by Debbie Burke
Tawny put on her glasses and watched as the camera scanned the exterior of a rickety clapboard building sitting atop a wooden dock that leaned like a parallelogram. It appeared close to collapsing in the river. Above the entrance, spray-painted letters read X-Isles.
Tillman grunted. “Wonder if they didn’t know how to spell exiles or it’s intentional.”
Nearby on the shoreline, a rowboat hung suspended several feet above the ground in the spreading branches of a tree. On its side, spray-painted words read: HIgH WaTeR marK, 1993.
“What’s that mean?” Tawny asked.
“Evidently a flood raised the river enough that it left that boat hanging in the tree.”
She shook her head in amazement. “Looks like a deep breath could blow the whole dump over.”
He indicated a date on the screen. “This You Tube’s from a couple years ago. Since Irma hit, that dump might not be standing anymore.”
The video continued to play, showing a four-piece band—fiddle, guitar, bass, mandolin—and a raucous-voiced blond singing “Proud Mary” while people danced.
Another clip showed a fisherman outside on the dock. His bare leg bore a tattoo of a yardstick and he held his catch against his calf to measure it. Next, a biker in a do-rag grabbed the ample breast of his girlfriend who mugged for the camera.
When the video ended, Tawny looked at Tillman. “So that’s Smoky’s favorite hangout?”
“Been to some backwoods Montana bars like that, tracking down witnesses.”
“Want to check out the place?”
He frowned at her. “You’re kidding, right?”
“If that’s where Smoky’s friends are, they might know something Nyala wouldn’t tell us.”
“If it didn’t wash down the river.” He tapped the bar’s number and put the phone on speaker.
After five rings, a gruff voice answered, “X-Isles.”
Surprise widened Tillman’s eyes. “You’re open?”
“Hell yeah. It takes worse than a little blowjob from Irma to shut us down.” Laughter sounded in the background.
“Do you have electricity?”
“Shit, who needs electricity when you got rum and weed.”
“OK, thanks.” Tillman disconnected and faced Tawny. “Sounds lively.”
“Sounds like a lead to follow.”
He cupped the side of her face. “Sure you’re up to it? Heat stroke laid you pretty low.”
Her headache still nagged but time in the air-conditioned car had helped. Ice in drinking water improved the taste and she felt rehydrated. She gestured out the window. “Sun’s going down. Pretty soon, it won’t be as hot. Besides we can stay here and sweat or go there and sweat.”
He pretended to appear annoyed but his eyes glowed. “You’re a trooper.”
She smiled and pushed the paper plate at him. “Eat your dinner. I’ve been slaving all day in a hot kitchen.”
He grabbed up the sandwich, took a big bite, and chewed. “Best turkey, cheese, and pickle sandwich I ever ate. Of course, it’s the only one I ever ate.”
***
Tawny drove while Tillman leaned through the open passenger window to keep from being crushed by the low roof of the T-bird. “I feel like a damn dog,” he grumbled.
“Let your tongue hang out and wag your tail.”
He shot her a sour look.
The sun was setting over Tarpon Springs, reflecting bright orange on the inlet where the Anclote River emptied into the Gulf. The village’s Greek bakeries, restaurants, and souvenir shops were shuttered. The scenic sponge docks were empty of tourists.
In a vacant dirt lot, a scattering of pickup trucks and motorcycles sat parked, the only indication they’d found their destination.
“Are you sure this is it?” Tawny asked. “I don’t see any bar.”
Tillman pointed to a rough wood plank nailed to a tree, an arrow pointing toward a jungle-shrouded trail. Burned into the sign were the letters X-Isles. He got out of the car, stretching from the cramped position. “Guess we hike in.”
Tawny curled her fingers into a fist to keep from nervously scratching her sunburn. Growing up with her dad’s alcoholism, she’d been in and out of too many dive bars, trying to coax him home. She followed Tillman on the darkening trail as he held vines out of the way.
Through the dank, still air, a saxophone whined a soulful, bluesy tune.
“Think we’re getting close.” Tillman turned to her then stopped. “Sure you’re OK?”
Her discomfort must have shown. She set her jaw. “I’m fine.”
