Tales from Stool 17; Dark Days of Judgment: The Nigel Logan Stories (3)

by Kirk Jockell

  When he caught his wind, he stood up and looked back toward the truck. Everyone was still talking. Neither Red nor anyone in the golf cart had been paying any attention to the events in the water. He thought Why, son of a bitch.

  He collected his net and observed the catch that was still looking for any possible escape. He smiled at his good work and picked up the net and catch and walked back to the truck. He recognized the two ladies in the golf cart. They were Sally and Tina, the turtle patrol gals he met the day before at the raw bar. Red and the gals were so deep in conversation they never noticed Nigel walk up to the truck. He got their immediate attention, though, when he swung the net and landed the catch on the hood of his truck. A baker’s dozen of mullet and a stingray the size of a garbage can lid flopped and beat a tune of panic on the hood.

  Red’s eyes were the size of coffee saucers as he realized what had been placed before him. From the front of the truck and through the windshield Nigel looked at Red and said, “Don’t tell me there ain’t nothing out there. Who’s wasting time now?”

  Red said nothing and answered with a grin.

  “So, you gonna get your ass out of the truck and help me bleed these, or are you going to sit there like a stump?”

  After extracting the stingray from the net, he showed it to Ms. Tina. He gave her a quick tour. He grabbed the tail and exposed the infamous barbed stinger. As she touched its smooth skin she said, “We don’t have these in the mountains either.”

  “Well,” Nigel said, “if we don’t get him back in the water soon, we won’t have this one around here either. It is time to pardon him.”

  As Red was bleeding out the mullet, Tina and Sally walked down to the surf with Nigel. He eased the ray back into the gulf and sat it on the bottom. It was still, getting used to being back in the water. After about thirty seconds, Nigel took his foot and gave it a little nudge and said, “Now get!”

  Its wings exploded in flutter and it took flight across the sandy bottom. In a flash, the stingray was gone.

  The sun was well above the horizon and the turtle gals had long since resumed their patrol duties. Red, Nigel, and the bull shark continued to work the mullet that were schooled up off the beach at Money Bayou until they disappeared. Most of the catches were singles. On two separate throws, Red netted two fish.

  They continued to throw until they became bored and frustrated with catching nothing but pesky baitfish and stingrays, both always a pain in the ass to get out of the net. After one last throw that yielded nothing, Nigel said, “I think we have more than enough for a fish-fry.”

  There was no protest from Red as they both made their way back to the truck. When they started cleaning the fish, they had landed an additional ten. That made for forty-six filets and twenty-three backs and gizzards. Red loves some mullet gizzards. Nigel had no plans on trying them.

  With the mullet cleaned and on ice, Red reached down in the cooler past the fish and dug up two Coors Light from the bottom. He tossed one to Nigel who looked at his watch. It was 1010, a green light for personal consumption.

  They sat on the tailgate to enjoy their morning beers. Red was on the phone with Trixie making plans for a huge fish-fry on the beach. “Gather the usual suspects and then some. We have plenty!” As Red discussed the expanded guest list, Nigel stared off down the beach toward St. Vincent Island and Indian Pass. Something looked out of place, or in place in a strange and awkward way. He cracked the tab on a fresh beer and hopped off the tailgate. He stood staring. What was missing? He looked down the beach in the other direction, toward the horn of Cape San Blas. The sensation was the same.

  As Nigel took a sip of beer, movement caught his eye. A young, good-looking family appeared in the dunes. Tourists no doubt emerging from their beach house rental. There were a couple and two kids: a boy looking to be about ten or eleven and a girl that was maybe half her brother’s age. Each of them, even the little girl, had a handful of beach gear. That’s when it hit him.

  Nigel looked back down the beach. That’s it! He turned around to look the other way. Yes! The beaches were virtually clean of left-over tourist beach gear. A few beach camps were sprinkled here and there, but it was nothing like it had been. The beaches resembled the off-season more so than the middle of summer vacation.

