Sully Brooklyn was—you guessed it—from the Bronx. A thick salt and pepper mustache that would make Sam Elliot jealous concealed his top lip and he often chewed the ends of it nervously. His accent was totally New York and many of Woody’s regular crowd had trouble understanding the man. For him New York was Noo Yawk and everything was a good idear. Dante was never clear on why the man had left the big apple and found his way to this trailer park in the islands looking for a bartending gig, but he had poured a perfect Old Fashioned. When he asked where the sugar cubes were, Dante hired him on the spot. The last frickin’ bartender kept making Manhattans and calling them Old Fashioned's.
“You try callin’?” Sully asked, putting a nearly overflowing drink in front of his boss.
Dante took a long, careful sip. “You don’t think I called him? Of course, I frickin’ called him.”
“Alright, alright.” Sully held his hands up in surrender. “Just checkin’.”
“Yeah, I called him. But why should I have to do that? He’s a grown man now and he’s got responsibilities. If he can’t even run a Friday night shift at this dump, how’s he gonna take over the family business when I ain’t around?”
Sully was one of the few employees that knew what the family business really entailed. No one ever said the word mafia, or mob, or even family around the workers that didn’t need to know any of those details. And the back room was always locked. Always.
The sound of trash can lids being smashed together exploded from the stage almost surprising Dante right off his barstool. Sully put his hands on the top of his head and ducked.
“What the hell?” Dante smashed his fist on the bar. “Dicky, I pay you guys to play music, not to take out the frickin’ trash. What is going on right now? I don’t hear music and when I don’t hear music, I don’t see no girls dancin’ and when I don’t see no girls dancin’, I don’t see no money comin’ in, you get me?”
The Jabba-like creature pulled his cartoonish basket weave top hat off his head and scratched his stringy forehead. He shrugged his shoulders and pointed a meaty finger at the stage where the drummer, skinny, rangy, and shirtless was pulling his long black hair back up into what is now known as a man-bun. Dante considered the man-bun to be the mullet of the millennial generation. These idiots would look back someday and wonder what the frick they were thinking … maybe.
The drummer was trying in vain to put his drum kit back together and was dropping more cymbals than he picked up.
“What is it with bands and drummers? Eh, boss?” Sully asked.
The Extenders had recently had a bad run with their beat men. Ric Hammermill had died of an overdose of energy drinks. Then Trey Dunderson had hit a water buffalo in his Fiat Uno driving through the Everglades to another gig. And just last week, Cecil VonLondersen had been in the middle of the set when some very Aryan-esque dudes in black suits had walked in, calmly removed him from the stage and walked out with him. The man blubbered for help all the way, but Dante wasn’t gettin’ in the middle of that. This new guy was a local and from the looks of it, might not have been a real drummer. Either way, Woody’s needed music and fast.
“Sully, put the jukebox on. I’m tired of this crap.” Dante pointed at Big Dick. “Figure this out before I get out of the toilet, or all of youse guys are gonna be lookin’ for another gig.”
Dante stumbled off the barstool, sending it clattering to the ground. He waved his hand at it and groaned as he leaned down to pick up his cane. When he stood again, he gulped the rest of the scotch and grimaced as it burned his throat.
“Sully, I’m gonna take a break. You’re in charge. If all that mess ain’t fixed by the time I get back, get ’em all outta here.”
“You got it, boss.”
Dante took his piss—a somewhat unfulfilling task these days as he was sure his prostate was acting up—and headed to the back office. He looked over his shoulder as he pulled his key ring from his pocket. Unlocking the door, he eased it open and slid into the darkness inside. He closed it behind him and locked the bolt. Then he pulled a chain lock across and fastened it as well.
Only then did he turn on the light.
7
Cinnamon Girl
Woody’s in the Keys in Islamorada, Florida regularly receives one and two-star reviews on the most popular travel sites like Yelp and TripAdvisor. Sometimes it is a commentary on the food, or the tepid temperature of the beer, but most of the time, the review sneaks in a line about how the girls looked like biker grandmas, or offshoremen, or bearded hags. But if you scroll to a few of the more recent reviews, they all mention Cinnamon. One particularly fervent customer saying, “Oh, Cinnamon. Need I Say More$$? Wood & Two Thumbs Up!! Cinnamon I Need You!”
