by Lyle Howard
To his credit, his fellow officers considered Geiger a nonviolent man, and during his sixteen-year tenure as a law enforcement official in Pennsylvania and in the Keys, he had only found it necessary to use his weapon once ... and that was at the Paradise Shack less than three years ago.
As he steered the patrol car north, heading up US 1 on the first Shack-run of the weekend, Geiger tried to obliterate the memories of that awful night. With the full moon gliding between the palms that lined the highway, the gray asphalt turned wet and slick from one of those tropical showers that seemed to appear out of nowhere. It was much the same that fateful night not long enough ago...
He tried to forget, tried to think about something else—anything else—but the glare of the streetlights and the painful pang in the pit of his stomach wouldn't allow it. It was in this same harsh reflection of his headlights that he had first glimpsed the two men and the lone woman in the Shack parking lot. But that seemed like such a long time ago...
It was obvious that the men were bikers. Not that riding a Harley automatically labeled them as suspicious, but he had seen those screaming silver eagles embroidered across the back of their leather jackets one too many times. There was always a holding cell reserved for the Screaming Eagles Bike Club back at the precinct, so he never thought twice about slowing down and checking them out.
The squad car's tires crawled through the Shack's dusty gravel parking lot as it finally crunched to a stop. Across the half-filled lot, the bikers were so preoccupied with rousting the poor woman that they hadn't even noticed his discreet approach.
Slipping the car into park, but leaving the engine running, Geiger cracked his window and strained to listen. Even over the constant static and short bursts of police calls coming from his radio, he could hear the steady drone of music and laughter that emanated from most of the nightspots that lined this strip of two-lane highway that cut through the heart of the Keys.
Quickly assessing his situation, Geiger would have preferred to have more manpower nearby, but calling for back-up in this neck of the woods would mean an additional twenty minutes. He could handle this himself—after all, this detail was supposed to be a milk-run! The Middle Keys were considered to be the manageable region of Monroe County which allowed the Sheriff to concentrate the bulk of his Department's manpower farther north in Marathon or down south in Key West. No, Geiger would have to take care of this all by himself.
With the utmost caution, the deputy got out of the car with his gun drawn, but he let it hang low, still concealed behind the partially opened door. The bikers stood with their backs to him, their silver eagles shimmering in a dazzle of hot colors reflected off the flashing lights of the Paradise Shack’s neon marquee.
"You two fellas wouldn't be giving the little lady a hard time over there, would 'ya?" the deputy called out.
The big one on the right, not that they both weren't huge, turned his head a quarter turn to find out who would dare to butt into one of his, for lack of a better term, "negotiations.” Even in a shadowy profile, Geiger could count this guy's remaining teeth on one hand. A fearful shiver ran down the deputy's back, knowing instinctively that if this was going to come down to tying on the gloves, he wouldn't stand a tricycle's chance at the Indy 500!
Mr. Tooth Decay turned back to his buddy and nudged him on the shoulder. Obviously, it was the one on the left that was the thinker of the twosome.
Geiger raised his voice. "What do you say the two of you turn around really slow-like and we'll have ourselves a little heart to heart and find out what's goin' on here?"
The brilliant one spun around and was instantly illuminated like a gargoyle in the headlights of the patrol car. The lower half of his face was cloaked by a thick undergrowth of a tangled beard that hung down to the middle of his chest like the branches of a weeping willow. His black leather vest was unbuttoned to reveal the same screaming eagle lovingly reproduced in a garish tattoo that blanketed his woolly chest. His eyes were bloodshot, his expression vague but intense ... a sure sign that the sight of a single sheriff's deputy didn't faze him in the least.
The beast's southern drawl was garbled and liquor-laden. "Why don't you just get back in your car and beat cheeks outta here, dude?"
