caught his attention and he perked up to eavesdrop.
“… but the bloodwork isn’t back yet?” the first voice asked.
“Not yet,” a second chimed in.
“Geezus crimminy,” the first guy complained, “it’s the twenty-first frickin’ century and they can’t get a D.N.A. sample tested in a coupla days?”
The second laughed sarcastically. “You know they can. It’s just that Key West P.D. isn’t exactly on the top of their list, Steve.”
First guy’s name is Steve. Doesn’t ring a bell.
“Joe, I swear,” Steve said, “I’m outta here so fast when I get something in Miami.”
Second guy’s name is Joe. Still nothing.
“Ha! Miami?” the guy named Joe blurted. “That’s worse than here.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Steve snorted, “but at least the women know how to dress properly up there. They ain’t all granola’d up, ya know?”
“I’ll take your word for it,” Joe said. “Now, read those notes on the Fort Jefferson murder back to me again.”
“You got it,” Steve said, shuffling some paper around. “Okay, here goes.”
Fort Jefferson murder? Troy turned his ear to position it between the bars and listened.
36
Droning On And On
Ryan Bodean ran his fingers through his floppy blonde hair. He leaned back in his office chair and yawned. Tropical Storm Daniel had all but killed his Tortuga Adventures business. There was nothing to do now but wait for the people to come back.
When the phone rang, he jumped up, throwing his feet off the desk. A pile of papers flew into the air and made a storm of paperwork confetti all around him.
“Shit,” he muttered as he picked up the phone. “Tortuga Adventures, your adventure to Fort Jefferson. This is R.B. speaking. How can I help you?”
He could hardly contain the excitement of a new call coming in and he felt his pulse racing.
“R.B.?” the voice asked.
“That’s me,” he made his voice smile.
“Where’s Troy?”
“Megan?”
“Yes, it’s me.”
R.B. struggled to hide the disappointment in his voice. “Oh, hey, Megan. He’s not here. Haven’t seen him all morning. But, there’s no one here to fly around, so, it’s not a big deal. Why?”
“I’ve been calling him all day and it keeps going to voicemail,” she said
“Yeah, well,” R.B. started, “that’s not all that unusual.”
“Oh, okay.” She seemed unsatisfied with that answer. “It’s just that I’ve been checking out these things we brought up from the wreck… we’ve got to get back out there now that the weather has passed.”
R.B. laughed. “Yeah, right. I’m not going back out there and getting shot at again.”
“This is really, important,” she pleaded. “I need to get a hold of Troy.”
“Why don’t you just run over to his place?” R.B. asked. “M
y guess is, he’s passed out on the couch. He said he was going out last night. Something about celebrating.”
“Oh, geez,” she said. “Okay, I’ll head over there now. Thanks, R.B.”
“No worries,” he said, “and when you see him, tell him to give me a call.”
“I will.”
He hung up and leaned back in his chair. After a moment, he sat up and picked up the phone. He dialed Troy. It rang once and then the voicemail picked up. He didn’t leave a message.
Hanging up the phone, he felt a strange sensation that this was not the usual absence of Troy after a party night. His phone almost always rang the standard three or four times before the voicemail message came on. He jumped up and grabbed his keys. He’d decided to meet her at the houseboat and make sure everything was okay.
A few minutes later, R.B. was standing out on the deck of Troy’s houseboat with his cellphone up to his ear. His calls to his brother’s phone were still going straight to voicemail.
Megan Simons walked through the sliding glass doors. “Do you think we should call the police?”
“It hasn’t been twenty-four hours yet,” —R.B. disconnected the call— “they won’t even start looking until after that time has passed.”
“You don’t think someone found him and tried to ki—”
“No, I don’t,” R.B. interrupted her. “His scooter isn’t here, his wallet and keys aren’t on the hook by the door, and most importantly, his cowboy hat is gone.”
She looked into his eyes and he thought she must surely see that he wasn’t convinced of this at all. But he moved on from the subject.
He exhaled heavily and put his hands on his hips. “He may just be crashed somewhere, sleeping off a hangover. It’s likely he’ll come stumbling home sometime today… or tomorrow.”
“We can’t wait that long,” Megan started, “because there’s a line of strong storms coming tomorrow. And past that, they keep talking about a new storm brewing that could become another hurricane. We need to get to that site again, and fast.”
Vince Pinzioni’s heart skipped a beat when Ryan Bodean and Megan walked into Captain Tony’s. There was no sign of Troy, but this was a two-for-one deal that he couldn’t pass up.
And then they asked him to take them out on the boat, and he couldn’t believe his luck. His mind raced, trying to put together a quick plan to permanently erase the two of them and leave no evidence that he’d been anywhere near them.
“Yeah, I can take you out on the boat,” he played along, “but what’s it for this time? Fishing? Tanning? Drinking?”
R.B. and Megan exchanged a glance. He wondered if they were weighing up whether or not to tell him the truth. But, whatever story they gave, he’d pretend he bought it and would take them out.
“We’ve found something in the water,” R.B. finally said.
“And we just want to see if anything is left of it after the storm,” Megan added.
Vince pondered this for a minute. Might be a good chance to check out the site, see if the storm had done a proper job of burying the wreck.
“Oh, yeah?” he said, and laughed his best sarcastic laugh. “You guys in the treasure huntin’ biz now?” He slapped a hand on R.B.’s shoulder and shook his head.
“Something like that,” R.B. said sheepishly.
“Alright!” Vince clapped his hands together. “So, what’s my cut, eh? Do I get a piece of the action?”
