Clearwater Journals

by Al Rennie

The GPS found the address Cooper had given me—Toby’s Gym. The place was beat up and run down and definitely not somewhere to go with the family. It was pretty obvious that, unless I had a death wish—which I didn’t—I couldn’t just waltz in there and ask for Billy Ray. I’d have to practice two skills that were not strong on my list of personal attributes—patience and stealth. I found a small metered public parking lot just across the street and down from the dirty front entrance of the gym. I parked there and realized that if there was another entrance to the place, and Billy Ray used it, I was basically screwed. I sat in the Jaguar sipping Diet Pepsi and chewing on a Snicker’s bar while quietly watching the front entrance to the decaying building.

  Mostly adult men, usually alone but occasionally in pairs, went in and others came out. Most athletes on any kind of training schedule usually like to stick to the same workout times if they can. I watched and waited, but I didn’t see either Billy Ray going in or coming out. I wondered about the extent of damage I had inflicted on Sammy. I hoped it was significant. I sat there for forty-five minutes and another chocolate bar. I started to believe that Cooper and or Kemp had used false information to set me up. If either of them had manipulated me like that, I was probably already under some kind of limited discrete surveillance.

  Finally, I ran out of patience. I thought about leaving the car and walking by the entrance. Maybe catch a glimpse of them doing bench reps of three hundred and fifty pounds or smoking dope. Just as I was about to follow up on that thought, I spotted an unhappy No Name walking out of the front door.

  No Name had a crude bandage on his nose. I guess I tagged him even better than I thought. He was with an angry looking muscle bound guy in his late twenties or early thirties wearing cut-off black sweat pants, a white and blue logo muscle shirt, a white headband and black rubber sandals. The guy was tanned to the shade of a rotten banana and just under six feet tall. He had to weigh at least two hundred and forty pounds, and could probably legitimately brag that he carried less than five percent body fat. In spite of the large diamond stud he wore in his right ear lobe, he was never going to win a beauty contest or an athletic event. I don’t think they have a Mr. Ugly contest. As I was trying to remember if there was a symbolic meaning to which ear a guy used for the earring—bed wetter, left—gay, right—I couldn’t recall, the guy rounded menacingly on Busted Nose and started to scream loudly at him. I guessed that I was witnessing a true clear-cut example of “roid rage”—just one of the adverse effects of steroid use. No doubt about it, steroids can produce big muscles with the right workout and diet routine. They can also generate many ugly results—roid rage, like what I was witnessing, acne, extreme thickening of the jaw line, prostate cancer, unwanted hair. I’ve even heard that your balls can drop off. I don’t know whether I believe the last one.

  One thing was certain though, this steroid user yelling at No Name had the kind of scrunched up face even his mother would have had trouble loving. He was huge and bald as an egg. His walk was a short pigeon toed jerky affair that made him look even more awkward than he probably really was.

  The guy was definitely not a happy camper. He was oblivious to everything other than angrily yipping at the poor dumb Busted Nose who for his part, looked like he was making a half-hearted attempt to placate. In fact, he just looked like I remembered him—stupid. Maybe he was missing the whole point of everything. “Oops” might have been No Name’s middle name. The two of them continued on for a hundred yards before turning into a dingy mom and pop restaurant.

  I was just starting my car and checking the gym entrance for a final time when Billy Ray emerged. He pivoted quickly and walked away from the gym. He was heading in the opposite direction Sammy and his bald, ugly friend had taken. Sometimes I believe there may be a God, and He’d like to help me out from time to time. I carefully slid the Glock out from under the front seat and slipped it into the back waistband of my jeans. I waited until I was fairly certain that Billy wasn’t going to turn back and then got out of the Jag and started to follow him. My plan was back on track.

  The late afternoon traffic was picking up as I trailed along behind Billy at a safe distance. He seemed preoccupied. He didn’t check once to see if he was being tailed. It was as if he was on his own turf and no one, other than cops, would dare take him on there. And if it was the cops, he knew his rights. They could just take a hike. Billy Ray was wrong in his assumption. He had been wrong about a number of things he had done in the last few days. And he was going to pay for it. I followed him for about ten minutes before he turned into a side street and walked to the door of an ancient shabby low-rise apartment building. The joint he entered would make Mia’s place look almost modern by comparison.

  I waited a few minutes for him to get comfortable. I crossed the street and entered the tiny foyer. The interior of the building was painted bilious green and wafted the odour of ammonia disinfectant, boiled cabbage and urine. I did a quick scan of the mail boxes built into the hall’s sidewall. I had to make certain this was Billy Ray’s place and that he wasn’t just visiting a girl friend or buddy. I found the name Boyle written in black magic marker taped above the mail slot for 1C. I moved back outside.

