by David Berens
She lifted her drink and took a gulp while smiling at the waitress and giving her a big thumbs up.
The girl nodded her head and walked away.
“Dumber’n a bag of rocks,” Daisy Mae mumbled under her breath, and then said to Ellie Mae. “Now, get yer best moves on, girl. We’re gonna go make some new friends.”
Ellie Mae raised her glass and whooped.
Four Corona Lights, half a dozen orange slices, and a basket of crispy fried grouper later, Troy decided it was time to call it a night. It was getting loud and rowdy in here and he didn’t want to be around when the night got crazy. He pulled out his phone and tried to get an Uber but had no luck. Apparently, the ride-sharing cars were banned from the island after ten o’clock.
“Hey, friend.” Troy flagged the bartender down. “Can you call me a cab? And is it okay to leave my car here until morning?”
“Yeah and yeah.” he picked up the phone from behind the bar and dialed a number. “Where ya headed?”
“It’s the big gray and white place with blue shutters out on Main Street. Can’t remember the address.”
“The Boonesborough place?”
Troy shrugged his shoulders. “Couldn’t say. All I know is they rent it out to Airbnb’ers.”
“Yeah, yeah. That’s the one. Damn nice place.”
“I’ll say.”
“Here,” the bartender said popping a cold Corona Light. “Lemme buy you one more while you wait for the cab.”
“Good deal.”
Eddie “Fat Fingers” Rollins leaned away from the man sitting at his bar in the straw cowboy hat. When he saw that the man wasn’t listening, he whispered into the phone.
“Yeah, Frankie? We got a problem.”
The man on the other end of the line asked what was wrong.
“I got some guy down here, says he’s stayin’ in WB’s place.”
“Lots of people stay out there,” the man said. “No big deal.”
“I know dat,” Eddie said, “but this guy’s askin’ about Prosperity.”
“Keep him there. I’ll send Jed to take care of him.”
“You got it, boss.”
8
I’m Talkin’ About Sharkin’
Frank McCorker hung up the phone. His hand lingered on the receiver of the pale yellow, rotary model. He’d insisted on having this ancient beast installed in his office, claiming it reminded him of the good old days. In reality, it was because he knew it was practically impossible for an electronic trace to work on the damn thing. His security routine was to unscrew the caps on the handset, check for bugs, and dial the numbers he wanted to call. Airtight, just the way he liked it.
He sat back in his faux leather office chair, and the ancient springs creaked under him. With his fingers steepled in front of his face, he considered the sudden appearance of someone squatting in the Boonesborough Airbnb. That wasn’t so much of a problem as was the fact that he was asking questions about Prosperity. He’d known hiring the girl was going to be a problem. She wasn’t vetted properly, and in his experience, that’s where leaks began.
His cell phone pinged and he looked down to find a message from Santee, or Country, or whatever the hell the man wanted to be called.
-Found a rat poking around in the cellar. Says she was cleaning up and found the room. What you want me to do with her?
“Jesus Christ!” He slammed a fist down on the steel desk. “I’m surrounded by amateurs.”
He tapped out a response, then deleted it, tapped out another, but deleted it too. He considered what—if anything—he wanted to say on this unprotected line. In the end, he decided he would wait until he spoke to the others before he would deal with that. As if on cue, a rap echoed on his door and Senator Winchester Boonesborough ambled in with his stupid cap-toothed grin.
“Well, hello Mister Governor-elect.” He held his hands out wide. “Polls are trending in your direction. I believe we have ourselves a win.”
“Really? I hadn’t looked.”
“I know that, Frank. That’s why you have me.”
He sat in one of the chairs in front of Frank’s desk and crossed his legs. His smile never left his face.
Frank tried not to shake his head, but he must’ve been unsuccessful because he saw a tic of disappointment sneak into Winchester’s eyebrows.
“Am I crazy, Frank, or do I detect a little more crankiness than usual from you today?”
