by Jack Hardin
Jared “Chewy” Robinson: Tallahassee born and raised. “Chewy,” so called because he was tall and had a condition that made him feel cold all the time, so he wore his light brown beard thick, his hair long, and a wool trench coat that never came off. Not even in the humid Florida summers when it felt more like a steam room outside than a domestic paradise. Sometime, a few years back, someone mentioned that Jared looked more like a Wookie than anything else. Rumor was the man who suggested the nickname thereafter suffered from a broken nose. The new name stuck nonetheless.
Chewy stared flatly at the short, pale-looking man sitting on the tailgate. “You could help,” he said, his voice booming deep and low in his chest. He dropped a kilo of cocaine into a wooden crate stamped with the image of a mango formed in black ink. None of them liked what they were doing today. Moving product like this in the daytime was unusually dangerous and greatly increased the chances that they would be seen or caught.
“Someone has to keep an eye out,” the man on the tailgate replied. He had a lazy eye. It rolled to the side, and he looked like he might fall over. “Someone comes off that road and through those trees for some reason, we’re toast.” He was a small man, better at delegation than the actual work, and his name was Scotch. No one knew his last name, and most likely no one cared. He was a good administrator but lacking on the people skills. No one liked to work with him. He was kept around strictly for his utility.
The previous evening a nervous Mexican crew had pulled their boat into the mangroves, dumped a quarter ton of product into them, and taken off. They had been convinced they were being tracked by Coast Guard surveillance. Now the cleanup crew had been sent in to recover the product and render it safe and hidden - where it should have been last night. Andrés and Chewy had spent the last thirty minutes walking to the water’s edge, fighting their way through the thick mangroves and walking the thirty yards back through the woods to the small unlabeled moving truck.
“No one comes out here, and you know it,” Andrés said with a disgusted tone. “Housing development stops a mile back down the road.”
Scotch ignored him and kept his attention on the gun. His wrist folded and unfolded in rhythm as he churned on the suppressor to the end of the barrel. “How much longer?” he asked.
“Fifteen minutes,” Chewy wheezed. “Ten if you would get over here and help. The boss doesn't like that we are in a position where we have to transfer bricks in the middle of the day.” Chewy huffed and set another couple packages gently into a crate then walked back to the water’s edge.
Scotch sighed and slid off the tailgate until his feet touched the ground. “Fine,” he mumbled. He stuck the gun in the front of his pants and followed Chewy through the thick brush. Getting to the water’s edge, he held onto the branches of the mangroves and carefully placed his feet onto the slippery root system that poked out just above the waterline. He looked through the branches. Chewy and Andrés were fifteen feet further grabbing at packages still hanging in the branches and bobbing in the water against the roots. The crew had chucked the packages in the right place. Punta Rassa Cove was full of tiny islands and inlets, some inlets almost too narrow and shallow to ride a small boat through. Andrés hunched down, walked over to Scotch, and handed him two packages. “One more,” Scotch said. “If I’m gonna help, let’s just get this done with.”
Andrés shook his head. “Two at a time.”
“Give me another one,” Scotch repeated.
Andrés looked over at Chewy. Chewy rolled his eyes and nodded out of frustration.
“Fine.” Andrés reached over, grabbed another kilo, and set it gently on top on the other ones nestled in Scott's arms. “Go on,” he said. “Be careful.”
Scotch slowly turned and jammed his chin onto the top kilo so they would stay put while he used his other hand to grab the branches. He precariously navigated his way out of the root system and back onto the grassy terrain of the forest floor. It sloped gently upward, and he kept his eyes on the white siding of the moving truck as it came into view. All the sudden it was hard to walk, and he felt a pulling tension on the lower package. He frowned and looked down but couldn’t see anything.
He heard Andrés’s voice behind him. “Stop! You’re snagged on something.”
Scotch didn’t stop. He set his chin down harder and swung his hands to the right. The tightly bound plastic wrap punctured and tore hard against the branches, releasing Scotch and his packages. Scotch flew outward, and the kilos went with him. White dust puffed up into the air before quickly settling down into vegetation around him.
