MICHAEL LISTER'S FIRST THREE SERIES NOVELS: POWER IN THE BLOOD, THE BIG GOODBYE, THUNDER BEACH

by Michael Lister

  —Raven?

  —Sometimes. Sometimes it’s Regan.

  She smiles.

  —Any advice?

  —I barely know her.

  —But —

  —I’ve really gotta go.

  —Here, I say, taking out my wallet, withdrawing the two hundred dollars it contains, and giving it to her.

  —Thanks, but I can’t. We’re good. Everything is —

  —Please. For Kevin’s medicine or sitter.

  —Merrick, I made nearly twelve-hundred dollars tonight.

  —Still. Please. For me.

  —Okay.

  She takes the money and I can tell she’s doing it for me.

  —Please call me. Please let me back in your life. I promise not to leave this time.

  —You didn’t leave last time, she says. We did. But I will.

  She stands and I join her, this time grabbing and hugging her in spite of her outstretched hand. I hold her tight for a long moment, trying to make her feel my love. Like Regan after a shift, she smells strongly of cigarette smoke and sweet perfume.

  For a while, she gives in to the hug, her body going limp, but eventually pulls back and begins to walk away.

  —I’ll call you, she says.

  —Please do. I love you, I say, and for the second time tonight get no response to those words.

  — You workin’ on a story? Liz asks when I walk up to her booth.

  I shake my head.

  —Good. I got one for you. Have a seat.

  —There’s a reason I’m not working on one right now, I say, sitting across from her.

  —Yeah?

  —Got downsized.

  —You look the same to me.

  I smile.

  Liz has black curly hair and lots of it, and dark eyes and features that compliment it, and make her striking — even from across a room.

  —Well, shit. Who am I gonna —

  —Tell me what it is, and I’ll find somebody for you.

  —Thanks, Merrick. And, by the way, sorry you lost your job. If you need anything...

  Though you wouldn’t know it to look at her or by the work she does, Liz is one of the wealthiest people in town. Rejecting her family’s money and power early in life, she dedicated herself to helping others after what she calls her Buddha experience. Eventually, she inherited all her family’s wealth anyway, but continues on in her same job — only now with the resources to make a real difference.

  —Thanks, but I’m fine, I lie.

  Before losing my job, I was basically living paycheck to paycheck, and now I’m running through my final few hundred bucks. If I don’t find a job soon, I’m not sure what I’ll do. What I can’t do, is borrow money from my folks. They’re struggling as it is.

  —What’s the story? I ask.

  —What is it always? she asks with a sigh.

  —Man’s inhumanity to man?

  —Man’s inhumanity to woman.

  I nod.

  —This spring break, we had more rapes, more assaults, more violence against women — hell, girls — than ever before. There’s an escalation going on. I want to raise awareness and suggest some strategies.

  —Okay.

  —But I don’t want the piece to have too narrow of a focus. You wouldn’t believe the other shit I’m dealing with.

  —Such as?

  —I’m working with three different girls right now whose boyfriends — or monsters they thought were their boyfriends — have turned them into sex slaves. Good girls. All-American. Pretty — or used to be. One was supposed to meet me here tonight so I can get her back to Birmingham. She didn’t show. I came back hoping she might still come.

  —Where are they being held? I’ve got a cop friend who’d love to break down that door.

  —They’re not prisoners by force. It’s far more subtle than that. The guy begins by isolating the girl from everyone. Then eventually gets her hooked on drugs or gets photos or video of her having sex — with him or others — and uses it to keep her from leaving. Says he’ll show her parents and friends what a whore she is if she tries to leave. Then he moves her down here where she has no friends, no money, no... hope, and makes her earn him money on her back.

  I shake my head, unable to process it.

  —It’s a fuckin’ epidemic. You wouldn’t believe the number of girls this is happening to — middle class American girls. Sure, some of the slaves are mail order brides who step off a plane and into a living nightmare, shuffled around the country from town to town, fucked by strangers, malnourished, drug-addicted, used up then thrown away, but a hell of a lot are cheerleaders and homecoming queens from decent families.