Ever vigilant, Geiger glanced around the deserted parking lot. It was like a scene stolen straight out of an old western movie where the streets of the town had cleared out for the gunslinger's showdown on the dusty main street—only now the full moon was glowing overhead instead of the blistering sun, and it turned the setting into a surreal parody. The only consolation Geiger could find came from the touch of the cold steel revolver balanced in the palm of his right hand.
"Are you all right, miss?" he called out, ignoring the bikers' advice.
The girl was blond, young, and plenty frightened. A trickle of blood creased the edge of her lower lip as she cowered behind the two Silver Eagles. Backed up against the tailgate of a late model Chevy pickup truck, she tried to honorably arrange herself by buttoning her blouse. A willing participant? Geiger wasn't quite sure of that yet. "I'm okay," she said, wiping a few stray strands of blond hair out of her eyes.
The deputy motioned deliberately to her with his left hand, to keep the gun still hidden. "Why don't you come over here, miss, while we try to sort this thing out?"
As though the drill had been choreographed ahead of time, both bikers speared out an arm to thwart any forward movement on her part. "She ain't goin' nowhere with you, dude!" the talkative one asserted, as the ignorant one beside him simply nodded in agreement.
Geiger took a step to his left, careful to remain behind the car door. "Is that blood on your face, miss?"
The girl touched her lips and her hands began to tremble when she realized that, indeed, she was bleeding. "You God-damned animals," she screamed, slamming her fists ineffectively against their embroidered leather eagles.
Without a moment's hesitation, the dumb one swatted her away with the back of his open hand, literally lifting her off her tiny feet and catapulting her against the Chevy's tailgate, where she crumpled into a heap like a withered orchid.
Thinking back, the subsequent chain of events seemed to happen in slow motion...
The word "FREEZE" came out of Geiger’s mouth instinctively, like a breath of air, or perhaps a sigh of relief. But his warning was ignored by the two men, as Dumbo moved to his left and Einstein to his right in order to separate and outflank the deputy. It was a given that Geiger would only have the opportunity to bring down one of them. His right arm came up with the revolver moving into position above the car door, his left hand functioning as a brace for the butt of the pistol as he drew a bead on the talkative one. The barrel of the gun traced Einstein's lumbering, evasive movements, trailing behind the big man and then intercepting him, zeroing in on his left thigh.
A flash lit up the darkness, catching Geiger by surprise!
It wasn't his muzzle flash, but an explosion coming from another direction. Instantaneously, the car window that shielded the deputy erupted in a blast of razor-sharp fragments.
Dumbo had been sporting a concealed weapon! In the murky darkness, Geiger hadn't seen the gun stuffed down the biker's boot—but as the bullet tore through his solar plexus, he knew he had made a fatal mistake. The deputy stumbled backward against the patrol car, a dark red blood stain spreading across his starched white uniform. His free hand immediately went to the injury, his forefinger frantically searching his stomach for the entry wound.
"I got him!" Dumbo shouted with delight, as though killing someone was finally something that was worth breaking his silence for.
Einstein stepped out of the shadows, his beady eyes darting back and forth to see if anyone had exited the bar. To his delight, the pounding country music had easily drowned out all the sound of gunfire. "We gotta make sure he's dead, B.J.! Don't wanna leave any witnesses, ya' know?" Einstein said.
"What about the girl?" Dumbo wondered aloud, "We gotta kill her too?"
&nbs
p; Einstein looked at the disheveled lump of womanhood lying next to the truck. Even in this condition she was better than anything either of them was used to. "Naw, we'll take her with us. We gotta get out of here and the road will get purty lonely, ya' know what I mean?"
Dumbo snickered salaciously. "She do look mighty tasty, don't she?"
Einstein nodded at the police car. "Keep it in your trousers, B.J.! First, we got some unfinished business to take care of!"
Dumbo cocked his pistol and walked around the opened squad car door. One shot in the forehead should do it, he figured. Not too clean, but purty damned efficient. As he stepped around the door, the last thing he expected to see was the service revolver pointing at his chest. Geiger was propped up against the car, his free hand trying to stem the tide of blood gushing from the hole in his abdomen, his right hand wavering with the gun in his hand, his eyes straining to focus on anything that moved in his shrinking field of vision.