“We’ve got an issue that needs addressing. Is Jed coming or is he too busy banging that new chick down at the club?” Winchester glanced at his shiny watch.
A damn Rolex, thought Frank. He shrugged his shoulders.
“He should’ve been here by now.”
Frank glanced down at his own watch. 1108 hours. Eight damn minutes late. He was quickly losing faith in his team. Frank liked to call their group The Sharks, but Winchester had always balked at that. Seems his wife had a bizarre accident out at Jaws Bridge. Bunch of damn seagulls swarmed her and she fell off. Her body was never found and some of the eyewitnesses claim they saw a big tiger shark grab her and take off. Frank knew better, but he swore Winchester was trying to get him elected so he could demolish that bridge.
With no knock, Jed Manning walked in. He was the picture of highway patrol with his tan and brown uniform and a thick mustache. His shirt was slightly rumpled as if he’d just tucked it in. Disgraceful, thought Frank.
“Sorry I’m late. Traffic was crazy.” He sat down in the chair next to Winchester. “What’d I miss?”
Frank took a deep breath. “Something strange is going on out at the Boonesborough place.”
Winchester sat up. “My place? No one is there. It’s not rented for another month. I’d have to check with the management company but—”
Frank slammed his fist down on his desk, interrupting him.
“It’s not empty,” he growled. “At least not according to that idiot, Santee.”
“Country,” Jed raised a finger. “I think he likes to be called Country.”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass what he wants to be called. I think he has the maid held hostage in the cellar.”
“She’s still down there?” Winchester blustered. “Good God, she has to be stinking up the place by now.”
“Not that maid. The new one.” Frank turned to Jed. “You need to call your boy and find out what the hell is going on.”
“Will do,” Jed said, smacking a piece of non-existent gum.
“Now, let’s get down to business.” Frank pulled a folder out of his desk.
He didn’t like keeping physical records of their deals, but after the election cycle had started, they had ramped things up considerably.
“We’ve got a new shipment coming in next week. It’s a big one.” Frank traced a finger on the sheet. “Do we still trust Santee, or Country or whatever, to take care of this one?”
“He might need help,” Jed said.
“Fine, but I want you picking his muscle. I don’t want one of these late night calls about new people screwing things up.”
“Yes, sir.”
Jed stood and walked out.
Frank turned to Winchester. “This shit is getting out of hand.”
Winchester stood up and walked to the door. “Relax, Frank. I’ll take care of everything. And besides, in a couple of weeks, you’ll be governor and all of this will go away.”
“I hope you’re right.”
Frank’s cell phone pinged as Winchester closed his door behind him. It was Country again.
-Well?
-Keep her on ice. We’ll discuss disposal tomorrow.
-Cool.
Troy Bodean had moved to a new seat at the end of the bar as the Black Dog late night wave of patrons started to crowd in. The bartender had put a new beer in front of him, complete with an orange slice. He’d said the cab was on the way, but it seemed to Troy that had been over an hour ago. But the man with the guitar on stage was singing well enough, and Troy didn’t really have anywhere
to go. He was mildly surprised when a blonde college-aged girl walked up.
“Seat taken?” She said pointing at the stool next to him.
“It is now.” He nodded and tipped his cap.
“I’m Julie,” she said.
She was a pretty girl, but she never made eye contact with Troy. Her eyes kept flitting around the bar from the bartender to another man sitting a few seats away.
“Everything alright, darlin’?”
“No time for that,” she whispered. “Were you asking about Prosperity? Prosperity Spartanburg?”
Troy cocked his head to the side. “I was, and you are?”
“I go to school with her. She’s never absent—I mean like never—and she hasn’t been there for two days.”
He took a sip of his beer. He wasn’t exactly sure how to play this since he was likely the last person to see Prosperity before she went missing.
“And?” he said.
“Something’s wrong,” the girl said, wringing her hands. “I just know it. I tried to call her cell yesterday ten times. It went straight to voicemail every—”
“Ya need a drink, little lady?”
