Port City Shakedown

by Boyle, Gerry

  “Huh,” Kelvin said.

  “Next morning I gotta go to school, my sneakers still fucking squishin’, my head still stinking like gas, everybody laughing, saying, ‘Cooties, Coo-ties.’ The teacher makes me sit by myself by the open window.”

  He paused.

  “Recess that day I busted a fourth-grader’s nose. Buddy comes to help him and I knock out his front tooth.”

  Fuller sucked on his cigarette, nodded toward the yacht harbor.

  “Guy here is gonna make us some serious cash,” he said. “And soon as he does, I’m gonna get some people off my ass. I’m gonna buy a new truck, something fresh, none of this rusted-out crap. Drive out to the cemetery in my new ride, the leather and the CD and the eight-speaker fucking stereo, and have a few drinks.”

  He smiled contentedly.

  And then I’m gonna take a nice long piss on the old man’s grave.”

  Fuller held his hand out to Kelvin, half of a high five.

  “You in or what?” he said.

  “Me? I don’t know. I mean, what’s it gonna involve?”

  “Yes or no. That’s what it involves.”

  Kelvin thought of Crystal, screaming at him about letting Destinee sleep too long, not letting her sleep long enough, not getting the kid’s butt clean when he changed the diaper. Let her change the goddamn diaper. What did he look like?

  “How much we talking?”

  “You saw the house. You see all these goddamn sailboats. These kinda people got money to burn,” Fuller said.

  Kelvin looked out at the boats, cabin cruisers with blacked-out windows and sailboats with masts high as telephone poles. See what Crystal said when he came home with a pocket full of hundred-dollar bills, said, “Go ahead. Pay off the goddamn Visa. Stop your goddamn whining.”

  “Whatever it takes,” Kelvin said.

  Fuller reached over, they bumped knuckles. Sat back and smoked.

  “You know what’s funny?” Fuller said.

  Kelvin sure as hell didn’t.

  “If my grandmother hadn’t kicked off, and Sylvia hadn’t decided to smack her sister-in-law, and the pussy jail deputy hadn’t called for backup, we never woulda been sitting here.”

  He took a drag on his cigarette, watched the mirror. “Goddamn interesting how things work out,” Fuller said, murmuring to himself now. “This guy ain’t never gonna know what hit him.”

  CHAPTER 16

  It wasn’t really a diner, more like a café decorated to look like one, hip people sitting at the booth in the window, walking up and down on the cobblestone street outside. Brandon waited, sitting in the truck. People passed, mostly young, mostly good looking, Brandon scanning them for Lucky, looking up at the mirror just in time to see the Saab pass behind him. He turned, watched as Mia drove halfway up the block, pulled into a space and parked. He saw her emerge from the line of cars, head down the brick sidewalk.

  A denim skirt and tangerine sweater. Heeled sandals and sunglasses. A pretty little package, Brandon thought. Who could say no to her?

  “Hey,” she said. “The man of mystery.”

  “Hey,” he said. “You look very nice.”

  “All dressed up. Need a place to go.”

  He opened the door to the diner and they went in, guys looking up at Mia, the waitress hurrying by, saying, “Sit anywhere.”

  They did, at the back in the corner, away from the other diners. They sat, ordered coffee from the speeding waitress, Mia looking right at him as they waited. He took her hand.

  “You remember?”

  He smiled. “Every single moment.”

  The waitress came back, put two mugs down, cream and sugar in metal containers.

  “I guess I needed to talk, Mia,” Brandon said.

  “I’m listening.”

  He looked at her, the pale blue eyes so intense they seemed to glow.

  “It’s a long story.”

  “I like your long stories,” she said.

  Mia smiled, squeezed his hand. And he began, starting with the guy at Nessa’s house.

  “The prisoner from the funeral,” Mia said.

  “This guy was much bigger,” Brandon said.

  “His big brother. Are you okay?”

  “A little sore, but fine.”

  “Do you think he’ll come back?”

  “Be pressing his luck.”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time. That’s why he was in jail.”

