by Kirk Jockell
My truck had him blocked in, but that didn’t stop him. He cut through the yard slinging gravel and grass everywhere fishtailing to the street. Just like that ... he was gone.
I remained on the swing to finish my beer, then Luke’s. He never took a sip, and if Red ever taught me one thing, it was to never leave a beer to waste away. Afterwards, I walked out to my truck and reached behind my seat for my tool box. As I did my phone bonged with a text message. It was from Red, four words: tonight raw bar remember.
I lowered my tailgate and set the toolbox down to open. Under the top tray was exactly what I was looking for. I pulled out a small spray can of white lithium grease and walked back to the porch.
It was 1930 when I arrived at the Forgotten Coast Shrimp and Raw Bar. It was shaping up to be another casual night in a world removed from the stresses that accompany reality. The usual combination of locals and tourists had assembled and gotten a small head start on me. Brian Bowen, our local singer-songwriter and all around troubadour was getting the crowd on the porch warmed up. He was singing an original cut from his debut CD “There Goes the Neighborhood”. I had just been listening to it in the truck, so walking into a live session was a treat.
I mingled a bit outside before going in to look for Red and stake my claim at the bar. At the door I again found myself staring into the eyes of Maxine, another poster. I ripped it down. Dammit, Luke.
There were a couple stools available, but the one right next to the draft beer station caught my eye. It was empty, seventeen written all over it. I sat down, reached to my right and pulled me a Solo cup of Coors Light. I grabbed a big slice of lime and squeezed hard, instant Coorsona.
Bucky Jones was behind the bar. He was shucking oysters like it was nobody’s business, ear-buds in and iPod blaring. His head was bobbing in time to Give Me Three Steps, a Lynyrd Skynyrd classic. The whole bar could hear it. He looked at me and offered a wink and a smile. I spoke, but all he saw was my mouth moving. He flipped one bud out of his right ear.
“Huh,” he said.
“Buck,” I said, “you got to stop listening to your music so damn loud. You’re going to screw up your hearing.” I scanned the room then asked, “Have you seen, Red? Trixie said he came inside.”
Trixie is Red’s wife. She usually does a pretty good job of keeping up with him, but Red can be a slick and greasy one, slipping away unnoticed. He wasn’t outside. He wasn’t inside. And the guy walking out of the head wasn’t a match. Where in the Hell did he go?
Rubbing his right thumb and fingers together, eyebrows raised, sly grin on his face, Bucky asked, “What’s it worth to ya?”
“Don’t give me any of your crap, Buck. Where’s Red?”
“Come on, Mr. Logan. H.B.O., help a brother out.”
“What if I buy you a beer?” I said.
“I’m not old enough to drink beer. You know that. You’d be contributing to the delinquency of a minor.”
“Not really. You’re already a delinquent and your age hasn’t stopped you from drinking before.”
He smiled.
“So, Buck, are you going to tell me where Red is or am I going to have to tell Luke McKenzie about what happened to his favorite goat? The real story. The truth. He’s pretty upset you know?”
That got Buck’s attention. His eyes got wide. He looked from side to side to see if anyone had caught what I said. He leaned forward and tried to whisper but spoke louder than he realized, the music in his ear buds were still way too loud. “What are you talking about?”
I took the picture of Maxine out of my pocket, the one taken by the kidnappers. I unfolded it and showed it to Buck. “Recognize this?”
A nervous twang in his voice he said, “Ah ... Sure. That’s Maxine. Everybody knows Maxine.”
“Not Maxine, Buck. Look again. I’m talking about the class ring.”
Buck looked at the picture, then at the ring on his hand, then at the picture again and said, “Oh, shit.”
“That’s right,” I said. “I know everything, Buck. Including everyone involved.”
“Who told you? Was it Sammy?”
I shook my head no.
“Blair?”
“Nope,” I said.
I know everything. That wasn’t really true. I only speculated that Buck and his cronies were involved. I had no real proof. It was a hunch, until now.