Andrés cursed and ran up to him. “What are you doing? I told you to stop!” Scotch rolled onto his side and sat up. He rubbed his head and looked back. A broken branch jutted out of a bush caked in white dust. That was the culprit.
Chewy came up behind Andrés. “Get up. Just get up. We only have a few more left. Clean this up, and get what’s left of it all into the truck. The man won’t be happy with this. He’ll take it out of your pay.”
“Big deal,” Scotch said. They walked past him, set the package into an empty crate, and headed back down to the water.
Scotch stood up and brushed himself off. He didn’t know what the big deal was. These guys needed to relax a little bit. He stared at the white mess in front of him. It looked like a hurried cook had spilled flour everywhere. All the sudden and out of nowhere, a tingle drifted across his stomach. Scotch spent the better part of the last four years on the administrative side of things. He hadn’t seen the actual product in as many years, nor had he tried it in a very long time. He had kept away from it because he couldn’t stop before. Now, temptation tore through his body like a starving dog staring at fresh bowl of chow.
He plucked a small leaf off the bush, jabbed it into the open side of the broken package, and brought it back out with a little mound of cocaine on it. It had been a long time. Just a little bit would be all right. It would calm his nerves and give him the boost to hurry up and get off this boring job site. He tapped the leaf, letting some of the drug fall off. He took his left index finger and pressed hard against the outside of his left nostril. Then he brought the leaf up to his nose and inhaled quickly, almost violently. The effects were immediate as the drug unfurled through his veins. Euphoria catapulted through him, and his heart rate clicked higher. It felt like he had just drunk ten cups of coffee. His nose started to tingle. He shook his head a few times and smacked his lips. It was good stuff all right. And oh, how he had missed it.
“What the hell are you doing?”
Scotch turned around to see his two co-workers staring him down and holding what was left of the previously discarded kilos. His eyes were dilated, and he wiped at his nose. “Nothing. Just...well it was just sitting there. Didn’t want it to go to waste. You know?”
Chewy and Andrés looked at each other. Scotch had just broken rule number three. No one ever broke rule number three.
“You’re unbelievable,” Andrés said. “Get up.” He tucked the two kilos he was holding under his right arm and reached down and plucked the untorn package off the ground. Chewy carefully picked up the damaged one. They walked back to the moving truck and deposited all but the torn one in a crate. Chewy grabbed a roll of duct tape from the cab and wrapped up what was left of the product. He then placed it in the crate, nailed a few brad nails in the top, and pulled the sliding door down.
“We’re done here,” Andrés said. “You need to clean your mess up over there.”
“I will. Come on, guys. I’m not an idiot.”
“That’s debatable,” Chewy said and got into the passenger seat of the truck.
Andrés opened the driver’s side door and turned back around. “You’d better be out of here in five minutes,” he said. “The boss is already edgy. This whole thing we had to do here today is unprecedented. Make like a fairy and vanish.”
Scotch waved him off. The moving truck started up, and Andrés navigated it through trees and bushes and back out to Shell
Point Boulevard. Scotch pulled the gun out from his belt and aimed it at a tree in front of him. He faked shooting it, even letting the tip of the gun kick up. He supposed he’d been lucky that it hadn’t discharged into his crotch when he fell earlier. He set the gun on the tailgate and grabbed a bucket from the truck bed. He then walked down to the water’s edge and filled the bucket with water. He would toss a couple buckets of seawater on the area and be done. A couple more afternoon showers this week, and it would be like it had never been there at all. It wasn’t like anyone would come out here anyway. This was nowhere land. He grabbed the handle with both hands. Water sloshed out with each step he took. He came up on the spot, put a hand underneath the bucket, and stopped. He wasn’t alone. A young boy was staring back at him.
The boy had on jean shorts and a white t-shirt with Iron Man’s red and gold face on it. He sat wide-eyed on a bike with his right foot planted on the ground.
