by Scott Cook
Although the rain had abated up in Orlando, it began again in earnest as I neared Fort Myers on I-75. It was heavy and relentless and the traffic in both the south and north-bound lanes slowed to well below the speed limit. Murky and indistinct lines of headlights materialized out of the south and every so often, I’d pass or be passed by a car with their yellow emergency flashers breaking through the watery haze like navigational beacons.
When I left the interstate and got onto Highway 41, the north-south section of the Tamiami Trail, things changed and the night closed in even further. The four-lane road was slick and shiny in my headlights and the occasional… very occasional at eleven at night… headlights of an oncoming vehicle. Beyond the edges of the road and outside the scope of my own headlights, the world was little more than a collection of shadows broken by deeper shadows or the absence of them, denoting open land beyond.
I felt cloaked in a lead blanket of isolation, perhaps even desolation. It began to affect my expectations as well. Here I was, driving into the dead of night on a crazy errand to meet a man I’d never actually seen with no real contact until I arrived. What would I find? What did he look like? Was this a trap?
I had my Spotify playlist, Aquatopia, the Official Scott Jarvis Playlist going, and Jimmy Buffett was singing Coast of Marseilles. The song was slow and tender, and yet in this cold winter rain, it suddenly seemed inappropriate the closer I got to my destination. I paused the music and drove the last few minutes in silence, alone with my thoughts.
When I saw the lights of the small gas station at the intersection of the Tamiami Trail and County Road 751, my apprehension solidified into something I could sink my teeth into. I’d been there before, back in the late summer, and the memories of that night and of what had happened were probably coloring my perceptions a little. The intersection sat out in what seemed like a very wide-open space. It was surrounded by sawgrass and the occasional cypress or hardwood hammock. I’m sure that in the daytime, one could look out over the Everglades and specifically the Big Cypress National Preserve and see all sorts of interesting things out to the horizon.
However, on this dark and stormy night, there was no horizon. There was little to be perceived beyond the single streetlight at the corner and the glowing Shell sign in front of the station and the lights from within the small store. There wasn’t even a cover over the four pumps, all of which were vacant at that time. The entire place seemed deserted, in fact. No cars were visible from my westward approach. Not much of a surprise at nearly midnight… yet I thought I’d see some sign of life at least.
I doused my headlights and slowed, approaching the station at a crawl and allowing myself time to scope it. Even with my night vision monocular, there was little more to see than a grey-green scene that wasn’t any different than what the lights showed my unassisted eyes. I pulled in and parked near the edge of the lot, in a position where I could see both the front and back of the station. The parking lot was very large, big enough for tractor trailers to pull in. It gave the impression that the small building was floating on a vast sea of concrete in the midst of a barren desert or vast sea.
At least I could see several cars now. My night vision showed me three vehicles parked in the rear. One beat up old sedan, a very large SUV that could be a Suburban, Navigator or some other gas-guzzling monstrosity. There was also a fairly new Ford F-150 parked there as well. I don’t know why, but I found that odd. At least one of those vehicles belonged to the attendant, I was sure. Yet if the other two were patronizing the business, then why not park in the half dozen spaces along the store’s frontage? Why park in back and have to run through the rain to get inside?
I was faced with something of a conundrum. Before leaving my house, I’d slipped into the overall portion of my foul weather gear. I now wriggled into the jacket and zipped it up. With the high trouser and coverall section that strapped under the jacket to my shoulders, I would be relatively dry from head to ankle. I was happy for that, as I’d had enough of getting soaked in cold rain for one night. The problem was that the pants and jacket were, not to beat a dead horse here… a very bright yellow. Great for being spotted on deck or if one plummeted into the briny deep… not so good for skulking around in the darkness. Even the meagerest light would pick me out like a glowing beacon in the night.
“Fuck it,” I grumbled and opened my phone app. I scrolled to the number that Rick Eagle Feather had used to call me and dialed.
No answer. I frowned and decided to leave a message anyway.
