by Lyle Howard
Cal reached down into the refrigerator vault and pulled out a green glass bottle filled with mineral water from some Austrian spring to wash down the salted nuts. "Just something about that boat out there, and that woman, and then Ernie suddenly disappearing," he said, shaking his head. "I just keep getting these really eerie vibes from all of it!"
Rosie grabbed the bottle from Cal, wiped the rim with the palm of her hand, and took a slurping taste.
"You think I'm cracking up?"
The waitress laughed a throaty chuckle. "If anyone was to ask me who I thought had their shit together in this world ... I'd give 'em your name in a heartbeat, Cal. Why you letting it all get to you this way?"
"I just don't..."
"Listen..." Rosie interrupted him, reaching across the bar and grabbing his forearm, "that boat'll be out of here before you know it, and along with it goes the broad. Badda-boom Badda-bing! Both outta your life in one shot! And you know Ernie's gonna turn up like the bad penny he is—he always does! He's probably lying face down behind the K-Mart dumpster sleepin' it off. So why are you doing this to yourself?"
Cal shook his head. "You think I'm losing it?"
Rosie took a halfhearted look around the Shack to see if anyone needed anything, but the smattering of customers were beginning to look more like a still life painting than a source of income to her. "When was the last time you got away from here, Cal?"
Mackey tossed an almond into the air and caught it in his mouth like a pro. "I went and visited my sister up in St. Augustine last year."
Rosie looked at him whimsically. "I mean, really got away from here?"
Cal's eyebrows furled regretfully.
"Well, if you can't remember, then it's been too long!"
Cal let his mind wander to faraway places—exotic locales he had long dreamed of visiting. In his lifetime, he had probably traipsed across more foreign soil than the average pub owner, but never without a rifle strapped over his shoulder or a knife sheathed to his ankle. Maybe Rosie was right, life had to hold more for him than just mixing vodka tonics and hitting seven irons on the beach. "So you're saying, you think you could manage to keep this joint out of foreclosure if I was to split for a few weeks?"
Rosie took a long puff from her Camel and blew out a smoke ring that floated lazily upward toward the thatched ceiling. "Not only could I keep you out of foreclosure," she said, pointing conceitedly at her own copious cleavage, "we might actually turn a profit around here by using a shot glass to measure the damned drinks for a change!"
Just as Cal was preparing to come to his own defense, the front door of the Shack yawned open. Arthur Geiger stood in the doorway, blending into the night, out of uniform and dressed in casual street clothes, with his left forefinger heavily bandaged. "I know, I know," he grumbled as he walked down the steps that lead toward the bar, "I'm late, but I wanted to change clothes after my shift."
"Looking pretty sleek, Officer Geiger!" Rosie purred salaciously. "If those jeans were any tighter, I believe I'd be able to discern your religion!"
The deputy winked at her. "I got a funny feeling I ain't enough man for you, sweet cheeks!"
The waitress wiggled in her seat. "Name the time and the place, big fella', and I'd be willing to give you a test drive!"
Cal cleared his throat. "You two love birds through?"
Arthur tapped the top of the bar. "How about a brew, bartender?"
While Rosie was still admiring the back pockets of the deputy's jeans, Cal waved his hand in front of her face. "Excuse me..."
"Hmmm?"
Cal waved his towel in the direction of the few remaining customers. "Don't you still have to rake in some bar tabs?"
Rosie took a deep breath. "Yeah, yeah, yeah. Can't a woman let her imagination run wild for a spell without you guys raining on her parade?"
Cal smirked at Artie. "Parade on your own time, Rosie. Now, go tell 'em it's closing time."
Feeling exhausted, the waitress lifted her dead weight off of the stool and went about her job of collecting payment from the loitering clientele.
"So, what did you find out about my father?" Cal asked, as he twisted the top off a cold bottle of Budweiser and tossed the cap in a waste can behind the bar.
"His trailer was locked up tight as a drum," Geiger answered.
"No lights?"
Geiger shook his head. "Pitch dark."
