—If we’re in different places, I continue, I’d just like to know. Like to adjust to... something more casual.
—It’s not lack of desire or attraction, not for lack of wanting that I can’t spend more time with you. It’s not. I have very real limitations. And I am conflicted. I’m just not... I feel so guilty sometimes, so... I’ve got to take this slow.
—That’s cool.
Embarrassed, feeling exposed and vulnerable, I retreat into the very things I’ve been accusing her of — becoming aloof, distant, casual.
I can tell she senses the shift.
—I get it, I add. I do.
—You understand?
I nod.
—Yeah, totally, I say.
—Totally? She asks, a quizzical look beneath raised eyebrows.
—What?
—Nothin’. Let’s just enjoy the rest of our time together.
—Sure.
We finish eating in relative silence, commenting only on how good the food is, how nice for us the development and restaurant are largely undiscovered so far.
As we’re nearly finished, the crowd begins to pick up a bit. Across the way, on the other, larger porch, close to the bar, beneath the long hanging ceiling fans, business people noisily gather at the tables.
—Can we go? she asks.
I nod.
—I’m gonna walk down the back stairs. You can go back through the restaurant. I’ll call you from the car.
She doesn’t wait for my reply, just stands, and without a kiss or even a touch, she leaves our table, disappearing around the corner and down the stairs.
— I’ve always wanted to have a tryst at the Dixie Bell Motel, I say.
This is how I answer her call, as we’re pulling out of Windmark.
—Okay, she says.
—Really?
—Really.
—Turn right on 98. It’s down on the right. Mile and a half, two miles.
—You get the room then call me and give me the number.
—Thanks for doing this.
—My pleasure.
—It’s most certainly going to be. I got mad skills that have just been languishing.
She laughs, a sweet, genuine, slightly wanton, seemingly involuntary laugh, and it floods me with an adrenaline-like spike of undiluted joy.
The Dixie Belle Motel, a fixture along Highway 98 in the heart of Florida’s forgotten coast for as long as I can remember, is a ’50s style roadside motor court where cars park right in front of the rooms. It’s a tiny remnant of a bygone era, a last sliver of classic Americana. It appeals to me in so many ways, and that I get to experience it with Regan is like one of those rare moments in life when things actually work out the way we want them to.
Inside our small room, we are tentative and uncomfortable, glancing awkwardly at the two double beds.
—What happened to your car? she asks.
—I tell her.
—Oh my God. Are you okay?
I nod.
—What’s Casey involved in?
—I’m gonna find out, but right now, let’s forget about everything beyond that door right there.
—Sounds good.
—Come here, I say, taking her in my arms, beginning to slow dance with my ballerina girl, as I softly sing “Make You Feel My Love” in her ear.
—When the rain is blowing in your face...
She holds me tight as we move in a small circle, our bodies pressing into an ancient lover’s pose, and I’m aroused to far more than just desire by the warmth and closeness of our embrace, and by her soft, sweet, impassioned breaths on my neck.
—Can you feel it? I ask. My love.
—I always feel it. Can you feel mine? I want you to feel mine.
—When the evening shatters and the stars appear...
—And not just when our bodies are touching, she adds, but —
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and she laughs.
—It’s my phone, I say, but I’m also happy to see you. You mind if I get it? I told Casey to call me if —
—Of course.
—I just think she’s in trouble and —
—Take it.
I do.
—Merrick?
—Yeah?
—It’s John Milton.
—Hey Sheriff.
Regan’s eyes grow wide and she takes a step back.
John Milton Parker has been the sheriff of Gulf County since before I was born. A lifelong friend of my father’s, he’s an honorable, gentle, tough Southern gentleman, a living legend of a dying breed.
—Where are you? he asks.
—On my way home, I lie. What’s up?
—I need to talk to you. I’ll meet you at your place.
—Something wrong? What is it?
—You call someone about a girl last night?
—Huh?
—Got a call from Frank McKeithen, sheriff over in Bay County. One of the models for the biker rally over on Panama City Beach...
—Yeah?
—Did you call about her?
—Yes, sir. Why?
—She’s missing.
— No one suspects you of having anything to do with it, John Milton says. Not Frank and not me. We’re just following up leads. He knows I’m a friend of the family so he asked me to talk to you.
Speeding down Highway 71, I had tried Casey’s number several times, but only got voicemail.
Before I rushed out, Regan promised to try her, too — and to see if she could get a line on where Casey and Kevin are living.
When I pulled up into my yard, the sheriff, who’d been leaning on his car in the shade of an ancient oak tree, stood up, and seeing the worry on my face, began to try to tell me I wasn’t a suspect.
—You could’ve gone inside.
—It’s nice out here — in the shade.
I live in a small clapboard house with a large screened-in porch beneath spreading oak trees on the bank of the Apalachicola River. The dwelling, more fish camp than residence, has been in my family for three generations, and though I’ve fixed it up a bit, adding some of the essentials, the best thing about it is what it doesn’t have — a mortgage. This has always been nice; now it’s an essential.