Scotch set the bucket down and walked toward the truck. “Hey, kid. Whatcha doing out here?” He slid his backside onto the tailgate and moved his gun behind him.
The boy looked a mixture of curiosity and fear.
“Have a seat right here.” His patted the empty space of tailgate next to him. “It’s okay. No problem at all, all right?” The boy walked slowly to him, darting his eyes around, fear spilling from them. He parked his bike and took a seat, leaving his legs to hang motionless off the edge of the tailgate.
“I’m not going to hurt you. Let’s just have a talk,” Scotch smiled. “What uh...what are you doing out here?”
“I...I...am just riding my bike,” he said. His breath was short, and his small Adam’s apple rose and fell as he swallowed nervously.
“Now, no need to be nervous.” He smiled, and the boy’s shoulders relaxed just slightly. “I am going to ask you a question, and I need you to tell me the truth.”
Pupils dilated, the boy nodded.
Scotch followed the boy’s eyes to a space behind him. He looked down and saw the grip of his gun. “Oh,” he chuckled, “don’t worry about this.” He set the weapon down on the edge of the truck bed. “Never know when you’ll see a gator, right? Now then, I think you have a pretty good idea of what I am going to ask you. So why don’t you just go ahead and answer it.”
“I...I…” he stuttered.
Scotch spit into the grass and then laughed. He felt so good, the fiery rush of energy still riding through his veins.
“Yes?” he urged.
“I didn’t see anything, sir.”
“Then why do you look so scared?”
The boy tried to cough, but no sound came. “I know you are doing something out here. I know I shouldn't be here. But I don’t know what you want me to tell you I saw. I didn’t see you do anything.”
Scotch pursed his lips and nodded. He look at the kid and, smiling, put a hand on his shoulder. “That’s the truth? I’ve been a Catholic from the time I came out from my mother’s legs. You wouldn’t lie to a Catholic, would you, son?”
“No...no, sir. Not at all, sir.”
Scotch flashed another smile. “Well, good then,” he said, and slid off the tailgate. “I’m glad you didn’t see anything. That is very good. Now, if you wouldn't mind, I am in fact trying to get a little work done. Maybe you could find another way into the woods a little further out down the road to ride your bike in? You can do that for me?”
The boy’s head lifted, his face draining of concern. “Yes, sir,” he said emphatically. “Sorry to have interrupted you.”
“No problem at all.” Scotch put his feet on the ground and walked up to the bike. He turned it around and held it out for its young owner. The boy got up, walked to his bike, and jumped back on.
“Have a good day, mister.”
Scotch’s eye drifted out again, and he smiled. “You too, kid. You too.”
Chapter Seven
Suds grew like larvae out of the back and forth motion of the scrub brush as it crossed the deck. Ellie pushed down harder on the handle and slid the brush over the last untouched area of the boat. She tossed the brush over the edge and grabbed the hose. She depressed the nozzle handle, and the fresh water rinsed away the salt and the cleaning solution.
Major had pulled the boat out of the water with the marine forklift and set it on a couple boat dollies where they staged boats in need of cleaning. The Salty Mangrove Marina had a small, covered dry dock that could keep up to forty-six boats on a bi-level stack. Once boats came back in off the water, they would be cleaned immediately, the engines flushed, and re-racked. Ellie liked the work. It only took about a half hour to get a boat washed up and ready for storage again. Cleaning a boat was like mowing the lawn; it allowed your thoughts to drift and gave you time to think about whatever came. It contrasted with her working at the bar where you had to engage customers and strike up conversation. She enjoyed both.
This time of year the dry dock didn’t see much action. The busy season, when the boats’ owners came down from up north to visit and play for a few months, was typically from December to April. Right now, most of the active boats in the marina were wet docked at one of the twenty slips that Major’s marina offered. Many of the locals in St. James City had their own boat lifts in the canals behind their homes.
