Dark Cay

by Douglas Pratt

  20

  The seagulls were squawking and swooping over a little blond-haired boy tossing bits of cookies into the air. Most of the marina’s denizens hated the flying rats. Cleaning bird shit off the same spot three times a day grows weary. The giggles emanating from the child almost made it bearable, not to mention that he was a good 300 feet from my slip. The mother was taking pictures with her phone of the boy as the braver gulls came closer. If she wasn’t attentive, the damned things might swarm him, that would end the fun.

  Mom glanced up as I passed by, and I offered a smile. She was a young mother, probably in her late 20s, and her smile back was filled with a joie de vivre that widened mine with just a glance. The cackles from the toddler echoed behind me as I walked along the dock toward Carina.

  “Chase!” a raspy voice shouted from somewhere. The water and boats bounced the sound waves around, and I spun in a circle looking for the origin.

  Randy waved at me from another dock. He was on a ladder operating a drill. He descended quickly and walked around the boats.

  I waited as he vanished from sight for a few seconds. He reappeared at the end of the walkway I was on.

  “Chase, glad I saw you.” His breaths were short and quick after his rushed approach.

  “What’s going on, Randy?”

  His eyes diverted over my shoulder at the boy and his mother feeding seagulls. He groaned, “I hate it when they do that.”

  My smile was still covering my face, and I assured him, “It won’t cause any trouble. The kid’s having a ball.”

  He shrugged. “Still,” he dragged out the word slowly, “maybe I should go talk to the mother.”

  “Randy,” I rebuked, “don’t be creepy.”

  His eyes retreated with a snap. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he lied.

  “What’s up?” My question redirected his attention to the moment.

  “Oh,” he remarked, “yeah. I chased a guy away from Carina today.”

  “He was on board?”

  Randy shook his head. “Just looking around her. He told me he was an old friend of yours. Said he tried to call you but decided to surprise you instead. I knew something was up after what happened earlier. Plus, anyone would know you don’t have a phone.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Like he used to be military. He was short but muscular. Dark hair.”

  “He give you a name?”

  “Just said he would surprise you later.”

  “I have a feeling he might try that.”

  “Be careful, Chase. I didn’t like how he looked.”

  As I climbed aboard Carina, it occurred to me that in the future, I needed some security that no one had slipped aboard unnoticed and was waiting on me in the cabin. Climbing below, I pulled a clean shirt from the hanging locker and changed.

  Joe Loggins was on my mind. The visitor today could have been one of his guys. Ex-military, the old man said. Whoever Loggins was, he had some dangerous employees.

  I don’t carry a gun. Not because of any noble principle. I own plenty, but most are stored in an air-tight storage locker in the marina. My objection isn’t on the basis that I find firearms abhorrent or anything trivial like that. Guns are a tool, and honestly, everyone should know how to use one. It’s like not being able to use a hammer or a screwdriver.

  My qualms were entirely built on aesthetics. And comfort. I like to spend my time in shorts and a pair of sandals. A .45 doesn’t feel comfortable to me.

  Nonetheless, when a serious attempt on my life happens, and the threat of a surprise visit from this latest visitor looms, comfort takes a back seat.

  Behind the toilet in the head was a panel. It’s reasonably well-hidden, and often overlooked. Who wants to stick their hands behind the toilet? The real purpose is to control the seacocks that bring in sea-water to flush the toilet. It also makes an excellent hiding place. If I visit places that don’t hold the 2nd Amendment in as high regard as I do, I store a .45 automatic in there with one or two dozen rounds of ammunition.

  The handgun and holster came out after a bit of twisting and contorting of my wrist. The clean button-down shirt covered the gun once it was situated at the small of my back. The tropical colors of the shirt would be a bit much in most parts of the country. This was paradise, and Hawaiian prints are a dime a dozen here.

  Heading back on deck, I locked the companionway before draping a halyard across the hatch. It looked like a lot of boats. The ropes just landed a certain way. However, if anyone went below deck, there would be no way of fixing the line exactly as I set it. Basically, it was the old hair in the door frame bit that James Bond taught all of us would-be spies.