Dumbo could only mutter "No!" before Geiger emptied every chamber of his .38 into the big man's chest. Rivets of blood popped from the biker's upper body as each of the bullets found their mark. With each hit, Dumbo stumbled further back. After the last round had hit home, and the .38's hammer continued to click uselessly, the big man teetered on the balls of his feet before falling face down onto the gravel surface, two more of his remaining teeth chipping loose out of his bewildered mouth.
In a frenzy of blind rage, Einstein ran over and snatched the gun out of Dumbo's viselike death grip. "You ain't got nothin' left in yours, you son-of-a-bitch," he seethed, pointing the gun at Geiger's slouching head. "Prepare to meet your maker, boy!"
A shot rang out, but the deputy had already exceeded his threshold for pain and could no longer feel anything. If this was the throes of death, he thought, he was thankful it didn't hurt any more than it already had. What would be the last sight of this unjust world that he would take with him to the afterlife, he wondered. An oversized troll in a leather jacket, dribbling drool all over himself?
Geiger's eyes fluttered open to find Einstein towering over him, but the biker was wearing a very unexpected expression on his bearded puss. As a matter of fact, it was something different about his face that first managed to draw the deputy's very limited concentration. What was that? A tattoo in the middle of his forehead? That's sure what it looked like! There ... a dark round drawing, like a third eye, dead center in the middle of Einstein's forehead! No, it couldn't be—he must be hallucinating! But there it was ... no, wait ... it wasn't a tattoo of an eye at all...
The back of Einstein's head was peeled back like it had been triggered open with a garage door transmitter. The bullet had entered the front of his skull creating a hole the size of a small fingernail, but exited through one the size of a softball. A 153-grain load, fired from a Smith and Wesson .357 Magnum will do that to the hard bone and soft tissue of a human being's head. With a torrent of blood beginning to flow from his gurgling mouth into his matted beard, gravity finally took hold and the biker's knees buckled as he crumpled like a discarded candy wrapper at the deputy's feet.
Across the parking lot, Cal Mackey stood stoically outside the entrance to his bar, his gun still warm, pleased that he was able to do his civic duty to help clean up the environment...
Four
A friend for life. This was the solemn oath sworn from a hospital bed and accepted with a grain of salt by Cal Mackey. The man was injured, he had lost a bucket of blood and was delusional, drifting in and out of consciousness. The last thing Mackey wanted was to agitate the poor guy. Cal just nodded sympathetically as he stood beside the bed and let the deputy babble onward, swearing his unswerving brotherhood to him. What could he expect? He had just saved his life, and given him a pint of his blood to boot! He didn't think this was the proper time to raise the proposition, but Cal was more than willing to call it an even trade if the guy could just make a few of his traffic violations disappear!
That was three years ago, and time changes things...
Arthur Geiger turned out to be a friend. A good friend. Not one of those guys that'll call you every morning to discuss the box scores or the latest island gossip, but one that knew his place in the scheme of things. If Geiger was off duty and happened to be in the neighborhood, he might stop in for a cold one and watch Cal hit balls out behind the bar. The conversations were always free and easy, and it seemed the two of them could always find something to laugh about. When he was on duty and passing by, he might occasionally poke his head in the door just to see if everything was copasetic, get a "thumbs up" from Cal behind the bar, and then disappear into the night. Never a bother, always there when you liked him to be, and never there when you didn't. Cal wanted it that way and, somehow, Arthur knew it.
Another weekend was upon them. Geiger pulled the squad car into the parking lot and found a space near the entrance of the bar. It wasn't something he was aware of, but his breathing always changed whenever he shut off his engine in front of the Paradise Shack. It became quicker and shallower, like the sound a frightened animal makes when it's backed into a corner by something bigger. Tonight was no different. He turned the key and waited, letting his instincts soak in his surroundings. A few people shuffling in and out of the bar—clean cut, pressed trousers, lots of makeup, holding hands … had to be tourists. A quick scan of the parking lot revealed no motorcycles. Always a good sign, but it was early still, only 9:45. It didn't get rowdy around here for at least another hour, but, as proper procedure required, Geiger called in his 20 (location) before heading inside.
