The Blue Tango Salvage: Book 2 in the Recovery and Marine Salvage, Inc. Series

by Chris Poindexter

  “I feel kinda guilty,” he said quietly.

  “Don’t. You know Deek’s slotted up at some strip club up to his neck in pussy,” I joked. “Hell, V’s probably there with him.”

  That got a laugh. “Okay, see you in the morning.”

  “Have fun. Doctor’s orders.”

  It was the perfect night to mellow in the tub and knock back some beers. When I caught myself dozing in the tub I decided to go to bed and convince myself that Amber was fine.

  Chapter 12

  The great thing about hunting pigs is you didn’t have to get out of bed at the butt-crack of dawn to go about it. Jesse called about 7 and said he’d be by in an hour to get us. Q came over about 7:30.

  “Sleep well?”

  “Slept not at all. I can see why they hired Charlotte,” he said tiredly.

  “I can handle shooting the hogs if you like.”

  “No way,” Q said automatically. “I’ve been looking forward to that since we got here.”

  We had coffee while we were waiting for Jesse. Q was trying to stay awake from his night with the lovely Charlotte, while I was trying not to worry about Amber. Overall Q got the better end of that deal. He had just fallen asleep in his chair when Jesse came around the side of the house.

  “We ready?” he asked. Q woke up with a start.

  “Shit,” he said, rising to go.

  “Well, don’t you look like something the cat dragged in,” Jesse observed.

  “Why does everybody say that?” Q asked rhetorically.

  “Miss Charlotte's shower was broken last night,” I tattled.

  “Oh, that damn thing acting up again, huh?” Jesse chuckled. “That girl can definitely wear a fella out. We still going or what?”

  We followed him around the house. It was actually kind of nice staying somewhere it wasn’t necessary to lock your doors. We took the golf cart to a big, fenced off parking lot next to the shop that had the park’s boats, campers, 4-wheelers and vehicles in for maintenance.

  “We can each take a 4 wheeler or I can drive the swamp buggy,” Jesse offered.

  We opted for the swamp buggy which was basically a light truck chassis with a tall frame built on top. The driver and passengers sat up above. There was a system of shock absorbers and hinges built into the frame so the lower chassis could roll with the terrain while the top stayed mostly level. Passengers had to climb a short ladder to get up the seating area. On the front of the lower chassis was a pad for the dogs. Q climbed up first and Jesse handed up the gun cases from the back of the golf cart.

  Q took the guns out of the cases, checked the action and sights and locked them into a gun rack that was behind the passenger seats. One was a Winchester 700 with a scope and the other a 12 gauge shotgun with a quick point sight. Jesse checked his pockets to make sure he had ammo for each gun, plus he was wearing a 1911-style .45 strapped to his hip just forward of a long-blade hunting knife.

  We climbed up to the passenger seats and strapped in. The engine was surprisingly throaty, making the entire frame tremble. Between the fat mud tires and the frame suspension the ride was quite smooth. It was noisy and Jesse had to yell over the motor noise.

  “We gotta swing by the cottage,” he said over the engine and the wind.

  The cottage was where the dogs were kenneled along with a supply of coolers and an ice machine. The cottage was outside the fence so the dogs barking wouldn’t bother people trying to sleep and they were also part of the nighttime perimeter defense. The dogs were big and muscular; a breed from South America called Dogo Argentino, bred specifically for hunting wild hogs. When they saw the buggy coming down the road they went nuts; dancing back and forth in their kennel, barking and generally doing their best to get Jesse’s attention.

  Jesse picked two and opened their kennel doors. The dogs made a beeline for the buggy and jumped up on the pad on the front of the lower level. Even though they were sitting they were still quivering and whining, ready to burn off some of that excess energy and excited about going on a hunt.

  Q hopped down to help Jesse with the coolers and they strapped two 40 gallon coolers on a fold-down gate on the back. A few minutes later we were on our way down a dirt road through orange groves. Jesse stopped to tell a group of workers working on a drainage canal that we’d be hunting the north side of the grove and they said they’d stay clear.

  On the north side the groves ran out and trailed into scrub land and Jesse stopped the buggy and jumped down for a look around.

  “See the way it’s dug up around them trees,” Jesse pointed out when he got back. “The hogs will tear the shit out of an orange tree trying to shake the fruit off.”

  He whistled and the dogs sprang into action tearing off through the low brush. “Don’t shoot until the dogs are back on the buggy,” he warned us. He listened for a minute until he heard squealing.

  “They’re on ‘em,” he said, firing up the buggy and heading through the brush. The height of the buggy kept us up above the brush and it wasn’t long before we got a glimpse of the hogs running through the brush toward a clearing off to our left.

  The hogs ran into the clearing and the dogs sprinted past to try and turn them. A few slipped past and disappeared into the brush, about six got confused ended up in the middle of the small clearing, the dogs circling to keep them together.

  “Lock and load!” Jesse yelled.