“Oh, uh, no, I—”
“Get her a Corona Light, and get me another. Both on my tab,” Troy said.
“Thanks, Mister, uh …”
“Troy. Troy Bodean.” He knew his speech was starting to slur, but hell, it didn’t matter after eleven o’clock, right? “Let’s get a seat down by the stage.”
They moved and Julie filled him in on the last time she’d spoken to Prosperity. Nothing strange, but then she’d disappeared completely. Didn’t come to school. No texts. No calls. Nothing.
Troy decided to trust the girl and tell her he’d seen her back at the Airbnb just before he’d gone to the store.
“I tried to tell her not to take that job. That one woman who worked there before disappeared not long ago. But no one will do anything about it because it belongs to Boonesborough.”
Troy heard what the girl had said, but his mind felt like it was a computer with the spinning processing wheel stuck in a loop. There was so much to take in that he wasn’t sure where to start.
“So, there was another girl?”
“Yeah.” Julie scanned the bar again to see if anyone was listening in. “Another maid. She worked at the same house before Prosperity. That woman disappeared and when the police checked it out, it just went away. But, as I said, that kind of stuff happens in the Vineyard all the time. Back in the day, it was the Kennedys, now it’s the Boonesboroughs. People with power make things go away.”
When she said it this time, it lit a spark in Troy’s memory. Boonesborough. That’s a pretty distinct name. I wonder if it’s Winchester Boonesborough. The dude that used to be the D.A. down in Murrells Inlet.
As if she’d read his mind, Julie said, “And now old man Winchester is rubbing elbows with that governor candidate guy. The senator and the governor have the power to disappear a maid and get away with it.”
A mixed wave of flashback and shock hit Troy all at once. So, Winchester Boonesborough had popped back up in his life. The man had never been what Troy would have called an upstanding man, but the disappearance of two women at his rental home ... that was a new level of bad.
“Wait, did you say Senator?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“It’s nothin’.”
“Hey, buddy,” the bartender called down the bar. “Ride’s here.”
He set his empty beer down.
“Thanks for the info, Julie.”
“So, you’ll check it out?”
“I’ll do my best.”
Troy tipped his hat to her and headed for the door. Through the windows of the front door, he didn’t see a taxi. But he did see a police car with a set of big pink dice hanging from the rear view mirror—an odd sight. Something didn’t jive, and he wasn’t ready to deal with the local authorities on this one yet.
At that exact moment, two loud, extremely tan, platinum blonde girls and their gaggle of groupie fishermen all stood up from their table and began a torturous stumble to the door. Other patrons nearby watched in shock as one man fell flat on his face, to the delight of his friends.
They all began to taunt the drunk guy, and they circled around him like sharks to chum. A bouncer shoved through to them and lifted the man on the floor to his feet. With his left hand hooked under the man’s arm, he put his right hand up and waved toward the front door.
“Out,” he boomed. “You guys gotta go.”
The men began laughing and shuffling toward the door, taking their friend from the bouncer. The two women who were hanging on the arms of the last two men in the group kept looking back at the bar. Troy’s memory flashed of the Gallop sisters, but that couldn’t possibly be them. They were younger—by a little—and had most likely headed back to Vegas. Besides that, they were too low-brow for Martha’s Vineyard.
A waitress came running around him from the bar shouting, “Joey, stop those two women. They’ve got a tab that hasn’t been paid.”
Without warning, the women started running toward the door, hauling their new beaus with them. Troy couldn’t help but laugh. They were headed right toward the cop sitting outside. He thought it best to avoid the scene entirely. He saw a side door that led out to the dock. He took his hat off and walked a wide path around the police car, then crouched down between the rows of cars and slid into the driver’s seat of Prosperity’s Volkswagen.