  For the next ten or fifteen minutes, I walked around the building mentally noting any escape routes and all means of access. This was not a high tech security layout, but there were too many people in too small a space to do what I needed to do—particularly, if Billy Ray decided to get argumentative. I decided to return to my car. I’d hit Billy later tonight if he left his rat’s nest.

  After I had retrieved the Jag, I slowly cruised around the neighbourhood of Billy Ray’s apartment building wondering just how I was going to get to the guy. He was the key to my plan. I needed a quiet location with no witnesses. I definitely didn’t want anybody to call the cops. It was getting close to seven in the evening, and I had made a significant dent in my food supply when God pitched in and helped me out again. I was parked up the street when I spotted Billy Ray come out of the front entrance. He looked as if he was about to go out for a jog.

  Billy was dressed in navy shorts, baggy white T-shirt bearing some kind of navy blue fitness logo and a pair of expensive Nike running shoes. He looked pretty fit and very big. All that gym time and all those steroids had paid off. He did a few quick stretching actions while looking up and down the street as if he was trying to decide which of many routes he would follow. Or maybe he was just being careful. His decision made, he set off running at an easy pace. To me, Billy Ray looked like a man with not a care in the world enjoying his leisure time in a healthy productive manner. If I could, I was about to change all of that for him.

  I knew with my sore ribs that I wasn’t about to go jogging after him. I started the car and prepared to follow along behind him by couple of hundred yards or until he passed out of sight. The decision to stay with my car was a fortunate one. Two and a half blocks down from his apartment, he ducked into what appeared to be a dead end alley. I drove slowly past the narrow opening into which he had disappeared and watched as he bent forward to open a locked garage door. I pulled the Jag into the first available parking space.

  I didn’t have long to wait. Billy Ray emerged from the laneway driving an early 2000’s black Corvette. Who says crime doesn’t pay? Apparently Billy Ray was more ambitious than Fred Cooper had reported to me. Billy Ray Boyle was doing not too badly for himself—at least in the wheels and jogging attire departments.

  I pulled out at a distance behind him and followed the Corvette as it moved along with the traffic. I had been certain that the guy was going for a jog. Now, I wasn’t so sure. What the hell was he up to? After almost twenty-five minutes of tracking the black Corvette, I watched as he signaled to turn off Polk Street onto Ashley. From there he turned into a public parking lot behind the Tampa Museum of Art. The parking lot faces onto the Hillsborough River and is across the street from the Curtis Hixon Park. He parked his Corvette as close to the park entrance as he could. It looked to me
as if Billy Ray wanted to commune with nature as he did his run. Or maybe he was about to make a withdrawal from his “weed” stash.

  I pulled the Jag over and watched him cross the road and take off into the park. When he was out of sight, I pulled into the same lot and found a parking space that was closer to the museum. It was time to use my new city map. The Curtis Hixon Park appeared to be around eight or ten city blocks large with a number of walking paths cutting through it. There was no point searching the park aimlessly looking for Billy. He had to return to his Corvette at some point in time—the later the better as far as I was concerned. It would be that much darker. Now I needed to find a good place to ambush him—a location well beyond shouting distance and that meant well inside the boundary of the park itself. With about an hour of twilight remaining, I expected that Billy Ray and I would be having a heart to heart chat very soon. I walked into the park further than I needed to. I wanted to find a safe spot to set up my ambush. After re-checking my map and its various paths and trails I found what I was looking for.

  Two of the paths—one coming in from the river side and one from the city side—blended into the main one that led back to Zack Street just about two hundred and fifty yards in. It was the perfect location what I had in mind. About ten feet off the main trail under a tall pine tree, I found enough secondary foliage to obstruct the clear view of anyone casually passing by. As I waited quietly under the big tree, I wondered if the Curtis Hixon Park might also be a sanctuary for snakes and poison spiders.

  There were still a few other people in the park. The ones who did notice me said nothing but sped up a bit as they headed away. One attractive sweaty young woman wearing only cheap runners, short shorts and a gray athletic bra looked at me as if I was some dedicated pervert waiting to jump her little Red Riding Hood bones. I smiled at her innocently before I bent over and pretended to be looking for a lost golf ball among the weeds—a hard sell when I didn’t have a golf club.

  No one passed in the five minutes before I finally spotted Billy Ray’s white jogging T-shirt. He was breathing hard and running towards me at a slowing pace. I moved in close to my tree and held the Glock behind the back of my right leg. When he came nearer, I said his name loudly enough for him to hear. “Billy Ray!” He stopped suddenly and looked over at me leaning innocently against the tree. I guess I had startled the poor guy speechless.

