Southern Comfort

by Fern Michaels

  Both men hefted the cardboard boxes onto their shoulders as they made their way down the dock, then to the deep sand that would lead them up to the house. They made two more trips before they hit the beach for a swim to cool off.

  Ice-cold lemonade, two comfortable seats on the porch, and Bird for entertainment were their rewards.

  While the brothers were sipping their lemonade, probationary DEA agents Kate Rush and Sandra Martin were grumbling about the incredible heat in the metal building they were living in. “They saw us spying on them,” Kate fumed. “I just know the sun glinted off the lens. I saw them both looking right where we’re standing. Talk about dumb.”

  “You can’t be sure,” Sandy said, trying to soothe her frustrated friend. “Look, both of us are just cranky. We’ve been up all night seven days in a row, and nothing has happened. I’m beginning to think this is all one of Tyler’s stupid bids for another promotion, and Jellard somehow got sucked in. Nothing is going on. Nothing. The guy was probably buying supplies, at least that’s what it looked like to me. I saw celery sticking out of one of the boxes. He has to eat, and he also has to buy toilet paper and paper towels. It’s the other guy we should be asking about. Who is he?”

  “I can’t be sure, but the cop’s profile says he has a twin brother. Maybe it’s him. Damn, I don’t remember it ever being this hot,” Kate said, wiping at her forehead with a tissue from the pocket of her shorts. “Let’s go for a swim.”

  “Sounds great. Tonight, if it doesn’t cool down, I’m going skinnydipping.” Sandy laughed as she moved off to one of the cubicles separated by folding partitions. “I really hate this place, Kate. Do you hear me, I really, really hate this place?”

  Kate grimaced. “I hear you, Sandra. Hey, we can always quit and go back to what we were doing before we signed up for this gig. By that I mean being miserable and missing this cockamamie life.”

  Minutes later, Sandy whirled and twirled in her brand-new sky blue bikini. She looked spectacular and knew it. “Do you think those two guys will be spying on us?” Not waiting for an answer, she said, “Let’s give them something to drool over. We can let the water sort of, kind of, carry us farther down the beach, closer to that crazy-looking house in the trees.”

  Sandy gaped at Kate. “Well, damn, Kate, what’s with the tank suit? They’re going to think you’re hiding something in that suit.” At the stunned look on Kate’s face, she hastened to say, “Whoa, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. You look like dynamite. Why not show it off a little more? One-piece suits are so not in, Kate. Don’t you look at the fashion magazines. Trust me, tank suits are long gone.”

  Kate shrugged. “I’m just more comfortable in a one-piece. The truth is, I’ve never worn a bikini and don’t own one. Look, it’s not like we’re trying to entice that guy and his brother or whoever he is. We’re just going in the water to cool off. Period. End of discussion. C’mon, I’ll race you to the water. Last one in stinks! Oh, God, what was that?” Kate dived to the ground, her face smashing into the sand.

  Sandy, who’d hit the sand at the same moment, raised her head and looked around. “It’s that crazy-ass parrot that has been dogging us is what it is. I bet he belongs to that guy up the beach,” she said, getting to her feet.

  Bird, his eyes bright, was perched on a piece of driftwood, eyeing the two women. He tilted his head, and said, “Oh, baby! How’s tricks. Bacon and eggs. Pretty boy! Bang! Bacon! Bang! Bullshit! Hello, Dolly, hello, Dolly!”

  “What the hell!” Sandy exploded. “It talks! That damn bird talks! I bet that cop sent it here to spy on us. Say something, Kate, and say it right now!”

  “You’re right, it talks! You want to send a message back to his owner, assuming the guy owns the bird? It could belong to someone in the village, you know. Think about it. What would be your message?” She started to laugh then and couldn’t stop. “You have to admit, Sandy, it’s a great pickup move.” A second later, Kate hit the water, her strong arms propelling her forward, Sandy in her wake.

