by David Berens
He threw his hands up in resignation. “Of all the fool ideas you’ve had, this one really takes the cake. I told you we would look at them when the election was over.”
“You said that about the house in Malibu too, Frank.”
“There really is no getting through to you.”
He turned and stormed out. She heard him clomp down the hall, then the front door opening and slamming shut.
With her husband gone for the time being, Florence Summerton needed to blow off some steam. She chose her most flattering white bathing suit—a one-piece, she wasn’t a slut—applied an inappropriate amount of sun tan oil, and draped an aqua blue towel over her shoulder. She poured a fresh mimosa over ice for herself, and a second ... for the pool boy. He was an expense that her husband had argued against, but she was adamant. If they were keeping the pool open, they were keeping it clean, and by God, she wasn’t going to be the one doing the cleaning. It didn’t hurt that the kid was ruggedly handsome. He had shoulder length black hair, a scruffy chin, and chiseled features—the kind of features reserved for the young, or the surgically enhanced.
“Boy,” she called to him.
He looked up, momentarily stopping his sweep. His eyes were the bluest she could ever remember seeing—piercing even. Or maybe it was the first time in a long while a man had made eye contact with her that made them look so intense. He tipped his faded red baseball cap to her. She studied it a bit closer, noticing that it had a letter C circling a catfish or something like that. She held the glasses out and motioned him over with her chin.
He pulled his sweeper out of the pool and laid it down on the concrete deck. As he walked over, she eased herself down into a lounge chair and set the glasses onto a table. She patted the chair as he got closer.
“Why don’t you sit?” she asked. “Take a quick break and talk with me.”
“Beg pardon, ma’am,” he said, taking his cap off, “but I’ve got four more pools to get to today. I’d better just stick to my work.”
So refreshing, she thought. A gentleman removing his hat for a lady. This boy has manners, refinement, character.
“I brought you a cool drink,” she said, pointing at a glass. “Surely, you can pause for just a sweet sip?”
He licked his lips. “I s’pose a quick drink wouldn’t hurt nothin’.”
She handed him the glass, letting her fingertips brush against his. The gesture was lost on him as he gulped the drink down and sat the empty glass back down.
“Thank you kindly.” He dipped his head and put his cap back on.
“What’s that on your hat?” she asked.
“Oh, this old thing?” He smiled—oh, what a smile. “Carolina Mudcats. It’s a minor league baseball team. I wanted to play for ’em, but my mama said we had to move before I got a chance to try out. Somethin’ about runnin’ out of money, or somethin’ like that.”
Florence knew that feeling all too well. She didn’t hide her sudden attraction for the boy. A sexy pool boy and baseball player all wrapped up in one tawny package.
“Well, I shall let you go about your work, young man.” She waved a hand at the softly waving water. “Before you go, won’t you tell me your name?”
“T.J., ma’am.” He held out his hand. “T.J. Gallop.”
Be still my heart, she thought, taking his hand with her fingertips.
“You can call me, Flo,” she said with a wink. “In fact, you can call me just about anything you like.”
Something pulsed inside Florence that she hadn’t felt since she had made the call to order her Land Rover. Excitement. And she decided then and there—like the car—she would have this boy. She pulled her hand back quickly, feeling the sudden jolt of electricity. It jarred the table and her drink tipped and splashed on her. Oh, thank you, God. She felt her eyes narrow and her lips curve up uncontrollably. She arched her back and let the orange mimosa pour all over her chest.
White bathing suit plus cocktail—a fortuitous and revealing mix. She opened her mouth and made a show of covering herself, knowing there was nothing left to his imagination. His eyes went wide and he turned away. Cute, but that’s not what she wanted.
“Oh, T.J.,” she said, “I’m so embarrassed. Can you fetch my towel?”
Her towel was draped over the back of the chair she was lying on, and when he leaned over to pick it up for her, she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him onto her. He stumbled and fell on top of her and she smashed her lips to his.