The Shack was rocking for a Friday night! It was a complete assault on Geiger's senses as he made his way to the bar. The caustic odor of draft beer mixed with the acrid silvery smoke of cigarettes and cigars was trapped beneath the thatched roof like the stench off a rotting carcass. It made the deputy cover his mouth as he squeezed his way between tables. No less painful was the din of the crowd and the pulsating music, which both made Geiger's eardrums throb.
"Hey buckaroo!" Cal shouted, spying his friend weaving his way toward the bar. "You're here early tonight!"
Geiger waved his hand in front of his face. "Those ceiling fans don't move a lot of air in this place, do they?"
Mackey spread his arms open. "It's called atmosphere, mi amigo! It's what all the touristas come sout-of-de-border to soak up!" he joked, in his best Latino accent. "We aim to please, don't we?"
Geiger leaned across the bar, his face looking even darker in the glow from a red floodlight. "I don't know how you can stand it, day in and day out, pal. Your lungs must look like the underside of a bus!"
Cal poured a shot of tequila into one of three blenders behind the bar. "Not to worry, Artie! If the crowds keep pumpin' up my bank account the way they've been doing lately, I'll be able to buy myself a new set of lungs someday!"
Geiger frowned, and his tone turned earnest. "Life is precious, Cal. Don't take it for granted."
Cal nodded as he added a dash of Triple Sec into the blender. "You're right, bud. I'm just pullin' your chain."
The deputy took a step back from the bar, suddenly aware that he might be getting his light brown uniform dirty. "Well, on a lighter note, any sign of trouble yet?"
Cal tilted his head in his father's direction. "Well, unless the old man drooling all over my bar top is a problem, I think we're cool!"
Geiger chuckled. "Just keep an eye on him. He’s prone to wandering off to take a leak and passing out on the median of the highway like he did a few weeks ago!"
Cal twisted the top of the Margarita glass in a dish of salt and emptied the lime-flavored contents of the blender into the glass. "He should be all right. I shoved a burger down his throat about an hour ago to sop up most of the booze in his system. He'll probably wake up in a little while with his usual slammer of a headache and I'll get him a ride back to the trailer park."
Geiger checked his watch. "Well, if he's still here in an hour or so when I stop back, I'll be happy to give him a lift."
/> Mackey began rinsing out the blender jar. "Sounds like a plan, Artie!"
"Anything else going on around here?" the deputy asked.
Cal pointed to the table at the center of the room. "Check out the hot redhead and the old geezer she's hangin' with!"
The deputy spotted her immediately. "Whoo! Hubba-hubba!"
Mackey leaned forward until he was level with Geiger's ear. "You ain't just whistling Dixie, pal."
"Oh, bud, she's gotta be from the mainland! We haven't developed the fertilizer to grow that kinda thing down here yet."
"She sounded European to me," Mackey added.
Geiger spun around. "Please ... don't tell me that you've hit on her already?"
Cal put his hand up to his chest defensively. "Hey, she started the conversation!"
Geiger looked skeptical, so Cal crossed his fingers over his heart. "Honest to God!"
Switching on his best interrogation persona, the deputy cast an icy stare directly into his friend's eyes. "I want to know every little detail, you conniving fuck ... and don't leave anything out!"
"There's nothing to tell," Cal said with a shrug. "She came up to the bar, asked for a daiquiri, so I made her one, plain and simple!"
"So how the hell did you know she was from Europe?"
Mackey was having a hard time taking his eyes off of the mysterious beauty, as was the deputy. "By her accent. I could've drowned in it! When I pressed her for more info, though, she clammed up."
