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

by Michael Lister

  —No.

  —Boyfriend?

  —Not at the moment. Had one, but he couldn’t handle me dancing.

  —He harassing you?

  —No. And as far as Vic, part of my deal with The Dollhouse is he’s banned. One of the bouncers walks me to my car. I’m very careful. I haven’t seen him since I left The Nugget.

  —Still want to talk to him. Is that okay?

  —I guess.

  —He could still be the one who reported you and just used another name.

  —What name?

  —Ian King. Mean anything?

  —No.

  —Have you ever used the name Amber?

  —I’ve used a lot of different names. Some to dance under, others to give out if customers press me for my real name.

  —Ever use Amber with Vic?

  —Can’t remember, but could have. Sorry.

  —No problem. Okay. Are you safe now?

  —Yeah.

  —Can you stay put?

  —For a while. I’ve got things I have to do tonight. Obligations. And I’ve got to work.

  —Mind if I tag along?

  —Actually, yeah. I do. I’m sorry, but I don’t want you seeing me take my clothes off.

  —I won’t look.

  She laughs.

  —I’ve been looking out for myself and Kevin for a while now.

  —Sorry about that. Wish I’d’ve known sooner.

  —I’m good at it. I’ve got your number. I’ll call you if I need anything. I promise. Okay? I’ve got to go.

  —Be safe, I say, but she’s already gone.

  I follow the one-way street, pass the Shrimp Boat, Uncle Earnie’s, The Watershed, the sun setting out over the bay, and make the block.

  At the light, waiting to turn onto Beck, I call Rashard.

  —She’s not missing, I say.

  —Say what?

  —Casey. I just spoke to her. She’s not missing.

  —Where is she?

  —Home.

  —Where is that?

  —I don’t know.

  —Huh?

  —She’s spooked. She was already hiding. Someone reporting her missing just confirmed she was right to be.

  —But... Did you ask her?

  —I did.

  —She didn’t want to say and I didn’t press her.

  —But that means we don’t know for sure she’s okay. Her abductor could’ve been making her say she was okay.

  —Sorry. I didn’t think I mean, she didn’t sound under duress. I can call her back — or she said she was working tonight. I’ll go by and make sure she’s really okay.

  —Well, I don’t think we need to call off the search until we know for sure, he says, but it’s not my call. Nobody knows I’m helping you.

  —Yeah?

  —We need to let Sheriff McKeithen know. His department is heading up the missing persons case.

  —I can call Sheriff Parker from Gulf County, I say. I’ve been dealing with him. I can let him know so he can tell Frank.

  —Sounds good. And you don’t have to be in a big hurry to do it. Doesn’t hurt anything for them to be looking for her.

  —I was thinking Vic could’ve reported her missing using a different name in order to find her, so I still want to find him.

  —I’ll be on the lookout for his van. We’ll find him.

  As I’m talking to Rashard, I get a text from Regan.

  I’m in town. Where r u?

  —Okay, I say to Rashard. I’ll be in touch. I appreciate your help. And I’m really relieved. I think she’s okay.

  —Still need to find out what the fuck’s goin’ on.

  —Agreed, I say and end the call.

  On Beck, I type, and though I am so happy, so relieved that Casey’s okay, I can feel myself lifting even more at the possibility of seeing her.

  Want to meet?

  Sure.

  I have something to celebrate, I think. Casey is okay. I’m confused, but delighted and would love to spend a little time with Regan before continuing my search for Vic and trying to find out what’s going on.

  Where?

  Where are you?

  Can be in St. Andrews in 5.

  I type, Watershed, Hunt’s, Uncle Earnie’s, Shrimp Boat, park, Tan Fannies, the coffee shop, marina?

  Somewhere quiet. Private.

  I think about it, then type in, Got an inspired idea. Park your car at the St. Andrews Marina and I’ll pick you up.

  OK.

