Mangrove Bayou

by Stephen Morrill

  The stalker upped the ante Sunday night, flattening all four of Wanda Frister’s tires as her car sat parked in the employee lot at the yacht club. Troy only learned of it when he came to work and read the patrol log. “Why wasn’t I told of this when it happened?” he asked June Dundee. “And why are you here on your day off?”

  “It was that or kill Bob. He needs a hobby of some sort. Or a job. Retirement is boring to him.”

  “Maybe he could learn to play golf.”

  “Be a good idea,” June said, “if the nearest golf course wasn’t thirty miles away.”

  “Good point.”

  June looked at the patrol log. “She called us at one a.m. this morning. Juan was on and took the call. It’s some fucking flat tires, for God’s sake…”

  “You owe the jar two dollars,” Troy said.

  “Hey. Those were both in the same sentence. And I bet that Juan just saw no need to bother you.”

  “Two bucks. And it’s a judgment call, I suppose, but this wasn’t some drunk we toss into a cell and deal with in the morning. This was a frightened young woman, being harassed by a stalker and alone in a dark parking lot with a disabled car.”

  “I guess it didn’t seem important enough. You’re working on a homicide, for God’s sake.”

  “I am. I’m also the police chief for everyone, not just dead people. And there is nothing more important to me than Wanda Frister’s safety and her feeling secure in her person and property. I think we can roust the chief out of bed to tell him about it. Another dollar.”

  “I only got a five. I’ll pass the word along to everyone not to be so concerned that they may be interrupting you at, you know, other work.”

  “Make change, then. What do you mean ‘other work’?”

  “You and Lee Bell.”

  “Jesus Christ! Is everyone’s private lives public business in this town?”

  “You owe two bucks. And no, not everyone. Only you. You’re new. You’re the police chief, you’re the big cheese. You’re even exotic looking.”

  “It’s one name. That should be one dollar.”

  June shook her head. “Technically, it’s a name and a title. Two bucks, Chief.”

  “Don’t you have to go lift weights? I’ll cover.”

  “Yeah. Hope I don’t have to take off too many of those plates first. Go in there after Jeremiah and you can hardly roll the barbell around on the floor. He uses every plate there is. Should just send him outside, tell him to pick up cars until he feels tired.”

  “Do what you can. Come back in an hour.”

  Sitting at June’s desk in the lobby, Troy sent Milo over to Wanda Frister’s trailer to see what he could do. Apparently the car was still in the yacht club lot and Juan had given Wanda a ride home. Troy sent Bubba out to the yacht club to get the tire size needed and the number of lugs on the wheels. Then he called Rudy Borden at the town’s service station and garage, used his credit card, and asked Rudy to take four mounted tires and a hydraulic jack out to the yacht club and replace Wanda’s tires. Rudy called back in ten minutes.

  “I’ll do the cheapest I can, but the best I can do is maybe four hundred bucks,” Rudy said. “It’s not like I got a lot of inventory here. Those were all I had of that size.”

  “Just do it, Rudy. Put it on my card.”

  “I hope they pay you well, to be doing this sort of thing.”

  “So far they haven’t paid me at all and I’m running in the red. At this rate I figure I’ll be flat broke in another week.”

  Rudy laughed. “Well, least I can do is put the tires on for free. Want me to tow the car to her house after?”

  “That would be great, Rudy. Do that for me and I’ll personally see that you get the business next time we need some car towed out of a no-parking spot.”

  “That would be good, seeing as I have the only tow truck in town anyway,” Rudy said as he hung up.

  Troy was still sitting at June’s desk when the front door to the lobby opened and almost his entire off-duty staff came in. “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “Painting detail,” Juan said. “We’re going to do it all today. The guys decided.”

  “Who decided? Sure wasn’t me. Not that I mind at all.” Calvin Smith, he noticed, was not part of the team.

  “Juan decided,” Angel Watson said. “He called us all. Shamed us into it.”

  “I can’t pay you overtime for this.”

  “Did we ask?” Angel said.

  “Carry on,” Troy said, waving an arm towards the hallway.

  “Follow me,” Juan said, and they all trooped off down the hall to the storeroom that doubled now as a gym.