Cal rubbed his fingers together nervously. "You didn't by any chance look under..."
"The potted plant behind the propane tank? Sure did. I know that's where he keeps a spare key."
"So you went inside?"
The deputy nodded. "Zilch ... nothing ... nada. No signs of life. He never made it home!"
Cal ran a finger around his lips. "You check his usual haunts?"
Geiger counted the locations off on his fingers. "Checked behind the K-Mart, the post office, his friend Pablo's boat..."
"Pépe."
"Excuse me?"
"I told you before. His friend's name is Pépe."
"Whatever. He still wasn't there."
Mackey scratched his head. "This isn't like him."
Geiger wiped his mouth dry with the back of his hand. "I called it into the station. If he's out wandering around somewhere, one of the guys will find him."
Even though the deputy had done everything humanly possible to find the missing old man, Cal wasn't satisfied. "I wanna check out that boat in back."
"Out of curiosity?"
"What do you mean?"
Geiger leaned forward until he was merely a whisper away. "I mean, you're not connecting these two things, are you?"
"I'm not sure."
The deputy stared across the bar cynically. "And just what makes you think Ernie's disappearance has anything to do with that cruise ship out there?"
Cal walked to the far end of the bar where Rosie was waiting with a tray-full of cash. "Intuition?"
Geiger called out to Rosie, who was busy folding her tips into her wallet. "How long has he been like this, sweet cheeks?"
"How long has he been like what, darling?"
Geiger frowned. "Delusional."
The waitress shook her head in agreement. "Now don't you ever bet against this hunk of male pulchritude, Arthur! In darts and in life, he can be tenacious when he gets a bug up his butt like this. You best just humor him, 'cause you to know damned well he's gonna do what he wants ... with you, or without you!"
The bartender’s teeth shined like a barracuda's.
Geiger tapped his fingers on his half-empty beer bottle as if he were playing a piccolo. "She telling me the truth, Cal?"
Mackey reached into the refrigerator and grabbed another beer for his friend. "Here's one to take with you."
The deputy hung his head. "So we're actually gonna do this?"
Without even so much as a running start, Cal sprang over the top of the bar. "Yeah," he said, as he performed a landing that any Olympic official would have rated a perfect "10." "First we're gonna make a pit stop at my place, and then, ‘we're actually gonna do this!’"
Eight
Mackey's three-bedroom wooden bungalow was built in 1985, the same year as the Paradise Shack. Sorely in need of a fresh coat of pale blue paint, the house was as much a part of Cal as was the nightclub. The previous owners had it built adjacent to the Shack thinking it would prove to be the epitome of convenience. Just roll out of bed and you'd be ready to rock and roll behind the bar. This dream, of course, like so many things in his life, never materialized. Not only was it always too loud to ever get a peaceful night's rest on his days off, but every Sunday morning he'd step out onto his patio only to be confronted with his front yard looking like a landfill filled with discarded debris from inconsiderate customers. Now he was stuck with it. Poorly laid out, it had become a white elephant that he'd probably only be able to use as a throw-in to sweeten the deal if he ever decided to sell the Shack. But in today's tight-fisted economy, buyers weren't exactly busting down his front doo
r to make him an offer.
Inside, the bungalow was homey. Tastefully decorated, but with a distinct proclivity toward masculine embellishments. No feminine pastels to brighten any of these rooms—just dark wood-grains covering the walls and, in the living room, an overabundance of reclining chairs facing a big-screen television. A single hallway divided the small house with a bedroom and bathroom on each side of the hall, and the master bedroom at the rear.
"What the heck is this stuff?" Geiger asked, rubbing the slimy-feeling goo between his fingers.
"A mixture of boot polish and cold cream," Cal answered, as he poked his made-up face through one of the dark-colored, long sleeved sweatshirts he had pulled from the back of his closet.
The deputy cringed as put the smelly concoction up to his nose again. Lordy, I’ve always heard you white guys would do just about anything short of penile implants to be like one of us!"