  “I hear that you’ve been looking for me,” I said in a quieter voice. I already had his undivided attention; I didn’t need to advertise my presence.

  “How did you find me here?”

  “I’ve actually learned quite a bit about you in the last day or so Billy,” I said. “I repeat—why were you looking for me?”

  He glanced around to see if there was anyone nearby, anyone watching. The initial surprise was eroding quickly. His confidence was building. He started to move slowly towards me. I straightened up and moved slightly away from the rough surface of the tree. I shook my head slowly.

  “I don’t think you want to get any closer,” I said and made another small shaking movement with my head and gun arm. “You might get hurt—by accident.”

  “You gotta a gun? Right?” he said focusing on the shoulder of my right arm. “Cause if you don’t, I’m gonna rip your fuckin’ head off.”

  “Let’s not worry about that for the moment Billy. I’m curious about why you and Sammy spent a good part of the past days and nights looking all over Clearwater Beach for me. By the way, how is Sammy?”

  The fact that I seemed to have no fear was beginning to play on him. Perhaps he started to wonder if he was about to get whacked. Billy Ray wasn’t stupid, but he was starting to become afraid—maybe for the first time since he was a very little kid.

  “Listen, I got nothing against you,” he said stopping in his tracks just a few feet off the path. “That thing in the bar—we was just funning with you and Mia. Mia’s an old pal of mine. Me and Sammy, we don’t got no hard feelins—no hard feelins at all.”

  “I am very happy about that Billy. But you see—unfortunately for you and the person who was involved in hurting Mia—I do have hard feelings—real hard. And I’m here to tell you that whoever hurt her—well—he’s soon going to wish that he had never even seen her. Now, again, and for the last time, why were you looking for me?” There was no sweetness left in my voice. The big guy knew I was really pissed.

  Billy Ray Boyle had started to back away. I could see the fear growing in his eyes. This wasn’t supposed to happen to him. He was the one who put the fear of God into others. He was certain now that he was about to be messed up. I had taken a step or two towards him.

  “I didn’t touch Mia. I promise. We was doin a favour man, that’s all. A guy we know said he’d give us two hundred each if we could find out where you lived. We had told him about what happened with Mia at the bar on the beach. He knew that we knew what you looked like—that’s why he offered us the job.”

  “Stand still Billy—one more move back or forward, and I’ll hurt you real bad.”

  “Okay man—don’t shoot me. Please don’t shoot me.”

  I ignored him. It was now completely dark—kinda spooky. That is unless you’re holding a Glock 27 and just dying to use it. “What’s the name of this guy who hired you? What does this prince of humanity look like?”

  “Terry—Terry Bullock. He’s Mia’s half brother or brother. I always get it mixed up. They don’t get along too good.”

  “That’s okay Billy. You’re doing well; keep it up,” I said trying to ease the fear level a bit I didn’t want to shoot the guy if I didn’t have to, but I was worried that at any second he would figure he had nothing to lose and make a run at me. “Now, what’s this guy, Terry Bullock look like?”

  “Big guy—bald head—he hangs out at the same gym me and Sammy go to.”

  “Walks kind of goofy like his balls are all caught up in his under shorts and has a big diamond in one of his ears?” I asked.

  “Yeah, yeah, that’s the guy. Balls in his under shorts—I like that.”

  “You did great Billy Ray. Thank you. You may go now.”

  The big guy looked at me like maybe he hadn’t heard correctly. Then I guess he thought that I meant to shoot him in the back. He started to back slowly away from me his hands held up in a karate defensive position—like maybe he could catch a speeding bullet. Don’t think so. When he thought he was far enough away that I could only miss or he could outrun the speeding slug, he turned and beat it out of there as fast as if the hounds of hell were on his heels. I probably should have put a round into him. I knew he would have put one in me. But there was no way he could have hurt Mia. He had been in Clearwater Beach looking for me during the time that Mia was attacked. No, I had my guy. Mia’s stepbrother, Terry, had moved to the top of my list of things to do. He was next.

  I stayed off the pathway into the shelter of the trees as I made my way back to the edge of the park. I watched as Billy Ray ran across the street, got into his Corvette, and roared away. I’d been a little worried that he might think he’d been bluffed out and want to take me on just to find out for certain if I was armed. In that case, I guess I would have had to shoot him, and then things would have got even messier. I seriously doubted that he would tear off and brag about the fact that I had ambushed him. Nonetheless, I knew that it would be prudent to add him to my list of people with a grudge.

  I Don’t Get Killed