  The Manta Club was in its afternoon lull. One table of women sat at the window overlooking the marina, while two men sat at the bar. One of the men was Wilson Peterson, mayor of West Palm Beach and one of the Manta’s regulars. He was often seen holding court on Friday afternoons with cronies from every bureaucratic department in the city.

  “Chase,” he greeted me as I came up beside him. “I didn’t know you were back. I thought this was going to be a long cruise for you?”

  Motioning at the stool beside him, I asked if I could join him.

  “Please,” he responded.

  “Thanks. I had something that needed my attention. I plan to get back as soon as I can.”

  He lifted his eyebrows at me.

  “Can I ask you something?” I began. He gave me an affirming nod. “Have you ever heard of Joe Loggins?”

  Peterson narrowed his eyes. “Joe Loggins? The mogul?”

  I shrugged. “Probably. He has a big-ass yacht down in Fort Lauderdale.”

  “What do you want with him?” Peterson asked.

  “Just curious about him.”

  Peterson leaned back in his stool, lifted the half-empty glass of iced tea to his lips, and drank slowly.

  “That’s a big fish you’re eyeing,” he warned. “Joe Loggins is a connected man.”

  “Connected? Like the Mafia?”

  Peterson laughed, “No, politically. The man makes politics; he’s a fixer of sorts. Although, he tends to work for himself.”

  “You know him?”

  The mayor shook his head. “Only by reputation. I’m not at the level of politics he wants to manipulate. Thank God.”

  “Manipulate? How does he do that?”

  “Rumor has it he has built politicians from the ground up. In 2001, he was one of those people who made a fortune on 9/11 shorting stocks. Who knows how much money he made in the 15 to 20 minutes before trading was stopped? Heard he made even more after 2008 during the recession; afterward, he put a lot of it behind the Tea Party. Heard that he’s used his influence and money to get a few senators both in office and out.”

  “Is any of that illegal?”

  “Chase, you might be getting into legal versus ethical. From the little I have heard about him, his ethics are not in question; they simply don’t exist. Legally, I could only speculate with zero evidence–only my instinct. I doubt my unfounded opinion would do either of us any good. Suffice it to say, the man has power.”

  Hunter moved around the bar and gave me the universal signal that asked if I wanted anything. I waved him away with a shake of my head. He moved back around the bar, tidying as he went.

  “What’s your interest in Loggins?” Peterson questioned.

  “I think the man is a killer, or at the very least hires them out.”

  Nonplussed, Peterson nodded. “Like I said, I can’t say anything about that. I know you, Chase, and this is a man not to be trifled with. He is the kind of guy that is owed favors by every level of government official. You might find your boat impounded by the DEA or something worse. He has more power than anyone I can think of.”

  Considering his warning, I stood up. “Thanks, Wilson. I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Peterson smiled and shook his head. “You’ll promptly ignore it too.”

  Grasping his shoulder, I ass
ured him, “No, I’ll tread as lightly as I can.”

  Peterson was still shaking his head softly as I walked out of the bar and into the lobby of the Tilly Inn. I needed to sit down with Lily Porter. Things were getting too dicey, and I wasn’t sure I could keep her safe.

  The Tilly Inn carried an early 20th-century decor with ornate moldings and faux antique chairs. A small marble mermaid sprawled over a rock where a fountain gave the appearance of the sea crashed against the rock. Missy said once that the fountain came from Italy. Someplace famous for its marble work. Once a couple of drunk guests dropped three or four live lobsters from Publix into the pool under the fountain. The little rubber bands were still binding their claws.

  The piped music coming from the hidden speakers in the ceiling was a portion of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. It was one of the few classical pieces I recognized, mainly because I dated a violinist during my junior year of high school. She practiced the piece incessantly that winter for the orchestra’s Christmas performance. I’m actually amazed how often I hear that piece.