  —I’ll do the story, I say.

  —What?

  —Yeah. I had a chance to do a piece on something like this before and fucked it up.

  —But —

  —I’ve still got all my contacts. I can get it released on the wire services and I know several papers that’ll carry it — even more than usual since it’ll be free content.

  —I’ll pay you to do it.

  —You most certainly will not. Will the girls talk to me?

  She nods.

  —When can I meet them?

  —Give me a couple of days to set it up. I’ll call you.

  —I’ll do background in the meantime. Have everything ready so we can shine a big fuckin’ spotlight on these pricks, then ram it up their asses.

  —I knew you were the right man for the job. Just don’t make it too narrow.

  —I’ll start with the culture which allows, even encourages, man’s inhumanity to woman.

  As I prepare to pull out of Coram’s onto Thomas Drive, headlights from a car in the Sonic parking lot across the street pop on.

  Because of the threats I received earlier and the general strangeness of tonight, I turn right instead of left, taking a route that will enable me to circle around to see if I’m followed.

  The car doesn’t pull out when I do, and I decide I’m being paranoid, but just as I’m about to turn around, I see the headlights in my rearview mirror as the car enters Thomas and heads this direction.

  I drive for a while, then take a left at Captain Anderson’s and pull into the dark, empty parking lot. At the entrance of the restaurant, I back up to the fountain holding the enormous propeller of the Empire Mica, kill my lights and wait.

  The Empire Mica was a British standard type Ocean tanker built in 1941 for the Ministry of War Transport at Haverton Hill, Teeside.

  On June 29, 1942, while en route from New Orleans to the United Kingdom with a cargo of twelve thousand tons of clean oil, she was torpedoed by a German sub and sunk off the west coast of Florida, only fourteen of the thirty-three member crew surviving. Today the remains of the tanker lie some sixty-four miles from Panama City and twenty miles south of Cape San Blas in about 115 feet of water, her bow section still intact.

  The propeller, mounted behind me now, was salvaged by Captain Laney Rinehart, who purchased the salvage rights to the vessel from the War Insurance Department for about a thousand dollars.

  Laney’s recovery of the propeller proved far more fraught with disappointment and drama than he ever could have imagined. He began in 1981, and with the help of Jack Pounders planned to blow the prop off the shaft. After two explosions, the huge propeller remained on the shaft. In June, Laney and his crew went back to the wreck, and after two more explosions, the prop was left lying in the sand. Later, he returned to the wreck with two twenty thousand pound lift bags. His plan was to lift the propeller, then tow it back to port. After rigging one of the bags, he discovered that the second lift bag had been sabotaged, and once again returned to port empty-handed.

  For his next attempt, Laney hired a three hundred foot barge with a 190 ton crane, but when they dove the site, they discovered that someone else had already surfaced the propeller. He immediately reported the theft to the U.S. Marshall, and the propeller was located and impounded. Less than a year later, a federal j
udge ruled that the propeller belonged to Laney, and now it’s hard to imagine the iconic Captain Anderson’s Restaurant without it.

  I smile.

  People around here just think Laney Rinehart was stubborn. Wait ’til they see the lengths I’ll go to in order to be Casey’s dad again, to figure out what’s going on, and keep her safe. Back when I was chasing down stories across the Panhandle, I kept a small .38 revolver under my seat, but with the loss of the job, I hadn’t put it in my new car, and was regretting that now.

  I see the beams of the headlights a few seconds before the car.

  At first, it appears as if it will continue down the side road, passing the parking lot, but at the last minute it whips in and zips over to me, its high beams blinding me as it blocks me in.

  Fumbling my phone out of my pocket, I try to decide if I should call Rashard or 911.

  Unlocking the phone with a slide of my thumb, I hit the Keypad button, and tap in 9-1-1, thinking it quicker than calling Rashard directly.

