The Complete Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Collection

by David F. Berens

  “Close enough.”

  “I’ve got some oysters too,” she called over the counter. “Want some?”

  “Only if you’ve got hot sauce.”

  She walked into the living room with a plate of oysters on the half shell, a bottle of red wine, two glasses, and a bottle of hot sauce. Bingo, he thought, this girl’s tryin’ to seduce me.

  “Well, alright now.” he clapped his hands together. “Don’t this just look like a nice date?”

  “It’s not a date,” she said with a smirk.

  My ass it’s not a date, he thought. He popped the cork on the wine and poured two glasses. He handed her a glass and she slugged it down—all of it in one gulp.

  “Whoa, now,” he said, “that was quick. You sure you don’t want to sip—”

  “I’m good,” she said, “just don’t want to waste any time.”

  And that was exactly when Troy took things the wrong way. As it so happened, Troy had his glass of wine in one hand and the hot sauce in the other when he leaned forward to kiss her. The shock on her face was a little unexpected, but even more unexpected was when she jumped up, leaving him to tumble over on the white couch. Red wine flew into the air and splashed all over everything. And would you believe the hot sauce … which was open at the time… fell into his shirt upside down and slid all the way into his pants. At that moment, he fully regretted his decision to go commando as the burning sensation had his nether regions in flames.

  “Oh, my God,” she yelled, looking around at the red splattered scene.

  It looked like a vicious murder had happened at the hands of a serial killer who liked knives or something like that. For a half a second, Troy wondered if she had a crap-load of club soda on hand, but the burning grew stronger on his boys.

  He jumped up and shouted, “Where’s your bathroom?”

  “What?” she was hysterical. “You have to piss at a time like this?”

  Troy didn’t bother to explain. “Just hurry. Which way?”

  She pointed at a door. He ran and jumped through. He jerked the knob on the massive tub in the center of the room, kicked off his flip flops, and jerked his shorts down. Didn’t even bother to unbutton his shirt, just ripped it off too. He hopped into the tub and splashed down into the ice-cold water.

  “Oh, heck, yes,” he wheezed, as he doused his burning midsection.

  The bathroom door opened and Debby stalked in.

  “What in God’s name?” she demanded, seeing his current, half-naked state.

  Troy reached over the edge of the tub and held up the empty, offending hot sauce bottle.

  “I had a burnin’ in my pants for you,” he joked.

  She started to say something, but that’s when the knock came at the door. It sounded something like what you see the police do in the movies just before they bust the door down with the battering ram.

  “What the hell?” Troy said hopping from the tub and grabbing a towel.

  “My husband,” she said and started scooping up my clothes.

  “Wait… what?” he asked as she shoved the pile of clothing into his arms.

  “Sorry, Troy,” she said, “but you gotta go!”

  He started toward the door and she grabbed him by the arm.

  “You can’t go out that way!”

  “I didn’t know they made back doors in places like this,” he protested.

  “Balcony,” she said shoving him toward the sliding glass door. “Hide on the balcony.”

  Naturally, he realized this was a short-term solution and started to say as much, but she pushed him out, slammed the door closed, and whooshed the large blinds closed. He sat down in one of the chairs and began to slip on his pants. The next balcony over was hopping. It was the frat boys from the elevator. One of them gave Troy a wave and a wink.

  Before he could get a foot in his pants the blinds ripped open and two large fellas in casino security outfits appeared. It only took a second for Troy to recognize Vinnie from the Hippo and read the other guy’s name tag—Louie. Vinnie and Louie. I really am in a Sopranos episode, Troy thought.

  He jumped up and without thinking, he ran toward the railing nearest to the frat guys. He stepped up on the rail and heaved himself over the opening. As he flew through the air, he realized that if he missed, he was a goner. They were ten stories up. He realized he’d be found splattered on the concrete—naked and smashed like a grape.

  But to his amazement, he cleared the boys’ railing and landed on his feet. His knee screamed at him, but there was not time to take care of that old wound right now.

  The drunken guys were all stunned, but they immediately started cheering and high-fiving him. Troy had just pulled a crazy stunt and they loved it.