“So, I’m going to ask you one last time. Where is Red?”
“Mr. Logan. You got to understand. We were having a little fun. And now it’s gotten all out of …”
“Buck. Where’s Red?”
“Nigel, please. Have you seen those posters?”
“Buck!”
“He was sitting right there, dammit. The stool you’re on now.”
“So where did he go?”
“I don’t know. Honest. He took a call from his cell phone then got up and left. He said something to me, but I couldn’t hear. My music, you know.”
“You’re no help,” I said grabbing my stuff. I recharged my beer and headed to the door.
Bucky’s voice followed me. “Mr. Logan. Mr. Logan, listen. We’re cool on that other thing, right? Like, no need to worry, huh?”
Without turning around I said, “That’s entirely up to you, Buck. Entirely up to you.”
I went out the door.
When I found Red, he was with Trixie out by the smoker; a small fire burned inside. The radiant heat felt good against the warm fall evening, plus it helps keep the no-see-ums away. There were several others too, sampling moonshine from the mountains of North Carolina. As I walked up, Joe Crow offered me the Ball Mason jar, holding it out in my direction. I declined. No thanks.
Trixie had a big smile on her face when she asked, “So Nigel, when is the big date?”
“Huh?” I replied.
“The big date. Your date with Candice, goofball. She says she has finally roped you into a big night out.”
“How did you hear about that?”
“Red told me.”
Red was chuckling with a less-than-innocent snicker on his face.
“How did you hear about it, Red?”
Before he had a chance to say anything I held up my hand. “Don’t answer that. It doesn’t matter. You know everything, but who else knows.”
Red said, “Now that Trixie knows, everybody.”
Red winced and continued his chuckling as Trixie delivered two quick smacks to his arm. As she reared back and swung for a third shot, he jumped back with a laugh and said, “Come with me, Nigel. Let me give you something before I forget again.”
We walked over to his Ford Exploder and he said, “It’s not much. A little something for the cottage. A lot of the locals have these. I know Joe does, and I figured you should have one too.”
He opened up the backseat driver’s side door and reached down to the floorboard. He produced a masonry brick and handed it to me. It looked old and had a different look and feel, absent of the traditional three holes. It was solid. I looked at him with a smile and said, “It’s a brick, Red. Aww, just what I’ve always wanted.”
“Flip it over and look at the front,” he said.
There was the significance. Stamped on the top, were the words St. Joe.
“Ah Hell,” I said. “That is pretty cool.”
Red smiled.
“Did Port St. Joe have a brick company?” I asked.
“No. No. No. These come from Louisiana and are not your typical contractor grade brick. They’re special and made with the traditional wood frame process. Each brick is made that way, no mass production or automated techniques. They’re one of the last masonry companies remaining to do so.”
“Really?”
“For over 130 years. Look them up. Anyways, here’s your St. Joe brick. Display it well.”
As I was about to thank Red, we were distracted by the sound of a vehicle sliding sideways to a halt in the middle of the gravel parking lot. It was the truck of Luke McKenzie. We stood there and watched him jump ou
t of the truck and run up and stop at the front door.
Brian Bowen gave him a shout out, cleverly working in a Hey Luke in the middle of singing Troubled Little Souls, another cut from his CD. Given the circumstances, it was a fitting tune for the occasion.
Luke didn’t acknowledge Brian. He stood there for a moment looking at the window with his head in his hands, rubbing and pulling his hair. Realizing his poster had already been taken down; he turned tail and ran back to his truck. He had left it running. In one smooth motion he jumped in, slammed the door shut, threw it into drive, and slung gravel as he worked his truck back to the pavement and towards Port St. Joe. He never noticed us as he flew by.
Red said, “That’s one disturbed, little old man.”
“Yeah. I’d say so. But ... he hasn’t cut his ear off yet.”
We laughed and walked back to the smoker.