  Two enormous guys — one black, one white — both wearing jogging suits and jewelry, step on each side of my car carrying aluminum baseball bats.

  Heart pounding, eyes bulging, throat constricting, I’m genuinely frightened.

  The operator comes on as they begin to go to work on my new car with their sluggers.

  —I’m in the parking lot of Captain Anderson’s, I say, my voice high and tight. I’m being attacked. Send a patrol car. Now.

  The car is more dent resistant than I would have thought, but they still do plenty of damage.

  Surprisingly, they don’t break the windows.

  I can’t hear the operator above the barrage of bat thwacks, so I hold up the phone so the guys can see it.

  —Oh no, the guy on the left says. He’s got a phone.

  —The police are on the way, I yell.

  —We tol’ you to stay the fuck outta our business, the guy on the right says. The girl is spoken for. We see you again, won’t be your car we bang on.

  —We don’t want the heat takin’ you out’ll bring, but we’ll deal with it, we have to.

  —These are not idle threats, my friend. Do yourself a favor and stay the fuck off the beach the rest of this week.

  Then, in no particular hurry, they get into their car, back away, pull out of the parking lot, turn onto Thomas, and disappear into the night.

  When, after another minute or so, the cops still haven’t arrived, I disappear, too.

  Driving away, I call Casey to make sure she’s okay.

  I can tell the call irritates her, but it’s worth it. She is already safe inside her house and getting ready for bed.

  I wake the next morning having not gotten enough sleep, and like every morning, check my phone for a missed call, a message, or a text from Regan.

  Nothing.

  Will I see her today? Will she call?

  I can’t remember ever being this way over a woman. Not ever.

  When Monica and I were married, she was happy — happy to be with me, happy to be married. Even when it became obvious I wasn’t, she never wavered in her devotion or desire — for me or the marriage.

  Monica was so steadfast, so consistent, the intensity of her attraction never waning — no matter how much mine did. Regan’s interest — or maybe it really is just her availability — is so inconsistent, so bipolar, it gives me insight into what Monica felt, what she went through, and only adds to my guilt.

  It’s been a while since I’ve even fallen for someone, but back when I had in what seems like a previous life now, I’d only ever do so much pursuing before I’d move on. I’ve never been the kind of person willing to convince someone they should want to be with me. I’ve always thought someone either wants to be with you or they don’t. If someone is ambivalent, there’s a reason.

  With Regan things are different.

  She’s been as inconsistent as any woman I’ve ever been with, and though she’s vacillated between intense interest and casual indifference, I can’t let go.

  I’ve started to several times — delete her number from my phone, avoid The Dollhouse, don’t answer her calls. In fact, about two months ago I had ended it. And told her so — told her I could see she was conflicted and ambivalent and was going to leave her alone. And I did. Stopped calling and texting. Stopped going to the club... until I receive this text:

  Thinking of u

  Thanks. That’s nice to hear. Of course I think of you, but less lately. I’m letting you go.

  I’m sorry

  For what?

  4 pushing u away

  Don’t be. It’s okay. I understand. I really do.

  I miss u. Where will you be tonight?

  In town, I text, though I had no plans of going before. Why?

  I’ll try to call.

  She never called that night. But three days later she did and we got together — and have been on and off (at her, what? Whim? Schedule? Conflicted heart?) ever since.

  She’s not going to call today, I think. I should go back over to the beach and see what I can find out whatever Casey’s mixed up in, not wait around just in case I might hear from Regan.

  I decide to lie back down for a few minutes. I start to turn off my phone, but don’t — and a few minutes later when Regan calls I’m glad I didn’t.

  We meet at the School of Fish restaurant in Windmark Beach right off 98 near Port St. Joe to avoid being seen by her husband or anyone who might recognize her.

  Since Port St. Joe is only twenty minutes from Wewa, we’re much more likely to see someone who recognizes me, but I don’t care.