“It’s Jarvis… I’m here,” Was all I said.
I hung up and waited. It was still ten minutes to twelve. Perhaps he hadn’t gotten there yet. Or perhaps one of those vehicles was his and he was waiting for me. Or maybe something less savory had already occurred and I was just sitting on my dumb ass letting precious time flow past. Not unlike the fat drops that cascaded down my windshield, tracing kaleidoscopic rivulets that glowed from the distant streetlight. I watched them. I watched them so intently that they began to entrance me. The rivers of rainwater marched down the glass inexorably, unceasingly… flowing past and disappearing… as if they were the manifestation of time itself.
“Fuck it,” I said again. I patted the 1911 I carried in its shoulder holster, tightened the strap of the monocular over my eye, pulled up and cinched the foulie hood and stepped out into the storm.
The most frustrating aspect of this scenario was that there was simply no way to sneak up on those vehicles. Beyond the open concrete lot that surrounded the station was knee-high scrub, a few small patches of palmettos and then most likely an enormous vast open sea of saw grass. Stealth was simply not in the cards. I therefore opted for boldness.
I withdrew my 1911, racked the slide and strode purposefully across the pavement toward the three vehicles. They were all parked side by side with no space in between which struck me as mildly odd in itself.
Human beings, who are pack animals, have an odd tendency to do that. Our innate desire to be part of the pack leads many people, even unconsciously, to join a gathering in almost every form you can conceive. Anchor your boat all by itself at the sandbar and sure as a gun, the next boater will moor right next to you. Stand at a doorway for any length of time and you’ll discover that people are lined up behind you.
And park your car all by itself in a parking lot and the next two vehicles will pull in right beside you. All in the back of the lot rather than in front of the store, too.
Bullshit.
There was something funny about this and my hackles were definitely raised. I angled my approach so that I was as far from the back of the station as I could get. With my night vision, I could clearly see a set of three doors there. Two for the restrooms no doubt and one that was either the back entrance to the store or some kind of utility area. In any case, three good places for baddies to leap out at me with weapons raised.
I crouched low and jogged up to the first vehicle, the old sedan. A quick glance inside showed me that there was nobody hiding in the car. I moved around the front and determined nobody was crouched down between it and what I thought might be Rick’s truck. Nobody in there and nobody in the bed either.
I tried the driver’s door and found it unlocked. When I opened it, a waft of lightly scented air tickled my nostrils. There was a hint of linseed oil, gun oil and a suggestion of something earthy. A working man’s truck. A working man who prided himself on keeping his personal spaces clean but still carried with them the telltales of new leather and someone who liked to shoot.
This had to be Uncle Rick’s truck. He wasn’t in it, though. I wanted to dig around to confirm my suspicions, but my little voice was beginning to clear its throat and hint that I was now partly inside a small space. Trapped in other words.
I backed out of the cab and closed the door, moving around the hood toward the SUV. The warning my amygdala was now broadcasting was loud and clear. Something was definitely wrong here. If this was Rick’s truck, and he’d gone inside for smo
kes or something, then he’d have parked in front. I backed away from the SUV’s hood, got low and reached up with my left hand to activate the monocular’s thermal option. Suddenly, the gray-green world in my left eye went dark, or at least as dark as the rest of reality, and two very bright blobs that closely resembled the form of human beings materialized in my scope. Two men sat in the darkened SUV… and there was another, less distinct blob that seemed to be behind them.
I pushed the monocular up off my eye and gazed at the big dark SUV for a long moment. Without the enhancement of the device, the vehicle looked empty. One man had appeared to be sitting in the front passenger’s seat and the other on the driver’s side, but further back. That meant at least one more man somewhere.
“Let’s go!” I shouted at them from my position ten feet away. I rose to my full height and pointed my gun at the vehicle. “Both of you come out with your hands where I can see them.”
They didn’t react at all. Probably didn’t think I could really see them in the darkness.
“I can see you in there,” I said loudly. Certainly loud enough to be heard over the rain, “Exit the vehicle or I’ll start shooting! NOW!”
