The answer to that question turned out to be a behemoth of a man who took the stage with an old acoustic guitar. It was a strange sight for sure. Troy thought the dude looked like he should be playing center for the Saints, not singing at the—what the heck was the name of this place again? His thoughts were interrupted when the guy strummed his pick across the strings and started to sing the opening line to Stand By Me.
Holy crap. To say that his voice was sweet and pure didn’t do it justice. He had a high-pitched voice that reminded Troy of Smokey Robinson, or maybe Marvin Gaye. Honey. The dude’s voice sounded like honey.
The place hadn’t been particularly noisy before, but when Mr. Football started singing, you coulda heard a pin drop. Troy glanced around to see every eye on the guy, including the dishwashers, bartenders, and death row members at the bar. He played a thirty minute set and must have collected a hundred bucks from the degenerate audience.
He assured all he was coming back for more and would be here all night as he stepped down from the plywood stage. At first, Troy thought he was coming straight for him, but it turned out he was heading for the older black woman to his right.
“Mama,” he said, wrapping her in a massive bear hug, “I told you not to come here. It’s not safe for you this side of town.”
“Oh, hush, Ronnie.” She kissed him and then used her thumb to wipe away the lipstick she’d left behind.
Troy was certain that any other man in the bar who had just gotten such a kiss from his mother would’ve been roundly jeered and ejected from the—well, the bar with the Christmas lights. But this guy looked like he could punch through four of the patrons with one swing. He moved from his stool and waved my hand to offer it to him.
“Much obliged, sir,” he bowed his head as he spoke, “but I can’t sit long. Got another set in a few minutes.”
“Well, then,” I said, “Can I buy you a beer?”
“That would be mighty nice.”
Troy flagged the girl behind the bar and ordered three Kingfishers just as Ani was returning from the bathroom.
“You get lost back there?” he asked him.
“No, Mr. Troy,” he smiled. “I was having a word with the owner about supplying him with fresh shrimp from my boat.”
Troy nodded and handed him a beer. He took a long gulp and smacked his lips.
“Finally, a decent beer.”
Troy took a cautious sip. Not bad.
“Got any oranges back there?” he asked the bartender.
“Does this look like a place that puts fruit in a beer?” she snorted.
“Nevermind.”
Ronnie gulped down the rest of his beer and headed back on stage. For the next three hours he held the meager crowd in the palm of his hand, milking tips from them until his jar ran over four times. This dude is good.
15
Bodies In The Bayou
As it turned out, Ronnie and Troy were the last ones to leave Snake and Jake’s before the bartender locked up—ironic since a burglar could have just climbed up the wall, onto the roof and into one of the many holes. He was last to leave because he kept making money until the last drinkers walked out. Troy was last to leave, because he had no place to go.
“Why don’t you spend the night with me and mama?” Ronnie said.
“The couch is broken on one side, but the recliner sleeps real good,” his mother added.
“Oh, thank you kindly, Mrs. Hobgood,” Troy started, “but I couldn’t—”
“You can and you will,” she said, pulling a key from her purse. “Ronnie, you drive. I can’t see in this light.”
“Yes, mama,” the big guy said.
And, without much more than a flimsy excuse to give, Troy gave up and agreed he would stay the night. He found out Ronnie’s mother was right. The frame under one side of the couch was busted. When Ronnie’s father was still living there—being a man of almost Ronnie’s size—he broke it jumping up and down one too many times when the Saints lost a game.
“I loved that man,” Ronnie’s mama told me, “but he loved work better. He’s in Florida now somewhere, God bless him. Sends me money still every month.”
Troy decided not to ask more about that whole situation. He slept on the recliner and was awakened by the crackle and pop of bacon frying in the kitchen. The aroma was heavenly and his stomach growled so loud, it woke up Ronnie—who had slept on the floor next to the couch.