Mackey sat down on the edge of his bed and began lacing up his boots. "You probably single-handedly put the kibosh to that old myth, pal! The cold cream doesn't allow the polish to stick to my skin. Now, slip into those sweats so we can get a move on!"
Geiger walked over to the dresser and wiped his hand clean with a tissue. "Get a move on? Cal, if you’re gonna try to look like one of the brothers, you’re gonna have to learn the intricacies of our language.”
Cal looked up from his shoes, his eyes highlighted like two pearls lying in a bed of mud. “Excuse me, Mr. Penn State Valedictorian.? You gonna give me a lesson in talking like some bad ass brother? Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, Arthur! I met your folks while you were in recovery, remember? Your mother was a corporate lawyer and your father was a frigging banker!”
“Oh, and I suppose I didn’t learn anything from patrolling the streets of Philly in a black and white for over five years?”
Cal rolled his eyes. “That was a lifetime ago, Artie. You’ve been down island for nearly ten years now and these latitudes are a far cry from Philly. So just get changed already!”
The deputy picked up his black sweatshirt, wondering whether he should remove his other shirt first. “You just happen to keep this para-military crap lying around here?"
Cal stomped his left foot snugly into his boot. It had been a long time since he had worn them while flying recon in the Mideast, and his feet had spread from just wearing sandals. "My momma once told me ‘don't ever throw anything away, 'cause you never know when it'll come in handy!’"
Geiger watched as Cal drew another black streak to cover his exposed neck area. "You’re enjoying this a bit too much, Cal! You’re beginning to scare me!"
Mackey walked across the bedroom next to where Geiger was standing and opened the top right dresser drawer. Tucked beneath a stack of his neatly folded underwear, he withdrew a pair of knives, their sheaths, and ankle straps.
"What the hell are you planning to do with those things?" The deputy asked, trying to see into the drawer.
Cal quickly slid the drawer closed, safe from Geiger's prying eyes. "They’re just some old leftovers from my days in the service. One can't be too careful!"
"You never told me this was going to turn into a night raid! I would've packed my gun!"
Cal ran his thumb down the length of one of the double-edged blades. "Guns make too much noise."
The off-duty deputy couldn't hide his anxiety. "Oh, and I suppose someone screaming in agony as they trying to stop a sucking knife wound doesn't make any noise?"
As Cal walked out of his bedroom and down the long hallway that led to his kitchen, he tucked his shirt into his shadowy-colored sweatpants. "For God's sake, Artie! It's just a precaution!"
The deputy pulled on the drawstring to cinch up the sweatpants Mackey had laid out for him. They were easily two sizes too large. "You’re never gonna tell me what kind of work you actually did for the government, are you, Cal?”
Mackey casually ignored the question.
“But we're just going to check the ship out, right?" Artie asked, shuffling toward the kitchen. "Nothing more, right?"
Cal was leaning against his kitchen counter sipping from an ice-cold carton of orange juice. "Look at you, Arthur!"
Geiger stopped in the doorway and glanced down at his unlaced boots. "Don't look like much of a commando, do I?"
Mackey licked some orange pulp off of his upper lip. "Well, you look more like Herbal Tea than Ice-T!"
The Deputy struck a bodybuilder's pose. "Yeah, but that don't mean that I'm not combat ready!"
Cal took one last sip and tossed the empty container into a wastebasket he kept under the sink. After wiping his mouth off on a dishtowel, he reached above the refrigerator and found the flashlight he kept there for emergencies. After a quick check of the batteries, he tossed the light to Artie. "Here take this. We've only got a few hundred yards to cover, so just stay close behind me, and don't flap your yap unless you're spoken to. Comprendé?"
Geiger let Cal walk past him and followed him out the front door. "Wait up for me, Cal! I still gotta tie my damned boots!"
Mackey paused on the side of the house while the deputy propped his foot up on a driftwood log and laced both shoes. "You ever notice how quiet it is out here, Cal? I mean, when there's no one else around here besides you, the stars and the ocean? You ever just come out here and take this all in?"