  I swing in Hunt’s Oyster Bar for crab cakes and oysters, then by St. Andrews Coffeehouse, in the old Gainer Brother’s Grocery storefront, for java and sweets made by Emma Nell.

  I know I should keep looking for Vic, and I will be again soon, but chances to see Regan are rare. Besides, I plan to ask her about Vic the prick and enlist her help.

  A few minutes later, Regan, looking around nervously, gets in my car.

  —What smells good? she asks.

  —The new leather?

  —That too. Such a shame what they did to your new car.

  —Probably lose it soon anyway.

  —I hope not.

  I shrug.

  —Don’t seem too worried about it.

  —Way down on the list of what matters.

  —But you love this car.

  —I was already reconciled to losing it, and with the way they’ve fucked it up...

  —How’s the job search going? she asks.

  —It’s not at the moment.

  —You don’t seem too worried about that either.

  I realize I haven’t shared with her my anxiety over losing my job and the financial crisis I’m in because of what she’s going through with Gabe.

  —I’m not, I lie. I’ll find one soon.

  Gabe has been without a job for a long time now — well over a year — with no real hope of finding another. If he’s even really looking. I’ve been out of work less than two months, and could have a job tomorrow if I were willing to just take what I could find. Though in a similar situation, there are very few similarities in our respective predicaments, but I wonder if Regan sees that. Is this what’s made her hesitant to go all-in with me? Do I seem like betting on another losing hand? I hadn’t realized until this moment that Gabe and I have as much in common, at least on the surface surface, as we do.

  —Whatcha got?

  —Huh? Oh, a picnic.

  —Where we goin’?

  —Ever been on the deck behind FSU?

  She shakes her head.

  —Then you’re in for a treat.

  I pull around behind the FSU Panama City campus and park in the empty lot. After she’s sure no one’s around, we get out with the food and walk over to the deck beside the bay.

  I had no idea this was back here, she says. It’s beautiful.

  They’ve torn part of it down. Used to be an amphitheater with built-in bench seating rising up which would’ve hidden us better.

  Constructed of unvarnished wood planks and light poles, the enormous deck stands about three feet off the ground and is wrapped by a three-board railing, parts of it covered with a triangular, slanted wooden slats.

  We walk up the ramp, onto the deck and look around.

  The afternoon sun dances on the rippled waters of the bay, the blue expanse of sea and sky — dark below, light above — meet at the blue-black bruised horizon.

  —It’s so peaceful. Gorgeous.

  She squints as she looks at the sun mirrored on the surface of the water, the breeze blowing in off the bay causing her hair to wave like the Spanish Moss on the limbs of the oak trees around us.

  We sit on steps leading down from the back side of the deck to the water’s edge, not far from a pine tree with nearly its entire twisting root system exposed due to erosion, and I unpack the bags.

  I dole out the food and we eat in silence for a few moments, watching the steady stream of traffic ascending and descending the huge hump of the Hathaway Bridge in both directions. />
  —This is so good, she says.

  —All of it, I say. The food, the place, the company — not in that order.

  We continue to eat, both of us working on the fresh, cold, salty oysters — cracker, oyster, hot sauce, gulp, repeat.

  Behind us, the brick buildings of FSU are quiet beneath tall pines and expanding oaks. To our right in a small grassy area with trees at wide intervals, a gray-haired man walks a German Shepherd.

  —So Casey’s not missing? she asks eventually. She’s okay?

  I nod.

  —You know anything about this Vic guy? I ask.

  —The name sounds so familiar. Let me ask around tonight. I know I’ve heard it.

  I shake my head.

  —What?

  —Sick fucks like this guy make me worry even more about you.

  —I know how to handle myself — and there’s always a bouncer around.

  —Just having to deal with the hassle’s bad enough, I say, but what about when you’re not at the club, when you’re by yourself?

  —I’m never by myself. I try not to go anywhere without Pink.

  —Pink?

  She opens her purse and withdraws a small pink leather case for what looks like a pager.