He could see the cop staring over the melee of fishermen, bouncers, waitresses, and twin check jumpers at the front door. He’s definitely waiting for someone besides that crew, probably me, Troy thought. He started the car and pulled out of the parking lot. The cop paid no attention. He was still dealing with the scrum at the door when Troy eased onto the road and headed back to the Airbnb. He had to dodge two roadblocks on the way and take a long, circuitous route to get there. What should have only taken him ten minutes took more than an hour.
On the long drive, he’d worked out a plan to do a thorough search of the house, but when he pulled into the circular drive, he saw a police car … with a set of pink dice hanging from the mirror.
“Dangit,” Troy muttered and put the car into reverse.
He hoped he could find a place to crash tonight. He’d have to figure this whole deal out tomorrow. Sweat broke out on his forehead, and he pushed his hat back to wipe it away with the back of his hand.
9
Country Roads
Santee “Country” Cooper sat in a wooden chair three feet away from Prosperity Spartanburg. He had a pocket knife open scraping the point under his fingernails, cleaning away some sort of black gunk. He didn’t know what it was, but it wouldn’t do to have bad hygiene.
“I s’pose you think I’m gonna do somethin’ awful to ya,” he said, wiping away some of the loose fingernail debris. “Well, I ain’t. Not as long as we can have a civil conversation.”
The girl, whose mouth he had covered with duct tape, nodded. He didn’t really care if she agreed or not. They were going to talk about this situation whether she wanted to or not. He wiped the knife blade on his tongue, trying his best to look menacing. He instantly regretted the decision as it bit into the tip and a sharp pain shot through his mouth.
“Ow. Shit.” He stuffed the knife into his pocket and pulled out a used handkerchief.
The girl chuckled behind her gag and her eyes looked up in an obvious smile. He squeezed the cut end of his tongue and lunged forward at her, jabbing her nose with his finger. It must have been painful because tears welled up in her eyes.
“Or maybe I will do somethin’ awful if’n you don’t shut up. You get me?”
His speech was muffled by the cloth on his tongue, but he was pretty sure she got the point. He stood and dabbed at his wound which insisted on bleeding continuously. Tastes like pennies, he thought.
He paced back and forth motioning to the stacks of guns and drugs that surrounded them.
“I
reckon you wanna know what this is all about?”
The girl’s eyes flitted back and forth from shelf to shelf and landed on the woman’s feet sticking out from under the blanket.
“Yeah. She was pokin’ around where she shouldn’t have been, too.”
He kicked the woman’s feet and one of her shoes went flying. Shit, he thought as he scrambled to retrieve it and put it back on the bare foot. Can’t have that thing lying around.
He turned back to the girl and grinned. When he did, he felt blood trickle down on his chin and dabbed it with his now blood-stained handkerchief.
“I know it looks bad,” he started, “but it’s all for the good of the people of Massachusetts.”
The girl’s eyes took on a look of confusion.
“Yup. That’s what I thought too. How could the devices of evil be brought to bear in the war against such things in our fair state?”
She shrugged.
“I’ll tell you. Frank McCorker. That’s how.”
More confusion. In fact, she even raised an eyebrow.
“Don’t know who that is? He’s the savior of this here commonwealth. When I first met the man, I knew. Oh, you can be sure I knew. He was the one to bring light to the darkness of this God forsaken place.”
Her eyes were wide.
“Exactly. Do you even know the motto of Massachusetts?”
He was in fine form now. His voice rattled around in the dark cellar with the gusto he imagined must sound like Mark Twain to his singular audience. The girl shook her head.
“Course you don’t.” He threw up his hands. “Hell, nobody does no more.”
He put his left hand on his heart and raised his right to a salute. He stood tall and stuck out his chest.
“By the sword, we seek peace, but peace only under liberty,” he said, his voice shaking with emotion.
He felt the blood pooling in his mouth and running down over his chin. He wiped it again, but his handkerchief was soaked. No matter, he thought. I’m on a roll and I ain’t stoppin’ now.