  Tick yanked at his newly purchased binoculars on the cushion where he was sitting and brought them up to his eyes. He watched both women dive into the water. But what really drew his attention was Bird, perched on the driftwood. He passed the binoculars to his brother, who was grinning from ear to ear. “Strong swimmers. Very strong swimmers. Extraordinary breast stroke. Olympic potential. And there’s Bird in the thick of the action. Is he due to report in soon?” Pete asked with a straight face.

  Tick grinned. “Go ahead and laugh. Bird knows what he’s doing. I sent him there to spy, and that’s exactly what he’s doing. What he will report is another story entirely. I think I’m going to put him in my next book. I can see it now, The Case of the Foul-Mouthed Parrot.”

  Pete lowered the binoculars to take a better look at his brother to see if he was putting him on or not. Nope, he looked serious as hell. Then he laughed. When he calmed down, he said, “So, clue me in on all that stuff you bought in Key West. You preparing for war or what?”

  Tick shrugged. “For the most part everything I bought was stuff I used to pack around in my car back in Atlanta. I more or less just replaced everything. Except for the Uzi and the other guns. I wish to hell I knew what happened to all that stuff and my car.”

  “Why are you bullshitting me, Tick? You didn’t carry scuba gear and oxygen tanks in the trunk of your car. What’s up with that?”

  Tick slapped his bare feet down on the porch floor. He reached over for his brother’s glass and headed inside to get a refill. “Strictly recreational, Pete,” he called over his shoulder.

  Pete snorted. “Recreational, my ass,” he muttered. He knew in his gut the two of them would be out in the ocean on the first dark night, trying to figure out what was going on down the beach. His heart kicked up a beat at the thought. At least Tick appeared to be coming out of the fog he’d been living in. He said a silent prayer that whatever was happening down and around them would affect his brother only in a good way and not send him into a funk.

  When Tick returned with two fresh glasses of the ice-cold lemonade, Pete said, “Looks like I might be sticking around a little longer than I thought. Unless you don’t want me here. If that’s the case, say so now.”

  A sudden breeze whipped through the palm trees in front of the porch and ruffled both men’s hair. “Why would you think that, Pete?”

  “That’s a question, not an answer. I think it’s because you never seem happy to see me, and I admit this is only my second visit. I’ve taken into consideration that I’m a reminder of your past, and that I bug you. I worry about you. Andy worries about you, and your cop friends worry about you. They come by the bar all the time and talk about you. Don’t worry, I never said anything. Bartenders are just listeners, kind of like priests in a weird kind of way. You wouldn’t believe half the shit people tell me. A total stranger. For some reason, people feel safe confiding in bartenders.”

  Tick was only half listening. He was trying to come to terms in his own mind about what he would do if Pete up and left. Then he would truly be alone, and he’d had enough solitude to last him a lifetime. It was finally time to admit it. Maybe his problem was he loved too hard, too deep. Maybe a lot of things. He had to say something, and he had to say it now to wipe off what he was seeing in Pete’s face.

  “I don’t want you to leave, Pete. I’ve been in a deep hole for a very long time. I’m just starting to make my way up and out. The best thing that could have happened to me was your showing up last year. I think you know, but if you don’t, I want you to know that if you were in trouble, no matter where you were, even Atlanta, I’d be there as fast as I could. It’s important for me to know that you understand that. I’m trying, Pete. I really am. Maybe not hard enough in your eyes, but for now, it’s the best I can do.

  “Maybe I am a coward in your eyes. I did cut and run. At the time, it seemed like the right thing to do for me. I don’t expect you to understand because you weren’t walking in my shoes a
t the time. Which by the way, I lost along the way. I really liked those shoes, too. Funny how I remember that, and the rest is just a blur. I’m glad that you’re here, I really am, Pete. I guess that’s why I bought two of everything even though I told the guy at the dive shop I liked to keep spares. I guess, in my subconscious, I had decided to call and ask you to come down.

  “You know what I’ve been thinking?”

  “Hell, it could be anything with you, Tick. What?”

  Tick laughed. “I think I was meant to be a beach bum. I love it here. I like what I do. Yeah, I miss being a cop. But I like writing, too. If I tried to do both, one or the other would suffer. I’ve seen to my future, yours, too. I don’t know if Andy told you about that or not.”

