by Winton, Tom
The torrential rain made visibility almost non-existent. I tightened my damp grip on the wheel then leaned towards the windshield as a set of oncoming headlights approached. After they passed by us, I seriously considered pulling onto the road shoulder and waiting for the storm to pass. But I didn’t. We needed to get where we were going pronto, even though it was impossible to drive faster than twenty-five miles per hour. As I plowed on into the storm and darkness, Julie and I were too deep in our own disturbing thoughts to say much. The few times we did talk it was in a rat-a-tat-tat, rapid-fire exchange of nervous words. By the time we approached the Boca Chica Channel Bridge neither of us had uttered a single word for at least ten minutes, or so it seemed. But, just as we drove onto the structure, we finally came out of the rain and Julie broke that silence.
“God,” she said, turning her face toward me, “Buster better be alright. He doesn’t deserve any of this crap.”
“No he doesn’t. I don’t know if we’re going to find him down here, but I just feel like we have to keep moving, looking – doing something. There was no way I was going to just sit around Wrecker’s and wait.”
With the rain behind us now and the roads dry we got to Hugs and Jugs in no time. Slowly we motored through several rows of parked cars and pickups, my eyes flicking back and forth at each and every one of them. After checking out the main parking area in front of the dive, I had to stop short for two men. Seemingly appearing out of nowhere, they swayed and stumbled their way through the beams of my headlights. Now they were in no hurry. Both of them dressed in grungy work uniforms they then stopped for a moment – right smack in front of my van. All lit up now, in more ways than one, they each took a slug from the same bottle of cheap rum. One said something; they laughed hysterically, patted each other’s back, slipped fives, and only then finally headed for the doorway again. They didn’t know we existed. Julie and I just shook our heads as I steered around to the side of the building. Buster’s truck wasn’t there either. Neither was Topper’s Benz nor Blackburn’s burgundy beater.
As soon as I turned back onto the boulevard I glanced at Julie. Still silent, her distraught face was lit a surreal pink from the giant neon dancer on the sign to her right. I was even sorrier now that I had allowed her to come along. I hated the idea of bringing her to where I had to go next.
“I knew that would be too easy,” I said as we picked up speed. “Now there’s no choice. As much as I hate to we’ve got to go Stock Island and look around there.”
Buster had told me there were some really trashy trailer parks on Stock Island. And that he’d bet anything Blackburn was holed up in one of them. He also said a couple of those parks were so nasty that even the local police made every possible effort to avoid them at night.
A few blocks past the “Purple Conch” – that sleazy saloon Buster had pointed out to me the night before, we came up on a rundown trailer park. When we reached the far end of it, I turned right off of US 1 then made another right onto the first narrow, unlit street running through the park. I did not want to be where I was, particularly with Julie sitting alongside me. I deeply regretted caving into her. When she had insisted on coming with me at the bar, I should have put my foot down. I should have said no.
With the van’s windows wide open, I slowly drove through a tight maze of small, rickety trailers. Most had lights on and windows open. Here and there, a few of the more fortunate residents had small air-conditioners jutting from their windows.
“We’re looking for a ’67 or ‘68 Chevy pickup, burgundy,” I said, as I carefully steered between two tight rows of time-worn jalopies. “Do you know what they look like?”
“Not really, but I’ll know what an old burgundy pickup looks like when I see one.”
“Good point. I’m sorry ... I’m just a little uptight is all.”
“Oh, Sonny, I’m scared sick for Buster.”
“I don’t like the smell of things either, but let’s not let our minds run away with themselves right now. The first thing we have to do is try to ... ” Right then my mouth suddenly froze and I stopped talking midsentence. I noticed something in the conical beam of my headlights. It was down at the end of the road – parked on a cross street – the side of a pickup truck. Still saying nothing, I craned my neck forward toward the windshield. My heart started thumping uncontrollably. I thought it would bust through my rib cage. I could feel my pulse pounding in my temples as well.
“What is it?” Julie blurted in a tone jolting with concern. “What in hell’s the matter?”