Ronnie’s mama filled them both up with more bacon, eggs, biscuits, and gravy than Troy could have imagined was possible. He offered to give her some money though it might have been imaginary money, but she shooed him away like pesky housefly.
“So, what now, Mr. Troy?” Ronnie asked, his hands rubbing his full belly.
“A fine question. I have no idea. When I left Vegas, I was more or less …”
“Running away?”
“That pretty much sums it up.”
“Looks like you and me got somethin’ in common, then.” Ronnie sat up and stretched. “I had a big tour planned, twenty-seven dates up and down the East Coast.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah, Soul Records—a smaller label under Motown—picked me up for a development deal. That’s kinda where they put you out on the road playin’, refinin’ your chops, honing your craft, figuring out what your sound really is, while the record company watches to see if your following grows. If it does, they start picking out song writers for a demo.”
“You’ll make it for sure. You’ve got a sound like none I’ve ever heard before, Ronnie.”
“Yeah, but now ain’t nobody gonna hear it.”
“Why not?”
“Twenty or so of those places we had booked on the tour got crushed by Hurricane Florence. Can’t hardly make a tour of seven beach bars.”
“Ouch.”
“You’re tellin’ me. Motown tore up the contract. Told me to come back when the gigs do.”
“That’s not cool.”
“It is what it is. But for now, I gotta find somethin’ to put money on the table for me and mama. She gets a little Social Security every month, but that doesn’t hardly feed a big man like me.”
“I’ll bet,” Troy said, smiling and shaking his head. “Well, how ’bout you and me hit up the docks. I know a thing or two about fishin’. Maybe we can get a gig on a—”
Troy’s phone rang, but he didn’t recognize the number. He silenced it.
“Heck, Troy,” Ronnie said, “I don’t know the first thing about fishing.”
“You don’t need to. I can teach you everything you need to know in fifteen min—”
The same number was calling again.
“You gotta get that?”
“Naw,” Troy said. “No clue who it is.”
“Could be fate callin’. Why don’t you pick it up? I can wait.”
He shrugged and thought why not. These days most of the calls that came in were creditors and politicians, but he was good at hanging up on both. He clicked to answer.
“Mister Troy,” a bright voice said on the other line, “I am so happy you have picked up. I am in need of your assistance today. The shrimp are practically jumping into the boat.”
It was Ani. Troy hadn’t remembered giving him his number, but he didn’t remember all that much about the night anyway.
“What’s all this then?”
“You told me you needed work. I am offering you work on my boat today. Do you know how to catch shrimp?”
Troy did not, in fact, know how to catch shrimp. But he figured he’d work it out.
“I reckon that sounds pretty good,” he said. “Where are you docked?”
“Meet me at J’s Seafood Dock. Can you find it?”
“Yup. I’ll be there directly.”
He was about to hang up when Ronnie poked Troy’s shoulder and then pointed his finger at his chest.
“Oh, yeah. Hey, Ani, would you have enough work for two?”
“Absolutely, my friend,” he said. “Is he experience
d also in the catching of shrimp.”
“Yes, sir, he is.”
Ronnie shrugged.
“We’re on our way.”
Troy hung up and stood.
“Ever heard of J’s Seafood Dock?”
“Nope,” Ronnie said. “I can look it up.”
“Good.”
He took out his phone and tapped the screen.
“While you’re on there, you might wanna look up how to catch shrimp.”
Ronnie arched an eyebrow.
“Oh, and we’re gonna need a ride.”
“Y’all just take the Caddie, boys.” Ronnie’s mother was standing in the doorway holding two brown paper bags. “And take these. I made you some egg sandwiches for lunch. Woulda put some bacon on it, but I fried all that up for breakfast. Had to use bologna instead.”
“That’ll be just fine, Mrs. Hobgood. Thank you.”
And with that, Ronnie and Troy were headed out the door.