  I took the shotgun, Q the Winchester. Jesse handed us the ammo, reminding us again not to shoot until the dogs were on the buggy. He said we should pick out a couple big ones for the barbecue. We positioned ourselves on the front of the buggy and Jesse whistled for the dogs.

  The pair broke away from the hogs and sprinted back to their pad on the buggy. Q and I took aim.

  “On three,” Jesse advised. “One!”

  BO-BOOM! Q and I fired at the same time. Mine was a gray and black one near the edge, Q took a big boar near the center. Mine went down like it was hit with a hammer. Q’s squealed and got a step before it went over.

  “That never gets old, does it?” Jesse yelled. “Tear ‘em up!” he yelled down to the dogs which went straight after the downed hogs.

  “We let them gnaw on the kills a little,” Jesse explained. “Makes them feel like they did some of the hunting.”

  The dogs pounced on the downed hogs and I was surprised they could drag around an animal that size and shake them with a ferocity that defied their weight. Their head and jaws were shaped like a bulldog which allowed them to hold and bite and still breathe. After a minute the dogs settled into a throat bite and Jesse called them off.

  “I’ll take a hock back to the kennel and add it to their food later,” Jesse told us. “Everybody gets a share.”

  He put on a pair of the long plastic gloves vets wear for doing pelvic exams on cattle and horses, then gutted and quartered the hogs and put the pieces in the coolers. The vultures were already moving in by the time he got done with the first one.

  “Doesn’t take them long,” he said, nodding at a small knot of trees where the birds collected.

  We dropped the hogs off at the kitchen, the big smokers already lit up in anticipation. Today, besides our hogs, they would be smoking turkeys and a whole goat. I was surprised to notice it was already late morning. Jesse told us the serving staff weren’t there during the day but we should just go on in and fix ourselves a plate and Mr. T would be joining us later.

  We showered, changed and headed back to the big dinner hall, which was mostly empty. In the well-appointed kitchen were two big double-door industrial refrigerators still crowded with the leftovers from the previous night. We had roast beef, ham and potato salad. There was a huge double crust pie on the counter. Q went for a piece but I decided to skip dessert.

  We went through the double doors to a small dining room that was all windows around one side. We had just gotten started when Teddy stuck his head in the door and said he was just going to grab a plate and be right in and that Flower was right behind hi
m. A few minutes later the man himself joined us, carrying three cold beers.

  “Heard the great white hunters bagged a couple hogs this morning,” he said, passing the beers around.

  “I think the dogs could have handled it without us,” I joked.

  Teddy chuckled. “Yeah, they’re pretty good. We lose one once in a while,” he explained. “Some of them old boars get up to two-three hundred pounds and they’ll tear up a dog if they’re not careful.”

  I was about to say something else when Teddy stopped mid-bite and looked terrified, staring at Q’s plate. His sudden concern gave me a chill.

  “What’s the matter, Teddy?”

  “You might want to eat that pie,” he said to Q.

  “Huh?” Q asked, looking up from his food.

  Right then we heard Flower yell from the kitchen. “WHAT IN THE HELL?!!!!!”

  “Too late,” Teddy said ruefully.

  Q looked utterly perplexed as Flower kicked open kitchen door, not quite tearing it off the hinges, and blew into the room with the pie in one hand and a 12 inch butcher knife in the other. She suddenly looked taller than 5’ 4 as she stormed up to the table.

  “Who did this to my pie?!” she demanded, a red faced, 125 pounds of pure female fury.

  Instead of being cut like normal, the pie had a neat round piece removed from the center. The round piece of pie Q had on his plate stood in silent accusation as to the guilty party. Q had done that to cakes and pie as long as I’d known him, cutting a round piece out of the center and he ate his pancakes the same way. It was a habit that annoyed all of us but we tolerated it because it was harmless. Miss Flower was apparently not as tolerant of alternative pie cutting protocols. Teddy and I quietly picked up our plates and moved to a different table, Q looking like an abandoned puppy watching us hurry out of the blast zone.

  Between a long night of no sleep, a long morning after no breakfast, Q could do nothing but stare with a deer in the headlights look and stammer, “I..I always cut pie like that.”

  Wrong answer.

  “This is my great-grandmother’s award winning Double Crust Merry Cherry pie!” she fumed. “A family tradition handed down from mother to daughter for damn near 100 years! How dare you disrespect that tradition by cutting it like some...some..,” she struggled with the word, “HEATHEN!” she finally blurted out.

  “Let me tell you something, mister,” she continued without waiting for an answer, “as long as you’re under MY roof you will RESPECT MY PIE and cut it like a civilized person!” she yelled, punctuating every comment with the butcher knife which danced in her hand like a viper.

  “You ever cut one of my pies like this again and Miss Charlotte may lose one of her favorite toys,” she said menacingly. “Am I making myself clear?!”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Q mumbled.