  Nigel made his way back to the tailgate and waited as Red was finishing up his call with Trixie. “When you’re at the Pig, pick up some extra Crystal hot sauce too. We’re getting low.” Red looked at Nigel and held out his beer upside-down. It was empty. Nigel got him a fresh one. “Okay,” Red finished. “Call me later. I’m starting to catch my second wind.” And he ended the call as Nigel handed him a cold one. “Thanks, brother.”

  Nigel asked, “Have you noticed the beaches, Red? They’re virtually clear of all the normal shit this morning.”

  “Uh huh. Sally and I were talking about that earlier while you were throwing. She said she was astonished at the improvement from one morning to the next.”

  Nigel gazed up and down the beach and commented, “Yeah. A little too much improvement, I would say.”

  Red said, “Come on. Let’s ride down toward the horn of the cape. We might fall into another gaggle of fish.”

  “Don’t you think we have enough?”

  Red said nothing but gave Nigel a look that said Don’t be an idiot.

  As they eased down the beach, Red kept an eye on the water. Nigel, with piqued curiosity, was appreciating the renewed condition of the morning beach. Ahead, Nigel saw two guys that were obviously upset. It looked as if they were arguing, but, as it would turn out, they were sharing in each other’s frustration. When the truck reached the two guys, Nigel slowed the truck and came to a stop. Red looked up and asked, “What’s going on? Did you see something?”

  “Isn’t this where we came across the turtle that was stuck in all the tourist shit? The one that ended up as a false crawl?”

  Red looked around and said, “Hell. I don’t know. It was somewhere around here. It was so damn dark.”

  Red saw the two guys and said, “Damn. They don’t look too happy.”

  Nigel rolled down the passenger side window and called out across Red, “Hey guys ... what’s going on?”

  One guy took off running toward the beach house, the other approached the truck. He leaned in and said. “Somebody stole all our stuff last night. My buddy has gone to call the police.”

  Red and Nigel looked at each other, as the guy continued to speak. They were both thinking the same thing, but neither spoke a word. They turned their attention back to the guy when he said, “Everything. They took everything. Tents, chairs, coolers...”

  “Wait! Your coolers?” Red interrupted. “Holy shit. Did they have beer in them?”

  “Ah... yeah. Like probably at least a case or two. Plus, they took my fishing kayak.”

  Beneath a half-grin, Red mumbled, “Scandalous.”

  The guy continued, “And it isn’t just us either. The people that were set up on either side of us had all their stuff stolen too.” Pointing and waving his finger down the beach he said, “The guy over there had his fishing kayak stolen too.”

  Red said, “You can’t have stolen what you abandon and leave behind.”

  The guy tilted his head and gave Red a puzzled look. That’s when Nigel gave Red a gentle nudge with his elbow and said, “Enough, Red.”

  Red bent over and chuckled as if he’d been tickled. Nigel leaned over and spoke through the passenger-side window, “Sorry for your misfortune, dude. Good luck with the deputies.”

  Nigel eased on down the beach. After about a tenth of a mile Nigel and Red looked at each other and said, “Bucky,” in unison.

  Nigel said, “There is no way he did all this by himself.”

  “Bucky,” Red replied, “never does anything by himself.”

  This was true. And there was no need discussing who else was involved.

  Nigel motored on and Red leaned his head back for a little five-minute nap. With his eyes c
losed, Red said, “Let’s try marker 305. There’s bound to be fish there.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” Nigel looked through the rearview mirror at the beach and shoreline behind him. What once looked like a tent city for the homeless now looked like an inviting beach for the imagination. He said, “The beach does look good.”

  With his eyes still closed, Red said, “Yup. The boys did good.”

  The plot thickened as Nigel pulled off the beach and onto the Cape Road at Salinas Park. He was about to turn left and head to Red’s house, but, to the right, the flashing blue lights of two squad cars caught his attention.

  The Cape Road, or County Road 30E, begins as a road off County Road 30A and dead-ends into the gate of the Saint Joseph Peninsula State Park. At the intersection of 30A and 30E there is a spot off the side of the road, a super-wide shoulder. Locals often use this spot to peddle goods and services to the tourist crowd. One day it might be firewood for the beach, another it might be Tupelo Honey from Wewa, boiled peanuts, or fresh, head-on shrimp by the pound.