The passenger door opened and a short thick set man stepped out into the rainy night with his hands raised to shoulder height. He wore all black, naturally, and gazed at me with a bland and unreadable expression on his wide face. Mostly unreadable because the only light source was coming from the front of the station.
“Your friend too,” I growled.
“Come on out, Stank,” the man said in a voice that was oddly high pitched for someone with such a wide chest.
Stank?
The other goon stepped out of the rear driver’s side and came close to the front corner of the SUV. He too was dressed in black. This one was tall and thin and wore a leather ball cap over a shaved head that was shiny in the dim illumination. I guessed he was black since I couldn’t make out any other features.
“The fuck is this, man?” Stank said in a deep baritone that belied his body shape too.
“A stickup. Both of you put your hands on the hood. Nice and easy, like. One false move and I ventilate ya’,” Yeah, I know it’s cheesy… but how often do you get the chance to bring out some solid old-time gangster movie dialogue? “Who ya’ got in the back there?”
“Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, Mister,” The squatty guy piped. “We’re just waitin’ out the storm here.”
“Yeah,” Stank added disdainfully. “We mindin’ our own motherfuckin’ business.”
“Uh-huh,” I replied. “Where’s the third guy, Stank. And how the hell did you earn that nickname anyway?”
“From the stank on my cock after pullin’ it out yo’ mama’s ass,” Stank thugged. He talked like a gang banger. Or maybe what he thought a gangster should sound like.
“Charming,” I derided. “And what’s your name, Chief? Shit stain or ball bag breath or what?”
“That’s Carver,” Stank sneered.
“First or last?” I asked, starting to enjoy this in spite of everything. There was something about the witty banter you could find when speaking with henchmen that really roused the spirit.
“Nah… they call me Carver cuz’ I like to carve things,” Carver said wickedly. “Like smart-ass private eyes and shit.”
“What a strange and specific example,” I said lightly. “And what do you know! I just so happen to be a smart-ass private eye. What are the odds that you guessed that in one?”
Stank chuffed, “Shit…”
“Who’s in the back and where’s your driver?” I asked more forcefully. “It’s late, it’s wet and I’m not in the mood, boys. Answer me or I’ll just shoot the two of you fuck sticks and, although the world at large will no doubt miss your razor-sharp wit, it’ll be the better for the loss.”
“We don’t know what— “
I interrupted Carver’s denial with three shots from my Colt. The big .45 slugs punched through the SUV’s grill and lodged somewhere in the engine. Hopefully at least one made it past the radiator.
“What the fuck!” Carver whined.
“You fuckin’ crazy crackuh!” Stank grumbled. “You gonna get a cap in yo’ ass for that!”
“Tsk, tsk,” I said. “That’s racially insensitive. The next time I pull this trigger, Stank, it’s gonna be to put a cap in you. Now fuckin’ TALK!”
They just stared. Buying time no doubt. Sooner or later, the third man would come out of one of the bathrooms or from around the front of the store and things could get more interesting. I had to do something fast.
“Get over next to your boyfriend,” I said to Stank, waving my gun for emphasis.
He didn’t move so I placed a bullet just behind his left heel. The man jumped and walked around the front of the SUV to stand next to Carver.
“See how easy that was?” I asked. “It’s just better to do as I say, kids. Now walk around to the back of the car and open the cargo hatch.”
“You gonna pay for this, Jarvis,” Stank threatened.
“You don’t know who you’re screwing with here,” Carver added.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah… I’m quaking in my kicks,” I sneered.
Stank laughed sardonically, “It ain’t us you gotta worry about, nigga.”
“That’s right,” Carver said as they moved before me to the rear of the vehicle. “We may or may not be the ones to slice you up… but it’s who pays our bills you should really worry about.”
“Open the goddamned door,” I ordered. “And who might your boss be, Carver?”
Stank pushed a button recessed above the license plate and the big cargo hatch began to rise on electric servos, “Don’t worry bout it, nigga. You gonna find out soon enough.”