In fact, referencing the quite beautiful redhead, the sign out front at one time boasted:
13 UGLY GIRLS AND 1 PRETTY ONE.
As depraved, lewd, and lascivious as the comments were, they never really creeped her out all that much. She trusted Dante and the bouncers—when they showed up for work. And she never even used a fake name. How could she? Her real name was Cinnamon Starr. I mean, really, mom? Apparently, her father had been allergic to cinnamon, so she named her that to spite the bastard after he’d left. But now, she actually loved it. Men often asked her what her real name was and she could, without batting a fake eyelash, confidently tell them. And they never believed her.
Besides, most of the dudes that frequented Woody’s were old, crusty fishermen who drank so much they could barely stand up at the end of the night anyway. When the occasional Miami punk showed up flashing gold watches, diamond rings, and crisp Benjamins all over the place, she took a break.
As Dante, his face twisted up in anger, pushed past her toward the secret room in the back of the club, she smiled and tapped him on the shoulder. He didn’t notice. She started to ask what was wrong, but he slipped in and locked the door. Twice. She shrugged her shoulders and went to the bar side to have an iced tea—not a Long Island Iced Tea, just iced tea with a whole bunch of lemon in it. If it wasn’t sweet and sour enough to pucker her lips, it wasn’t good enough.
Her Pop Pop—God rest his soul—used to make the best Southern iced tea she had ever tasted. That, and the best bread and butter pickles, too. She could remember getting off the school bus, walking down to his house (next door to hers) and find him waving to her from the front porch with two large mason jars full of his magic brew and another jar with a fresh batch of pickles. Might sound strange to some, but she remembered those warm afternoons as the best of her life. Later, she would find out her grandfather had been putting copious amounts of cannabis in the tea making it both addictive and medicinal. Seemed the rest of the world was finally catching up to the wisdom of her Pop Pop and putting the weed-derived oil in every gas station and convenience store from here to Timbuktu.
She had just had her eighteenth birthday when he passed and didn’t have any reason to stay in Georgia, so she’d thumbed a ride on I-75 South. She didn’t stop until she saw the “help wanted” notice on the board in front of Woody’s and thought she might give that a go. On her first night, she’d cleared three hundred dollars. On her second, Dante had offered her an apartment, complete with a cute purse-pooch to carry around the island. And then, on the third, he’d offered her a new car.
It had started out well enough, but she soon wondered why the nearly immediate affections were coming from this old guy. Did he want to date her? But it became clear on the fourth night when he introduced her to Matty, his son, that he was gaming this system for his progeny.
Matteo Caparelli was decent looking enough, but he seemed to be as uninterested in her as she was of him. She was eighty-eight percent sure he wasn’t gay, though he wasn’t exactly masculine either. Slender, average height, nice wavy black hair, dark brown eyes. He wasn’t Matthew McConaughey or Brad Pitt, but he wasn’t that bad either. Maybe if he’d acted interested at all … but he didn’t. She told Dante as much, but he refused to take his gifts back feelin
g that soon Matty would come around.
“Speaking of Matty coming around,” she said to Sully as he slid a tall glass of her special tea, “where is he tonight? Isn’t he supposed to be running the shift?”
Sully shrugged. “Haven’t seen him. But yeah. Supposed to be his night.”
As the bartender walked away, Cinnamon realized the band was in a huff. Looked like they were losing another drummer tonight. At least this one wasn’t going out in a body bag.
Dante stared at his phone. Thirty-seven unreturned calls to Matty’s phone. It never rang more than once and always went straight to voicemail. For the first time in twenty years, a new emotion crept into Dante’s mind—fear. He began to consider that something might be wrong, but what? Matty was so straight laced that he didn’t figure the boy was in any trouble with the law. Maybe a car wreck or something like that. But he would’ve heard something from somebody by now … right?