“Take me, T.J.” she cried.
“Mrs. Flo,” he sputtered. “Yer married and I’m just a kid. You’re like my grandma.”
And the flame that had burned inside of Florence Summerton was doused as quickly as it had burned. She pushed him off of her.
“I’m so sorry, ma’am.” He wrung his hands. “I have no idea what—”
“Just clean the damn pool, kid.” She waved him away as she wrapped herself in the towel.
He nodded his head and jogged back to his sweeping pole. He never looked up to see her storm back into the house.
19
Two Peas In A Pod
Troy Bodean stood outside the small beach cottage perched on the rocky hill overlooking the beach. He’d managed to borrow a fishing boat quickly and had followed Country up to Point Judith. What the hell you doin’ up here? he thought as he watched for activity.
The back porch was partially screened in and held three patriotic rocking chairs—one red, one white, and one blue. As Troy watched with his back to the ocean, he saw a man open the screen door and step out onto the porch. He wore a light gray tank-top with sweat stains threatening his underarms and neck, khaki shorts with cargo pockets on the side, bare feet, and a cowboy hat. An oddly familiar looking hat, in fact. If Troy hadn’t known better, he’d have sworn he was looking at a version of himself from the future—a future that included a snow white beard that might have been taken from Old Saint Nick himself ... or Billy Gibbons of ZZ Top.
As he took the first few steps up the beach, he couldn’t help but hum the opening riff of Sharp Dressed Man. The man on the porch was carrying a tray that had a pitcher of pale yellow liquid and a single glass filled to the rim with ice cubes. Troy couldn’t help but lick his lips at the thought of an ice cold glass of lemonade—if that’s what it was.
He watched the man sit in a rocking chair and carefully pour a tall glass. He took a few more steps and opened his mouth to speak.
“Howdy, there, young fella,” the man said without looking up from his drink.
Troy stopped. He turned around to be sure there wasn’t someone standing behind him.
“Ah yup.” The man finally looked up. “I’m talkin’ to you, mister. Been watchin’ you prowl up the beach for some time now. Might as well come up and say hello.”
Troy couldn’t help but grin. He liked this guy already. He took the steps up to the porch and put his hand on the screen door.
“Shoes stay outside,” the man said, pointing down at Troy’s flip-flops. “Don’t like gettin’ the sand all up in here.”
“Yes, sir.” Troy kicked his shoes to the side.
He walked in, again struck by the odd feeling that he was looking at himself visiting from the not-too-distant future.
The man pointed at the red rocking chair. “Might as well make yourself at home. I have a strange feeling we have a lot to discuss.”
That’s odd, Troy thought. How does this dude know we have anything to talk about?
“If you’ll give me just a second to appreciate sittin’ down,” the man said, “I’ll run inside and fetch you a glass. You do drink lemonade, don’t you, son?”
“I do.”
“And you do drink rum, I suppose?”
“Yup.” Troy nodded.
“Then we’ll get those two birds with one glass.” The man stretched out his hand. “Michael Banks. Some folks call me Banksy. Not too sure how I feel about that, but it is what it is.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Banks. M
y name’s Troy Bodean. Everyone calls me Troy.”
“We’ll get along just fine if you promise not to call me Mr. Banks anymore. My daddy was Mr. Banks, and as much as I aim to live up to that honor, I don’t reckon I’m ready for it just yet. Michael will do just fine.
“Yes, sir.”
He rocked forward and groaned as he rose up out of his chair. “Now, hold onto those thoughts of yours and let me get you a glass. I’m on my third one now, so I’m a bit wobbly.”
He laughed and did indeed wobble into the house. Troy looked back at the amazing view outside the porch. The waves were rolling gently onto the sand, creeping ever out to sea as the tide rolled out. His thoughts turned to Prosperity. He hoped she was still okay and couldn’t help but wonder if Country had come to enlist the help of this bearded stranger to get rid of her body. This Caribbean Santa Claus was an odd choice, but then again, there wasn’t much about this situation that wasn’t weird.
