by David Berens
Barry threw back another Jack Daniels and was about to sidle up next to them, when the other dude walked up and sat down between them.
“Freakin’ shit!” Barry swore out loud and slammed his shot glass down.
It was Troy. Damn Troy Bodean from the damn fish shop.
“Hey, bro,” the bartender smacked his hands on the bar. “Easy on the glassware. What the hell, man?”
Barry was jolted away from staring at the two girls and the guy throwing back Corona after Corona with them.
“Ah, man, I’m sorry. Just ready for another.”
The bartender looked him up and down before finally turning the empty shot glass over and pouring him another shot of Jack.
At first, Barry was disappointed and resigned to living another day without satisfying the itch. But as he watched the three of them party late into the night, he began to see a scenario unfold that might be perfect to quench his warrior’s thirst for blood.
4
Jamaica, Mon
Troy thanked Officer Duffy for the ride out to Tortugas Lie Shellfish Bar and Grill. It was one of the finest dive bars in Nags Head and Troy liked it better than Fish Heads anyway. The music was better, the seafood was fresher, and the tab was always a little cheaper. He opened the door to the wailing strains of Tommy Tutone’s song, 867-5309 / Jenny being played by a guy he hadn’t seen here before… but he was doing well enough. The lunch crowd was light with a few fishermen on their way in from the water and the vacation crowd on their way out to the beach.
He plopped down at the bar and before he could place an order, the bartender sat a Corona in front of him with a slice of orange in it.
“Thanks, Rusty.”
“You look like shit.”
“Nice to see you too.”
Troy squeezed the orange into the bottle and pushed it down into the beer. He took a long, slow pull and a shiver of relaxation trailed up his spine. He sat the bottle down and grabbed a menu. Rusty, a bulky, redheaded guy with splotchy tan skin jerked it out of his hand.
“Let me handle that for you.”
“Much obliged,” Troy said as he tipped his hat.
The singer launched into a tourist-pleasing version of Come Monday and a couple of random claps resounded around the restaurant. Troy turned around on his barstool to face the kid. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen. Kid probably don’t even know what the song is all about, thought Troy. But as he drank his beer, he couldn’t help but tap his foot on the stool.
“Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle if it ain’t Troy Bodean as I live and breathe,” a ragged voice called from the door.
Troy turned to see a tall gangly figure stooping to come into the bar. The sun silhouetted the man, but he could tell the guy was old. He had a limp that indicated that maybe his left knee didn’t move like it used to...might even be fused. As the man moved closer with a thump-step-thump-step sound, Troy began to recognize him.
His hair was rough and gray and currently braided back into long cornrows that traced back from a long forehead all the way down to his shoulders. Around them, he wore an American flag bandana tied in a band above his bushy eyebrows. He didn’t wear a beard, but his chin was shadowed with gray stubble. A pair of reading glasses, that were clearly too small to be his, perched on his nose…one of the lenses was cracked.
Jamaica Jack wore a denim vest, unbuttoned to show his hard, leathery belly sticking out above his belt. His jeans matched with a pair of old saddle-brown chaps over them. Turquoise American Indian jewelry set in sterling silver clinked on his wrists, fingers and neck. His black boots clomped on the pine board floor as he walked up to the bar.
“Jack?”
“Damn straight, brother,” the man said as he grabbed Troy’s arm and hauled him up off the stool into a bear hug. “It’s been a while, ain’t it? Maybe ten years?”
“Not quite,” Troy pointed to the stool beside him. “The usual?”
“Nah, shit,” Jack held his hands up to protest. “Had to give up the hard stuff a few years back. Started coughin’ up blood and the doc didn’t like that much.”
“Dang, that don’t sound good.”
“Just some acid indigestion. How ‘bout one o’ them sissy beers yer drinkin’?”
Troy laughed and pointed at his bottle when he caught Rusty’s eye.
“Two more.”
“Oranges?”
“Yup.”
“How the hell are you, Troy? What’re you doin’ out in these parts?”