It was a red pickup, and definitely a Ford.
Immediately I stomped down on the gas pedal and the words gushed out of me.
“UP AHEAD – IT’S BUSTER’S TRUCK!”
With hot adrenalin flooding my arms, I jockeyed through the passageway of cars faster than the most reckless of New York taxi drivers.
Buster’s pickup was parked perpendicular to the road, on a grassy shoulder skirting a canal. It was desolate back there, and both doors were wide open. The rays from the van’s headlights shone clear through the empty cab, penetrating the haunting mangroves behind it and settling on the pitch-black water.
I killed the lights, yanked the steering wheel hard to the left and pulled onto the grass in front of the truck.
“Hand me that gun, Julie!” I said, slamming the gearshift into park before killing the engine.
“I don’t like this one bit!” she said as she bent over and carefully fished the loaded gun out of the storage compartment behind her feet.
“Not now, Julie!” I demanded in a loud, no-nonsense whisper.
Fully extending her arm, she held the heavy paper bag out as if it were a bomb that could go off at any second.
“See if there’s a flashlight in there too,” I whispered in a lower tone now as my eyes searched beneath the moonlit trees outside the van.
Julie quickly sifted through road maps, spare fuses, an owner’s manual and whatever else I had in there before coming up with the flashlight. She turned it on, but it was a no go.
“Let me see it,” I said.
With shaky hands I unscrewed the lens and rearranged the batteries – still nothing. I gave it a couple of quick raps on my open hand but that didn’t get it to work either. Dropping the useless thing headfirst into a drink holder between the seats, I said, “Come on!”
We dashed through the weeds and sandspurs over to Buster’s truck. I put my hand on its hood – still warm. It hadn’t been parked there long.
“Oh God! Blood!” Julie yelped, as she touched a dark, wet steak on the vinyl passenger seat.
“Shhh!” I said, switching off the safety on the Smith and Wesson.
Other than the muffled sound of a television coming from one of the trailers back up the road, the only thing audible was the faint buzz of a revved up outboard somewhere out on the dark channel. An outsized full moon helped us see through the tangles of branches and mangrove roots – out to a narrow strip of shoreline along the water. The damned no-see-ums were everywhere. Continually swatting at a cloud of them in front of my perspiring face, I pushed through the mangroves to the shoreline. Julie was right behind me.
We’d only taken a few steps along the water’s edge when she tapped me firmly on the shoulder, twice. As I stopped and turned to her, she raised an index finger said in a spooked whisper, “Listen. What’s that?’”
There was an ever-so-slight rustling in the mangroves. It only lasted a second or two and then it stopped. Standing dead still with our eyes locked on each other’s, we strained to hear.
“Maybe a raccoon or something,” I said in a hushed voice.
“Shhh! I don’t think so!”
Then we heard something else – a weak, barely-distinguishable wheeze.
Then it ceased.
Julie’s eyes were open so wide now I could see the moon’s reflection in them. Brushing her back gently with one arm, I drew the 38 and pointed it at whatever was in there. We took a couple of tentative steps b
ack into the mangrove trees, and then we saw it! A man was lying in there, among the countless long, airborne roots that had been exposed by the receded tide. He was big man, a big motionless man, and he was flat on his back in the darkness.
Moving forward one more step, holding onto a thick limb with one hand for support, I aimed the shaking pistol at the body just in case. Closer now, my eyes focused better, I could see long damp tangles of hair lying over his face. The wet locks were peppered with sand, and they were blond.
“My good god!” I cried out as if in excruciating pain, “Noooo! It’s Buster!”
Chapter 16
Buster’s lips were slightly parted. Rivulets of blood crawled from the corners of his mouth down both sides of his chin. His eyes were swollen shut.
I quickly bent over and pressed my trembling fingertips firmly on his neck. No pulse – nothing! I pushed harder, feeling around for his jugular. And then, when I had just about lost hope, I did found a pulse. It was ever so weak, but it was there.