  “Follow me,” Troy said aloud. Then he laughed.

  When June came out to the front office she was wearing her new khaki shorts and shirt. It was the first day for all of them for the new uniforms. “Looking STRAC, June,” Troy said.

  “Feel like I’m in some fucking Hemingway novel,” June said as she stuffed another dollar into the Bad Words Jar. “There appears to be an entire police force back there painting.”

  “You in on this rebellion too?”

  “Would have been. But Juan said on-duty people should stay that way and stay out of the way, let the off-duty people handle it.”

  “Juan appears to have leadership potential.”

  “Yes. He does,” June said. “Keep it in mind.”

  Chapter 33

  Monday, July 29

  Troy went back and worked out himself, showered and put on his own new khaki uniform. Like everyone else, he had the summer version with short-sleeved shirt and shorts. In fact, that was all he had bought; they would have to get the long-sleeves and trousers before winter came, but one budget item at a time.

  He had handed in all his new uniforms to the dry cleaners and told them to put heavy, heavy starch in everything. In the locker room he had a hard time getting his legs down into the shorts. He smiled at that. Perfect. Each of the shirts had the wearer’s last name embroidered above the right pocket and a place for the badge above the left pocket. His was the same but with the word “Chief” under his name.

  He drove over to the Snake Key boatyard. Workers were all busy lashing everything down for the storm. There were some docks, a large parking area full of boats on trailers, and a boat ramp. While there was one small boat ramp next to the Guide Club, the boatyard was the closest thing to a full marina on Snake Key, and it was only used by the local fishermen and residents. Boats here ran to wood or beat-up fiberglass with odd bits of machinery attached, and with old outboards. The tourists with the glitter-painted ski boats used the Sunset Bay ramps on Barron Key.

  Troy walked over to look at the town police boat, a 25-foot RIB or rigid inflatable boat with center console, a light bar on top of the hardtop in front of the radar unit, and twin 150-HP Honda outboards. It was sitting on a trailer. It could be launched from here in minutes, or hauled off to some other location. The Suburbans both had trailer hitches with hookups for trailer lights and electric brakes. Troy nodded in satisfaction. It was more boat than the town could have afforded, but Troy had read in some paperwork that the boat was bought with funds from some drug interceptions. Side benefit of being in Florida, he thought. Extra income for the police departments.

  He had to ask around but eventually found Billy Poteet. Billy turned out to be a skinny, hard-muscled six-footer with tattoos up and down both arms and around his neck. He knew why Troy was there.

  “Jack, I din’t have nothing to do with them tires,” he said.

  “How do you even know about that?”

  “That bitch blames me for ev’ry little thing happens to her. I don’t need her no more. Plenty pussy around here to take her place.”

  “And, hey, you’re such an attractive fellow, too. All decorated up. And so well-spoken. Must have to beat them off with a fist. Which, as I understand, is your forté.”

  “Don’t need no fort, Jack. I’m busy. ’Less you got some warrant or something,
get the fuck outta my face.”

  “Mostly came out to get a good look at you. In case we accidentally bump up against one another in some dark alley some night soon. And, of course, I want that cell phone you use to bother Wanda.”

  Billy glanced at his truck and then back to Troy. “Don’ know what you’re talkin’ about. Only got one phone and it’s at home on my kitchen wall.”

  “I can’t believe it,” Troy said. “You actually still have the same throwaway phone. The whole point is to throw them away after one use. When I get back to the station I’m getting a search warrant for that truck. I’ll have that phone by close of business today. And you’ll be in jail by this time tomorrow.”

  “Bullshit, Jack.”

  Troy nodded. “Here’s some advice. Move on. Find some new girl to beat on. Wanda’s not yours any more. Come near her again and you’re going to get arrested.”

  Billy stepped in, his fists closed. “You messin’ with me, Jack? That some kinda threat?”

  “Nope. Just discussing probabilities.” Troy looked at the western sky. “It’s probably going to rain. You’re probably going to spend time in jail. I’m probably going to put you there. I’d say all are equally probable.”