—What happened to your car? he asks.
I shrug.
—Don’t know. I left it in the dark lot of an empty building last night at Thunder Beach. Came back to find it like this.
He eyes me suspiciously.
—How long’s she been missing? I ask, trying to change the subject. I thought you guys didn’t get involved until at least forty-eight hours.
—Don’t really know any of the details of the case yet. Just told Frank I’d find out what you know and get with him.
—You wanna come in? I ask. Some tea or something?
He shakes his head.
From behind the house, I can hear a boat racing down the river, the mechanical whine of its motor, the wet thwack of the hull slapping the surface of the water.
—Why’d you call about her? he asks. Had you been drinking? The woman who works with the girls for the rally said it sounded like you were at a bar.
—I was at Thunder Beach. It’s a little noisy out there.
—Oh.
—I saw the magazine and I thought I recognized her.
—And?
—I called to see if it was her.
—No, I mean who’d you — how do you know her?
—It’s Monica’s daughter, I say. Casey.
His eyes widen.
—Little Casey’s on the cover of a magazine?
I nod.
—Such a shame about Monica and little Ty, he says.
A younger John Milton had been the one to find Monica and our son, Ty, the one to deliver the devastating news, the one to catch me as I collapsed.
I frown and nod, trying not to think about it.
We are quiet again, and from behind the house, I hear the loud pop of a pinecone falling from a tree and
ricocheting off the tin shed in the back.
—What else can you tell me? I ask. Where’d she go missing from? Who reported it? Were there signs of a struggle?
—Don’t know. Thunder Beach lady called Frank. He called me. I didn’t know Casey lived around here.
—Me either.
—I’ll know a lot more after I meet with Frank. See how I can help.
—When I asked around about her last night out at the beach, I was warned not to.
—That what really happened to your car?
I nod.
—Why didn’t you just tell me?
—Sorry, Sheriff. I should have. I just... Hazards of my profession. Information management. Ask questions, don’t answer them. Sorry.
—Any idea what she’s mixed up in?
—None. I swear. What can I do to help?
—You know how these things go. You need to let Frank and his department handle it. But as soon as I meet with him, I’ll call you and let you know what I find out. Okay?
He pulls out his card and hands it to me.
—If you think of anything else, give me a call.
Climbing into his car, he closes the door, cranks the engine, and rolls down the window.
—Tell your folks hello for me. And don’t worry. I’ll find Casey and get her back safely.
As soon as John Milton is gone, I try Casey again.
As I wait to be connected, I walk around the side of the house to the backyard, down to the river where the water slaps against the gnarled roots of cypress trees. In the midst of a particularly wet spring, the river is high, far more of the banks covered than usual.
The mid-afternoon sun refracting off the rippled surface of the river is blinding, and even with shades on, I can only look a little at a time.
When she doesn’t answer, I leave another message, then call Regan.
—I need to know everything you can tell me about Casey.
—I honestly don’t know much about her.
—Any idea where she lives?
—No.
—Who she live with?
—No idea. Sorry.
—She got a boyfriend?
—Not that I you know of.
—Anybody harassing her?
—Not that I know — wait. There was a guy. What was his name? Vic. Yeah. Vic... Victor Dyson.
—She meet him at The Dollhouse?
—No. He’s the reason she left The Nugget.
—He was a customer at The Gold Nugget?
—Yeah. Starting harassing her. He’s banned from The Dollhouse.
—What’s he look like?
I had planned to catch a nap, go running, workout, and go by and see my folks, but instead climb in my battered but still beautiful new car and head down 22 into Panama City.
On my way out of town, I pass Granny’s, a small biker friendly bar in a converted convenience store. The bikes filling the small lot and extending on the side of the road in both directions must number over a hundred, and I wonder how all the riders fit inside.
Highway 22 is a long, flat, slash pine-lined rural road, perfect for thinking or making calls.
Life in the Panhandle is spent racing down rural routes, and though most of the world’s population now lives in large cities, there are still a lot of us who live in small or even tiny towns, connected by two-lane highways, well traveled by loaded log trucks taking pulpwood to paper mills.
Part of the reason Regan and I can meet without worrying too much about detection is we both live in small towns about the same distance away from Panama City — I in Wewa, she in Wausau — and come alone, mostly at night.
Like most of the roads in the area, 22 is filled with bikers going in both directions. I’m behind a lone rider with no helmet on a sleek black Yamaha Midnight Warrior, and watch with interest as he gives the biker wave to passing bikers.
I first noticed the special biker wave during Thunder Beach a few years ago and had included it in a story I wrote about the event. It comes from a time when there weren’t nearly as many bikes on the road, when riding was far more countercultural, far less accepted than it is now. A sign of solidarity, the salute demonstrates support, but can also pass along information.
The most common wave, or at least the one I’ve seen the most, is the low wave — the left arm extended downward at a forty-five degree angle, two fingers out together if the rider is on a two cylinder bike, four if he’s on a four cylinder, two fingers spread apart in the peace sign, or all fingers out for a low five.