He was staring out into the green blue water when Michael came back out onto the porch. He held a tall glass filled with ice and poured from the pitcher until it was nearly full to the rim.
“Best lemonade I know of around these parts,” he said, handing Troy the glass.
He watched as Troy took a generous sip. “Dang, if that isn’t the best I’ve ever had. Much obliged.”
“Now, let me get settled in here and let’s talk about why you’re here.”
He slumped back into his rocking chair and rested into a slow, steady sway, back and forth. He interlaced his fingers over his belly as he prepared to hear the story of Troy’s visit. Troy did his best to tell the man the events of the past couple days and hoped he could trust this dude. Maybe it was the eerie similarities they shared physically, or maybe it was the fact that he looked like one jolly old elf from the North Pole, but Troy was about ninety-nine percent certain that this was one of the good guys.
“So, old Country is up to no good again, eh?” Michael asked.
Troy shrugged his shoulders. “Best I can tell, he is.”
“Poor kid needs to realize that this kind of life ain’t never gonna pay. You see, I used to be a cop, Troy.”
He must have noticed Troy’s eyebrows arch in surprise, because he said, “I know. Hard to believe, but absolutely true.”
Troy smiled. “Not that hard to believe, actually.”
“Heh. Anyhow, Country has been in and out of trouble for a long, long time. Long enough that he and I have crossed paths many times before today. I knew he was up to no good when he showed up here unannounced asking about me helping with a job of some kind.”
“Did he say what the job was?”
“Nope. Just that there was some heavy lifting for more than one person. And he’s got some kind of injury in his family jewels where he can’t lift much of anything. Poor fella, I hope he got the bleeding stopped.”
Troy didn’t know what that was all about, but he was suddenly very worried about Prosperity. Heavy lifting for more than one person sounded an awful lot like a body-dumping mission. Troy described the situation with Prosperity and how he was afraid something bad had happened to her, and Country was involved in trying to get rid of her body. It was all pretty tenuous, but Troy had learned to trust his instincts.
“Boy, I sure am sorry, Troy,” Michael said. “Have you called the MVPD?”
“Actually, I’m pretty sure they’re complicit in the matter. I can’t really say for sure, but the cops up there have proven themselves to be pretty shady.”
Michael took a deep breath. Troy could almost see the man’s brain working through all the details.
“So, you’ve got a dirty cop or two. I might know someone up there who isn’t in on this. Maybe I can give him a call and see what’s going ’round the station about this whole thing.”
“That’d be great, Mr. Banks,” Troy said.
“Let’s go inside and get on my radio. We can hear what they’re sayin’ and find my buddy, Will. He’ll know something if there’s anything to know. And it’s Michael.”
Troy walked into the cottage with the man. It looked exactly like he expected it to. Lots of whitewashed pine, old furniture with white cushions stained from use, and tons of fishing gear—rods, reels, nets, baskets, lures, and mounted trophies of random catches. Michael walked over to a seventies-era record player cabinet and pulled a CB radio out of one of the drawers. He dusted off the top and turned the power on. The static hissed out of the speaker and Michael turned the dial slowly, one digit at a time.
When he reached channel 9, a voice came through the buzz, loud and clear.
“This is Officer Jed Manning of the Martha’s Vineyard Police Department. We are issuing an all-points bulletin on a man believed to be involved in a missing person’s investigation, possible homicide.”
For one second, Troy thought they were referring to Country.
“Suspect is approximately five-foot-eleven with shoulder length black hair. Weight estimated to be about one-seventy-five. Last seen wearing a white, short-sleeve shirt, khaki shorts, and a straw cowboy hat. Subject may be armed and dangerous. Approach with caution.”
Michael glanced up at Troy, the man the police officer had just described, with concern in his eyes ... and then he fell asleep.