“Doin’ some fishin’ and workin’. How ‘bout you?”
“ ‘Bout the same. I was campin’ out down here not too long ago, but I’m crashin’ in Cape Charles…for now.”
“Campin’ out?”
“Yeah, you know me…ramblin’ man, right? Got a boat, do some tourist fishin’ and shit. Anyway, enough about me. How’s life treatin’ ya?”
Troy gulped the last sip of his beer down and slid the bottle back on the bar.
“Been good, real good.”
“Uh huh.” Jack sniffed and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “And you’re a shitty liar. You look like hell. What’s goin’ on?”
Rusty sat the beers down in front of them. Troy picked his up and nodded to the deck out back.
“Let’s take a walk.”
“Seriously, dude?” Jack looked down at his leg.
“Oh, uh—.”
“I’m kiddin’, Troy. Let’s go.” He smiled and pulled himself up to limp toward the door.
Troy led him out on the deck. A group of college kids were playing volleyball in the restaurant’s sand court, but other than them, the porch was empty.
He filled Jack in on the events of the night before last, partying with the girls, blacking out, waking up on his boat, finding their heads in the lobster traps, and all the blood…so much dang blood.
“Well?” Jack asked as he tossed the orange over the rail of the deck.
Troy waited for the man to ask a more detailed question, but he didn’t. He just stared at Troy as he sipped his beer.
Finally, Troy shrugged his shoulders. “Well, what?”
Jack looked around to make sure no one was paying them any attention. Then he leaned closer to Troy.
“Didja do it? Kill them girls?”
“Hell no!” Troy said punching the man on the shoulder. “You kiddin’ me, man?”
“My bad, bro. My bad. I just know I seen a lot of good men do bad things when they come back from the war.”
“You can put that right out of your head. Cops even gave me an alibi.”
“That’s good, man.”
Jack took another sip of his beer. He traced the label with his thumb thoughtfully.
“So, didja see ‘em?”
“Huh? Did I see what?”
He clapped his hand on Troy’s cheek. “The boobies. Did you see the boobies?”
“The…did I see the… Jack, that ain’t right. The girls are dead.”
“Well, you partied with ‘em, dint ya?”
“Yeah. I suppose so.”
“So, didja see ‘em? Motorboat ‘em? Touchy touchy?”
“No, Jack. I didn’t do any of that.”
Troy didn’t say that he couldn’t remember for sure if he had or hadn’t seen the boobies. But that wasn’t the point.
“Kind of a waste, I s’pose.” Jack tipped his bottle up and emptied it.
Troy saw this and decided to change the subject. “You need another?”
“Does a bear shit in the woods?”
“Let’s head back in.”
Troy turned to walk into the bar. Jamaica Jack grabbed Troy’s shirt and pulled him back. He pulled out a canvas, camouflage wallet and flipped through a few dog-eared business cards. It took a while as he looked over his glasses and stretched his hand out trying to read each one. Finally, he found the one he was searching for.
“Yup, here we go,” he said and nodded, holding the card out to Troy.
Troy took the card and read t
he front.
MEIRA CARR
PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR
It had a phone number and nothing else.
“Tell her I sent ya. She’ll get to the bottom of this thing.”
“Thanks, Jack. I’ll give her a call tomorrow.”
“And Troy…”
“Yeah, Jack?”
“Be sure to let me know if ya get to see her boobies. Damn, I been wantin’ to see ‘em forever now.”
Troy shook his head and pointed to the door.
“How ‘bout that beer?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
The two of them limped back into the bar to the tune of Take It Easy.
Troy was surprised to see that a stooped gray-headed man now occupied his stool at the bar. He thought for a second about calling Rusty out about letting a straggler hop on a stool that was still an open tab. But there were other open seats, so he decided to let it go. Jamaica Jack obviously didn’t feel the same. He walked up to the old-timer now leaning over some sort of dark liquor drink and tapped him on the shoulder.