For the piece I wrote, I was told some riders only wave to riders on the same brand of bike, while others don’t wave at all, but I had never seen a biker not wave or receive a return wave in response.
Even as I think about bikers, my thoughts continually return to Regan, and it occurs to me that bikers are not unlike strippers in our society — both groups misunderstood, stereotyped, and clichéd by a self-righteous, Puritanical, clone-like culture, even as both groups have become increasingly mainstream.
Having lived and worked in the area for most of my life — as a reporter and more recently as an adjunct — I have a pretty good network of people I can call on to help track down Vic. As I race down the open, bike-filled road in a car I love, but will most likely have to soon part with, I begin calling in favors. I’d failed Casey before. I didn’t plan on doing it again.
Rashard Little and I meet at The Gold Nugget.
Before becoming a Panama City Beach Police Officer, Rashard had been a correctional officer, before that a deputy with the Gulf County Sheriff’s Department, and before that a star student and basketball player for Wewa High. Friends on and off the court, we had taken our small school to regionals three consecutive years.
Unlike The Dollhouse, which is a relatively new joint, The Nugget has been around so long my dad and uncles used to go to it when they were young men, and is the premiere gentleman’s club in Panama City. I’d been to The Nugget a few times, but never during the day.
It’s three on a Thursday afternoon, and the club is crowded, and I remember Regan telling me that the bikers in town for Thunder Beach hit the strip clubs in the afternoons. Like most places this week, in honor of the visiting bikers, the music being played is southern and classic rock, more outlaw, less rap and R&B.
Similar in setup to the Dollhouse, except with no playpen, the Nugget has two stages — a main and a gold — and a smaller round one against the far right wall called a satellite.
We sit at a table not far from the entrance.
Though there are two poles on each stage — the one in front of us and the one in front of the bar — there’s only one dancer on each.
—Whatcha drinkin’? I ask Rashard, who is off duty and in street clothes.
—Bud Light.
The waitress comes over.
—Corona Extra and a Bud Light. Thanks.
I turn back to Rashard when she is gone.
—Thanks for meeting me, I say.
His gaze is fixed on the stage where a thin, tall, obviously athletic girl is doing some gravity-defying pole work.
—Thanks for asking me to meet you here, he says without looking away.
—I always say, why just get a drink when you can get a drink and see titties.
—Like the way you think.
The second song of the set starts and the dancers on the stages take off their tops.
—Got any singles? he asks.
I pull out about six and hand them to him, and he stands.
—Work that hard, you should get rewarded, he says, and heads toward the tip rail.
He steps through and around the bikers lining tables and standing near the stage, and waits his turn.
Racing heart, tension shoulders, anxiety mind — I want to rush things along, to force the action, but I’ve watched enough cops work and waited on enough stories to unfold to know you have to follow the flow. Rashard knows what he’s doing. If you get in a hurry, you miss things, and ultimately do far more
damage. I’ve just got to stop picturing Casey bound and gagged and vulernable.
As Rashard gets a kind of reverse motorboat, I scan the crowd. Looks like older regulars and visiting bikers, nearly as many women as men, and too few dancers for the number of patrons. I don’t see anybody fitting Regan’s description of Vic, but it’s dim and her recollection was pretty vague.
By the time he returns, our drinks have arrived, and after he sits, he takes a long pull on his beer.
—Damn, damn, damn, he says. That’s good.
I can’t tell if he’s talking about the dancer or the drink, but don’t ask.
—See Teddy Bear over there? he asks.
I follow his nod over to the enormous bouncer near the DJ booth and the dressing room.
—Yeah?
—He’s my cousin.
—Sweet.
—I called in and had the sergeant look up Dyson, he says. Got no record.
I frown and nod.
—But...
—But?
—Does have restraining orders against him from two different women.
I nod.
—No surprises there. Got an address for him?
He shakes his head.
—Been a while. He was living at a hotel at the time.
—Are the women wives, girlfriends, coworkers?
He nods toward the stage.
—Strippers, he says. Both blonde, built the same.
—Shit.
—Ain’t it? Obviously, the trick’s got issues, but I mean, goddam, it’s easy to think these girls’re into you. They’re professionals at it. Many a loser leaves places like this thinking he all in love.
I look away, suddenly very interested in what the dancer is doing.
Teddy Bear spots Rashard and comes over.
—My nigga he says, after managing somehow to get his girth into the small chair.
They exchange knuckle bumps.
—’Sup big Bear.
—Just the price of a blow job and my got-damn weight.
—You look good. Doin’ your thing. Keepin’ all these little honeys safe. Bear, this is Merrick. Merrick, Bear.
We nod at each other.
—We need your help. Lookin’ for a guy.
He shakes his enormous head and flashes a blindingly white smile.
—Most people come in here lookin’ for girls, he says. Gotta go to the Fiesta you wanna boy.
MICHAEL LISTER'S FIRST THREE SERIES NOVELS: POWER IN THE BLOOD, THE BIG GOODBYE, THUNDER BEACH Page 35