  “What do you mean?” There was an edge to Pete’s voice that Tick didn’t pick up on.

  “I set up a trust for you a few years ago. Don’t look at me like that. I have more money than I can spend in my lifetime and no one to share it with. I wanted you to have what I have. Sally always worried about the future on a cop’s pay. College, things like that. The future was important to her. You know what cops make in retirement. I didn’t want Sally to have to work, but she did anyway because we needed her salary. I guess what I’m trying to say here is I love you, and I don’t want you to have to worry about your old age. I’m telling you, Pete, stop looking at me like that, or I’m going to knock your ass right off this porch.”

  Pete settled back in his chair. His voice was soft, almost gentle when he asked, “Is that the God’s honest truth, or did you do it because I got off the rails and couldn’t find my niche?”

  “Nah. You were doing what you wanted to do. I always admired that free spirit in you. You know what they say—when God is good to you, you have to share. That was a litany of Mom’s. Who else can I share with but you? You’re my twin brother, for God’s sake. We were joined at the hip for more years than I can remember. You gonna fight me on this, Pete?”

  “Hell no! I’m going to enjoy spending all that money you busted your ass earning by scribbling away your time. I just hope to God I’m not too old to enjoy spending it when the time comes. What do I say? Thanks?”

  “That’ll do. Lookie there, here comes Bird. Let’s see what he has to say.”

  The parrot flew onto the porch, dipped his wings, then settled on the banister, his eyes bright. He made his laughing sound and ruffled his feathers again. He waited.

  Tick looked at Pete. “See, this is the part I can’t figure out. Sometimes he just jabbers a mile a minute. Other times I think we’re having an actual conversation. I know he’s smart, I just don’t know how smart. I told him to spy on those women.

  “So, what did you find out, Bird?”

  “Put on your big-girl panties and deal with it.”

  Pete looked at Tick, then at the parrot. “Did he just say what I think he said?”

  “Yeah. Sometimes he says a whole sentence. Other times, just a word, or he repeats the same word over and over. He likes to cuss, too.”

  “What are they dealing with, Bird?” Tick asked, leaning forward, his voice perfectly pitched so as not to throw off Bird, who was staring directly at him.

  “Bullshit. All bullshit. Bang! Hello, Dolly!”

  Tick shrugged. “What did you see, Bird?”

  “Girls. Big-girl panties.”

  Pete let loose with a loud guffaw. Tick grinned.

  “Hot! Hot! No sleep. Sleep. Big boys sleep! Hey, Tick! Bang!”

  Tick got up and opened the screen door. Bird flew in and went straight to the bathroom, where he perched on the shower rod. “He’s tired now. Maybe when he wakes up, he’ll talk some more. What do you think?”

  “What I think is I’d like to see those big-girl panties.” Pete guffawed again as he brought the binoculars up to his eyes. “They’re getting out of the water. Both of them are damn fine-looking women. There are two of them, and there are two of us,” he said, lowering the binoculars and leering at his brother. “I think it’s time to decide how you want to play this. What say you, bro?”

  Chapter 7

  Los Angeles

  Lawrence Tyler stared out the window at the twinkling lights that seemed to be coming to life, one by one. The parking lot, three floors down, was almost empty at that hour. He craned his neck to see the four corners of the lot. All he could see in the dusky evening was his bright red Porsche and a clunker of some kind that probably belonged either to the janitor or the cleaning lady. He should have left an hour ago, but the truth was, he had nowhere to go. Oh, he could go back to his town house, but then what? Watch the news? Get a rental video? Cook? Take a shower and go to bed? It wasn’t like he had a bushel of friends here in the city of angels. In the beginning, he rather thought he’d have starlets knocking on his door. Such a foolish notion on his part.

  Tyler could see his reflection in the plate-glass window. He was still wearing his jacket, shirt, and tie. He should have shed the jacket hours ago, should have rolled up his sleeves and jerked his tie loose. Dress for success had always been his motto. No, that had been his father’s directive, which he followed because he always did what his father told him to do. It didn’t matter that he was almost forty-one. Forty years old with a receding hairline. His father had told him months ago to get hair plugs, then pointed to his own luxurious mane of silvery hair. He’d responded that he’d look into it. It would certainly give him something to do for a few weeks.

