by David Berens
“What are you doin’ here, Country?” Troy thought, watching the truck rumble down the road. “Just might have to find out.”
17
Santa Banks
Santee “Country” Cooper held the ice pack on his crotch as he navigated his boat toward Point Judith. Thankfully, the doctors at Martha’s Vineyard Hospital hadn’t asked many questions about his ... injury. Thirteen stitches later, they had assured him that he would be just fine. But the lady doc had been very clear about one thing—no lifting. If he so much as carried a case of beer, the stitches could come loose and he’d be risking infection. She told him if he thought the first injury was painful, he was wrong. Infection in the testicles was a pain no one should ever experience. He agreed and walked out of the hospital with some new ice packs and a jockstrap-like device to hold them on his crotch.
He knew now that he’d need all the help he could get for the big score coming. He couldn’t even help lift the dope or the guns, so he’d need old Banksy and maybe that Troy fella too. First stop would be Banks. He’d be the man that could help him do all of this without leaving any clues behind.
It wasn’t more than an hour later when he cruised past the ferry dock at Point Judith and found a slip to pull into. He tossed his line to a grisled old fisherman, who tied him off.
“How long you gonna park here, young man?” the fisherman asked, his Rhode Island accent dropping the R’s off park and here so it sounded like he said pawk heyah.
“I’m a hopin’ not more’n an hour.” Country hopped out of his boat, his strange ice pack still strapped to his groin.
“Got a little somethin’ goin’ on theyah, eh?” The man nodded toward the jock strap and grinned. “You young fellas nevah will learn to stay away from the hookas.”
Country took a deep breath, intending to unload on the man, but he stopped, realizing that he didn’t care what this old guy thought.
“Shut up, old man.”
He stomped away to the sound of the man’s laughter behind him.
Michael Banks answered the door and Country almost laughed. The man had changed a lot since his days at the Rhode Island PD. His hair and beard were long and white. He wore sunglasses—even though he’d been inside his house—and a bright red and orange Hawaiian print shirt. On top of his wiry mop of hair, he wore a straw cowboy hat that reminded Country of the one that other dude, Troy, was always wearing. It was like staring at a tropical version of Santa Claus.
“Banksy,” Country said when the man had opened his door.
“Well, as I live and breathe,” he said with a smile. “If it ain’t Santee Cooper. How the hell are you, boy?”
“Um, I go by Country now,” he sniffed. “Seein’ as how I’m known by that other name and such. I prefer to keep a low profile.”
“I’m sure you do,” Banks said, slapping him on the shoulder. “What can I do for you today, Country?”
“You got a few minutes?” Country asked. “I’m working on a job, and as you might be able to see, I’m fairly injured and cain’t handle the loads myself right now.”
“Ooh,” Banks said, studying the strap around his middle. “I do see that. What happened, son? You in a lot of pain?”
“T’ain’t important right now,” Country sniffed. “But I’d like to fill you in on the work, see if you’re interested.”
“Fine. Fine,” Banks said. “Have a seat in one of the rockin’ chairs. I’ll grab us a couple of lemonades.”
Country started to protest. Lemonade? How ’bout an ice cold beer instead? But Banks was already headed back into the house. So, Country took a seat and waited. Not more than two minutes later, Michael Banks returned carrying a tray with two glasses filled to the top with ice and a pitcher of pale yellow liquid. He set the tray down onto a table between two rocking chairs and poured a glass for Country.
“I’m good,” he said, holding up a hand to refuse the glass.
“I insist.” Banks shoved the lemonade into his hand. “I make the best lemonade this side of the Mississippi. Maybe even the other side, too.”
“Okay, sure.” Country took it, intending to just hold it until they were through talking.
But Banks remained standing in front of him and folded his arms over his expansive chest.
“Try it,” he said, nodding at the glass.
Country opened his mouth to protest, but decided it was easier to just take a drink. He sipped the cool liquid.
“There. Are you satisf—”
Holy hell, thought Country. The lemonade filled his mouth with a tart, sour flavor that was balanced with just enough sugar to keep him from puckering uncontrollably. And as he swallowed, he felt the smooth, round flavor of—what was it … honey?— in the finishing gulp. He took another long sip. It was just as good, if not better, than the first drink. He emptied the glass and held it out for a refill.
“Sonofabitch, old man,” he exclaimed. “You ain’t kiddin’! That’s the best damn lemonade I’ve ever done had.”
Banks refilled Country’s glass and then filled his own. He sat down in the other rocking chair and sipped the lemonade.
“I told you so.”
They sat for a few minutes in silence, enjoying the warm ocean breeze and the cool lemonade. When they had almost emptied the pitcher, Country remembered what he had come for.
“So, I got a job coming up,” Country started. “Let’s say ... a delivery job ... where I’ll need a couple of hands to help do the heavy lifting.”
He pointed at his crotch as proof.
“Heavy lifting?” Banks asked. “But I’m an old man, surely you can find some younger guys to help out with that.”
Country shifted in his chair. “Actually, what I need you for is to um … keep us clean. What with all your knowledge of police investigations and such, I figure you can make sure it all goes down so no CSI could ever figure out what’s up.”