20
Prison Shank
Prosperity Spartanburg woke lying on her back with a throbbing pain inside the left side of her head. She reached up and touched her temple and felt it was puffy and extremely sensitive to the touch. She could also tell her left eye was swollen and guessed it would be black if she could see it. Then she realized she wasn’t bound or gagged. She tried to shake out the cloudiness in her mind and remember what had happened before she blacked out. The cop. The cop had kicked her. The chilly room she was in echoed with her movement, and she could tell the floor was concrete. Her surroundings began to resolve as her eyes adjusted to the darkness.
Now she could tell the entire room was made of concrete. It was a tiny room, maybe six or seven feet square. All of the meager light was coming from one wall. She pushed up to her elbows and managed to get to one knee. She wobbled a bit, and fell to the side. Her hand caught her on something soft. She patted it and discovered it was a thin mattress on top of a rusty cot. Looking up, she realized it was a set of bunk beds. She pulled herself up, and the full picture of the room finally came into view.
She was in a cell, an honest-to-God prison cell, complete with bunk beds, stainless toilet on the wall, and a wall of bars holding her in. She cried out and her voice echoed out into the hall. There were no lights on anywhere that she could see, only a soft filtered glow coming from somewhere far above her. She walked toward the bars and looked out. Rows of similar cells lined three floors of rooms below her. The only windows she could see were skylights far above that let in a dim, blue moonlight. Despair hit her like a brick and she slumped down to the ground. Her tears stung her left eye, and she sniffed them back and wiped her nose.
“Get a hold of yourself, Pros,” she said. “At least you’re not dead.”
She wasn’t sure why they hadn’t killed her yet, but no one was here to ask anyway. She guessed maybe they had a plan to get rid of her, but she wasn’t going to wait around to see what that plan was. Turning back into the room, she scanned around for something to use to beat on the bars. She knew that there was nothing, but maybe she could break off part of the bed and use it as a pry bar or something. She took a quick second to hover over the toilet and relieve herself. There was no flush handle, so she let it be. She reached instinctively for where she thought the toilet paper would be, but found none. Standing, she pulled her pants back up and a wave of vertigo hit her. She stumbled into the bed, bouncing forward toward the bars. At the last second, she raised her hands to protect her already concussed head. They flung into the cold, metal bars, and she expected them to slam into her. Instead, they gave way. With a loud screech, the door she had run into swung open.
She jerked her head up and ran out the door. She g
rabbed the rail and saw that she was indeed in an abandoned prison of some kind. She jogged a few steps to her right, looking for a set of stairs to get her down below, where she guessed the exit would be. She found them at the end of the hall and took them down three levels. The common area in the center of the prison was exactly what she would have expected—steel tables and chairs, all bolted to the floor. Most of the tables were empty, but there were some on the far end of the room that had boxes sitting on them. She walked closer and saw that they were wooden crates like the ones she had seen back in the hidden room at the Vineyard house. She propped the lid up on one to find it was empty, except for a straw-like packing material. All-in-all, she counted thirty boxes like this one, and spot checking here and there, she found they were all empty. These guys were running a lot of guns. The sound of a door slamming grabbed her attention. She ducked behind a stack of boxes and froze.
Muffled footsteps and the voices of more than one man drifted into the room. They were close, but they didn’t sound like they were in the common area with her. She waited until they moved away and tiptoed in the direction of the sound. She found what might have been the prison’s ancient check-in area, and looking into the office there, she guessed the place was maybe fifty years old. A decrepit rotary telephone sat on the desk next to a Rolodex. The office chair was overturned and lay on its side. She pulled open the drawers looking for something she could use as a weapon. The best she could do was the telephone receiver. She jerked the cord out of the base and clutched the receiver in her hand as she walked down the hall. It ended in a T and her choice was right or left.
The voices seemed to be drifting toward her from the left, but when she turned right, she saw light and a door—a door to the outside. She ran toward it, dropping her makeshift weapon. Her hands were on the handle to push outside when she skidded to a halt. She could see a man’s head through the small window in the door.