  “Probably right.”

  “But what else? The rest of the story.”

  The waitress came back, holding a notepad. She asked what they wanted, called them “folks.” Brandon ordered eggs, home fries, toast. Mia ordered a muffin. The waitress poured more coffee and wheeled away.

  Brandon sipped and began. The ride with Nessa, Nessa seeing Lucky’s ghost. Up and down the streets, looking for Lucky and the woman.

  “My God,” Mia said. “Could it really be—”

  “Him? I doubt it, but if you’d seen Nessa’s face. It was total shock. Instantaneous.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “Find him, if it’s really him,” Brandon said. “Find him before it’s too late, he moves on.”

  “Why wouldn’t he get in touch. Back then, I mean.”

  “I don’t know.”

  Mia held the coffee mug with both hands.

  “And why show up now? Here?”

  She finally sipped.

  “What’s the statute of limitations?” Mia said.

  “On not reporting that you’re not dead? I don’t know that it’s a crime. Hindering an investigation?”

  “What if you faked your death. For insurance,” Mia said.

  “Or to get cops off your trail,” Brandon said.

  “Or to get out of child support or a pile of debt or somebody who wanted to beat you up with a baseball bat.”

  “Or maybe,” Brandon said, “he was just lucky.”

  It was Mia’s idea, she’d seen it in a movie about a guy with amnesia. They copied the old picture at Kinko’s, fanned out across that part of the city. Restaurants, the ones that were open, kitchen workers unloading produce. Shops, from antiques and handmade blouses to kites and specialty condoms.

  Two hours of walking, talking, smiling at clerks. Mia was asked on two dates. A woman in a bakery gave Brandon a free scone. At a café, the woman behind the counter said, “Brandon Blake, where you been?”

  “Around,” Brandon said.

  The woman, mid-twenties, dark-haired and dark-eyed, looked hard at Mia and said to Brandon, “Give me a call, Brand. I owe you a drink.”

  Outside, Brandon said, “She doesn’t read and she’s afraid of the water.”

  Tiring of the whole thing, they stopped in a wine shop on Middle Street, two birds with one stone. The woman behind the counter was pale with white-blonde hair and blood-red lipstick. She peered at the photo.

  “Why do you want to know?” she said, without looking up.

  Brandon’s heart skipped.

  “He’s a friend of my family’s from way, way back,” Brandon said. “I heard he was in town and I haven’t seen him in a long time. A friend of ours saw him in the Old Port last night, but by the time she stopped and went back, he was gone.”

  She looked at Brandon, eyes narrowing. Then at Mia.

  “You need a better story,” the woman said.

  “It’s true,” Brandon said.

  The woman looked at him. Gave her head a little shake.

  Brandon grinned. Waited. Seconds passed. The woman looked at the picture more, holding it up. Her nails were painted blood red.

  “Gray in his hair now. Other than that, sort of the same.”

  The heart again. Brandon smiled.

  “So he was here?”

  She handed Brandon the paper. “With a woman. Very, I don’t know, striking. Foreign, I think. He knew his wine. Bought a bottle of Cabernet from South Africa. Nothing flashy, but very good. Some people just look for a pretty label.”

  “Just t
he one bottle?”

  “Yes. He said they were walking.”

  “Did they say where they were going?”

  “No. Went out the door, to the right.”

  “Did he leave a credit card slip or anything?”

  “Paid cash. Told me to keep the change. The Cabernet was forty bucks, he gave me fifty.”

  “Did he say he’d come back?”

  “No.”

  “Did the woman say much?”

  “Looked at labels, waited for him. She had some shopping bags. Clothes or something. Said she was tired. She had an accent.”

  “Like what?”

  “Russian or something, maybe? German? I don’t know.”

  “She was tired?”

  “He said, ‘We’ll walk back down.’”

  “Down the hill to the harbor?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “And this was yesterday?” Brandon said.

  “Oh, no,” the woman said. “I was off yesterday. This was today. Like, fifteen minutes ago. If you go now, maybe you can catch him.”