Cal tugged uncomfortably at his collar. "You gonna sit here and wax philosophical on me all of a sudden, or you gonna plug your pie hole so we can check out the boat?"
Geiger wasn't sure if it was the uncompromising tone of Cal's voice, or the impenetrable intensity of the whites of his accentuated eyes that hit him in the face like an invisible slap, but whichever it was, he didn't have to be told twice. "Sorry, won't happen again!"
Cal's eyes blinked once, and then blinked out as he stepped back into the moonlit shadows of a line of palm trees. "You ready?"
Geiger nodded; for the deputy, training class was about to begin. It was like watching liquid mercury slide around on a plate. One second Cal was a fleeting silhouette on the bark of a tree straight ahead of him, and then seconds later he'd hear "psst!” coming from behind a stone wall some twenty feet closer to the beach. Unless he was being teleported, Geiger didn't have the foggiest idea of how Cal was moving so quickly! In stark contrast, it seemed like no matter how cautiously the deputy tried to advance, his boots either crunched across shells buried beneath the sand or noisily mashed gravel on the paved surface of a weed-infested walkway!
"Keep up, will ya?" he heard a whisper scream from the darkness ahead of him.
"I'm tryin' to, God dammit!" Geiger whined back. "Where the hell are you anyway?"
A small coquina shell bounced off his forehead. "Ouch!"
"Pipe down and head for the near wall of the dock! You're almost here!"
Geiger ran toward the dock and was abruptly yanked down beside Mackey. "You've never really done anything like this before, have you?" Cal whispered.
The deputy picked off some sand that had stuck like glitter to his sweaty face. "Not since I've been working in the Keys."
Cal held his friend firmly in place with his hand. "Then just remember to stay low, and please ... don't budge until I signal you that you're clear to move."
Geiger nodded his understanding.
The Nocturne looked so elegant at rest that Cal had a hard time fathoming how sleek she must have been, turning the most powerful of waves into nothing more than a mere inconvenience. With her honed bow slicing through the sea like a cutlass, and her two enormous five-bladed Nibral screws putting out a wake that would take minutes not seconds to dissipate, she was indisputably the sovereign over her realm.
Cal checked his watch and waited. If his timing was right, it was about to happen any minute.
"What are you doing?" Geiger whispered.
Mackey pointed to the bright neon signs that illuminated the Paradise Shack in a kaleidoscope of joyful, blinking color. "Come on ... come on," the bartender pleaded under his breath.
Then, as if on cue, the lights suddenly went out, multiplying the surrounding darkness tenfold. Now, all that remained to jeopardize their approach to the yacht was the beacon at the far end of the pier, which thankfully shone off into the gulf, and a smattering of shipboard lamps.
"So this is what we've been waiting for?"
Cal tapped the face of his watch and smiled. "Every night at four a.m. It's on a timer."
For one of the few times in his life, Artie Geiger actually found himself speechless! His reverence for Cal Mackey was growing more profound by the minute. This is how it must have felt to be a real commando!
With their senses now shifted into overdrive, a peculiar sound off in the distance made both men turn their heads out toward the inky water of the gulf.
"What was that?"
Cal put his finger over his mouth to silence Geiger. "Sshhh, let me listen!" He thought he knew what the sound was, but because there was no overnight mooring allowed at this pier, he knew something else was amiss. "We've got company," he announced, staring off into the murky darkness.
Water lapping against a hull. It had to be.
"Is that another boat out there?"
Cal nodded. "A small boat, and I'm pretty sure it's got to be lashed to the dock, but it shouldn't be here this late. I'm going to check it out. Wait here!"
And just that fast, he was gone.
Geiger thought he saw a hint of movement against the background of the black yacht, but it could have been anything ... the shadow of a swaying tree in the moonlight, a gull passing overhead, or even perhaps Cal, but he didn't think anyone could move that fast. If he were a betting man, and knowing how stealthily Cal worked, he'd never put his money on the swaying palm.