Ellie finished spraying down the deck and vaulted over the side, bringing the hose with her. She grabbed the power washer and started spraying down the hull. She heard a deep voice over the sound of the compressor and the water and turned to see her uncle walking toward her with his cell phone on his ear. He nodded, said something, and hung up. He stepped over to the compressor and turned it off. “Hey Ellie, listen. Henry just called from the Rotary Club. He said a boy went missing earlier today in Catalpa Cove. The cops over there are asking for folks to come out and help search for him.”
“Ugh,” Ellie said. She recentered her Salty Mangrove ball cap over her eyes. “What happened?”
“Not clear on that. All Henry knew was that he went for a bike ride a little after lunchtime and never came back. His mother said he’s never gone for over an hour and it’s been five or six now.”
“Did they check his friends’ houses?” she asked.
“They’ve checked all the spots: friends, putt-putt, arcade, fishing dock. The police don’t get anyone involved until they’ve done that.”
“Yeah,” she said, and blew out a long puff of air. “I can’t imagine what his parents are feeling right now.”
“About like that time Katie went missing when she was three. We thought maybe she fell in the canal. Took us two hours to find her. You remember that?”
“Yeah. Not much of the details but I remember how scared and panicked I was. Dad just kept crying after she was found.”
“We found her asleep in the closet. That whole ordeal took about five years off my life.”
“Should I come too? I can help look.”
“No. Go ahead and stay here and look after everything. I’m sure we’ll have plenty of people looking for that boy before the hour is up.”
“Okay. Well, call me if you think I can help.”
“Will do. Hopefully, he just detoured to his favorite hangout and we can get him home to his parents so they can wring his neck.” He started walking away then stopped and looked up. The clouds were thickening overhead, the sky a mixture of light and dark gray. “Oh, hey. That storm will be here in a couple hours, so the bar might be a little light on traffic late tonight. Fu and Gloria are the only ones up there right now. If it gets to raining too hard, go ahead and shut down early.”
“Will do.”
〜〜〜〜〜
“Ellie, you mind topping me off?” A tall mug came sliding down the bartop. Ellie caught it and smiled. “One day I’m going to miss, John.”
“Not a chance. Besides, I always give you a heads up.”
Ellie brought the glass underneath the spout and pulled back on the handle for Miller Lite. The golden liquid ran down the side of the glass, and she held it straighter
the fuller it got, finishing it off with a frothy head. She walked over to John and set it on the damp coaster in front of him.
“Thanks, sweetie,” he said.
It was dark now, and the Christmas lights wrapped around the cedar posts of the bar and the Edison lights strung behind the bottles of liquor on the back wall provided a soft glow against the brighter glare of the television hanging in the corner. There were more patrons tonight than Ellie would have expected. It seemed like folks had been inclined to come grab a quick drink at their favorite watering hole before the storm hit. Several people had planted themselves inside behind the transparent rain flaps of the indoor eating area, and a handful were at the bar. A cool gust came off the water from the pier’s direction and was a reminder to all that closing time would be early tonight.
The flat screen television had Jeff Jamison, the local CBS weatherman, pointing to the radar map behind him, showing strong rainbands heading toward Fort Myers, Cape Coral, and the barrier islands. His tie was a bold checkered pattern of purple and orange. Ellie thought he always wore the best ties. He finished and turned it back to the news desk, and Ellie grabbed the blender to fulfill an order for a lime daiquiri.
The Wangs were focused on the television. “Oh my God,” Gloria said. “Ellie, turn it up.”
Ellie reached for the remote, clicked the volume higher, and gave the screen her attention. The camera panned in and showed an image of two thin legs lying limply in wild grass. The newscaster was saying a boy had been found. Murdered, shot in the back of the head, on the mainland just across the water from them. Out of respect, the camera showed only the legs of the preadolescent body, motionless in the grass. It quickly panned away.
“Oh dear,” Gloria said. Her fingers went to her lips.
Ellie's mouth went dry. “Oh my Lord. No,” she said. “Where is that?”