  CHAPTER 17

  “She was tired?” Mia said, as they started down the brick sidewalk.

  “Right,” he said. “And they had the wine and some bags. They’d go back to—”

  “Their hotel,” Mia said.

  They looked up. Across Commercial Street, on the water. The Harbor-front Hyatt.

  “They’ve got money, right?” Mia said.

  It was hushed inside the lobby. Behind the counter, clerks bent over computer screens, discreetly tapping on keyboards. Brandon felt the crumpled photocopy in his pocket, knew the old-friend story wouldn’t work here.

  “She was right about the story,” he said.

  “We need one,” Mia said.

  “You’re the writer,” Brandon said.

  Mia thought for a moment. Another.

  “Stay here,” she said.

  Mia hurried back up the hill, around the corner, and down the block to the shop. The woman asked if they’d found their friends. Not yet, Mia said. She grabbed a bottle of Windy Hills California Merlot, a steal at $9.99.

  Mia told the story.

  “So go for it,” Brandon said.

  “You can.”

  “You’re used to these places,” he said, staring at the doorman, the smoked-glass entrance.

  “You talk to wealthy people all the time,” Mia said

  “Only about boats,” Brandon said.

  They crossed the street, circled a black Town Car unloading luggage. Brandon veered off and Mia went inside, running a hand over her skirt, adjusting her sweater. Stepped up to the clerk, a thirty-ish woman with hair pulled back so tight it kept her from smiling. Her name plate said, “Gretchen R.”

  “Hi,” Mia said.

  “Can I help you?” the clerk said, her face a polite mask.

  “I’m from Les Bouteilles, on Exchange Street.”

  No comment, the mask in place.

  “It’s a wine shop.”

  The woman nodded.

  “And we just had customers, they left maybe a half-hour ago. They were headed back here and they left this bottle on the counter.”

  Mia held up the bag, the logo of grapes on a vine.

  “You have their names?”

  “No, but I can describe them.”

  “I’m afraid that—”

  “Oh, okay. I just thought it was worth a shot. It’s just that this is a very nice wine.”

  Mia leaned closer.

  “Very, very nice.”

  “Oh.”

  The woman looked at the bag more closely.

  “And I thought I’d save them searching for it, coming back up the hill.”

  “I know but—”

  “And I have to tell you. My mother stayed here a couple of weeks ago. From the West Coast? Small woman? Dark hair? From Palo Alto?”

  “We get—”

  “Well, she just raved. The room. The view. The dining room. The service. She said she’s stayed all over the world and this was one of the nicest hotels. I think she was going to e-mail the president of your company.”

  The woman’s face melted slightly.

  “We take customer service very seriously. In fact, we just got the Gold Shield Award. That’s company wide, recognition that—”

  “Well, you deserve it. My mom can be very picky, and she had nothing but good things to say. That’s why I didn’t want this couple to have to, you know, come all the way back down, up the street.”

  The woman looked down at the computer screen.

  “He’s about forty. On the short side. Very nice smile. Sort of boyish. She’s taller, dark hair, very attractive. From eastern Europe or something. Maybe Russia or—”

  “Oh, you mean—”

  The woman caught herself. Tapped at the computer with a rouge-painted nail.

  “So they are here?”

  “Yes, but how ’bout I send it up.”

  “Oh, great,” Mia said. “Thank you so much.”

  “No,” the woman said. “Thank you.”

  She looked to her right, caught the eye of a bellman. Mia handed her the bag. The bellman, a young blonde guy, smiled at Mia. The woman handed him the bottle.

  “Ten-seventeen,” she said. “They forgot it at the shop.”

  He gave the bottle a pat.

  “Careful,” the woman said. “It’s a very, very nice wine.”

  Mia smiled. The woman did, too. She was picturing another e-mail to the president, special service on her watch. She called the guy back, handed him her card.

  “Put this inside,” she said.

  Mia thanked her, turned away. Walked quickly to the door, circled through. Brandon was outside, had been watching.

  “Worked?”