  Today it was none of those things. The side of the road looked like the camping section of a big-box department store. Tents, umbrellas, chairs, coolers, a couple of portable propane grills, and just about anything else you might need for a day at the beach. A four-by-eight sheet of plywood was painted dark blue. For Sale was written on the side with orange spray paint.

  Bucky, Sammy, and Blair were talking to two deputies while three other guys stood by their cars and watched. Red chuckled and said, “Good morning K-Mart shoppers. We have a Blue Light Special on aisle ten.”

  Nigel parked his truck by the other three cars. He noticed the tags: North Carolina, Nebraska, and Texas. Tourists. He and Red got out. Red went straight to browse through the merchandise. Always frugal ... no, cheap is more like it, Red always keeps an eye out for a value. Nigel stepped over to talk to the out-of-towners.

  All three of them wore angry faces and were planted to the dirt with a defiant stance, arms crossed tight across their chests. Nigel got in line and joined them, imitating their deportment. The guy closest to Nigel noticed him and asked, “Did you have all your shit stolen off the beach last night, too?”

  “Naw. I carried my shit off the beach and back to the house like I was supposed to.”

  The guy didn’t catch the verbal jab and said nothing, so Nigel continued, “So that’s what this is all about? These three stole your gear off the beach?”

  One of the other guys said, “We didn’t actually see them do it. They did it in the middle of the night. But that’s some of my stuff right there.” He used his fingers to point in a general direction.

  The guy on the far end yelled at Red in his thick Texan accent, “Hey, Fella! Hands off that Yeti cooler. It belongs to me!”

  Nigel looked down the row at Tex and asked, “You left a Yeti cooler on the beach? Now that was dumb.”

  Tex gave Nigel a go-to-hell stare, then turned his attention back to Red who was ignoring Tex and proceeding to open the cooler. “Did you not hear me? Leave the Yeti alone!”

  Red reached in and grabbed a cold beer, popped the top and yelled toward the squad car, “Hey Bucky! How much for the Yeti?”

  Bucky cupped his fingers around his mouth and yelled back, “Fifty bucks!”

  Red slammed the cooler shut and yelled back, “Highway Robbery, Buck. Too damn high.”

  Bucky yelled back, “It’s a three-hundred-and-fifty-dollar cooler if you bought it new. The price is fifty. Take it or leave it.”

  Tex exclaimed, “It’s not for sale, goddammit!”

  Nigel yelled at Red, “How much beer is in there?”

  Red opened the Yeti and riffled through the ice and cans. He stood up and called back, “About a case and a half.”

  Nigel pulled out his wallet and hollered at Bucky, “Hell, I’ll give you fifty for it, but the beer stays with the cooler.”

  Sammy entered the negotiations, “The beer is free, Mr. Logan. We can’t sell alcohol; we don’t have a permit.”

  The guy standing next to Nigel said, “I can’t believe this shit!”

  The deputy conducting the interview turned and said, “Would all of you just shut up for a minute?”

  Tex asked, “How much longer is this going to take?”

  “As long as we want it to,” replied the other deputy.

  The three men waited with much impatience and nervousness as the deputies finished up their discussions and as Red continued to riffle through the merchandise. Other folks, some locals and some tourists, had stopped to look at the stuff as well.

  Red came across a pair of Sperry Top-Sider flip-flops on the table. They were well broken in, but in excellent condition. He dropped them to the ground and slipped his feet into them. A perfect fit. He didn’t want to disturb the deputies again, so he pulled out his wallet and three dollars. He felt that was fair enough and left it on the table before continuing to browse.

  The meeting at the squad car broke and the deputies approached Nigel and the three other guys. As they got closer, the guy next to Nigel asked, “Why aren’t those little thieves cuffed and in the backseat of your car?”

  Nigel said, “You’re about to find out.”

