by David Berens
“Sumbitch,” Country moaned. “If I git the chance, I’m gonna shoot that prick.”
He started laughing at the irony of what he’d said, thinking that’d be the second prick he’d shot this week. He snorted and felt another sharp jolt in his testicles. His laughter turned to tears. Tears of pain and tears of anger.
After a time—he couldn’t tell how long—the ice was gone and he was holding a bag of water on his crotch. He decided that he wasn’t going to be able to move Michael up onto the deck to dump him into the water, nor would he be able to get Florence into the ocean. He needed help. He reached down for his cell phone and realized he was no longer wearing his shorts. He crawled over to where he had dropped them and poked through the pockets. His phone was gone. He had no idea where the hell it was, but it didn’t matter. He had to get back to shore or he was going to die out here … alone.
He willed himself up the ladder and into the captain’s chair. The boat ride back was a daze, and the drive to the club was even foggier. But he knew if he could get there, Frank would tell him what to do.
Frank McCorker woke to find a leathery woman with garishly outlandish makeup sitting on his chest. The pale light of dawn was not kind to the strippers that worked at the Tail Spinner. His chest ached, and he wondered if he was having or had just had a heart attack. He tried to sit up but he was too weak. He couldn’t move.
“Woman,” he grunted under her weight, “I don’t know who you are, but you’d better get the hell off of me before I throw you off.”
“You gonna play nice and let me explain my proposition?” she asked, running an emory board over her nails.
Over her shoulder, he could see the silhouette of the second woman. Standing next to her, his arms crossed, was his former pool boy. A flash of anger sent a stabbing pain into his chest. The air went out of his lungs and he felt a tingle in his fingertips. Shit, it is a heart attack … or something like it. He slowed his breathing and fought to regain his composure.
“Yes, I’ll play nice, if you’ll remove your ass from my chest. God only knows where it’s been.”
The woman stood up. “God ain’t got no business with my ass, but it is a heavenly creation.”
The other woman cackled and snorted. “Good one, Daisy Mae.”
Frank rolled to his knees and grabbed at the side of his car. He was still too weak to stand. The kid came to his rescue, hooking his hand on Frank’s wrist and helping him to his feet.
“I thought I warned you about me seeing you in the Vineyard ever again,” he said.
“Yes, sir, you did. But my mama and her sister needed a ride and I’m the one who has to pick ’em up.”
“That’s your mother?”
“Damn straight, Skippy,” Daisy Mae said. “T.J. is the best thing that ever happened to me. Ain’t that right, Ellie Mae?”
“Abso-freakin-lutely,” the other woman said.
Frank rubbed his chest. The pain was easing, but it was still hard to breathe.
“You gonna be okay, mister?” T.J. asked.
“I’m fine,” Frank huffed. “Just a little indigestion is all.”
“Happens to me all the time,” Daisy Mae said. “Specially when I eat corn dogs. Most times get that and the muddy waters at the same time.”
“The muddy waters?” Frank arched an eyebrow and looked at T.J.
“You don’t wanna know.”
“Woooeeeee.” Ellie Mae laughed. “No you don’t. Me and T.J. just get on out of the house when we know she’s got the corn dog hankerin’.”
Frank shook his head. “Well, as much as I would like to stand here and discuss the finer things with you, I’ve got shit to do.”
“Exactly why we’s here talkin’ to you,” Daisy Mae said, producing the emory board again. “We heard you and Mr. Boonesborough talkin’ about needin’ a man to take care of some dirty business for you.”
“I don’t know what the fu—”
“Oh, c’mon now, Frank,” she interrupted him. “You need muscle for a drop. We got muscle for a drop.”
“How do you know who I am?”
“You’re on TV every dang day breakin’ into my soaps to tell me how great you are and why I should vote for you. It ain’t that hard to recognize you.”
“Fair enough.” He wondered if he had been careful enough, forgetting that he was now a recognizable public figure. If anyone connected him with the cartel operations The Sharks were running, this whole thing would come crashing down like a house of cards.
“So, for fifty grand, T.J. here will make yer drops,” Ellie Mae said. “But he ain’t killin’ nobody. He’s a good Christian boy.”
He started to protest, to tell all three of them to go to hell, but the wheels began to turn in his mind. He needed expendable help and the kid fit the bill perfectly.
“You know what?” he said. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”
“Yeehawww!” hollered Daisy Mae, sticking out her hand.
“What’s this?” Frank asked.
“The fifty grand,” she said. “We’ll take that now.”
