Tales from Stool 17; Finding Port St. Joe: The Nigel Logan Stories (Vol. 1) (Volume 1)

by Kirk Jockell

  Trixie added with her husky laugh, “It was a full monty pursuit. I can see it now, parts flipping and flopping everywhere. He didn’t even stop to put on sunscreen. I would have paid money to see that.”

  I said, “But certainly Little Bit knew he couldn’t outrun the car. The thieves had to be long gone in no time.”

  “Under normal circumstances, no,” Red said, “but we’re not talking normal here, especially when it comes to Little Bit’s determination to get his mullet back. Little Bit never slows down and cuts every corner of every lawn in the chase. And while he knew damn well he could never run down the car, what he did know was the thieves couldn’t outrun the tourist traffic. When he caught up with them they were moving at a snail’s pace on Highway 98. That’s when things got ugly. Those two didn’t fair well.”

  “The tourists got their money’s worth,” said Trixie. “That’s for sure.”

  Red concluded, “When the MBPD got to the scene, all they found was a tired, old Ford Focus. It was blocking traffic, still running in the middle of the street. Then they found two unconscious individuals sprawled out on the side of the road. The cops later caught up with Little Bit. They found him taking an unhurried stroll down the highway towards his house, his cooler covering up all the important parts. Later, he called Trixie. And I went out there to get him out of the joint.”

  “Wait ... wait,” I said. “I heard about this. It was reported on Oyster Radio on the drive over here. They mentioned Little Bit’s real name but it went in one ear and out the other.

  Trixie said laughing, “I wonder if they found anything when they frisked him, patted him down?”

  We all laughed at the thought of that until Red changed the subject, “Alright. Alright. Enough of that, already. Nigel, come with me. I got something in the car for you.” I got up and followed him towards the steps leading off the deck.

  Trixie objected. First she spoke to me, “Nigel. Don’t go round there with him.” Then she pleaded with Red, “Red! No. Please do not give that damn thing to him. It’s awful. Red! Oh, my God. This is so embarrassing.”

  Red chuckled under his breath as we walked.

  When Red told me they were heading to Key West, I was immediately envious. I wanted to go. After leaving Norfolk, VA on MisChief, my live-aboard sailboat, I made a small provisioning stop at the naval base there, but I hadn’t been on Greene, Duvall, or any of the other streets of Key West in years. So, when they decided to sojourn there, I had only one request. I asked Red to have a beer for me at Capt. Tony’s Saloon. He said, “Seems easy enough. No problem.”

  Sometimes, things are never that easy.

  While they were gone, I was in the process of moving into a small house in Port St. Joe, a cottage actually–a place known as “The Blown Inn.” I was renting it from a couple out of north Georgia. It was a first for me. I hadn’t lived in a house since I left my parents place to join the Navy. I’ve always stayed on boats, either my ship or on one of my many sailboats.

  I didn’t have a lot of stuff, so moving didn’t take long at all. Getting the utilities and phone hooked up took more time. I stood in the small living room and looked around. It felt weird, but it felt right, like I belonged there. Then the phone rang. And when I say rang, that’s exactly what I mean. The house came with an old, vintage rotary phone with actual moving parts. The clappers were smacking the crap at the bells inside.

  I looked at the phone and thought, Here we go. The first of a long series of wrong numbers. I hoped the last person that had this number didn’t owe a bunch of money. I picked up the phone. It was Red.

  “I’m on stool seventeen. I’m having your beer now. Actually, it may be your second.”

  “Red, how are you guys doing?” I paused and thought... “Wait a minute. How the hell did you get this number? It’s been hooked up all but about two hours now.”

  “Aww ... Ancient Chinese secret,” Red said in the worst East Asian accent I’d ever heard.

  “No. Really? How did you get my number so fast?”

  Red continued with his bad accent, “Little sister work at Mama-san Bell. She knows people that know things. Keep big brother in loop.”