  Driving back to the station Troy thought how nice it would be to search Billy Poteet’s truck and house. Obviously the idiot still had the same cell phone. Billy was a convicted felon so if Troy found a firearm in Billy’s house or truck that would be a freebie for him. Troy sighed as he turned a corner onto Colorado Avenue. There was no hope yet of getting any search warrants. His comment to Billy about getting a warrant for his truck had been a bluff intended to make Billy throw away the phone he had. Until he bought a new throwaway phone, Billy wouldn’t be bothering Wanda. Troy smiled as he drove. Sometimes police work was…unofficial.

  The fire engine and ambulance were parked across the entrance from Colorado Avenue to the town hall parking lot and a lot of cars were parked a block away in the lot for the Sunset Bay boat ramp. Jeremiah Brown and Juan Valdez were striping the lot. Troy parked with the other cars and walked back.

  “Nice,” he said.

  “Should have done this a long time ago, Boss,” Jeremiah said. “Glad, too, you got rid of those old junkers.” Troy had asked Rudy Borden, more than a week earlier, to haul away the two junked ex-police cars.

  Troy went in the rear door, down the hallway past the cells and to the lobby, and spoke to June. “Find out who made the glass panels in the Osprey Yacht Club front doors,” he said. “The manager, George Trapper, likely has a record. I want to talk to the guy who made those windows.”

  “You know the manager, you’re the honorary member. I’ve never been in that place.”

  “I don’t think they like me that much. Give them a ringy-dingy.”

  Chapter 34

  Monday, July 29

  That afternoon, Mayor Lester Groud walked through the connecting door between the station lobby and the town hall offices. He closed the door to Troy’s office, sat in a chair, and took off his long-billed fishing guide cap. He was wearing cargo shorts and a brown back-vented fishing shirt that had probably never seen an iron. Troy looked up from reading reports, looked at the closed door, and raised one eyebrow. The two men stared at each other a moment.

  “You been busy fitting right in here,” Groud said. “New uniforms and new attitudes for the troops, new girlfriend for you.”

  “Cilla Dowling talks too much,” Troy said.

  “Actually, heard that from George Trapper.” Groud looked around the pale yellow walls of the office. The old paint had been institutional dark green four feet up from the floors and light green to the ceilings. Now the whole station interior was a cheerful sunshine color. The white ceilings they had left alone. He looked at Troy, who was starched and STRAC, as had been June out at the front desk.

  “Don’t touch anything,” Troy said. “I don’t know what’s still wet and what’s not. Oh, and thanks for springing for the paint and brushes.”

  “Front door still has missing letters on the sign. And your office door says you’re the Director of Pubic Safety.”

  “Working on getting the front door fixed. Told the guys to leave my door alone until one of them confesses.”

  Groud chuckled. He looked at the fire exit to Troy’s right. “Pity you can’t make that ugly thing go away. Stupid building layout.”

  Troy glanced at the fire door. “Bubba Johns says for me to think of it as my private exit.”

  Groud nodded. “Striped the parking lot too. I like it. I like the marked spot for the mayor up against the wall, next to the back door to town hall. Never had my official parking place before. People just parked every which way in that back lot.”

  “Enjoy it. They already finished that? We got stencils from the storage shed out on Government Key. They’re supposed to stencil signs on the back wall for two patrol trucks, the mayor, two for town council, the town manager, the doctor, one for the fire chief.”

  “Guess they’re working that up. Don Roberts isn’t really a fire chief. He’s head of the volunteers. Technically, you are the fire chief.”

  “Don has to park someplace anyway.”

  Groud nodded. “Also meant to ask, what happened to the two old cars up on blocks back there?”

  “The ones Bob Redmond insisted on keeping for parts? Wrong image. Made us look like low-lifes to the tourists walking past. I had Rudy Borden tow them off for scrap. He hauled them up to some place in Naples. He got fifty bucks apiece for them as scrap iron. I let him keep that. Transportation charge and all that.”

  “Makes sense. No problem there. They were off the books anyway. But who’s paying all the overtime for the entire police force to be painting in here?”

  “My plan was to just do a wall at a time with whoever was on duty. They came in on their own. I didn’t even know about it until they showed up. No pay. I think they’re starting to pull together a little.”