  Lawrence Tyler, “never call me Larry,” walked back to his desk and sat down. His computer was still on, turned to his e-mail account. There were no new messages. Earlier in the day he’d sent out close to thirty e-mails, and so far, no one had responded to him. He’d suspected there would be no responses when he sent them out, but he’d done it anyway. It rankled that his father, of all people, hadn’t responded. The others he could understand. The others made no secret of their dislike for him, but his father was supposed to love him. Yeah, right? The old man didn’t know the meaning of the word love. Neither did his mother. He was just something they pulled out every so often to show off to their political friends. He was always introduced as, “My son, who is a DEA agent.” Before one of what he thought of as “show-off meetings,” his mother always called and told him what to wear. Then she’d end the conversation by saying he should go to a tanning bed so he would look alive.

  One of these days he was going to get a goddamn tattoo and have his ears pierced. That would certainly make them look alive. Then he’d buy a motorcycle, a Ducati, and roar up to the governor’s mansion with his new hair plugs. The thought was so ludicrous, he laughed out loud.

  He looked around at his spacious office, at the Jackson Pollock paintings on one entire wall, all thanks to his old man. The black-and-white photos were the photo ops that had been arranged by his father, important people with whom Tyler needed to be seen to further his father’s political ambitions. And every time he moved from one location to another, he had to lug the damn pictures and paintings so he could hang them up in case his father decided to pop in for a visit—something that as yet had never happened.

  Each time he was reassigned, with more nominal authority but less operational control, his mother sent a decorator, and in twenty-four hours he had a suite befitting the son of the governor.

  Tyler bit down on his lip. He wanted to cry, but big boys didn’t cry. That was what both his parents had instilled in him at an early age. He wasn’t sure he knew how to cry anymore. He’d shed so many tears in his early years, when they sent him away to all the different schools he’d attended. He couldn’t remember a night when he didn’t cry himself to sleep even into his late teens.

  Damn, now he was tripping down memory lane again. It was happening too much of late. Tyler gave himself a mental shake, turned off his computer with a loud, “Screw you, Dad,” and grabbed his briefcase. He turned off the light, locked his door, and made his way out of the building to the parking lot.

  He unlocked the door, climbed behind th
e wheel of his Porsche—another must-have according to his father—and just sat there. He wondered whether, if he was driving a Honda or a Taurus, anyone would invite him to join them after work. Probably not, since he was so far above them, he couldn’t relate to bellying up to the bar for a beer. Thanks again to the warning his father had instilled in him—do not fraternize with the help. He winced at the thought of wearing a baseball cap or blue jeans. He owned one pair of sneakers, which were fifteen years old, and a sweat suit of the same vintage. From the days when he pretended to be a running enthusiast.

  The Porsche growled to life. Everything was about pretending. He was sick of it. Did his father and the people he worked with really think he didn’t know what was going on? He knew there was a task force investigating him, knew he’d be expelled, and expelled was the right word, from the DEA, and there wasn’t a damn thing his father could do about it. The media would be all over it like fleas on a dog. His fellow agents would open up, and he’d be a laughingstock. Mummy and Daddy might even have to leave the country. Such shame on the Tyler name. Maybe he should just go to the governor’s mansion and shoot them both. The thought so appalled him, he almost choked on his own saliva.

  Forty minutes later, Tyler roared into his assigned parking spot at the town-house complex where he lived. He got out, locked the door, and was halfway to his front door when he heard his cell phone ringing. “Crap!” The word shot out of his mouth like a bullet. Damn, he’d tossed his cell phone into his briefcase before he left the office because he wasn’t expecting any late-evening calls on his work cell. He fumbled at the latch on the case with shaking hands. It was rare to get a call at that hour of the evening. Maybe it was his father, who would be pissed to the teeth if he didn’t answer. One, son or not, did not ignore the governor. Ever. His wrath was legendary, and . . . the governor never called back.