He pulled open his desk drawer, pushed aside the two leather-bound ledger books and found the small velvet covered box. As he opened it, the low light made the hundreds of pin-prick diamonds sparkle brilliantly. The large letter C and the engraving of the family crest decorated the sides of the ring. He slipped it on his finger. It had gotten a little loose on him since age had started to steal his vitality, so he never wore it in the club for fear of losing it or having a grungy patron take a chance at grabbing it.
The scene of Matty’s graduation sprang into his memory. He had been the first of the Caparelli’s to graduate from anything other than the school of hard knocks. He was proud of that boy and had been so proud to give him his own ring, making him a full-fledged member of the family. The jeweler he’d found up in Tavernier, cute, middle-aged lady, had done an incredible job on it. If Matty ever had a boy, he’d be sure to get another one from her—if she was still alive by the time his reluctant son ever got around to it.
The boy wouldn’t know the full extent of what it meant to be part of the Caparelli family for many years, but it was a powerful birthright to bestow on a young man.
Dante looked up at the ceiling. “God, I know I ain’t done you no favors recently, bein’ part of what one might call a mafia crime syndicate, but please let my boy be okay. Yeah? I mean, I ain’t killed nobody in something like … ten years.”
The office door burst open, but the chain lock caught it. Through the crack, Dante could see Cinnamon’s face staring, mouth gaping at him.
He jumped up, but his fused knee sent him tumbling to the ground. When he pulled himself back into the chair, rubbing his sore leg, he looked at the door, but it was closed. Had he imagined seeing her there? He grabbed his cane, walked over, and slid the door open. Nobody there. Maybe he had … great, now my mind is going too.
And that’s when his phone rang. Not his cell, but the phone. The family phone.
8
Dripping With Dollars
Troy Bodean was jingling the keys to the Islamorada Tennis Club in his left pocket and caressing the single remaining hundred dollar bill in his right. Keep the store stocked with fresh drinks, right? That’s what the dude said.
Troy was pretty sure Lucas hadn’t been talking about beer, but there was a good bit of gray area there and he didn’t think one or two (or maybe ten) would matter much. Before he even got to the bar at Hog Heaven to order number seven, he was … touched. It was just enough to be a hair past subtle and not enough to go unnoticed.
Troy, against his better judgement, which had left him two beers ago, turned around. The sailor standing behind him didn’t look away.
“Howdy, friend,” Troy said. “Thank you for your service.”
“How’d you know I was a soldier?”
It is a well-known fact that someone who has served, even for a short time, can often spot other members of the military even if they aren’t in uniform.
“Well, your hair is high and tight, the stance is dang-near attention, and your sunglasses ain’t Costas or Oakleys.”
The man, who was flanked by two equally muscled buddies sniffed and nodded his head slowly.
“And also, the Hog Heaven is a Navy bar,” Troy added.
He ignored that and moved closer to Troy dropping into a more casual stance. “What’s your name, soldier?”
“Heck, I don’t tell that on a first date,” Troy said, immediately regretting it. “To women, that is … I date women.”
“That’s okay.” Navy dude grinned and moved closer until his thigh was rubbing up against Troy’s. “I date women, too.”
“What are you fellas drinkin’?” the bartender yelled from behind the packed bar.
Troy opened his mouth to ask for his check, but his new friend slapped a heavy hand on his shoulder and said, “double rum and diet for my new cowboy pal here. And three Red Bull and vodkas for us. I’m buying.”
“Oh, no. Much obliged, friend,” Troy held up his hands in surrender. “But I only drink beer. Too much of the other stuff and I get crazy.”
The man leaned down until his nose was almost touching Troy’s. His eyes began to wander up and down and suddenly Troy knew how women in a bar must feel at this hour of the night.
“That’s kind of the point, now … cowboy.”
Troy shoved his hand into his pocket and worked his palm around what felt like the sharpest thing in there—the key to the tennis center. It wasn’t a knife, but it would make the dude think about what he was going to do next. As he was about to pull the makeshift weapon out of his pants, one of the guy’s friends shoved him.