One of the first things Troy noticed when they got out and about in New Orleans was the pervasive odor. He couldn’t tell if it was the smell of trash, fish guts, stagnant water, or patchuli. Most likely, it was a combination of all the above. Fortunately, Ronnie’s mama’s car still had good air conditioning and they ran it on recirculated air. They arrived at J’s in less than thirty minutes and the day was hot and humid—a perfect day to be on the water. Troy had driven the car so Ronnie could do a crash course in shrimping. He said it was pretty much throw a net in the water around a few bait poles, or dropping shrimp pots in the water and waiting for the shrimp to get stuck inside. Troy didn’t know what method Ani had in mind, but he figured they were set for success either way.
Troy thought the boat was a thing of beauty. Her hull was navy blue—with copious amounts of rusty brown—and the cabin was white with a red stripe. She was small, but looked well maintained. His question about which shrimping method they would be using was answered by a couple of long poles jutting skyward out of the back of the boat with a green net attached. Ani was standing out on the bow, shirtless and sweating, waving frantically.
“Over here, my friends,” he called. “We must be going, the tide is out and the shrimp are hungry.”
And so, Ronnie “Wayfarer” Hobgood and Troy Bodean began their short, but illustrious career on the Nawlins Express. They spent the next seven hours setting out bait poles and dropping pots. Troy thought it wasn’t hard work, just a lot of work. Ronnie dropped the last pot and wiped his forehead.
“That’s the last of them,” he said to Ani. “What now?”
The short man clapped his hands excitedly. “Now we wait. I have brought playing cards for poker and also a carrom board. It will pass the time nicely.”
“Poker I can do,” Troy said. “No clue what a carrom board is, but I’m game for that, too.”
Ani’s smile widened. “Wonderful. Oh, and also, I have packed a cooler of fine beer as well.”
“Let me guess, Kingfisher?”
“Do not worry, Mister Troy,” Ani patted the side of a large, white cooler. “I have packed some of your Mexican piss water as well.”
He pulled out two Coronas and passed them to his two new fishing hands.
“Got any oranges by chance? Or maybe a lime?” Troy asked.
“I have limes, but no oranges.”
“That’ll do.”
Troy chose a good spot out of the main traffic channel and anchored the boat. The beer was ice cold and the first three went down easy. Stars began to poke out of the sky and the gentle rocking of the boat sent him into a slumber like none he’d had since coming back from Afghanistan.
The next thing he heard was Ronnie’s hushed voice. He was shaking Troy so hard he almost dumped him onto the deck.
“Easy, big guy,” Troy said. “What’s up?”
“Man, we got a big problem.”
Troy sat up and rubbed his eyes. “Huh? What’s wrong?”
“Dude,” he said, looking over his shoulder anxiously, “there’s a dead guy down below.”
“Dangit.”
16
The Man In The Mirrored Shades
Troy tiptoed down below with Ronnie, careful not to wake Ani. He was pretty sure they could’ve stomped around without waking the man. His snoring echoed through the boat like a chainsaw. Ronnie led Troy back toward a small room beyond the tiny kitchen. A sliding panel opened into a room that was nearly empty except for two hammocks—one hanging on either side of the boat. One was unoccupied, the other … was not.
There was a man, who looked for all the world like he was sleeping, lying in the second hammock. He wore faded khaki shorts, a teal t-shirt with a local bar logo on the front, and a pair of flip-flops that looked like they could have been the first pair of flip-flops ever made. He was lying on his side, facing away from the two men. Troy carefully rolled him over so he was lying on his back. His face was gray and he had a salt and pepper stubble beard. His eyes were covered with a pair of mirrored sunglasses—the frame was slightly bent where the man had been lying on them.
Troy knew immediately that he was dead. When he had rolled him over, the man felt stiff and cold. He guessed the dude had been dead some time, but not more than a day … maybe two. There was no sign of decomposition and Troy couldn’t find any evidence for how the man had died. No bullet holes or stab wounds. No marks around his neck. Nothing. Could be the fella just had a heart attack.