  —Pink, she says. My taser. It’s small, but it delivers nine-hundredand-seventy-five thousand volts.

  —I’m glad you have it, but I’m still gonna worry. They’re some fucked-up pricks in this world.

  —I know. I’m careful. Thanks for worrying about me. But right now Casey’s the one who needs worrying about.

  —Worried about her, too. Anything you can tell me about her that might help me — or anything you think I should know?

  —I’ll think about it, but no, nothing comes to mind. She’s a very good girl — smart, hardworking, straightedge, focused, you know? No drugs. No games. No drama. You should be proud of her.

  —I am.

  —So what’s the story between you two?

  —It’s complicated. I was sort-of her stepdad for a while. I mean, I was — I was actually more like her real dad — but it wasn’t legal. I didn’t adopt her. I married her mom, Monica, when she and her brother, Kevin, were younger.

  I shake my head.

  —What? she asks.

  —If I could change anything in my life...

  —That would be it? What? Marrying her mother?

  —The way it all turned out. Every bit of it. It was a short, unhappy marriage that ended so... Can we talk about something else?

  —Sure. Okay. Like what?

  —Anything but my biggest fuckups.

  —Am I one of your biggest fuckups?

  —You?

  —Getting involved with me.

  —Not at all.

  —I know you stay frustrated with how... torn I am.

  —Wanting more of you doesn’t make me think this is fucked up.

  —But what I do. Bet you never thought you’d get involved with a stripper. And then there’s what you said last night.

  —What’s that?

  —You know.

  —Oh. That I love you.

  —Yeah.

  —Yeah?

  —Do you really?

  I nod.

  —I do.

  —Can you believe you’re in love with a stripper? she asks.

  I don’t think of her as a stripper. It’s not that it bothers me to. It doesn’t. I think of her as a beautiful, graceful, kind, good person I find addictively attractive.

  I’m not bothered by what she does, not jealous of other men admiring her, getting her attention, but I do want her treated with respect, want her given the dignity she is due. And too many customers don’t.

  What I feel for her, what she means to me, what we are together, is private. Secret. Sacred.

  —I’m not in love with a stripper, I say. I’m in love with you.

  —You’re unlike anyone I’ve ever met, she says. I want you to know —

  —Don’t say anything about how you feel toward me.

  —Why not?

  —I don’t want you feeling like you need to say it back or explain why you can’t. I said it because I mean it, because I want you to know, and, for now, I’d really like to just leave it at that.

  She leans in and hugs and kisses me, mashing the food containers between us.

  —Thank you, she says. And thanks for being so patient, for not pressuring me, for being so understanding.

  I think about all the ways I’m not patient and understanding, but realize I must mostly keep them to myself, managing to process my struggles instead of inflicting them on her.

  —I don’t want to, but I’ve really got to go, she says. Gabe’ll be home soon.

  I nod, and begin to gather the trash, feeling guilty at the mention of his name.

  —This was so nice, she says. Sorry we got interrupted at the Dixie Belle.

  —This was better, I say.

  —Liar.

  I smile.

  —It was nice.

  —But not as nice as getting naked.

  —Nothing’s that nice.

  After dropping Regan off at the marina, I drive back down Beck and take a left on 98, heading out to the beach again.

  Beyond the bridge and the buildings of the beach, the setting sun is sinking into the sea, the tangerine horizon is brilliant, too bright to behold for more than brief moments at a time.

  Before me, bikes and riders are theatrical silhouettes driving into dusk, the roar of their modified mufflers ripping through the air, seeming to tear a hole in the fabric of the atmosphere.

  Pulling out my phone, I tap in John Milton Parker’s number, carefully, keeping an eye out for the ocean of motorcycles my banged up deep water blue challenger is swimming in.

  —Hey, Merrick.

  —Sheriff.

  —What can I do for you?

  Anytime someone asks me this — particularly early in a conversation — I feel like I’m interrupting and need to rush.