Julie and I each grabbed a limp ankle and dragged Buster, inches at a time, out of the maze of roots and branches. We had to stop and catch our breaths a few times, but we managed to get him alongside the van. As Julie dropped to her knees beside him, weeping as if she were at his funeral, I hurriedly searched my pockets for my keys.
“Oh God!” Julie cried out. She was panting hard, trying to catch her breath while holding Buster’s heavy head and pushing his hair back from his slack face. “Hurry, Sonny!”
I rushed to the back of the van, unlocked the doors and opened them wide as they would go. I don’t know how I did it, let alone Julie, but by grasping Buster under his massive arms we managed to lift his bulk high enough so that his upper body rested on the van’s carpeted floor. I then vaulted inside and pulled while Julie lifted his legs. When we finally did get him inside, Julie climbed in back next to Buster saying, “I’ll stay here with him.”
I tore out of there like right now. Speeding recklessly, I ran every stop sign and red light until we skidded to a stop in front of the emergency entrance of the hospital.
“I’ll be right back!” I told Julie without turning around. “And open those doors!”
Not taking time to close my own door behind me, I bolted for the glass entryway.
In no time at all two men who were dressed like doctors but really weren’t, wheeled Buster’s lifeless body inside on an aluminum gurney. I helped push the thing as well, but I did not like feeling the chill of the metal rail in my hands. Sure, I well knew it was cold because of the hospital’s super-cool air-conditioning, but it put me to mind of the gurneys they used in another very cold place.
Once we got Buster inside, an ER nurse immediately fitted him with an oxygen mask and they whisked him away. As soon as he was out of sight Julie asked a nurse if she could use a telephone.
“Do you want me to call Pa?” I asked as we stood at the end of the admission counter.
“No,” she said, shaking her head vigorously as she dialed Barnacle Bell’s number.
“Hello Pa,” she said, looking at me for strength. “Yes, we found him, but he’s hurt pretty bad. He’s ... well, he’s unconscious, but we’re at the hospital on Stock Island. They just wheeled him away ... Okay, we’ll see you when you get here. Please, Pa, be careful driving. They’re going to do everything they can. The main thing is that we got him here ... Okay, bye.”
“He’s coming right down,” Julie said, pushing aside a strand of black hair from her face.
Seeing her so frazzled with worry tore at me inside. I wanted to put my arms around her, hold her close and come up with something assuring to say, but I didn’t. I just couldn’t. As great as we had been getting along again, there was still a voice in my head saying, “Hold back! Don’t set her up for another letdown. You know damn well you could never overlook her ... her handicap.”
The best I could do was gently take her by the elbow, nod at the rows of blue plastic chairs in the waiting area, and say, “Come on, Julie. Let’s sit over there.”
The place reeked of antiseptic. The PA squawked out codes and called the names of doctors. RNs and LPNs dashed back and forth, orderlies pushed metal carts along the white tiled floor. It was a busy night. Everything moved quickly – everything except the time it took for Pa to get there. All Julie and I did was sit and worry. We didn’t talk much. The few times we did exchange a few words there was always a long lull in the conversation afterwards. Deep as we both dug into our minds during those silent periods, neither of us could come up with a single optimistic thing to say. No part of this horrible mess looked good. Buster; Pa, my and Julie’s future together, the future of Flagler’s Key, the reoccurring vision of my naked wife on my thirty-ninth birthday – all of it was weighing heavy on me.
Finally, after about a half hour, Pa came through the entrance with Jackie and Fred.
“What do you know?” Pa asked, desperately searching Julie’s eyes then mine.
“He doesn’t look good. We haven’t heard anything yet,” was all Julie could come up with.
She looked like she was going to break out in tears any second so I explained, “We went to a trailer park here on Stock Island because Cap Forest said Blackburn lived in one. We were driving through it and found Buster’s pickup at the end of a road, next to a canal. We found him way back in a bunch of thick mangroves. He was ... he was barely breathing, Pa.”
The scared look on the old seaman’s face intensified. I swear I could feel the cold, dark chill over his spirit thickening. Nobody said anything for a moment. I just looked down at my feet.