  “Good!” To punctuate the statement Flower reversed the knife and brought it down on the table hard enough to make Q’s plate bounce. It stuck solid in the wood and she stormed off, leaving the knife behind to stand as mute warning.

  Danger past, Teddy and I returned to our seats at the table.

  “I shoulda warned you about that,” Teddy said almost apologetically.

  “Thanks for the backup,” Q looked like a whipped dog.

  “Pfft,” I dismissed. “I’m not getting in the middle of that. No way I’m going to take heat for some...pie butcher.”

  “She’ll simmer down,” Teddy assured, “but there are a couple things you don’t disrespect in Flower’s world: the Alabama Crimson Tide and her great-grandma’s award winning double crust merry cherry pie and you stepped right in it, brother. You should maybe think about going down to Thornberry’s and sending some flowers to the office by way of apology.”

  “I wouldn’t feel right about sending flowers to your girl,” Q replied.

  “Let me tell you something about Flower,” Teddy said, turning serious. “She ain’t nobody’s girl. If she’s with me it’s because that’s the way she wants it and, if she wanted to be with someone else, there ain’t anything me or anyone else is gonna do about it. And if she was the type whose affections could be turned by a truckload of flowers, then she isn’t the girl I’d want to be with anyway. Now seeing that this little...incident...is going to blow back on anything with testicles, including yours truly, I’d appreciate you doing whatever you need to do to smooth things over because, quite frankly, I don’t have time for that shit.”

  “We’ll take care of it, Teddy,” I promised. “Me and pie butcher here.”

  Teddy chuckled. “I think on the grand scale of Flower’s shit list that ‘pie heathen’ was the deeper cut.”

  We couldn’t maintain the mock seriousness anymore and Teddy and I dissolved into a bout of man giggles.

  Q finally got some of his composure back. “Fuck both y’all,” he said with a grin, which just kicked off another round of laughter from Teddy and I.

  “Pie heathen,” I accused, through bouts of laughter, laughing so hard I had tears in my eyes.

  Chapter 13

  Pie Heathen and I took a ride downtown and stopped by Thornberry's Flowers. By the time we found it Q was truly dead on his feet and I ended up driving.

  It was a cute and well-stocked flower shop and, despite the out of the way location, it did a booming business largely thanks to the park. Mrs. Thornberry herself met us, an older and entirely pleasant African-American lady with a large pair of reading glasses that hung on a big silver chain.

  “Can I help you gentlemen?” she asked pleasantly.

  “We have a...situation,” I began uncertainly.

  “I heard something about a pie,” Mrs. Thornberry informed us. “What exactly happened?”

  “My associate here cut a round piece of out the center.”

  “Out of Miss Flower’s great grandma’s award winning double-crust merry cherry pie?”

  “The same,” I confirmed.

  “Why on earth did you do a fool thing like that?” Mrs. Thornberry asked Q.

  “I always cut pie like that,” Q said sheepishly.

  “Mmm-mmm,” she shook her head. “This is going to be a big job,” she said, looking disapprovingly over her glasses at the great slayer of the sacred pie.

  “Anything you could do would be greatly appreciated,” I said.

  “Let’s see your money, big man,” Mrs. Thornberry invited.

  Q took out his money clip and started peeling off twenties.

  Mrs. Thornberry looked disapprovingly over her glasses. “Do you want this to be a sincere effort or another insult?” she asked.

  Q sighed, flipped the wad over and peeled off a couple hundreds.

  “Keep going,” Mrs. Thornberry encouraged.

  Q peeled off one, two, three more before Mrs. Thornberry plucked the bills from his hand.

  “That should do it,” she said with a smile. “What name do I put on the cards?”

  “Q,” he said.

  “Is that a first name or a last name?” Mrs. Thornberry asked over her reading glasses.

  “It’s my only name,” Q said irritably.

  “Okay, okay,” Mrs. Thornberry said defensively. “I’ll take it from here. You should go home and get some rest; you look like something the cat dragged in.”

  “Why does everybody--”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Thornberry,” I interrupted, steering Q toward the door.

  I drove the Butcher of Pieville back to the house and there was a note on my door to stop by the office. I took the golf cart up to the office and Sandi handed me a package with two cell phones in it.

  “Miss Flower said they’re set up to work with the park’s phone system,” she said. “You’re supposed to know what that means.”

  I did know. The park ran its own VOIP and cell tower system which included an IMIS catcher that pretended to be a cell tower to monitor all the phones going in and out of the park and down the highway. A high tech sentry that kept an unblinking eye on unannounced visitors and fed into a datab
ase that pulled up their visitation history. Teddy wouldn’t purposely track us so he was just letting us know that we could toss these after we left the park.

  “Thanks,” I said to Sandi and ran into Miss Flower coming in the door with an armload of office supplies.

  “You get your phones?” she asked. I held up the package in response. “Oh, good. Those be alright?”

  “They’re perfect, thank you,” I assured her. They were the big screen type so we could tap the park’s high speed internet connection.