“Wayne, the man said he doesn’t want a drink.”
“Well, I’ve already paid for it, John.” He poked his finger into Troy’s chest. “So, he’s gonna drink it. Wait a minute … are you trying to horn in on my date?”
“Date?” Troy blurted. “Now hold on just a—”
“Jesus, Wayne,” the man named John said. “I’m married. You know that.”
But that fact seemed to escape Wayne who now was developing what Troy thought of as matador eyes. The man was a bull, preparing for a charge.
“Then, why don’t you just mind your own damn business,” Wayne said.
“Oh, for crying out loud.” John threw his hands up, turned, and started walking away.
Troy watched as the scene began to unfold in slow motion. Wayne flexed his hands into tight fists and leaned forward on bulging quadriceps. He took two steps before Troy decided it would be best to let John know his friend was headed his way. He yelled his name at the top of his lungs, but in the din of the party-like atmosphere, it wasn’t loud enough.
John, who had probably been scanning the room like any good soldier would, seemed to notice the crowd parting around him and turned at the last second to see Wayne go airborne. In sudden sheer terror, he threw his hands out and unfortunately caught hold of the Hog Heaven logoed tube tops of two of the bar’s most buxom waitresses. When Wayne hit him, he went down hard. The tops went down with him.
A roar of approval went up from the crowd of off-duty military personnel. Dollar bills, spilled drinks, and testosterone whoops began to rain down on the men grappling on the floor and around the women, both of whom had discovered a new concealatory use for their drink trays. As the two men he guessed might be sailors—due to the preponderance of the other Navy guys around the bar—beat each other up, Troy backed out of the circle and made for the door.
A sudden tug at his sleeve made him pull his key-knife from his pocket and almost jab it into the neck of the nearly topless girl shuffling along behind him. Her friend, the second shirtless girl, was looking over her shoulder, tears of fear welling in her eyes.
“Take us with you,” the first girl shouted.
“Please, mister,” the second added, “help us get out of here.”
Troy swallowed and wondered how trouble had found him once again. He grabbed the first girl’s hand, nodded down at the second girl’s and she grabbed it.
Taking a deep breath he yelled over the newly uproarious fight unfolding
just a few feet away. “Ditch the trays.”
Both girls looked incredulous, the second shaking her head violently.
“Trust me,” he said. “It will only be for a second. Pretend you’re on that beach down at the end of Key Biscayne tanning. Hell, ain’t nobody down there to watch anyway.”
Girl one looked at girl two and nodded. Slowly at first, she began to lower her tray, then, as if jumping into a cold pool, she flung it away exposing her breasts to the throng of people around them. Emboldened by her friend, the second girl tossed hers up into the air.
Troy smiled a thin tight smile and said, “follow my lead.”
He raised his hand, holding the first girl’s into the air and began to pretend to dance as if he were the lead in a conga line. She got the hint and raised her other hand as well. Now they were all holding their hands high in the air, dancing to the beat, doing the conga toward the door.
People around them immediately began to form the rest of the line behind them and the D.J.—worth every penny of whatever the Hog was paying him—suddenly noticed and put on the Buster Poindexter version of Hot, Hot, Hot.
As the line grew, the space between Troy, the girls, and the door grew less and less populated. When it was clear, he jerked on the first girl’s arm and he and the two bare-chested barmaids flew out the door into the chilly night.
The girls were laughing as they made it free from the crowd, the second girl realized she had cash shoved into her pockets, her waistband, and her high socks—a whole lot of cash.
The night air sent a shiver up Troy’s spine and he turned to look at his two evacuees. “Danged if I don’t ever remember a night in the Keys that was more nippy than this.”
The first girl arched an eyebrow and crossed her arms over her chest.
“Did I say … I didn’t mean … I was talkin’ about the weather.”
She opened her mouth to say something, but her friend interrupted her. “Regina, I’ve got over two hundred bucks here. There’s fives and tens and even a twenty here. And you’ve got just as much, I’ll bet.”
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