“Oh, I see,” Michael Banks sighed.
He set his glass down and interlocked his fingers over his belly. He leaned his head back, and to Country’s surprise, he fell asleep. The man was out, like snoring and drooling, unconscious. What the hell?
“Hey, old timer.” Country leaned over and clapped his hands next to the man’s ear.
Banks woke up with a snort. “Oh, jeez. I did it again, didn’t I?”
“If’n you mean dozed off whilst I was gettin’ to the important details, then yeah, you did.”
He laughed. “Well, I’d love to help you out, son. But you see, that’s the reason I was forced to retire early. It’s called narcolepsy and I’ve got a severe case. I can go from alert and awake to passed out and asleep in seconds.”
Country stared at the man. He had no idea what the hell he was talking about. All he knew was he needed Banks to help and bad. He had to convince him.
“Doctors said no boats for me anymore,” he continued. “That’s why I got that.”
The tropical Santa Claus pointed to the driveway. Country followed his finger to see a black and chrome three-wheeled Harley Davidson motorcycle. It gleamed and sparkled in the sunlight.
“She’s a beauty,” Country said. “But ain’t that just as dangerous?”
Banks shrugged his shoulders. “Can’t let the docs take everything away, now can we?”
“Let’s go take a look at her.” Country stood and walked down the steps off the porch.
“Actually,” Michael said, following him, “I could use a hand. I gotta get that dang carburetor changed out before the big ride. Bunch of us have put together a charity ride we do from here to the hospital up in Providence. We all wear our Christmas getups and call it Santa’s Two-Stroke Sleighs. There’s over a thousand Santas in it now.”
Country held his hands out. “Sure thing. What can I do?”
Banks knelt down beside the bike, poking a finger in between two pipes. “Just hand me tools as I need them.”
“Easy enough.”
Country watched as the bearded man lay down on the ground
and slid himself up under the bike.
“Socket,” Banks said, extending his arm.
He handed him the socket wrench. Country watched as the man turned the wrench two times and then fell asleep. He pulled his foot back to tap the man and wake him, but then a thought occured to him. Staring at his wiry beard and hair, he thought, he’s the perfect patsy. I can do this thing, spread a few hairs around, and get it all blamed on Banks. With his early retirement, he cain’t be makin’ much money. As the man snored under the bike, Country reached down and plucked a tuft of hairs out of his beard.
“Ow, shoot!” he grabbed his chin. “Dadgum, I did it again, didn’t I?”
“Yup. Sorry ’bout the beard. Figured it’d wake you.”
Banks said, “Sure did.”
He finished switching out the offending carburetor and reached up to hand it to Country. Country straddled over the man to grab it, but it slipped out of his hand and fell on Michael’s stomach as he was sliding out from under the bike. His reaction to the sudden hit to his gut made him kick his legs up into the air. Right into Country’s crotch.
He hit him so hard with his booted feet, Country lifted off the air and fell backward. Pain lanced through his testicles, and he was sure he felt a few of the stitches let go. He let out a string of obscenities as he rolled around on the ground. Banks reached down and hauled him to his feet.
“Oh, my God,” he said, as Country managed to gain his balance.
He pointed at Country’s pants. A dark red stain was blossoming out from under his hands on his crotch. He pulled a handkerchief out of his back pocket and handed it to Country, who immediately bunched it up and stuffed it into his pants.
“Shit, shit, shit,” Country bobbed from toe to toe. “Ice. I need Ice.”
“Ain’t got none left.” Banks sucked air across his teeth. “Used it all in our lemonade.”
“Where’s a gas station? I need to get some ice on this and stop the bleedin’ fast!”
Michael pointed up the road and pulled his keys out of his pocket. “Take the trike. Go, go, go!”
Country yelped as he lifted his leg over the motorcycle. It rumbled to life immediately, and he tore away like the stitches in his scrotum.
18
Florence And The Pool Boy
Florence Summerton sipped her early afternoon tea and looked down her nose at the ladies sitting around her dining room table playing bridge. She was a native of Martha’s Vineyard, and these three women were not. She was old money, and these women were the pretenders. Blanche was the closest thing she had to a real friend, but even she couldn’t possibly understand what it was to be American royalty.
Yet, here she was playing the role of first-lady-to-be, pretending to be something lesser than she really was ... and she hated Buff for it. She chided herself. Frank—not Buff—was what she was supposed to call him. In the years after Afghanistan, when he’d disgraced himself by getting wrapped up in that filthy kidnapping scheme, he’d agreed to a reduced sentence in exchange for information he knew about the others involved in the plot. He’d turned in several powerful government and military personnel—the kind who had the power to make people regret their decisions in a deadly way.
Buff realized quickly that his only chance to stay alive was to assume a new identity. With the help of some black web paperwork dealers, he created Frank McCorker, politician extraordinaire. That was ten years ago, and now he was on the cusp of actually getting some power back. He was going to be the next governor of Massachusetts.
“Flo, dear.” Blanche tapped her fingernail impatiently on the table. “Your turn.”