“That don’t explain what he’s doin’ here,” Troy muttered under his breath.
“Huh?”
“Sorry, just thinkin’ out loud,” he whispered and pointed up.
Ronnie and Troy climbed up to the deck so they could talk about what to do next. Troy didn’t really think Ani had anything to do with this, he didn’t seem like the killing kind. But he did admit it was slightly odd that the guy was dead on Ani’s new boat, seemingly of natural causes, and it seemed as if Ani was none the wiser.
“I think we gotta call the police,” Ronnie said.
Troy nodded. “I agree. But in the meantime, what are we gonna do?”
“Let’s just pretend we never saw the guy.”
Troy weighed the options. If Ani was innocent, ignoring the body wouldn’t change that. If he was guilty of … something … they could play dumb until the cops got there. He pulled out his phone. The light of the screen glinted off something—Ani’s bald head.
“Oh, hello, gentlemen,” Ani said, climbing up the steps to join us on the deck. “You couldn’t sleep either?”
“Uh, yeah,” Ronnie said.
“Yep. That’s about right,” Troy agreed.
“I am also excited about our first catch.” He rubbed his hands together. “I have a feeling the pots will be so full that they will be very difficult to pull up.”
“Uh huh,” Ronnie said, tucking his hands into his pockets.
Ani looked from Troy to Ronnie, and back again. His head cocked to the side and his eyebrow—a single line of hair above both of this eyes—scrunched down.
“What is wrong? You are both behaving very strangely.”
“I’m just dead tired,” Troy said, immediately regretting his choice of words.
“Yeah. Me too,” Ronnie added, stretching his arms up above his head and faking a yawn.
Great actors we ain’t, Troy thought. But Ani seemed to buy it.
“I think I’m gonna have one more beer to settle my nerves,” Troy said quickly. “Then I’ll hit the sack.”
“Ah, very good, Mister Troy,” Ani said. “Oh, but I forgot to tell you. Don’t go into the aft cabin. I spilled some gasoline in there earlier and it might be hazardous to your sleeping health.”
He grinned and saluted as he turned and climbed back down the steps. Troy looked at Ronnie, whose eyes were wide and full of fear.
“You hear that?” he whispered. “He knows. He killed the guy. We gotta call the cops and get off this boat, pronto.”
Troy half thought maybe that was exactly what they should do. But if they c
hose that option, they were gonna be swimmin’ a good hundred yards or so to the shore in the dead of night. I’m not afraid of much, Troy thought, but dark water that could be home to gators and sharks ain’t somethin’ I care to try.
“Naw. He doesn’t suspect we know anything. We can call the police, give ’em a location and wait.”
“Wait for that dude to kill us, too? No, thank you,” Ronnie was shaking his head. “You do what you want, but I’m gettin’ off.”
Troy had to wrap his arms around the big man to keep him from diving into the water. He struggled to hold the man like he was trying to wrangle a wild horse. He bucked and kicked, but eventually Troy slowed him down enough to tell him about the alligators and sharks. He looked at the black water, then the steps down into the boat, then back to the water. Troy could tell the choice was a tough one for him, but ultimately he chose the evil he knew.
“We’ll just stay together up here,” he said, dialing 911. “Cops will be here before you know it.”
“911. What’s your emergency?” the voice on the line called out into the night.
Somehow, the call clicked on speaker mode and it echoed loudly across the still water.
“Dangit,” Troy said, frantically pushing buttons on the screen trying to silence the woman.
“Hello, caller?” she said. “What’s your emergency?”
“What is your emergency, indeed?” Ani’s voice asked.
They both turned to see him standing at the top of the steps, pointing a gun at them.
“Aw, hell,” Ronnie said. “Shoulda gone with the gators.”
As he stared into the dark barrel of the man’s pistol, Troy wondered if Ronnie was right.
The Complete Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Collection Page 7