He saw through her lie. “Stay in the car if you want.”
She shook her head. “No way, I’m coming with you.”
He took her hand with a reassuring squeeze then continued, ducking under low branches.
Fifty yards down the trail, a clearing opened on the shore of a river channel. It looked like an outdoor living room with old bench-style car seats, beer barrels for tables, and rusty boat anchors as decorations. Several bikers lounged outside, wearing jeans, chains, and leather vests over naked chests. They passed around a joint, the pungent odor drifting in the air.
They stared at Tillman and her, mostly Tillman. All were burly and heavyset but nowhere near Tillman’s six-seven.
“Good evening, gentlemen.” He flicked a casual salute and continued walking toward the sagging, dilapidated building, holding Tawny’s hand, neither challenging them nor giving anyone a chance to challenge him. The bikers watched them pass. One dipped his head in a slight bow to Tawny. Being with Tillman insulated her from unwanted advances. Even bad-asses, if they were smart, steered clear of the formidable giant.
The rickety wood dock creaked under their weight. The bar entrance looked as if the builder had forgotten to finish the job—no door or frame, just an open gap between rotting studs. A crooked sign was nailed over it: Guys—no shirt, NO service. Gals—no shirt, FREE DRINKS!
Inside, the plank floor was uneven and sloping, making Tawny feel off-balance, as if she’d already had too much to drink. Bras hung from exposed rafters. Posters for beer, motorcycles, and condoms covered rough-hewn walls. Old-fashioned lanterns gave off a warm, kerosene smell with their soft, flickering light. Tawny wondered if they’d been salvaged from pirate vessels.
Tillman made his way to the bar, his size easily parting the crowd. Tawny stayed close in his wake. The counter was chipped orange Formica, as if recycled from a kitchen remodel project. He cleared enough space for her to stand beside him as he leaned across to talk to the bartender.
The man had a bristly red beard, wore a mustard-yellow do-rag and wife-beater undershirt. “We’re on ice rations because of Irma,” he said. “One cube to a customer. Or English beer is free.”
“Scotch neat,” Tillman said, “and give my ice cube to the lady in her Cuba Libre.”
The bearded man set up a shot glass of scotch. He reached into a picnic cooler under the bar and plucked out two ice cubes, which he dropped in a plastic cup, then added rum and coke.
“What’s English beer?” Tawny muttered in Tillman’s ear.
“Warm.”
“Ugh.” She took a sip from the plastic cup. Strong, sweet, and barely cool. The ice cubes were already melting.
Tillman slapped a hundred on the counter. “We’re Smoky Lido’s friends. We came all the way from Montana to visit him.” He stuck his hand out. “I’m Tillman and this is Tawny.”
The bartender assessed the big hand thrust toward him and, after a second, shook it. “Parrot.”
“Good to meet you, Parrot. Run a tab, if that’s OK. I’d like to buy drinks for Smoky’s friends who are here tonight. Appreciate if you’d point them out so I can say hello.” He surveyed the room and found a vacant space to sit. “We’ll be over there,” he said to Parrot then took Tawny’s arm.
They moved to an old bus stop bench against a wall with a spindly table in front of it. The wood surface was inlaid with a checkerboard, marred with whitish rings where years of dri
nks had sweated condensation.
They sat side by side, Tillman’s arm around her, and listened to the sharp crack of pool balls from a game in an adjacent alcove.
“Quite a place,” she murmured.
“The real, unvarnished Florida,” he answered.
“You think Parrot’s going to help us?”
“Have to wait and see. He wants to check us out for a little while. So, we sit tight, enjoy our drinks, and smile at everybody.”
The saxophonist was a bulky woman with bare, tattooed arms. She started to play “Old Time Rock and Roll.” The song brought people to their feet, dancing, bobbing, and singing along.
By the time Tawny and Tillman had finished their first drinks, the music switched tempo to the mournful wailing of “Baker Street.”
He asked, “Want to dance?”
She realized they had never danced together before. “Sure.” They rose, staying close to the bench to hold their seats.
He folded his arms around her and they swayed to the plaintive melody. It felt nice, even in this crazy environment.