Florence hid the sneer well behind a thin, pursed line of maroon lipstick. How dare she? The name “Flo” was reserved for trailer park trash, greasy spoon waitresses, and insurance saleswomen on TV. It was a shortened bastardization of the pure name of Florence suitable only for strippers and streetwalkers.
She, on the other hand, was part of the long line of the Tilton family that had put the Vineyard on the map as one of the richest islands in America. That was until Buff had taken her away, changed her name to the more blue-collar “Summerton,” and made her a military wife.
It wasn’t all bad, he rose through the ranks very quickly and became an important leader of the invasion in the Middle East. But being a soldier—even a good one—has its downfalls. Money was tight, and they had spent most of her sizable inheritance within five years. Homelife was reduced to packing and moving every two or three years, never quite settling in. Marriage was reduced to staticy phone calls and cryptic messages from undisclosed locations around the world.
She looked down at the cards arrayed on the table. She picked one from her hand and laid it on the table. Blanche snickered and laid a card on top of it.
“Well, played, Flo,” she said, stacking the cards on her side of the table.
Florence Summerton laid the remaining cards face down in front of her.
“Out,” she said quietly.
The other women tittered on about the score and who had played the best hand. Amanda, the youngest woman in the group, patted Florence on the arm. Her nails were whore red. Her husband—who was younger than her—made his money on the internet, creating, and then selling, a website called “HairreTodayGoneTomorrow.com.” Toupees. He sold goddamn toupees on the site. And then sold it to the Hair Club for Men for one billion dollars.
“Oh, Florence,” Amanda said, her voice dripping with condescension. “You’ll learn eventually. You don’t want to give away your—”
“Shut the fuck up,” Florence interrupted her. “And get the fuck out of my house.”
The wrinkled faces around the table were suitably shattered. Blanche started giggling and gathering the cards together to shuffle. The other two women joined in, giving knowing looks to one another. A joke. Dear Florence had made a joke.
She stood up and saw the first sign of fear creep into Amanda’s young, vibrant, unwrinkled face. She took her mimosa and splashed her straight in the face with it. The gasps of the women were delicious as they realized what had just happened. Orange juice and champagne dripped down Amanda’s wet hair, mingling with tears of shock and rage.
“Perhaps, you didn’t hear me,” Florence said, setting her empty glass down onto the table. “I said, get the fuck out of my house.”
“Well, I never.” Blanche stood and put an arm around Amanda, who was mopping her hair with a napkin.
“Exactly the problem.”
She watched as the women gathered their things in a rush, throwing light shawls over their shoulders and clasping their designer clutches. They hurried out the front door just as Buff was coming in.
“Frank,” Blanche said to him, “you need to teach your wife what it means to be civilized.”
He arched an eyebrow as they shuffled past him and down the steps to the driveway. He slammed the door behind them and loosened his tie.
“Three goddamn points,” he said, walking to a nearby bar.
He clinked three ice cubes into a glass and poured scotch over them. He took a long sip and poured some more. Florence watched him, her hands propped on her hips. When he finally turned to look at her, he shook his head.
“I’m only up three points in the latest poll.” He walked over to the recliner that she had fought hard against bringing this time. “If we don’t do something fast, this race could get tighter than we want it.”
“It’s nice to see you too, dear.” Florence walked out of the living room.
She was wiping the spilled juice off the table when he realized what she had said. He leaned against the doorframe, watching her.
“I’m sorry, dear. How was your day?”
She took a deep breath. “Fine.”
“Well, that’s good. I’m glad.”
Typical man.
She tossed the rag into the sink and looked out the window at the back yard. A young boy with tan skin, a flat stomach, and toned arms was sweeping a net back and forth in the pool. She swal
lowed back the drool that threatened to escape her lips. She gathered herself and turned to face him.
“You better get your shit together and win this race,” she said.
His face softened into a smile. He might have mistakenly interpreted this as her being interested in his work, but that was far from the truth.
“Dear, I’m doing everything in my—”
“Because I bought the Rover today. The silver one, with all the bells and whistles.”
For a second, he was stunned and speechless. But as he understood the full meaning of what she had said, his face started turning red ... and then deepened to purple.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” he demanded. “Florence, we don’t have that kind of money right now. Everything we have is tied up in this election.”
He stomped toward her, but she put her hand up to stop him. “Don’t give me that bullshit. I know you have money that you’re keeping from me. This shitshow of a campaign you’re running, there wasn’t enough in the coffers to pay for all of this. You’re getting cash from somewhere and dammit, I’m entitled to some of it.”
“Woman!” he shouted. “There is no more money! We’re running in the red right now and you go and buy an eighty-nine thousand dollar car?”
“Ninety-six, five to be exact,” she said.
For the third time in their illustrious marriage, Florence thought Buff might hit her. His hands were balled into fists. His upper lip curled and quivered. His chest rose and fell in short hyperventilating breaths. He clenched and unclenched his fingers and took another step toward her. She almost took a step backward, but she held her ground.
“Take it back,” he said slowly.
She shook her head. “Win the election and you won’t have to worry about it.”