  A man stepped in front of me. He was 300 lbs. of muscle; his biceps were stretching the limit of the shirtsleeves on his black nylon shirt. The bottom half of a skull with a knife between its teeth was tattooed on his left arm. The rest of the ink, no doubt, was obscured by the sleeve. He was an inch shorter than me, and his time on the weights was likely a result of his stature. The air around him tasted like Axe Body Spray and Coconut Oil. Maybe that was actually the smell of steroids.

  I tensed up but exhaled slowly.

  “We need to have a talk,” he demanded.

  “Oh, are you trying to raise money for your peewee football team? I guess I’ll take a candy bar.”

  His cheeks tightened as he huffed. His shoulders rose up subconsciously.

  “Where is the girl?”

  “Look, Spanky,” I snapped, “I don’t know what you think you are doing. This intimidation thing isn’t really working for you. I mean, the whole thing comes across as an overcompensation. You aren’t going to do anything here. This is public. If you want to find someplace a little more private, I can explain what happened with the other two guys. I think one of them is still drying out at the morgue.”

  Stepping around him, I turned toward the service door behind the front desk. The guy didn’t worry me. He didn’t not worry me either. He was dangerous, and that didn’t need to be forgotten. The last thing I wanted right at that moment, though, was a brawl in the middle of the Tilly. Missy might be more than a little perturbed at another incident at her inn.

  The nagging worry that had been creeping around me was now a clanging alarm bell. Lily wasn’t safe here. Time was all it would take to find her out. Letson could demand a search if he could obtain the warrant, a feat that would be easy to accomplish. Spanky and the rest of Loggins’ thugs could go about it in a different, more deadly manner.

  Cutting through the halls, I exited the Tilly through one of the service doors. The afternoon sun hit me as soon as I stepped onto the sidewalk. A hand grabbed my shoulder. Before I jerked around, the muzzle of a gun nudged my kidneys. Spanky sauntered around a florist van parked on the curb; a satisfied smirk plastered on his face. He stepped forward with a phone to his ear. He grabbed the .45 off my back as he slipped the phone into his pocket.

  “We could have just had a civilized talk.”

  I turned to see the man who grabbed me was Pockface. He grinned viciously and pushed me toward a white Dodge Ram that was stopped in front of the florist van. Spanky motioned his head toward the truck.

  21

  Spanky pushed me into the back seat. The truck was older, at least ten years old. The upholstery was faded and torn from years of use. There was a thin layer of grease that covered everything. The kind that, despite even a heavy cleaning, comes from years of work.

  Pockface got behind the wheel and started the engine. The belt squealed as it spun around the pulleys.

  “Drive, Walter,” Spanky demanded, keeping the Colt aimed at my stomach.

  Walter, my brain registered the name of the pock-faced man. The barrel of the gun held steady on my abdomen. If fired, the weapon would send a .45 caliber round through my liver. Without any treatment, I’d be dead in about five minutes. Without a new liver, I’d never survive the day. The slim chance of disarming Spanky wasn’t a chance I was ready to take.

  Walter put the Dodge into gear and pulled away from the Tilly. The truck vibrated violently as Walter neared 25 miles per hour. A failing wheel bearing or a loose tie rod was all that was keeping the tire from wobbling off.

  “You don’t have any smart-ass comments?” Spanky noted.

  The prudent thing seemed to be to keep my mouth shut for the moment. I don’t always do the prudent thing, though.

  “Hey, Walter, I heard your friend didn’t make it,” I commented. “Cops didn’t know if he died from the blow to the head or if one of your bullets killed him.”

  Walter’s eyes burned into the rear-view mirror. Spanky jabbed his fist into my face. The punch stung, but he didn’t have the momentum to cause a lot of damage.

  “Where is the Porter girl?” Spanky asked.

  Lifting an eyebrow, I responded, “I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me where her father is?”

  His left hand shot up and hit me on the nose. Spanky compensated for the last blow, and my head snapped back as the impact radiated across my face.