“Obviously you didn’t have time to look for Blackburn,” Jackie said, as if he were asking me a question.
“No, but he had to have been there. Both of the truck’s doors were open.”
“And, the passenger seat was ... it was all bloody,” Julie added.
“I think Blackburn thought Buster was finished,” I chimed in. “He drove over there to dump him in the canal. But Buster must have come to, and even though he was hurting, he managed to get himself out of the water. He probably thought he’d take cover in the mangroves in case Blackburn came back.”
“Sounds logical,” Fred Sampson said.
“I want to talk to that nurse over there,” Pa said. “Be right back.”
“Be careful, she’s a witch! I already had it out with her,” I said.
We all watched as Pa spoke to the nurse at the counter. He looked ten years older than when Julie and I had spoken to him at the bar just a few hours earlier. For the first time since I met him he wasn’t standing tall and strong. Even though he had his back to us now I could see his shoulders were hunched forward and his head was slung real low. The way he had both hands flat on the mica counter, I thought he might have needed the extra support to hold himself up.
When Pa turned around and walked back over to us he looked as though he’d been drained of all his blood.
“He’s very critical,” he said, and a tear fell onto the white-tiled floor. Julie put her arms around him and held him as he went on, “His skull’s fractured. He’s got some broken ribs too ... one of ’em punctured a lung, and he’s got contusions all over his body. It, it doesn’t look good. He’s in a coma. Excuse me.”
Gently he withdrew himself from Julie’s arms. With his head still hanging low, he walked directly outside to the parking lot. Tears were streaming his worried face.
“Let’s give him some space,” Jackie said, “I’ve seen a lot of grieving relatives react to trauma when I was on the job in Brooklyn. Pa’s got to let the initial shock and emotion drain itself, then he’ll start to regain strength and hope. It’s gotta run its course.”
“He’s strong, but he’s also old,” Julie said. Her eyes were all welled up too. “What would he do if Buster d ... if something happened to him?”
“For starters, let’s just hope for the best,” I said. “If, God forbid, the worst were to happen we’ll deal with it then. In the meantime, Buster’s
still alive. And he’s where he needs to be.”
“You’re right,” Fred added. “Let’s try not to put ourselves through any additional emotional burdens before they’re necessary.”
Julie had been glancing back and forth at those glass doors. Now, quickly dabbing her eyes with a Kleenex, she said, “Here comes Pa. Let’s be strong for him.”
“Sit here, Pa,” I said when he rejoined us. “How about I run out and try to find some fresh coffee?”
Pa did sit down. Then the old conch looked up at me through glazed, red eyes and said, “Thanks anyway, why don’t you all get back to Wreckers and get some sleep instead? I’m gonna stay here the night.”
None of us challenged his wishes. We looked at each other, nodding in agreement, and then Julie said, “O.k., Pa. Sure. But you call me later if you change your mind, I’ll come right back down and get you. Otherwise, I’ll be back in the morning.”
Pa agreed, and we all shuffled outside into the lighted parking lot. With our voices echoing in the still night air, we stood by Jackie’s van as he boarded the wheelchair lift. When the platform began to elevate him he said, “You need to go to the police, Sonny. You know more about the bastard who’s responsible for this than any of us.”
“I know ... I’ve got to do something.”
Julie didn’t like the way I said that. After searching my eyes for a short moment, she slowly pronounced and spaced each word when she said, “What-do-you-mean-by-that?”
“Nothing!” I snapped. Then I said with finality, “I just want to get back to my trailer and try to get some rest. I’ve got to get up early for work tomorrow.” I blamed myself for what had happened to Buster. My only hope for a semblance of self-redemption was to somehow fix this mess.
“Don’t get any crazy ideas,” Julie said, coming off a little angry now.
“Good night, guys,” I said, putting an end to the discussion. Then I put my palm on Julie’s lower back and led her to my van.
“Good night Jackie, Fred,” Julie said, looking back at them and then at the hospital one last time.