  I shook my head with a smile. We chatted about this, that, and all the other. They were having a great time. There was a lot of roaming, people-watching, good food, and plenty of libations. We talked about my move and other casual chit-chat. Then he asked, “Hey! Would you be interested in a print of the saloon, a picture of Capt. Tony’s, something to hang in the cottage?”

  It sounded like a great idea. The place was empty, pretty naked, so having a little something to hang on the walls would be great. “That would be cool, but you don’t have to do that. You’ve completed your mission, beers at Capt. Tony’s.”

  “It will be my pleasure,” he said.

  We said our goodbyes and hung up.

  Their stay on the island was drawing to a close. It was the last day and Red had not yet found the perfect print. He considered various mediums, from photo prints to production art done by various local artists. He couldn’t find the right rendition of the world-famous bar. Not happy with what was available, he decided to go the extra-special mile. He would personally hire an artist to produce something to his liking, commission a piece. He wanted it to be special and meaningful. He’s a sensitive guy like that.

  A cooler in one hand and a beer in the other, Red roamed around and interviewed several local artists and vetted their abilities to complete such a project in the short time available. Over more beers, he reviewed samples of their work. He wanted to make sure the artist he picked could not only paint a picture of the famous watering hole, but capture the essence of the historic establishment. Red doesn’t do anything half-ass.

  He finally settled on a sidewalk artist named Jean Paul. It seems all the artists down there go by that name. The artist promised he could paint anything and in short order. Red handed him a picture he had taken earlier that morning.

  “Yes.” Jean Paul said, “Capt. Tony’s. Of course, of course,” he assured. The artist won points with his really bad, fake French accent. Red liked that about him. “I can paint this. I’ve brought it to life on canvas many, many times before. I would love to do this for you. All I need is an hour and my usual fee.”

  With his red solo cup now showing all white on the inside, and time running out, Jean Paul got the job. Red looked at his watch and told him he had three hours.

  “Oui. Oui,” replied Jean Paul.

  Red chuckled as he walked away thinking, Oui, Oui, Oui, Oui ... all the way home. He continued his roaming.

  Red opened the back hatch of his Ford Exploder, reached in, and pulled out the artwork. We could still hear Trixie from the back deck pleading one last time, “Red! Please!”

  “Here it is,” he said.

  We both stood there looking at it. I smiled. He chuckled. It was perfect.

  Looking at it I told him, “This is great, dude! Perfect. Thanks.” I meant every word. We looked at each other and laughed.

  “So why is Trixie making such a fuss?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I get the feeling she thinks it lacks a certain polished, artistic quality. That it’s missing some level of perfection, making it unsuitable for display. Like it doesn’t quite measure up.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Look at the reality in the depth of field, how the light seems to cast over the roof, the dimensions, the angles. The colors make the piece jump right out at you. The realism is overwhelming. I think it’s superb.”

  In truth, it was none of those things. We had both seen better kindergarten art. There is no shortage of starving artists that do fabulous work. Talent can be found everywhere. The idea that Jean Paul would make it, even as a starving artist, was a dream. I have seen art that, to me, looked bad, but to others looked fabulous. Even in those pieces, I could appreciate the artistic expression put into the work. None of that could be found in Jean Paul’s rendition of Capt. Tony’s Bar. The painti
ng was a comedy, and for that reason alone made it all the more special.

  We both gazed at the work in wonder. Then I said, “The guy doesn’t appear to be a very strong speller. He misspelled saloon three different ways.”

  “Yeah, I noticed that myself. It was the first piece I’ve ever commissioned. I didn’t realize I should have gotten an artist with a spellchecker. My mistake. Live and learn.”

  I told him, “Well, I love it anyway. Thanks again.” I gave him big hug as we laughed and chuckled. I let him go and said, “Let’s go get a beer, my friend.”

  We joined Trixie back on the deck. She was leaning forward, face in her hands.