  The punch was fast and powerful, but I didn’t think it broke my nose. The trickle of warm blood oozed out of my nostril. My hand wiped it away, staining my index finger. Tomorrow there would be a mark, but it gave me a sense of him.

  “You were Recon?” he asked. “Guess you think you were tough.”

  “Not necessarily tough,” I explained, “but I can take a punch from any Ranger out there.”

  “We’ll see,” he commented smugly.

  Walter was driving north on the freeway. The truck passed over an overpass. A channel connecting the nearby lake to the sea ran beneath the road. Trying to twist my attention between our location and Spanky’s trigger finger, I shifted myself to see both without turning too much.

  Walter and Spanky shared the connection that fellow soldiers usually do. The reaction to my verbal jab about Walter’s partner worried me; there was a grudge pressing against me. These two had no intention of ever letting me go. Smart-ass comments weren’t going to get me out of this truck.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  Spanky answered, “Someplace where you might want to talk.”

  “I don’t know where the girl is.”

  “You were on Porter’s boat.” Spanky demanded, “What happened to Garrett?”

  “Garrett? The Magnum lookalike? Last I saw him, he was booking it north into the Atlantic.”

  Spanky’s eyes caught Walter’s in the rear-view mirror. “We know that you brought the girl back. I’m guessing that she’s hiding out in your little hotel there. You can give us her room number, or we can kill you and go room by room until we find her. Your friends there might get in our way. A little payback for Garrett.”

  “She’s just a kid,” I insisted. “I don’t care what Porter did to your boss. She needs to stay out of it.”

  Spanky retorted, “Too bad. Didn’t you ever go to kindergarten? When no one wants to act right, everyone gets punished.”

  Walter merged onto the exit ramp. He turned west on a state highway. Within minutes the signs of urbanization turned rural as trees began lining the road, draping down Spanish moss over the asphalt.

  Spanky continued to watch me with the kind of anticipation a kid on Christmas morning has. He was excited about torturing me. Exact some revenge for the death of his friends. Maybe even quench a thirst that he feels. Taste the blood of his enemy or some inane shit like that.

  Walter turned down a county road. His eyes were less invested in my impending death. Instead, he drove with a stone face and a stoic intent. There weren’t going to be any regrets when they started w
orking on me, but Walter wasn’t salivating at the thought.

  My time was running out. The end result was going to be my death. Their intention was to make me talk if possible, but at the very least, Walter and Spanky had to make sure I never walked out of here.

  At this point, my talking was a moot point. Lily’s location was obvious. They could stage a fire alarm or even go door to door in the Tilly until they found her. There was no one to stop them once I was out of the way.

  The truck pulled off the road onto a gravel driveway that was losing ground to the surrounding forest. Tree branches pushed away as the Dodge moved away from the road. The truck stopped in front of a dilapidated shack that ten years ago might have been a decent two-bedroom cottage. A few named storms had peeled the shingles away and popped the decking open like a mussel.

  “This the love shack?” I quipped.

  “Oh, you’re going to love it,” Walter responded as he cut the engine. He reached into the glove compartment and pulled something out. The headrest on the passenger’s seat blocked my view, and until he twisted around to face me, I didn’t realize it was a pair of garden shears. The orange handle was still bright in color, and the blades reflected the sunlight beaming through the windshield. They were the spring-loaded pruning type that was perfect for snipping away small branches or fingers.

  “Look, guys,” I started. “Let’s not get too hasty. I mean, we are all brothers-in-arms, right? You know, Band of Brothers shit.”

  Spanky chuckled. “I knew you Jarheads were all pussies.”

  “Not a pussy, but I do like my fingers and toes a great deal.”

  Walter grabbed my left wrist, which was closest to him, and snarled, “Too late. You should have minded your own business.”

  Pulling against his grip, I tried to wrestle my hand free to no avail. Walter moved the mouth of the shears toward the little finger on my left hand.

  “Okay, look. I don’t know these Porters personally. I just came across a bad situation. I hate to see a kid hurt is all, but she doesn’t mean anything to me. You want her, you can have her.”