Frank grunted. “Nice try. You’ll get that when the deed is done.”
“So …” T.J. spoke up. “What now?”
A rusty brown truck pulled into the parking lot and honked.
“Here’s your ride.”
31
Partners In Crime
Troy followed Country all the way to the Tail Spinner strip club, hoping he would lead him to Prosperity. But this couldn’t be right. He knew they wouldn’t keep the girl there, too much traffic in and out of the place. He wondered what the heck the man was doing stopping there. He eased into the parking lot at Fiesta Mexican across the street. It was doing a fair amount of business—not surprising given their Monday morning three-for-one breakfast burrito special. The lot was packed, so he pulled around to the back of the building. The only spot left was the empty space in front of their dumpster. He was sure he’d only be a minute, so he backed the cruiser into the space.
He saw Country ease his truck up toward a man he knew well—Buff Summerton, the man running for governor as Frank McCormick. What in the hell is Buff doin’ out here? he thought.
He also saw three other people standing there, silhouetted in the morning sun. One man and maybe two women, but he couldn’t be sure. His vision wasn’t what it used to be.
His surveillance was interrupted by the sudden appearance of a giant garbage truck backing toward him. The signature reverse warning beep blared at him as the green truck got closer and closer. He jumped out of his car.
“Hey, hey, hey, now,” he said, waving his arms. “Watch out, brother. I’m back here.”
The truck screeched to a halt, its brakes crunching as the truck rocked back and forth to a stop. The door opened and a large man wearing a bright yellow vest stepped out. Troy was instantly reminded of Ronnie “Wayfarer” Hobgood, a singer who made his rounds from beach bar to beach bar singing all the best island cover tunes. Ronnie was a massive linebacker-sized man with the darkest skin Troy had ever seen. The crooner was muscled and gigantic, but his voice was clear and high—as in Frankie Valli high. The man could sing anything from the Bee Gees to Queen with perfect pitch and delivery. Troy had spent more than one night mesmerized by the man and wondered why in the world he hadn’t been picked up by a record label.
As the man got closer, he was startled to realize this dude didn’t look like Ronnie—this dude was Ronnie. And the recognition was mutual. The man’s face spread wide in a smile equal to his broad frame.
“Well, as I live and breathe, if it ain’t the man, the myth, the legend, Ronnie ‘Wayfarer’ Hobgood.” Troy reached out to shake his hand.
Ronnie wrapped his fingers around Troy’s hand, dwarfing it. His grip was firm, bordering on painful. Troy was glad that Ronnie liked him—or at least he thought he did.
“Troy ‘By God’ Bodean,” he said. “How the hell are you? What in God’s name are you doing in Massachusetts?”
&nb
sp; “I could ask you the same thing.”
“Hurricanes, man. Remember Hurricane Florence?”
Troy did not remember that particular one, but he nodded anyway.
“Yeah, she was a doozy. Took out at least nine of my regular tour stops down the East Coast.”
“So, now you’re hauling garbage?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Kind of a side gig for my brother-in-law. He owns this company, a limo service, a grocery delivery service, and a fleet of ice cream trucks. Oh, that and some kind of ski-boat touring outfit too. Makes bank. More than I ever earned from doin’ all that hustling after dark for tips.”
“I’ll be danged,” Troy said.
“And you?” Ronnie pointed at the retired police cruiser. He leaned down and whispered, “Are you some kind of undercover cop?”
Troy almost laughed, but then thought better of it. “Naw. Nothin’ like that.”
He let it hang in the air and then winked at Ronnie. The singing trashman put his fingers to his lips.
“I got you. Not a peep.”
The silence that always hits when two casual acquaintances have caught up with what little info they have to share with each other hung between the two men.
“Say,” Ronnie said, “you mind moving your car for a sec? I gotta get this thing loaded and get on down the road.”
“Oh, yeah. No problem.” Troy shuffled back to the car.
Ronnie pulled a business card out of his pocket and handed it to him. It proclaimed him as the Biggest Island Singer on the East Coast and had several download codes for his latest singles. Troy smiled thinking Ronnie was probably the biggest singer in the country, let alone the East Coast. He shoved it into his shirt pocket.
“It’s an old card, but the phone number’s still good. Text me sometime and we’ll grab a beer.”
Troy shook the man’s hand, this time the grip was a bit stronger.
“You’re on. Catch you later, Ronnie.”