  A Ransom for Maxine

  I first heard the news from Luke McKenzie himself. I was jogging through town when I became overcome with the urge for a cold, scratch’n beer. A scratch’n beer. You get an itch, you scratch. I had completed more than three miles of my run when I passed the Reid Avenue Bar and Bottle Shop in downtown Port St. Joe. Sight of the place gave my throat a tickle, so I slowed down to a walk and laced my fingers behind my head. I stopped and turned around. My skin was slick with a combination of sweat and sea salt picked up from the coastal air. I opened the door to the bar and took a vicious shiver as the air conditioning rushed out to meet my overheated body. Then I strolled on in.

  Old Man McKenzie was sitting alone at the bar. He was staring at his beer which was now warm, the mug frost long since dried and gone. Stool seventeen was right next to him.

  Luke McKenzie is a gentle, good-natured, elderly man; probably in his late seventies, early eighties. I’ve never asked. You wouldn’t know it by his appearance. He’s well preserved. He lives alone, surviving off his Navy pension, social security, and what little he earns with his small lawn care business.

  “Luke,” I said. “Your beer is growing a beard. Can I get you a fresh one?”

  He turned his head towards me, his eyes filled with worry and distress. “They took her, Nigel,” he said. “They took her from me. They have my Maxine.”

  “What?” I said. “What are you talking about? Who has Maxine?”

  “I wish I knew,” he said and slid a letter towards me.

  It was a ransom note, short and sweet, using cut-out letters to spell the words. I immediately recognized some of the letters as being from advertisements out of a local rag, The Oyster. It is a small, free publication catering to the tourist crowd and serving as a complement to my favorite FM radio station, 100.5 Oyster Radio.

  If you wanna see your deer Maxine alive, you will need to get together about $1,500 to set her free. We will contact you later with more instructions.

  Stapled to the letter was a color picture printed out on plain paper. It was of Maxine with yesterday’s newspaper, The Star, held under her chin by one of the captors.

  I read the note a couple more times. We will contact you. That told me there was more than one involved. They misspelled dear and weren’t specific on the amount of ransom. About $1,500? And there were some things about the picture that caught my eye. Without a doubt, these kidnappers are a bunch of knuckleheads.

  “Luke. Have you taken this to the police?” I asked.

  He shook his head in disappointment and said, “They didn’t take it serious. They laughed at me and called it the great “KID”-napping caper. I argued, but they said they had more important matters to tend to. Told me to call the FBI. That they actually handle cases like this.”

  The Great “KID”-napping caper. That was actually pretty clever. I almost laughed myself but didn’t want to offend or be disrespectful to Luke in his hour of crisis. But it was funny. After all, Maxine is a goat.

  Luke, or Old Man McKenzie as he is affectionately known, and Maxine have been together for years. They have been local icons long before I arrived on the Forgotten Coast. You rarely see one without the other. Maxine is probably the smartest damn goat in the world and serves as cheap labor to Luke’s little lawn care endeavor. While Luke mows, Maxine trims around the trees and structures, eating down to the ground areas the mower can’t reach. It’s the damnedest thing you’ve ever seen, and she knows exactly what to do. She’s like a four-legged weed-eater with horns and a beard.

  “The FBI,” I said. “That actually might not be a bad idea. Have you called them yet?”

  “Hell No! I haven’t called the FBI. What? Do you think I’m crazy? You know how I feel about the damn Federal Government. I want them to stay the hell out of my life, so I damn sure ain’t going to invite them in.”

  Luke isn’t fond of the Feds. A few years back he was audited by the IRS for some questionable expenses that were showing up on his business tax returns. In particular, the 1099 Miscellaneous, the report sent to IRS each year to report monies paid to contractors.

  It is a common error of some businesses, especially small ones, to misclassify actual employees as contractors. Often the error is the result of questionable advice provided from a best friend’s, cousin’s, sister’s boyfriend that runs an accounting business from the back seat of a 1984 Chevy Caprice station wagon, a spray painted sign on the door: “Anytime-Anywhere Tax Service.” I think you get the idea.