The next day I was in my truck sitting at the intersection of Highway 98 and 71. I had my St. Joe brick in the passenger seat and we were waiting for the light to change. It was the lunchtime rush hour, downtown Port St. Joe. Three cars were in front of me, one behind. A regular traffic jam; it’s enough to drive you crazy.
I was headed to the Piggly Wiggly to pick up a few items to provision my cabinets. They had become quite sparse over the last week or so and needed restocking.
The light was about to turn green when the honk of a horn got my attention. In the lane next to me I saw Bucky Jones in his old pickup. His buddy, Sammy Bell, was with him. Bucky motioned for me to roll down my window.
“Mr. Logan,” Bucky said. “We need to talk.”
“About what?”
“I think you know what,” Bucky replied.
The light turned and I told them to meet me in the parking lot of the Pig.
I parked way out in the back of the lot, got out and leaned up against the driver’s door. Bucky and Sammy pulled in close. I looked hard at both of them. Each had their own unique expression of worry. It was time for a little Come to Jesus, and they wanted to broker a deal. It was time to pull the plug on their little prank and make everything right with Old Man McKenzie and Maxine.
“Where is Blair?” I asked. “He’s a part of this too, is he not?”
Bucky Jones, Sammy Bell, and Blair Stanton were rarely seen apart. They were thick as thieves. When you saw one, you knew the other two were somewhere close. But not today. Bucky and Sammy looked at each other before Sammy said, “We tried to talk to him, but he says he ain’t got nothing to talk about.”
“Really?” I asked. “That’s what he said, huh? How does that make the two of you feel? Letting the both of you take the heat, while he sits back taking no responsibility at all. He’s hanging you two out to dry.”
“It pisses me off,” Bucky said. “The son of a bitch!”
“Well, here’s the deal. I’m pretty sure I can make all this go away. Ya hear me?” They both nodded their heads. “But I’m not going to talk to either one of you unless all three of you are here. If you can’t get that little dickweed to man up, then I’ll have to take everything I know to the authorities and let them sort it all out.”
Bucky and Sammy exchanged looks. Then Bucky replied, “We understand. We’ll get him. Don’t worry.”
“I don’t have a reason to worry, Buck.” I let that sink in as I took a quick looked at my watch. It was just before noon. “Get Blair and meet me at Jetty Park in two hours, 1400.”
As Bucky rolled up his window, I heard Sammy asked Bucky what fourteen hundred meant. Bucky said, “I don’t know, dumbass. We just got to get our asses back here by 2 o’clock...” His window closed up and I smiled.
Jetty Park is a neat place. It provides a nice view of the bay and access to the channel leading into the marina. It is a popular spot amongst locals. It has a couple of small fishing piers that extend out into the bay, and it’s a great place to catch the daily sunset. Several people were fishing the piers and a few more were along the seawall. I watched and determined the catch of the day was Black Drum. Tomorrow it could be something else.
I looked at my watch. It was 1410; they were late. I was sitting on the tailgate. I was patient and figured I’d give them some more time, especially since I would never really turn them over to the authorities, not over something like this. That was a bluff.
I popped a beer, and before I could take a sip, I spotted Bucky’s old beach-beater truck coming down the road. The lift kit that jacked up the chassis was worth more than the whole damn truck. It is an old Dodge, red in color, or used to be. Now, it was a pale magenta with plenty of deep, pitted rust, trimming out the wheel wells. It was a thing of beauty to any youngster around these parts.
I counted three heads in the cab. They pulled into the empty spot next to me and parked. They didn’t get out. I jumped off the tailgate and walked around to the driver’s side window. Bucky rolled down the window and said, “Well, here we are.”
Bucky was looking none too happy. He had a puffy lip and his t-shirt was torn at the collar. I looked over at the others. Blair was sitting, sandwiched in the middle. Both he and Sammy were looking straight ahead. Neither was willing to make eye contact.
I took a hard look at Blair. His lip was fattened up too. Plus, I could tell his nose had been bleeding. When he finally turned his head towards me, I saw his right eye. A big puffy mouse had swollen up underneath, the precursor to one hell of a shiner.