He watched as the two of them squirmed like fish out of water.
“I’m playin’, I’m playin,” he said, letting them off the hook, “whatever junk you find out there, it’s all yours.”
He untied his apron and tucked it under the bar. Spotting a box of latex gloves, he shoved a pair into his pocket.
“Let’s do dis,” he said, smiling broadly as he put his arms around them.
He could not believe his insane luck. Two more loose ends would be tied up by tonight. And whenever Troy showed back up, he’d take care of him too.
“Thanks, Vince,” R.B. said.
“Fughedaboutit, bro,” Vince said, and grinned.
The water was cold and rough. Visibility was near zero. R.B. held his hands out in front of him as he cruised back and forth along the ocean floor. They were right on top of the place they’d discovered the few pieces of shipwreck detritus, but now… there was nothing. His gauge showed that he was nearing the end of his air supply and he decided he’d make one more pass and then come up. He scanned the edge of the coral reef along where he thought they’d seen the cannon. There was absolutely nothing left.
As he peered ahead, a smooth grey snout suddenly bumped into him. Shit! Shark! His heart pounded, and he thrashed backward from the beast and slammed his fist straight down onto its nose.
The impact was so solid, he thought he might’ve cracked a knuckle bone. What the hell? This was no shark. It couldn’t have been more than five feet away now, but he could only see a vague blur in the water ahead.
He eased forward until he could see the object more clearly. It was gently swaying from side to side in the current. Thankfully, it was an inanimate object, not a creature from the deep trying to eat him. As he traced along the object, he began to make out the unmistakable outline of a drone. He recognized it from his later days in Afghanistan; this thing was military. What the hell is this thing doing in the gulf?
His air gauge pinged. Two minutes left. He swam straight up from the drone, intending to mark its location below where he surfaced. When he broke through, he circled around until he caught sight of the boat. He had drifted maybe fifty-feet away.
“Yo, Vince!” he called after removing his regulator, “over here!”
The captain of the boat turned and saw him, and Vince waved his recognition. The boat rumbled to life and turned slowly in R.B.’s direction. Less than five minutes later, he was climbing into the boat.
“Okay, treasure boy,” Vince joked, “you find your gold?”
“No,” —R.B. busied himself removing his tanks and diving gear— “but there’s a drone down there. Military. Not weaponized, but definitely military.”
Vince’s face was frozen in a smile. Not a natural looking smile, but a forced one.
“Well… ” he said, “that’s… strange.”
His voice sounded like someone who had just found out their mother-in-law had driven their Ferrari off a cliff. His smile began to fade.
“What the hell is a military drone doin’ out here?” Vince’s voice now edged into what sounded like anger.
R.B. thought that was an odd emotion to have. “I have no idea,” he said, and looked around. “Hey, where’s Megan?”
Vince didn’t answer. He was staring out at the water. “They frickin’ found it,” he mumbled, “they sent out a damn drone and found it.”
“Huh?” R.B. had no idea what he was going on about. “Vince, where’s Megan.”
The Italian ship captain seemed to snap out of his daze. He slid a hand under his linen shirt and pulled out a gun.
“Oh, her?” Vince said, pointing the pistol at R.B. “She’s tied up down below.
37
You’re Going The Wrong Way
George Wyatt stood on the catwalk below his massive oil rig, Wyatt 1, as the day began to wane. He couldn’t help but feel a little giddy from the news that his crew had found a reservoir of oil nearby and that it looked to be massive. It would be months, maybe years, before they would be able to get through the red tape of regulations and permits to drill there, and maybe another year to get the rig in place. But by all accounts, this looked to be a life-changing sized reservoir.
The gulf didn’t look as dark tonight as it had the past few months and he didn’t feel like jumping in and letting the black water swallow him. He was waiting for Hector, but this time things would be different. Hector would be leaving without dropping anything off and without picking anything up. This would be the end of their relationship.
An hour passed and the usual meeting time drifted b
y with no sign of Hector. Odd, thought Wyatt, he’d never been late in the past. Another half hour and he decided to climb back up to the rig. About fifty steps up, he heard the distant buzz of a boat.
“Dammit,” he muttered and turned around to descend the massive flight of stairs.
As the sound got closer, he looked out into the water, straining for a look at the boat. He could see it in the distance now and thought that it didn’t look like the same boat Hector had used before… again, odd.
As it raced closer and closer to the rig, he could tell that this boat had no intention of slowing. That’s not Hector, he thought and inhaled sharply, then returned to climbing the steps. At least I’m getting a good workout tonight.
Nearing the top after a sweat-inducing climb, he looked out in the distance as the sun set below the horizon. The boat was long gone in the coming darkness. But that didn’t make any sense; they were heading out into the ocean, not in. They should’ve been going the opposite way at this time of night.
Wyatt closed the hatch and walked toward the control room. Inside, a warm glow told him Gene Henry was still working. Typical Gene.
He knocked politely and opened the door to find the man hunched over a computer terminal. The keys were clicking at a thousand-taps-a-second. He never looked up.
“Uh hem!” Wyatt cleared his throat.
No response.
“Gene?”
Nothing.
He walked over and touched the man’s shoulder. Gene jumped like he’d been hit with a taser.
“Oh, shit, George,” he said, breathing heavily, “you scared the shit out of me.”
“I knocked on the damn door,” Wyatt said and laughed, “and I said your name at least twice. You were just too—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Gene interrupted him, “enough about all that.”
The Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Series Boxset Page 37