  The error is sometimes more than a mistake; it is intentional. There is significant cost savings associated with having contractors over employees. Contractors don’t qualify for benefits and there is no additional employer matching for Social Security and Medicare withholdings. For some, the allure of saving a few bucks in the wake of twisting the rules is too great.

  This is why the IRS investigated Luke. Questions pertaining to the validity of his contract labor had popped up on their radar. They sent various notices and questionnaires in the mail. Luke ignored all of them, including one announcing a date for an actual site visit.

  The agent’s arrival wasn’t met with a kind reception.

  The examiner wasn’t there to go over Luke’s entire tax return, only the 1099 contract labor particulars. He wouldn’t look any further unless something else presented itself during the course of the review. In all likelihood, had Luke been able to properly complete the 1099 each year, the IRS wouldn’t have had any reason to be sitting at his kitchen table.

  Agent Castor, badge no. 5789653, was from the Tallahassee field office. He was a young man, mid-thirties, medium build with a strong chin and even stronger smile despite Luke’s unpleasant deportment.

  “Mr. McKenzie,” the young agent started. “I’m so sorry for the intrusion. We tried to handle this through the mail, but, for whatever reason, we were unsuccessful.”

  Luke sat stoic and silent, arms crossed in a full display of defiance. A pile of unopened letters from IRS was on the kitchen counter, mixed with the occasional credit card offer. If Agent Castor saw them when he came into the kitchen, he never gave any indication.

  “Mr. McKenzie, the reason we want to talk to you is the improper completion of your 1099s for one of your contractors.”

  “There you go,” Luke said. “You haven’t been here five minutes and you’ve already started with your damn lies. Let’s try the truth for once, or is that too much to ask?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The truth, dammit. You said contractors, plural. I ain’t got but one. You’re trying to make this into some capital case, ain’t cha boy?”

  Agent Castor looked back down at his notes and shuffled through a few pages then looked up, embarrassment written all over his face. He said, “Please forgive me, Mr. McKenzie. You are absolutely right. I certainly did not mean to insinuate anything. One 1099. It says so right here.”

  Luke relaxed a little. He took great comfort putting the young agent on the defensive. He was in the driver’s seat, for a minute anyway.

  “Mr. McKenzie, we have questions surrounding the reporting of one of your contractors.” Agent Castor put a little extra emphasis on the word, one. “You have been reporting 1099 income for the same individual for the past several years with all zeroes as their Social Security Number or SSN. Plus, the fact he or she …”r />
  “She,” Luke said, interrupting the young agent.

  “Very well then,” said agent Castor. “We need to clear up this SSN business. Plus, since she has been working for you so long, we need to determine her actual status. She could actually be an employee as opposed to a contractor. Often, a simple oversight in classifying the services of the help.”

  “It sounds to me that you’ve already made up your damn mind, boy,” said Luke.

  “No, sir. Not at all. We need to collect all the facts first, like the SSN issue. Does she or doesn’t she have a Social Security Number?”

  “Nope.”

  “Really, is she an illegal alien? Don’t worry; we’re not so much concerned with her immigration status; that’s for the Department of Homeland Security to vet through. And we don’t openly share any information with them.”

  “Nope,” Luke said again with a grin, shaking his head. “Illegal alien? Why, if that isn’t the dumbest and thing I’ve ever heard. She was born right here in Gulf County, twenty miles up the road in Wewa. Pronounced “Wewah”, short for Wewahitchka.

  Agent Castor was now getting a little frustrated. His courteous professionalism was beginning to wear thin.

  “So if she isn’t an alien, then why doesn’t she have a Social Security Number?”

  “Well, that would be stupid, wouldn’t it? She doesn’t qualify for one.”

  “She doesn’t? Why is that?”

  “Because she’s a goat, you idiot!”

  “A goat?”

  “That’s what I said son, a goat.”

  “A goat can’t have a Social Security Number!”

  “Then you would agree with me?”

  “Agree with you about what?”

  “That it would be pretty damn stupid to give a Social Security Number to a goat!”

  Things went downhill from there.