“What happened to you, Blair?”
At first nobody said anything. Sammy finally turned his head and said, “He fell down.”
I smiled. “I see. I see that. We should try and be more careful from now on.”
I made a quick assessment and decided further questioning about their current condition wasn’t needed. These were three friends; they’ve known each other probably since they were in diapers. You can’t be friends that long and not have been down this road before: A big disagreement, words, an altercation, and a push or two, and finally ... fisticuffs.
At that moment, some in the cab hate each other. By this time next week, they’ll all be drunk on cheap beer and cast-netting mullet in the surf. It was a classic ritual of rural brotherly love.
I didn’t waste any more time. I put on my chief’s hat and got right to it.
“Okay, guys,” I said. “We are going to put this whole matter to bed today. There will be no discussion. This is a one-way conversation. Are we clear?”
Bucky and Sammy both respectfully replied with a nod of the head and a, “Yes sir”. Blair didn’t say anything. That annoyed me.
“Blair?” I asked. “Are we clear on that point? I’m not fucking around here.”
He slowly turned his head toward me and we locked eyes. What he saw in my eyes, I’m quite sure, was totally different from what I saw in his. I didn’t blink and he finally turned away nodding his head in agreement.
Luke McKenzie welled up in alligator tears when I told him Maxine had been recovered. She was safe and would soon be turned over to him. He was ecstatic with the news as we sat on the front porch. I was again on the swing, he on the glider that moved with smooth grace, void of squeaks. He didn’t notice.
Luke was full of questions. Where had she been? Had I actually seen her? How did I know she was safe? And of course, the biggest question of all. Who was responsible?
I told him everything I knew. It was as I suspected, a bad joke pulled off by local knuckleheads. They never intended for things to get this far out of hand. Once they saw the “Wanted” posters, they froze on what to do next. They got scared and hoped the whole thing would go away.
“How did you find her?” he asked.
I told him about the picture, the ring, the nests in the trees, and about the drift Red and I took behind Pig Island. I said, “Once all the evidence came together and I heard her bell clanging from the island, I knew that’s where she was.”
I left out the part about Red shooting me a big moon, dropping his pants on the boat. It wasn’t relevant, and it was an image I w
as still having a hard time erasing from my memory.
“Where is she now?” asked Luke.
“I’m not exactly sure, but they have her. They sent me a text once they got her off the island.”
“Those bastards kept her hostage out on that damn island,” he said. Luke was shifting away from being happy and back towards being mad. He considered the conditions on the island to be torturous and miserable for Maxine. “Those Sons of Bitches!”
Truth is, with the exception of not having access to her own room, television, and her nightly beer ritual, she was probably happier than a pig in shit. There is no shortage of food and water on the island. It would have been a big smorgasbord. It’s hard to say, though. She really does like her beer.
Luke was turning purple in the face. “Who? Who did it? I want to know. I have a right to know.”
I gave him the names. I also told him about their original idea. I said, “They wanted to get Maxine and drop her off one night in front of the house. Maybe tie her to a tree, then beat it. I told them that wouldn’t be acceptable and that they would need to face you and apologize. And not just an apology, but a public one.”
Luke mumbled under his breath, “Little fuckers.”
I got off the swing and patted him on the back and said, “Come on. Follow me out to the Raw Bar. That’s where they’ll be bringing her.”
Luke looked up at me. His eyes told me he was ready for this to be over. Then he smiled big and said, “Let me get my coat.”
Luke and I got to the Raw Bar first. The kids were nowhere to be found. As we walked to the door, I sent Bucky a text message, no words, only a question mark. I grabbed stool seventeen and Luke took the one to my right. Luke looked around and asked, “Where the hell are they?”
I shrugged my shoulders saying nothing. Then my phone bonged. I looked at the screen. It was a reply from Bucky. I showed the screen to Luke. Five minutes almost there. Luke smiled.
“I’m getting a beer, Luke. Want one? My treat.”
“No thanks. You’ve done enough.”