  “Hell yeah, dude,” one of them said looking back at the balcony he’d flown over from.

  Debby and the two Italian bodyguard fellas were staring over in disbelief.

  “What happens in Vegas, right Amigo?” one of the frat boys laughed.

  It only took a second for Vinnie and Louie to realize Troy was just next door. He ran through their living room to whoops and cheers. Troy heard later that someone snapped a picture of him and they hung it in their frat house as some sort of hero shrine. He jerked the door open and turned into the hall. Vinnie and Louie burst out of Debby’s room at the same time. Down the hall, maybe like a half a mile away, the elevator door dinged open. Troy ran hard—at least as hard as his weak knee would let him. His towel threatened to fly away and he wondered if this was an unusual scene at the MGM or if it was a Vegas normality.

  The door of the elevator closed as Vinnie shoved his hand through to try and stop it. Troy kicked it hard with his bare foot and could feel the bones in his fingers crunch. He yelped and jerked his hand back and the door closed. He caught his breath as the elevator descended to the lobby. When the door opened, he ran out into the casino floor, nearly buck naked.

  There were a few gasps and points from the gamblers on the floor, but Troy ignored them. He ran as fast as he could without embarrassing himself further, but when he reached the massive check-in lobby, Vinnie and Louie were standing there.

  “How in the …?” Troy mumbled, as they stalked toward him.

  “You,” Vinnie pointed at his chest, “You’re coming with us. Now.”

  They escorted Troy out to a black sedan with even blacker windows and shoved him inside.

  “You done screwed up, Troy,” Vinnie said, with Louie nodding in agreement. “You had it good, but you broke da rules.”

  “But, you see,” he protested, “I didn’t actually break—”

  “Shut your freakin’ mouth,” Louie blurted out, interrupting him.

  “Easy,” Vinnie held his arm out in front of Louie.

  He looked at Troy, “Teddy wants to speak to youse.”

  “Teddy?”

  “Debby’s husband.”

  “Dangit.”

  As they drove, Troy was certain he was going to be taken out to the desert, knelt down in front of Teddy and executed. Scenes from every gangster movie he had ever watched flashed into his mind. But they didn’t drive out to the desert, they drove out to the Peppermint Hippo. Troy was ushered—meaning the two goons carried him by his elbows with his toes dragging the ground—into the club, past all the girls and all the patrons.

  One particularly drunk dude tossed a dollar at Troy and said, “I guess that’s the one ugly girl.”

  He was practically thrown into the upstairs apartment and a man who looked exactly like Andy Garcia was sitting on the futon. Troy’s rucksack was sitting next to him on the floor. It was stuffed full. Apparently, all his things had been packed for him.

  “So, you’re the famous Troy Bodean?” he asked.

  “I don’t know if I’d say famous, but...”

  Vinnie elbowed him.

  “I don’t give two flying fucks who you are,” Teddy stood up.

  He put his face inches from Troy’s and pointed a finger at his chest, “You broke the rules
. You slept with my wife. You’re outta here. You’re lucky I ain’t havin’ these two fellas do nasty things—very nasty things—to you and the testic—”

  “Technically, sir,” Troy said, “I didn’t actually sleep with—”

  “OUT!” he yelled and pointed at the door.

  Louie reached down and handed him his rucksack.

  “Can I have just a minute to put on some cloth—”

  “Get out now, before I take Louie’s advice on what I shouda done to youse.”

  “Yessir,” Troy said and scrambled out the door, down the steps, through the Hippo’s lobby, and into the night. He snuck behind the building and jerked on some shorts and a shirt. His LSU hat was tucked into a side pocket and he slipped it on. That’s when it occurred to him that he’d been avoiding it—Louisiana—home.

  He wondered if Debby would be okay and if he’d ever see her again as he hitched his way down the highway and out of Las Vegas forever. Part of him hoped he would.