  One deputy did all the talking. “The guys admit to taking the stuff off the beach after midnight. Does that sound about correct?”

  The three men looked at each other. They shrugged their shoulders and Tex spoke, “So they’ve confessed to stealing our stuff? Book them!”

  “That’s not exactly what I said. I said, ‘taking the stuff off the beach,’ not stealing.”

  The guy in the middle that hadn’t said anything to this point asked, “What’s the difference?”

  “The question of ownership,” said the deputy. “You see, we have a Leave No Trace ordinance here which makes it unlawful for folks to stage their gear on the beach all night.” Using his thumb to point over his shoulder at Bucky and the gang, he continued, “The kids there argue that possession is ninety-nine percent of the law and when you walked away at the end of the day, you were abandoning your gear, making it available for picking and ... crap. What did he call it?”

  The deputy had to think. The phrase had escaped him. He looked at the other deputy for help. The other deputy smiled back and that was enough to restart his memory. “...Profitable repurposing. Yeah, that’s what they called it. Profitable repurposing. I wonder where they heard that?” And the deputy gave his head a slow turn to cut a glance at Nigel.

  One of the tourist asked, “But what about our stuff?”

  The deputy maintained eye contact with Nigel and answered, “The guys have agreed to sell the stuff back to you at deep discounts.”

  “You got to be shitting me,” said Tex.

  “Another tourist asked, “So, they ain’t going to jail?”

  “No. They ain’t going to jail. And you can bet the farm they’ll be back out on the beach tonight.”

  Nigel pursed his lips and held his breath as he felt his eyebrows lift. “Well,” said Nigel. “I guess that settles that. I better collect my partner and get going.” Nigel walked away calling out, “Hey Bucky! Let’s settle up on that Yeti cooler!”

  Tom and the Pygmy

  Nigel was enjoying a deep, coma-like sleep until the depth of his slumber was shallowed by the distant sound of a rattlesnake. Where was it? It didn’t seem to matter. All of a sudden, he was lying in the weeds, listening. He sat up and looked around. An image began to materialize. It was of a skinny, black fella in dreadlocks. He looked familiar, a past enemy perhaps. They were in a swamp. The black guy was standing by the water’s edge; the sound of the rattler got louder and louder. Nigel squinted for a better look, but it didn’t help. Then, sounding like a scared woman, the dark fella spoke in a quiet, panicked tone. “Nigel ... Nigel ... Please Nigel. Wake up, Nigel. Help me.”

  Thinking first of a snake bite, Nigel jerked and his eyes sprung open the second he felt something grab his arm. He stared at the ceiling to gather his wits, p
anting, allowing his eyes to adjust. But the sound of the rattler continued and the grip around his arm drew tighter as he heard Candice plead, “Honey. Please, get it off of me.”

  Nigel was waking up fast. He turned his head to look at his best girl and couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “Don’t move. You hear me?”

  “Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Just stay perfectly still. He doesn’t mean anything by it. He’s just showing off. I’m going to turn on the lamp so I can see.”

  Nigel reached over toward the nightstand and said, “Close your eyes.” Click. The room filled with light.

  Sitting proudly on Candice’s stomach and looking her in the eye was Tom, Nigel’s cat. He was eager to share yet another trophy. Most often, it is a dead rodent of some sort left on the back steps. This time though, Tom brought his good work into the house alive. He looked to be smiling as he held the pygmy rattler between his teeth. He gently held the snake right behind its head, the rest of its body trailed along looking to escape, wrapping itself around Tom’s neck and always flicking its tail.

  Tom turned his head to look at Nigel. “Whatcha got there, boy?” Then he gave out a slight chuckle and followed by saying, “Don’t answer that. You might drop it.”

  “This isn’t funny, dammit,” Candice added, her eyes still closed.

  Nigel got up and walked around to Candice’s side of the bed. Tom looked up at him, with tail wagging. There was just enough space behind the puffy cheeks of the snake that Nigel could get a grip. He reached down and petted Tom on top of his head. Tom pressed back against his fingers. “Now, let me have the snake, Tom.”