  “Good.” Groud shifted a little in his chair. He looked out the window at Sunset Bay beyond.

  Troy looked that way but didn’t see anything worth staring at. There was a silence. “What’s really on your mind, Les?”

  Groud looked around and then back directly at Troy. “Got a visit yesterday from the commodore and manager at the yacht club.”

  “They complain about me?”

  “They did. The Osprey Yacht Club has long traditions to uphold. Standards to be rigorously met. Applicants are closely vetted for compatibility with our existing membership. It’s a delicate balance.”

  “That what they told you?”

  “What Paul Ronson told me, yes. And at one point they wanted to take away your honorary membership.”

  “Oh, the horror, the horror. And you said?”

  “I ah, remonstrated with them.”

  “You remonstrated? Les, you’re a fishing guide. You don’t remonstrate. You cuss out. By the way, don’t do that in here. We now have a Bad Words Jar and every curse costs you a dollar.”

  “I saw that on June’s desk.”

  “And if you use Jesus and Christ as a curse in a sentence June makes you pay two dollars for some reason I can’t figure out.”

  “It’s because Jesus is a name and Christ is a title.”

  “You already knew that or did June tell you?”

  “June told me. Right after I walked in and said, ‘Jesus Christ, this place looks different.’ Had to pay two bucks just to get past her to see you. And I hear everyone is working out now in the back, toughening up. Where did you get that gear?”

  “The weights were mine. I bought the used treadmill. You see any bargains on used stairmasters, let me know.”

  “Right. Anyway, go a little careful around the yacht club. You’re good for now. First ever person of color in the history of the Osprey Yacht Club—and nobody can figure out what color you are, but you sure ain’t whitebread.”

  Troy grinned. “I appreciate it. I’ll try not to step on any toes over there that do
n’t deserve it.”

  “Hell. They all deserve it. Yuppie bigots. Just try not to overstep any lines over there, if you can figure out where the lines even are.” He stood and headed for the door, putting his cap back on.

  “Les, you owe June three dollars on the way out—‘Jesus,’ “Christ,” and ‘hell.’”

  “Don’t forget ‘yuppie,’” Groud said. “That’s a curse word too. Four dollars.”

  Troy picked up the remote and turned the TV back on. The storm was coming closer. He went out the back door to check on the sign-painting. It was overcast and windy and the western sky was cloudy. It was not yet the black, boiling, impending-doom sort of sky but that would come in time. He walked out the fire exit and strolled around the south end of Sunset Bay and past the four boat ramps there, checking the sky. A Buick eased by him and the driver yelled, “Get out of the road, you idiot.” Ohio plate. Troy smiled and walked back to the station.

  He telephoned Lee Bell. “You better figure out where to fly off to,” he said. “This is not going to be pretty.”

  “All arranged. I’m leaving in a few hours for Atlanta and then from there to New Orleans. I was about to call you. Sure you won’t come?”

  “Tempting. But there are still a few people in this town I have not yet annoyed.”

  “So many rednecks, so little time.”

  “There you go. I’ll miss you. Hurry back.”

  Troy got out the town emergency evacuation plan, a three-inch-thick three-ring binder. It seemed excessive for a small town. Maybe bigger cities had truckloads of instructions, he thought.

  One thing Mangrove Bayou had going for it was its history. What was now Barron Key had probably once been one or two feet above sea level and dotted with big shell mounds created by the native Calusa. The lumber company that built the town had bulldozed all of those on the island and leveled things out to about three to five feet above sea level. Barron Road, leading out of town to U.S. 41, was on the old railroad causeway four feet above the surrounding marsh. It was actually higher than some parts of the town of Mangrove Bayou. But it was only a two-lane road and so was U.S. 41, the old Tamiami Trail the fleeing residents would be taking north to Naples. Troy sighed. Like emergency plans everywhere in coastal Florida, the time to evacuate was well ahead of the storm’s arrival. And the problem there was that if you evacuated well ahead of time, and the storm went someplace else, you not only looked stupid—and the local economy lost a lot of money—but the people who had left a safe place may have driven to a more dangerous place. It had happened in the past.