  His first ride was a man named Christopher Saint Juneau. A heavy, jolly man wearing several wooden cross necklaces who listened to whatever local church broadcasts he could tune in on his old Buick’s dial radio. Unfortunately, he wasn’t goin’ all the way to Louisiana and had to let Troy out, but he was thankful for what distance the man could take him. After that, he walked into a truck stop, bought a six-pack of Coronas and waited for someone headed east. By the time he’d finished them all, he was on his way in the back of a truck haulin’ hogs for slaughter with an old guy who looked exactly like Jerry Reed. Troy drifted off to sleep wondering if Burt Reynold’s Pontiac Firebird Trans Am was bringing them in.

  13

  The Stars At Night

  Troy woke up to the sound of heavy rain beatin’ on the windshield. The man who looked like Jerry Reed was—can’t make things like this up—named Jerry. His last name was Rickenbacker, or something like that. Troy wasn’t too worried about it, so he didn’t ask twice. He was more worried about the smell of cigarette smoke getting all in his hair and clothes. He hadn’t smoked since Afghanistan, and didn’t want the temptation to get to him again. The man never stopped smoking the whole time. He’d light one as another one was burning out. Troy tried coughing loudly to get the point across that he was choking him out, but Jerry only laughed and told him to crack his window—in the pouring rain.

  It was somewhere around Dallas that Troy decided enough was enough. He thanked the man for the ride and pretended to reach for his wallet. There wasn’t anything in it, but he was pretty sure the guy would refuse it anyway. He did and Troy was glad for the fact. They parted ways at a Love’s Travel Stop and Troy went in to get a shower.

  “Be ready in ten minutes, baby.” A large woman with unbelievable moles and liver spots beamed at him. “Why don’t you try some of the taco sticks or get a couple of hot dogs while you wait. The coffee is pretty good if it hasn’t gotten down to the bottom yet.”

  He found that the food was overcooked and greasy, not bad. And he discovered she was right about the coffee, it was pretty crappy. He drank two cups. The shower was super hot and Troy took the opportunity to rinse out the shirt and shorts he’d been wearing in Jerry’s smoke wagon. When he pulled back the curtain on his stall, he found himself staring at a tiny, old man, sitting on a bench drying his back. He was completely naked and it wasn’t a sight Troy ever wanted to see again.

  “Hello, young man.” His accent was thick, and possibly Middle Eastern. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this meeting?”

  His grin and his eyes drifted south and Troy quickly double-checked his towel to make sure it wasn’t showing the guy more than it should. He’d had enough of being naked in public since back at the MGM. He found he was covered and stepped out of the shower.

  “Just gettin’ clean,” Troy said and took a spot farther down the bench, out of sight of the guy’s … bareness.

  “It is so refreshing is it not?”

  Indian, he decided. His accent was more Indian than Middle Eastern. Careful, rounded words. A lot like Troy’s, but different.

  “That it is partner.” he slid his shorts on under his towel. “Where abouts are you from?”

  Troy expected him to reveal a location that was sandy, crowded, and impoverished.

  “New Jersey.”

  Well, two out of three ain’t bad. “Oh,” he said.

  “Not originally, you know. My family came over from India many, many years ago. They would be proud if they could see me now.”

  Troy nodded, not exactly sure what to say to that. He reached into a small, leather backpack on the bench and produced a couple of pictures. One was a picture of a dozen people at a wedding or a funeral—hard to tell which. The second was a picture of a big rig.

  “I call her the Nawlins Express.” He tapped the picture of the truck as he said it. “We have run boats to and from the most European city in America for almost ten years now.”

  “That’s pretty cool, partner,” Troy said, handing him the photographs. “That where you’re headed now? New Orleans?”

  “That is correct. I have a shrimp boat purchased and waiting. She is destined for greatness in the gulf of many fish.”

  “Well, sir, that is exactly where I’m headin’.” Troy pulled on an Army t-shirt and sat his salty LSU cap on his head. “You don’t think I might be able to tag along?”

  Troy had never really solidified a destination upon his hasty exit from Vegas, but heading back to New Orleans—back home—sounded like as good a place as any.

  “Of course, Mister Army man. I would be happy to have the pleasure of your company.”

  He reached up and extended a hand.