She had just started to relax when she caught a glimpse of three men entering the bar. “Tillman, it’s the guys who beat up Smoky.”
He continued to sway but asked, “Where?”
“Just coming in.”
He deftly spun her around so he faced the entrance. “In the hat?”
“Yes. The guy carries a gun. I’m sure the others do, too.”
“OK, sit down. If the mood turns nasty, get the hell out. I’ll meet you back at the car.”
Great.
He released her and crossed to the bar. He leaned over and spoke to Parrot who shot a quick glance at the newcomers.
Then Tillman moved to block the way of the man in the fedora. He loomed a foot taller. Tawny couldn’t make out his words but heard the rumbling baritone reverberation.
The two strong-arms pushed forward. Tillman stepped closer to their leader and grasped the man’s hand as if to shake it, or, more likely, flip him over his shoulder.
Tawny held her breath, expecting a fight to break out, worried the thugs would go for their weapons.
Tillman and Fedora exchanged more words. The thugs backed away slightly.
To her surprise, Tillman gestured toward where she sat on the bus bench. Fedora met her gaze and smiled that same elegant smile.
At last, Tillman released the man’s hand which, Tawny suspected, was throbbing from pain even though he didn’t show it. Tillman returned to their bench while Fedora went to the bar and ordered.
Tillman leaned down to her ear. “He’ll be over to join us after he gets his drink.”
Tawny’s jaw ached from clenching her teeth. “What’s going on?”
“He wants to apologize. You don’t have to talk. Just listen.”
“OK.” What was Tillman up to?
Fedora waited at the bar. Meanwhile, four bikers approached Fedora’s companions, one at each arm, friendly as circling sharks. The bikers walked the thugs outside as if they were all going for a smoke. The whole encounter was over in seconds, without ruffling the drinking crowd.
Fedora wove through the dancers, carrying two full shot glasses in one hand and a tall plastic cup in the other. He stopped a few feet from where Tawny and Tillman sat on the bus bench and smiled down at her with a slight bow.
Even with Tillman beside her, the seat turned to concrete under her butt.
The man spoke: “Lovely lady, my behavior the last time we met was unforgivable. I sincerely hope you weren’t traumatized. I meant you no harm.”
She glanced sideways at Tillman for a cue.
“The lady accepts your apology,” he said.
Fedora smiled and offered the plastic cup and one of the shot glasses to Tillman. “The bartender said the lady is drinking Cuba Libre and you have scotch. I hope that’s correct.”
Tillman accepted their drinks. “Join us?” He handed the cup to Tawny. Three ice cubes floated in the rum and coke. Evidently Fedora had donated his ice to her.
The man dragged over a wooden Shaker-style chair with slats missing from its back. He sat and raised his glass in a silent toast.
Tawny watched to see if Tillman drank. When he did, she also took a sip, hoping the man hadn’t slipped in a drug.
He set down his glass and folded his hands neatly on the inlaid checkerboard. “My name is Gabriel Marquez Garcia, not to be confused with Gabriel Garcia Marquez, the brilliant author of One Hundred Years of Solitude.” He smiled again.
Tillman remained silent, impassive, his courtroom expression firmly in place, waiting. Tawny willed herself to fade into the woodwork but the man kept focusing on her, pulling her into the one-sided conversation.
Gabriel continued: “I’ve known Smoky for some years now. Initially, our relationship was mutually profitable. I run an internet sports book along with an ancillary memorabilia business. Smoky had a keen eye, both for talent and for collectibles whose value would increase with time.” He shifted his focus to Tillman. “I understand you once considered pro ball. Smoky pinned great hopes on you. He has never gotten over his disappointment that you didn’t follow through with that career.”
Tillman’s voice deepened even lower than normal. “I can be of more use to Smoky as legal counsel than I ever could have been as a pitcher.”
Gabriel lifted one shoulder. “If you’d had a few winning seasons, as Smoky fully expected you would, you could now have an ongoing profitable career with endorsements, merchandising, memorabilia, and commentator positions that far exceed that of an attorney.”
