“Already taken care of.” The corners of his mouth twitched. “Tell the Spudster good-bye for me.”
“That was another smile, right?”
“Yes,” he said and vanished.
Ox and I got my dripping, muddy father and his friends loaded into Bobby’s van. I drove them to the Block and Ox followed in his truck. A chorus of sirens grew loud as fire engines, police, harbor patrol boats, and seemingly anyone else with a set of strobe lights bolted to their vehicle passed us in the opposite direction, headed toward the SS Cape Pelican.
FIFTY-SEVEN
Nearly a month had passed since John Mason died while trying to kill me and I hadn’t heard anything further from my former SWEET handler. I took it as a sign that my callback to duty was over and declared an official retirement celebration at the Block.
Lindsey and her new best friend, Cindy, played pool on the brand-new coin-operated table that they’d convinced Ox to install, and with fully functioning and healthy reproductive systems, the girls played eight ball. They were two of the first to be injected with the Antisis antidote. Dr. Pam Warner had called earlier in the morning to report Lindsey’s current test results as perfectly normal. It was as though she’d never had any problems to begin with, Pam said, and if she hadn’t overseen the testing herself, she wouldn’t have believed it.
Ox’s arm around my shoulders, we watched a national news report on a wall-mounted television while we waited for everyone to arrive. An evening news reporter smiled at us. “In other news, Edward Charles Holloman, inventor of the wildly successful product Derma-Zing, was indicted today on federal tax-evasion and money-laundering charges. He faces up to thirty years in prison.”
“That’s right, Susan,” the co-anchor said. “Viewers may remember that just last month, there was a worldwide recall of Derma-Zing, due to side effects including possible skin irritation.”
One half of a two-shot, the woman on television nodded to her viewing audience. “Ironically, David, Derma-Zing has since been independently tested and proven to be perfectly safe. It’s back on the market and Gail Sanders, marketing director for Derma-Zing, reports that sales of the tattoo-like, nonpermanent body art kits are stronger than ever. Sanders said that starter kits with three tubes of color are being offered absolutely free for the next thirty days, in an unprecedented promotion. Anyone wanting a free kit should visit the product’s Web site or go to a store where the product is sold. The free gift is a way to compensate fans of Derma-Zing who were affected by the recall, according to Sanders.”
The male anchor stared straight into the camera. “The company’s founder may not get to enjoy Derma-Zing’s success, however, if he gets the maximum prison term on the unrelated charges. Our independent panel of prosecutors believes that he will, indeed, be incarcerated for a long time. Tune in at eleven tonight for that exclusive.”
The anchor tossed to a weatherman and I looked at Ox in disbelief. “They’ve put the antidote in the new Derma-Zing.”
Ox nodded. “Avoid a public scare that way.”
“And they’ve manufactured fake charges against Holloman.”
Ox nodded again. “A good way to put him behind bars without letting parents know that Holloman tried to sterilize their daughters.”
“Our government is nuts,” I said.
Ox caressed the back of my neck. “Sometimes, yes.”
I wondered where Peggy Lee Cooke would end up, but something told me that her life would turn out just fine. She was confined to a psychiatric facility, where she would undergo counseling during the term of her pregnancy. But thanks to a plea bargain, she and her new baby would be released once she was deemed a nonthreat to society.
JJ and Rita arrived with some friends I didn’t know. Cracker pranced at our feet, and when Dirk and Soup showed up, Ruby made sure everyone had a drink in hand so they could toast to my bona fide retirement—the same retirement that had been slyly evading me for months.
Spud, his three poker buddies, and his new girlfriend ambled in from the Block’s outdoor patio, carrying an assortment of walking aids and frozen drinks. Somebody made a second toast to include them and afterward, my father handed me an envelope.
“This was just delivered by a courier,” he said.
I opened the envelope to find two checks. One, made out to me, read eleven thousand dollars—a lump-sum payment from the government for my contract job. The second check, signed with the same automated script from a laser writer, was made out to my father for thirty thousand dollars.
He snatched the check out of my hands. “It’s about time, for crying out loud.”
I almost dropped my beer. “What the—”
Spud patted my cheek. “I filed a claim with that boss of yours for my destroyed sculptures. Fifteen thousand dollars apiece is what I could have sold ’em for. And since the SS Cape Pelican was under government control when that madman blew up my personal property, I figured Uncle Sam owed me damages, for crying out loud.”
“You got thirty grand for a wrecked car and a burnt, shot-up alligator.” I yanked the check out of my father’s hands and held it next to mine, studying the watermarked paper and the signatures. Both were real. Only his was nineteen thousand dollars more real than mine. Dropping both checks on the bar, I downed my beer and asked the bartender for a Patrón tequila straight up.
Fran fluffed her hair and kissed my father, straight on the lips. Bobby gave him a high five. Hal asked to borrow twenty dollars. And Trip demanded that Spud pay up the fifty dollars he borrowed during their last poker game.
Laughing, Ox pulled me outside and planted his mouth on mine in a long, tasty kiss. The late afternoon was just sliding into cocktail hour, a refreshing chill permeated the breeze coming off the river, and the scent of Ox’s aftershave made me giddy. I closed my eyes to fully relish the moment when a dump truck pulled up to the curb in front of the Block.
Its driver proceeded to jam up traffic by backing up to the dirt area, where Spud’s demolished sedan had sat for so long that it killed a patch of grass. High-pitched beeping noises sounded as the truck’s bed tilted up in the air and dumped a load of unidentifiable garbage on my property.
“Hey!” I called and ran out to where the driver stood by the hydraulic controls. “What do you think you’re doing? Stop that!”
He finished dumping the load, climbed in the cab, handed me an envelope through the window, and drove off leaving a blast of diesel fumes and a pyramid of debris in his wake.
Stunned, I read the note aloud as Ruby came outside to investigate.
“Thought your father would want the remains of his sculptures.
Maybe he can recycle the parts into something new. Cheers, Ash”
“Spud!” Ruby hollered, reading over my shoulder. “Delivery for you! It’s your Chrysler!”
“Oh, for crying out loud,” Spud said and shuffled outside, walking cane leading the way. He stopped at the pile of trash and stooped to pick up a piece. It was the Chrysler medallion from the front grille. “It’s the car from hell. From hell, I tell you!”
Ignoring the tirade, my best friend pulled me against his chest. Laughing, I wrapped my arms around him. My family and my friends were all alive and the Block was still standing. Life was good. Contented and cheerful, I looked into Ox’s face and read the same sentiment in his expression. Just as he tilted his head to drop another kiss on my mouth, my phone rang. I separated myself from his body to answer and listened to the person on the other end.
“Look, I appreciate you thinking of me for the job,” I said, “but I’m retired. There’s a party going on right now to prove it. Got a cake and everything.”
Ox’s eyes seemed to twinkle as they reflected a faint glow of colors from the neon beer lights.
“You can’t call in a favor after that person has retired,” I said, knowing how irrational it sounded. “Okay, okay, maybe you can. I’ll have to check the official retirement rule book. Is there such a rule book?”
We agreed to
talk tomorrow and I disconnected, pledging to forget about the phone call, at least temporarily. For one night anyway, I was going to savor my retirement.
T. Lynn Ocean - Jersey Barnes 02 - Southern Poison Page 27