“I’m lookin’ forward to it, honky,” I replied with a grin.
Stank looked confused.
“Well,” I explained. “you keep calling me nigga, a common slur for a black person, so I figured I’d be fair and call you a common slur for a white person. Honestly, I have to admire your sense of equality, Stinky. I’m impressed. Are you on the Facebook? We should friend each other.”
Carver actually snickered and Stank now looked pissed, “Fuck you, man.”
“Well… let’s start with status updates and see where it takes us… untie him,” I said, pointing into the capacious interior. A man was curled up on his side facing away from me. He looked to be a sizable man with longish black hair. He wore jeans, boots and a jean jacket. A black Stetson lay not far from his head. I couldn’t be sure, but I’d bet dollars to navy beans it was Rick Eagle Feather.
“He ain’t tied,” Stank said with another sneer.
“Really?” I asked indignantly. “You kidnap this guy and just leave him unfettered? That’s just asking for trouble, gents.”
Stank scoffed, “He just an old man… ain’t no problem for us, nigga.”
Although it’s almost cliché for anybody telling a story to use a phrase like, “That’s when things went bad.” Or “It was at this point that all hell broke loose…” yet the fact of the matter is that this is what happened. Several things transpired simultaneously that turned an otherwise pleasant evening into a jumbled cluster-fudge… as so often is the case.
11
Scraped from the adventures of the world’s baddest-assed chica
Lisa’s Journal Entry 3
It was still a dark and stormy night... hee-hee-hee!
I know this is gonna come as like… the biggest shock of your young life, my treasured and loyal reader… but Scott has once again raced off into the damned night. Once again leaving his brilliant and sexy GF to fend for herself. I mean… cook my own dinner? WTF? Oh yeah, and I’ll probably get a freakin’ ulcer worrying about him.
On the other hand… in the interest of fairness… I’m not exactly an innocent bystander in that regard anymore. I have, on the rare occasion, taken off on my own to confront a dirty private dick… hehehe… traveled to the wild jungles of Ce
ntral America to infiltrate a rebel base… alone… Oh, and I’ve also gone and gotten myself blown up, confronted a potentially dangerous gang of shrimp fishermen… and gone to sea on a daring stormy night rescue.
…To rescue Scott. So that one was his fault.
You see there? I’m not just a two-dimensional broad only concerned with shoes, makeup, TV and tittering about boys. I also shoot people, kick them in the jimmy and do other exciting action-hero type thingies.
I blame Scott… have I mentioned that before? LOL.
Not to be outdone, and to get on with this, I was even now… I mean at the time of living this out… racing off into the night on a dangerous mission of detectiveing. I was headed back for the Davenport area to see if I could lay eyes on this cemetery security guard who’d pulled a gun on my baby. I wanted to see what he was up to and if I could unravel what was quickly becoming a strange, confusing, and Scooby-Doo like case.
I mean what the H? First some dork steals some documents from Virginia Chandler. Then some other dorks dig up a bunch of dead bodies for some weird reason. Then several skinheads, gang bangers, tweakers… more dorks… or whatever the hell confront me and my man and are all like, “You guys better mind your P’s and Q’s if’n you know what’s good for ya’.” Paraphrasing.
Which, of course, for people like Scott and me, is going to work out just fine, right? I mean, why wouldn’t people who took the time to become detectives get even more intrigued on a case where unknown goons warn them off? It’s not like that’s a ginormous signal or anything!
I guess part of me will never understand the criminal mind. It’s like… they’re trying to get away with something and rather than keeping their big fat tostone crunchers shut… like that one? Cuz I’m Cuban and we eat fried plantains… they go around making a big noise about it! What’s up with that? After all, surely these dudes aren’t working on their own. Surely there is a big cheese behind all this shit. So far, none of them seem all that bright. And I don’t know… but my gut says Scott and I are only beginning to peel the layers off a big, and let’s not forget stinky, onion.