“Hey friend, normally I don’t make a scene ‘bout such things, but my friend Troy and I are kinda partial to them two seats.”
“Jack, it’s not a big deal.” Troy pointed to two open spots down at the other end of the long bar. “Let’s just grab those.”
He tapped the man again, but the guy didn’t seem to notice. That’s when Troy heard his voice carrying on and on telling some story about some being toe to toe with a few pirates down in Somalia. Poor Rusty was caught listening to the man.
“At one time,” the man stuck a finger in the air as he slurred, “I had the biggesh damn captain’sh lishence down in the Keysh. So, they all uzhed to call me when they had a load that nobody elshh could handle.”
Troy realized he knew the voice. More than that, he knew the story the man was telling. He’d heard it at least a hundred times.
“There we were headin’ down the Yankshee River...”
Troy had heard the story with various locations filled in for what he could only guess was the Yangtze River in this version. He smiled as he listened to the man carry on with his tale.
“All I had on me wassshh a crappy little pen knife that was nearly rushhted through. There was ten o’ them and they all had AK-47’shh. We spent a long day shhtarin’ down the barrel o’ them damn things out in the hot sshun on the poopdeck. You know what happened, Red?”
Troy guessed the man was calling the bartender Red. Rusty shook his head and rolled his eyes.
“I don’t, old-timer,” he said swiping the bar in front of him with a rag. “But I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”
“I had ‘em all—.”
Troy interrupted him filling in the rest of the punch line of the man’s story. “—cowtowin’ to me on the deck by three-thirty that afternoon. All with only a rusty pen knife and a backbone of steel.”
The man turned to look at him. He squinted hard and for a second, Troy thought he might not recognize him. Too much whiskey makes the memory go the way of the Dodo.
“Troy?” the man’s eyes widened as he said it. “Ishh that you? What in tarnation are you doin’ here?”
“Hello, Mel,” Troy clasped his hand on Mel’s shoulder. It was bony and thin…too thin. The man was clearly skipping meals. “I suppose I could ask you the same thing? What happened to being the biggest boat captain in Key West?”
Mel pursed his lips in disgust and flapped his hand as if brushing off the comment.
“That place ishh small cheeshh,” he said.
“You mean small change?”
“You said it.”
“The last time I saw you down there,” Troy said, “you were hangin’ out at Pepe’s braggin’ about a big boat you just got commissioned on. What happened?”
Mel licked his cracked lips. For a second the light seemed to turn on in his eyes and Troy was afraid he might’ve hit a nerve. And then the familiar squinty smile was back.
“Wouldncha know it, I got bushhted by the man for indeshent exposhhure.”
“What the hell?”
“Ya, I know. In Key Wesht of all plashes. It ain’t the same as it ushhed to be, Troy.”
He shrugged his shoulders and pointed to a bottle of Jack Daniels behind the bar.
“Who do I gotta bang to get a shot o’ that whishkey around here?”
Rusty acted like he was going to turn the old guy down, but Troy nodded to him and made a motion to put it on his tab. He poured the drink for Mel and walked down to the other end of the bar. The night crowd was starting to roll in and Troy realized he’d been there longer than he’d planned, but this was too good to pass up.
“Pissin’ off Duval Street, just behind The Bull,” Mel blurted.
“Huh? Troy and Jack asked in unison.
“Yeah, that’s what they got me for. Indeshent exposhhure, my ass. Cop claims I wasn’t actually outshide at the time of the pissin’, but I know myself and I wouldn’t do that shit. Anyhow, I got fired from the job when they found out about the bogusshh charge. And I figured if you can’t pee on the street in Key West, I don’t wanna live there anymore. So, I headed up north, got me a job on a little tourist fishin’ boat out here. It was pretty good, until I accidently peed on that one lady.”
He nodded his head and held up his empty shot glass. “Hey, can’t a guy get any shhervice around here?”
“Mel, you might want to ease up. Seems like you’ve had enough.”