  “It’s Troy,” he said, taking his hand and shaking it firmly. “Troy Bodean. Ain’t been a soldier in a lot of years though.”

  “Once Army, always Army.” He smiled and stood.

  Troy turned away quickly and walked toward the door.

  “I’ll wait outside.”

  “Yes, Mister Troy Bodean. I will be along directly. I just need to dry my balls.”

  Troy met the man outside the locker room with an arm full of Red Bulls, a couple of Milky Way candy bars, and a six-pack of Corona Light. Normally, he drank regular Corona, but all they had was bottles and he didn’t want to be responsible for recycling the empties along the way. They also didn’t have any limes, so he settled for an orange with a passing thought to how Debby had started him on that. The woman at the front counter, who looked like she might have eaten a few Milky Ways in her time, gave him a strange look while turning the orange over in her hand.

  “Eating healthy I see,” she said, punching a button on her computer.

  “Yup.” Troy patted his stomach. “With all this dadgum rain, I figure that’s the only way I’ll get my vitamin C.”

  If she was amused, she did a good job of hiding it. The driver of the Nawlins Express trotted out of the men’s room—thankfully, fully clothed—and smiled upon seeing Troy. He waved and pointed out the window at a gold rig with no trailer attached.

  “I’ll be right along,” Troy said.

  He nodded and pushed out the door and jogged into the rain. The woman put all of Troy’s things into a bag and slid them toward him.

  “You know, Anirudh?” she asked.

  “Beg pardon?”

  “Your friend.” She pointed after him. “Name’s Anirudh. You know him?”

  “Just met.”

  “Might want to watch your back. He’s always up to something.”

  Troy didn’t answer. He just took his bag and headed to the truck.

  He can be up to whatever he wants if he’ll take me all the way to New Orleans, thought Troy.

  He listened to Elvis Presley non-stop until Troy finally decided to roll up some napkin pieces and stuff them into his ears. One can only take so much of the King. Troy also put four of the Corona Lights into his belly to deaden his senses and discovered that he actually preferred them with orange over lime wedges. He offered one to Ani—
the shortened, Americanization of his name—but he refused. Troy assumed it was because it was against his religion, but he said it was because he thought Corona was just a step above toilet water. Kingfisher was a real beer, he said.

  Troy tucked his head into the space between his seat and the window and found sleep was a good way to block out the jangling of early Elvis songs. When Ani finally nudged him awake, he was pointing at a blue sign that read: Welcome to Louisiana—Bienvenue en Louisiane.

  Part III

  New Orleans

  14

  Shrimp And Honey

  “We are entering the land of shrimp and honey,” he grinned.

  Troy almost told him that wasn’t a thing, but he let it go. Ani was too happy to disappoint. A couple of hours later, he poked Troy again. He’d fallen asleep again as they drove. Outside, he saw the rain had let up to downpour from monsoon. Through the sheets of deluge, Troy saw a run-down shack of a building that had dozens of dripping wet posters on a red corkboard. Below that the whitewashed concrete block simply said: BAR. He wasn’t sure it was a reputable establishment—or if it was even open for business, but Ani said it was his favorite.

  “I will buy you a Kingfisher inside and tell me how you like it.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “Then I will replace it with one of your Mexican toilet beers.”

  “Fair enough.”

  When they walked in, Troy did a double-take to make sure they had actually entered the building. The roof was leaking in a hundred places and the only light came from a few spotty strands of Christmas bulbs.

  “Nice,” Troy muttered.

  “I knew you would like it,” Ani said, slapping him on the shoulder. “Get us a seat. I need to take a pee.”

  “Take a piss.”

  “Yes. Take a pee.”

  Troy flashed him a thumbs up as he disappeared into the back of the building. There were three people at the tiny bar, two of which Troy thought might actually be trying to kill him with their eyes. The third was an older woman he immediately associated with Rosa Parks. She wore a pink sweater, a floral skirt, thick hose, and a hairnet designed to keep her perm safe in the rain. She sat with her back to the bar, clutching a white patent leather purse with gold colored chain dangling from it. What the heck is she doin’ here?