  “I missed my calling,” Mia said. “I should have been a liar.”

  The doors opened. They stepped out. Ten-seventeen was to the left. They walked slowly down the hall, room-service dishes left on the floor outside doors like offerings. They listened. A television on in one room. No sound from the next two. Brandon went first.

  Stopped.

  “Listen,” he whispered.

  A door closing, a closet. A radio, except it wasn’t playing music. Brandon heard the squawk of a boat captain, the robotic voice of the weather report. And then a woman’s voice, saying, “I wouldn’t drink this piss.”

  Russian, or close to it.

  “Leave it for the maids,” a man said.

  “And I’ve really had enough of this place. How long are you going to screw around?”

  Russian?

  The guy answered, his voice more faint. “Chill. This isn’t something you set up in an hour. I’m seeing someone at eleven.”

  The woman saying, “We did not come here to sit in a hotel room.”

  Then quiet.

  “You knock,” Brandon whispered. “Ask for him. If they don’t open, go down and wait for me across the street.”

  He moved fifteen feet down the corridor, stepped into an alcove. From the pocket of his denim shirt, he took the photo—the real one, not the copy. He looked at it again, took a deep breath. Mia stepped up and knocked.

  The room went silent. Then there was the almost imperceptible sound of someone moving across the carpet to the door. Mia smiled, as she sensed someone peeking through the peephole.

  “Hello,” she said. “I’m from the wine shop. I need to talk to Lucky.”

  Silence again. Then faint footsteps. No response.

  Mia knocked again.

  “Is Lucky there?” she said. “I think I made a mistake. Someone left a bottle of wine here?”

  More movement behind the door, a soft shuffle. The door rocked slightly as someone leaned against it, probably Lucky looking through the peephole. Mia looked concerned.

  “Are you there? Hello?”

  They waited. There was murmuring behind the door.

  “There’s no one here by that name,” the woman said, the accent clear now. “Sorry.”


  Mia turned away, went to the elevator. She waited, the bell dinged, doors opened, and she stepped in. The doors closed and Brandon listened. The corridor was quiet, the faint sound of televisions playing. Brandon stood in the alcove, waited.

  Ten minutes. Twenty. A half-hour. A chambermaid came out of the elevator with a linen cart, but went the other way.

  Forty minutes.

  A rattle. A click. The door opening. It creaked faintly, then closed. Brandon heard the sound of footsteps coming toward him. He stepped out.

  And there he was.

  Grayer, like the wine clerk had said. But the same guy, the same round-cheeked boyish face. He looked at Brandon and nodded.

  “Lucky,” Brandon said, stepping in front of him as he started to pass.

  “I beg your pardon?” the guy said.

  He moved left. Brandon cut him off. He held up the photo.

  “I’m Brandon Blake,” he said, as Lucky peered at the picture, “Nikki was my mom.”

  Lucky stared at the photo, something registering in his eyes, a decision being made.

  He smiled. Held out his hand and clasped Brandon’s, first with the one hand, then with both, his palms callused, his grip strong.

  “Nikki’s son,” he said, staring at Brandon, examining him. “Of course you are. You’ve got her eyes.”

  “We need to talk,” Brandon said.

  “Yes,” Lucky said. “We certainly do.”

  And he squeezed Brandon on the forearm like he was a long lost friend, leaned closer, and gave him a hug.

  How much you figure?” Kelvin said.

  “That place?” Fuller said. “Three-hundred a night. More if you want to see the friggin’ water.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Dude in jail stayed in a place like that after he scored some cash. Charged some old lady like fifteen grand to trim her trees. Got half in advance. Blew three grand in a week, hookers and booze and drugs. Got eleven months, but said it was worth every minute.”

  “Like to get that little blonde babe in one of those rooms. Case of Heineken, big soft bed, porn on the flat screen,” Kelvin said. “How’s this college guy rate, anyway?”

  “Don’t know,” Fuller said, craning to watch through the mirror. “Dude’s full of surprises. All good, too. He doesn’t have the cash, sure as hell his buddies here will.”