Troy waved Rusty off as the bartender started to grab the whiskey bottle.
“Where are you stayin’ tonight? Why don’t you let me and Jack get you back to your place before it gets too late?”
“Stayin’? I’m guessin’ they probly got a nice drunk tank in thisshhh shithole. I figured I’ll stay there for a day or so till my new job heads out in a coupla days.”
“That’s no way to plan a night out, Mel,” Troy said wondering what sort of job he’d be able to do in this state.
Jack stepped up and added, “Bro, we can do better’n that. They got a hostel. I know we can get you into a bed that ain’t made of stainless steel.”
Troy arched his back and it cracked up and down his spine as he remembered where he’d been last night.
“Now, that sounds pretty damn good. Get me one more for the road. I’ll be right back.”
“Where you goin’?” Troy asked watching the man walk toward the kitchen.
“Gotta take a leak.”
Troy jumped up and grabbed him before he could make it past the swinging doors. He steered him toward the bathroom and made sure he walked in without any detours. When Troy got back to the bar, Jack had ordered a couple more beers and a shot. He was saying goodbye to someone on his cell.
“No worries.” Jack smiled as he hung up his phone. “I got an Uber on the way to take him down to the hostel. He’ll be good to go there. Plenty of drunks crash over for the night out there.”
Troy slid the beer toward Jack and tipped his Outback tea stained straw cowboy hat.
“Why don’t you keep that one, I think I’m gonna hit the road too. Gotta get up early and chop up some fish.”
“Solid plan.” Jack winked at him as he said it. “Look me up later this week, we’ll get out to my favorite fishin’ hole.”
“Perfect.”
“And dude, be sure to call Meira.”
“I will. I will.” Troy held up three fingers in a Boy Scout salute.
“And if you two get together, don’t forget—.”
“I know.” Troy shook his head as he opened the door. “Be sure to get a look at the boobies.”
“Right on, brother.”
5
Baby, You Can Drive My Carr
Meira Carr was jogging north along Virginia Dare Trail shortly after midday when her Apple Watch alerted her that someone was calling. She chose not to take the call because she was close to making her best time for the thirteen-mile run from Jennette’s Pier to the Avalon Fishing Pier. T
here and back made it an almost perfectly flat marathon. Several times she had come close to getting the whole twenty-six miles and change done in under five hours, but hadn’t done it yet. The conditions today turned out to be absolutely perfect with just a light wind blowing behind her on the home stretch. She checked her pace on her watch again and was excited to see she was ahead of schedule. Pushing harder, she passed the four hour and fifty-five minute mark only to have her left calf seize up in a painful cramp.
“No, dammit, no!”
She hobbled to the edge of the sidewalk and knelt in the sandy grass. She rubbed her knotted leg furiously. If she could get it to let go, she could still beat the time. But when she tried to stand back up, the right calf jerked her back down. She wasn’t sure why this was happening. She’d had plenty of fluids for a couple of days and had lain off all alcohol and caffeine, but her body was defying her.
From where she sat on the path, she could see her finish line marker, Jennette’s Pier, ahead. Looked like maybe fifty yards or so. Her watch pinged as the timer clicked to the five-hour point and raced past it. She wasn’t going to beat her goal today. The longer she sat there, the worse her cramps got until she realized beating her time wasn’t going to be the only problem. Getting back home was looking like a long shot. She punched her watch to call her daughter, but someone was calling in at exactly the same moment and she accidently connected the call with them.
“Shit, hello?” she said wincing from another jolt of pain in her legs.
“Yes, ma’am. My name is Troy Bodean and I got your number from a friend.”
“Okay, look, Troy,” she said as she realized it was a business call. “I’m going to have to call you back.”
She hung up before the man was able to leave a message. She quickly dialed home and waited as it rang and rang. When the voicemail picked up, she hung up and dialed again. She did this four times before she realized Riley wasn’t going to answer. On her last try she decided to leave a message.
“Riley, this is your mother. When I get home, you are grounded for life.”