Now Tillman smiled, a harsh, humorless expression. “My loss.” He finished his scotch. “The problem we need to solve today is how to get you off Smoky’s back.”
Gabriel sipped his drink, green eyes watching Tillman over the rim. He lowered the glass and turned it around between his hands. They were meticulously manicured, nails buffed. “I don’t believe there’s a practical solution that you could proffer.”
“How much does he owe you?”
“If only it were as simple as dollars. Some things have value beyond monetary worth. Like friendship and loyalty.” Gabriel inclined his head toward Tawny. “Unfortunately, Smoky disappointed me in those areas. I believed we were friends and that he would not betray me. Sadly, he did. Trust is priceless and not recoverable.”
“Agreed.” Tillman leaned forward. “But you must have some figure in mind as compensation for that loss.”
“That compensation can only be worked out between Smoky and myself.”
Tillman straightened. “Then it appears we’re at a stalemate. None of us knows where Smoky is, therefore, nothing can be accomplished.”
“That is true.” Gabriel rose. “So that means we’ll continue to work on parallel tracks to find our missing friend.” He bowed to Tawny. “Good evening.” He threaded his way through the patrons to the exit.
Tawny gripped Tillman’s thigh. “He wants to kill Smoky.”
He heaved a sigh. “That means we have to find him before Gabriel does.”
The saxophone player started up again as Parrot lumbered through the crowd, carrying two more drinks. He handed them to Tawny and Tillman. He flipped around the chair Gabriel had vacated and straddled it. “This round’s on the house for keeping the lid on. No big deal when regulars mix it up but I don’t like strangers coming in and causing problems.”
Tillman raised his glass in thanks. “What happened to the other two guys?”
“The boys took ’em outside to feed the gators.”
Tawny jerked then realized it had to be a joke…didn’t it?
The fresh drink chilled her hand since it was full of ice cubes. Apparently, Parrot had called off rationing for friends of Smoky.
Parrot leaned forearms across the chair back. “Smoky’s here most nights. Week or so back, he told me he had friends coming from Montana and said he’d bring you guys around. I asked but nobody’s seen him since before the hurricane. Something stinks.”<
br />
Tillman turned to Tawny. “Tell him what happened.”
She took a deep breath. “The afternoon before Irma hit, those two thugs beat the crap out of Smoky in his driveway under Gabriel’s orders. I think they broke some ribs. A few hours later, the power went off. I went to bed and I thought Smoky had, too.”
Tillman picked up the narrative: “I didn’t get to his house until almost three in the morning. That’s when we looked in his bedroom and discovered he was gone. We’ve searched the area, checked shelters, asked neighbors and friends but he’s vanished. We figure he’s on the run because of those guys.”
Parrot scratched his beard. A notion flitted through Tawny’s mind that something might live in the thicket of red hair. He thought for a moment then said, “Sounds likely. What are you going to do?”
“Keep looking,” Tillman answered. “We’re not leaving until we find out what happened to him.”
Parrot stood. “To my mind, if a man wants to disappear, it’s his own business. But I’ll keep an ear open.” He returned to the bar.
Tawny studied Tillman, deep in thought. She grasped his hand. “We’ll find him. Somehow.”
He listened for a moment to the sax’s wail. “Recognize that song?”
She shook her head.
“Springsteen’s ‘Born to Run.’ Fitting, isn’t it?” He rose. “Let’s get some air.”
To avoid insulting Parrot, Tawny carried her ice-filled drink outside, even though she had no intention of finishing it. She staggered on the uneven planks of the dock.
Tillman steadied her. “You’re a cheap date.”
“Yeah, I’m a lightweight,” she answered, “especially compared to you.” They stood at the rail.
He took the Cuba Libre from her and downed it then handed the cup back. “Left you the ice cubes to suck on.”
“Thanks a lot.” Despite her sarcasm, she appreciated his solution because she was thirsty but didn’t want more alcohol. In the muggy night, ice tasted better than anything she could imagine.
Across the channel, splashing drew their attention. A bright flashlight beam shot from the roof of X-Isles to the shore, about a hundred feet away. It lit up two figures clambering out of the water. They briefly turned to face the brightness but held their arms over their eyes.