  —Are you still with Frank?

  —Back in my office, trying to catch up. I’m out of it — unless something changes. I helped with some background on Casey, but wasn’t much I could do. What’s up?

  —I just heard from Casey.

  —What?

  —Yeah. She says she’s not missing. Never was.

  —Are you sure?

  —About what?

  —That it was her. Did you see her?

  —No. Just spoke on the phone.

  —Can you go by and see her for yourself? Take a deputy with you so we can —

  I explain to him why I can’t.

  He’s quiet for a moment.

  —I understand why she would feel that way — ’specially with what’s goin’ on, but we’ve got to know that she’s okay. What’s her number?

  I find it in my phone and give it to him.

  —Let me call her first and explain the situation and why I had to give it to you, I say.

  —Just go ahead and do it. I’m gonna call Frank now. He’ll move on this fast.

  —Okay. Do you think someone trying to find her could have reported her missing? I ask.

  —I can’t figure out what the hell’s goin’ on. Makes no sense to me whatsoever. It’s not my case. Smarter people than me are working it. I just want little Casey to be all right.

  —I really think she is, I say. And I want her to keep on being that way.

  When he is gone, I call Casey. Getting her voicemail, I leave her a message explaining the circumstances under which I felt compelled for her safety to violate her trust and give her number to the police, asking her to please understand and call me as soon as she can.

  While in the middle of leaving the message, Rashard calls. When I finish, I call him back.

  —You won’t believe this, he says.

  —What’s that?

  —I was called to quell a little disturbance in the Days Inn parking lot on Front Beach.

  —You’re right, I say. I can’t be
lieve it.

  —Funny. Anyway... apparently some non-biker tourists took offense at the thunder coming from bike mufflers and decided to let some of the bikers know it.

  —That the part I won’t believe? ’Cause I’ve got no problem swallowing that either.

  —So I’m in the parking lot —

  —Quelling, I add.

  —And I glance over at the Karaoke bar across the street.

  —Sweet Dreams? I got drunk enough to sing there like a decade ago.

  —Glad I wasn’t there, he says. Can’t get drunk enough to hear that. Anyway, so guess what’s in the parking lot?

  —Probably not bikers, I say. Half naked teens with rock star dreams?

  —An old white van. Guess what’s on the side?

  —What?

  —Dyson Residential and Commercial Painting.

  —Doesn’t mention anything about his sexual harassment services?

  Beneath the ubiquitous yellow background, black letters LIQUORS sign, looms another of the same size with red letters and a white background that reads SWEET DREAMS KARAOKE BAR. Like everything on the beach, the signs are competing with thousands of others, jammed together not dissimilar to the buildings behind them so it all appears to be one continuous business — and in a way it is. The business is tourism, the entire beach one giant, gaudy strip mall with shiny trinkets and firewater.

  On the way out I called Casey and Regan again, twice, but was unable to reach either of them and received no return calls.

  I have to park further down 98 in front of The Plaza Motel beneath a sign threatening to tow non-customers, and by the time I reach Sweet Dreams, Rashard is coming out from beneath the blue awning of the package store side.

  We step over near the ice machine to keep from standing in the way of people and their liquor.

  —Don’t think he’s here, but don’t know what he looks like so...

  Unlike earlier, Rashard is now in uniform, and the transformation is palpable. The crisp black uniform compliments his dark skin, and his leather belt holds so many gadgets in addition to his gun, it looks like it could belong to Batman.

  I pull out the folded picture of Vic and hand it to him. That him?

  I nod.

  —Recent?

  —Not sure, but I think so.

  He shakes his head. Pretty sure this guy’s not here.

  —You check in the van?

  He nods.

  —Couldn’t see all the way in the back, but banged on the doors. Pretty sure he’s not inside, but not positive.

  I look at the old van again. To my surprise the phone number on the side is not a cell. I can tell by the prefix that it is a local land line.