  It’s midmorning on a perfect May day, the endless expanse of sky bright and blue, dabbed with creamy cumulus clouds drifting by, the clean green of the Gulf, smooth and sun-sparkled, the breeze tinged with the scent of blooming flowers, fresh cut grass, a hint of brine beneath.

  We have the small second-story porch to ourselves, and the place is mostly empty, still she keeps her shades on and glances around nervously.

  The water and the sand and the sun and the resort-like atmosphere conspire to give our early lunch rendezvous the feel of a vacation — something we’ve fantasized about taking together.

  She gets the Apalachicola oysters, gouda grits, and fried green tomatoes with remoulade. I get the blackened Gulf shrimp, cornbread, and roasted corn tarter sauce. It’s a little early, but I order a Corona Extra with lime, she a glass of pinot noir.

  When our waiter leaves, we sit in silence of a few moments, and I glance around, following the landscaping to the boardwalk to the beach and the white Windmark flags whipping in the wind.

  —Somethin’ wrong? she asks.

  I shake my head.

  —You sure?

  —Yeah.

  —You seem distant.

  —Do I?

  —Don’t do that. Tell me what it is.

  —Don’t do what?

  —You know.

  I do, and I just need to say it. No games, no drama, just bring the truth.

  —You mad at me for not telling you about Casey?

  I shake my head.

  —I understand, I say. You were in a difficult position.

  —Then what?

  —The whole time we’ve been doing this —

  —What? Lunch?

  —This. Us. I’m not sure what to call it.

  —A relationship?

  —The whole time I’ve been thinkin’ the reason you seem like two different people is —

  —I seem like two different people?

  —Well, yeah. You don’t think you do? I thought we talked about it.

  —You mean when I’m at work and when I’m not?

  —There’s that, yeah, but —

  —I explained that to you.

  —No, you really didn’t, but you didn’t need to. I get it.

  —Then what?

  —The way you are with me.

  —Which is?

  —Sometimes it’s so intense, so intimate, others you
seem so... I don’t know, casual, nonchalant, almost indifferent.

  The waiter brings our drinks and bread — a small plate of powdered sugar-covered beignets. I wait for him to leave before continuing.

  —This whole time I was thinking that it was because you’re conflicted... you know... because of your... husband.

  —Can we not do this now? It’s such a beautiful day.

  It is a gorgeous day. I look out beyond the planted palms of the resort to the sand hills and the pines shooting out of them, grateful the developers have left so much green, hoping as Windmark grows and expands they’ll continue the trend.

  —Then when? I hardly ever see you.

  —Okay. You’re right. Use his name. His name is Gabe. Say his name.

  —I thought it was because you were conflicted about Gabe, but... now I’m thinking it might be something else.

  —We talked about this. I am conflicted.

  —And I appreciate that. I understand. You’re a good person. But that’s not enough to explain the two different yous I get.

  —And you think you know what it is?

  —Yeah. I think you don’t love me. I can’t believe I didn’t see it sooner. When you really love someone, you... well, everything else just sort of dims, you know? It’s like this new drug you can’t get enough of. What’s that line from No Good Man? I require love that’s made of fire. It’s just not like that for you.

  —Can you really say what it’s like for me?

  —No, you’re right. But you have so little time for me and —

  —I’ve explained. I’m the only one bringing in any money right now. I have to work. I have to —

  —I know. I do. And I’ve been nothing but patient and supportive.

  —That’s true. You have.

  Gabe had lost his job, which is what forced Regan to return to dancing — something she hadn’t done for several years.

  —But I just got to thinking... I really believe we all make time for what’s important to us.

  —I make time for you.

  —Sure. But compared to how much I —

  —You have less to rearrange. More freedom. Less constraints.

  —I realize that, and I’ve been happy to do —

  Our food arrives, and we begin to eat.

  —I’m happy to continue, I say, but... I don’t know, I just thought, well maybe the reason you’re not seeing me more than you are is that you really don’t want to. You’re fine if it works out and fine if it doesn’t.