He got in the truck and pulled it to the side. Troy eased his car out of the space and past all the drive-through patrons. He looked across the street to see that the meeting at the Tail Spinner strip club had apparently concluded. There was no sign of Buff, the strippers, the random guy, or Country. He would look back on this moment later and wonder how in the world he hadn’t recognized the whole group.
Instead, he was fixated on finding Country’s truck. He zoomed out of the parking lot, turning left against traffic. He had no idea why he decided to go that way, but something told him Country would need some drugs. Not the kind dropped off at random locations in the middle of the ocean for millions of dollars; the kind that fought infection and pain for whatever was ailing the man’s groin. He’d made a big deal of it back on the boat and had limped around in a fair amount of pain. Troy knew Leslie’s Pharmacy was just a couple of blocks away and decided to check there.
Michael Banks woke lying across the threshold of the aft cabin of Country’s boat. He was surprised that he woke up at all, given that he’d likely been discovered lying asleep on the corpse of Frank McCorker’s wife. He pushed himself up to his elbows, renewing his determination to get his narcolepsy officially treated by a doctor. His whole body ached, particularly his shoulders and the back of his head. He wondered if he’d been dragged down the steps and into the cabin. He stood, leaning against the door frame, taking a few deep breaths. His head swam and he thought for a second he might pass out again. The floor was a mess with sticky dark blood. He did a quick check, but found no obvious wounds on his body. He stepped over the mess as quietly as he could, careful not to slip. His toe caught on a pair of black, blood soaked shorts and he almost tripped. He caught himself on the refrigerator, but his shoe was caught in the pocket of the shorts. Shaking his foot to try and dislodge them, he accidentally flung them across the room. They struck the wall and a cell phone clattered out and spun to a stop in the middle of the room. He waited to see if someone had heard the noise, but the groaning of the boat in the waves was the only sound. He leaned down and picked up the phone.
The stairs creaked as he climbed up to the deck, but when he stuck his head out, he saw that he was alone. He walked out to see that the crates had been sealed again and shoved under benches out of view. The image of Florence McCorker dead and crammed unceremoniously into a wooden box burned in his mind. The fact that they were trying to get rid of her like this was foul play for sure. If they took her body out far enough, it might be eaten and picked clean before anyone found it. The evidence of wrongdoing would be swallowed, literally and metaphorically, by the sea.
He decided it was his duty to make sure that she wasn’t disposed of in that way and whatever fate she came to would surely be discovered by a forensic pathologist. He knew there wasn’t one stationed on Martha’s Vineyard, but there were a multitude on the mainland of Massachusetts. He walked toward the trio of crates, hunched over so he would be hard to see from the dock. He picked up the corner of the first crate and shook it. The sound of metal clanking told him he’d found the guns. He shoved it back into place. He dragged the second crate out. It was much heavier. He was pretty sure this was the right one. He was able to pry the top open a little to see that it was her.
He looked over the railing of the boat and saw that the dock was empty. Fishermen were likely already out for the day, and vacationers probably hadn’t risen for boating yet. He pulled the crate to the edge and tried to lift it up, planning to shove it over onto the dock. His back tweaked and he dropped the crate. It was too heavy to lift by himself unless he pulled her out of the crate. He wasn’t sure he wanted to do that.
He pulled the phone out of his pocket. Time to get some help.
“9-1-1,” the operator said. “What’s your emergency?”
Michael gave a vague story about there being someone in trouble out at the Black Dog Wharf without saying exactly what and hung up before they could ask for more details.
Jed Manning had one foot on the step up to get on the ferry when he heard his cell ping with a message from the police department. All active officers got the text in case they were away from their radios. He almost deleted it, but something made him curious. He jogged back to the car and listened to the dispatcher describe the incident out at the dock. He knew immediately it was Country. He took a deep breath and thought through all of the ways the three crates could come back to haunt him. If he went back and finished the job, sunk the whole damn mess into the ocean, his troubles would be over. He dialed Country’s phone to let him know he was coming.
Michael was about to toss the phone into the water when it rang. The caller ID read: Supercop. His eyebrows rose and he thought, what the heck?
He answered. The man on the other end of the line must have expected to get Country, because he jumped right into the conversation without any small talk.
“Hey, what’s going on out there? Sorry I disappeared but the scene was getting a little hairy.”
“Yup,” Michael said.
“You still on the boat?”
“Yup.”
“Still have the boxes?”
“Yup.”
“Okay, I’m on my way back. We’ll take care of this once and for all.”
He hung up. Hmmm, interesting, Michael thought. So, Supercop is on the way. It didn’t take much of a logic jump to realize the cop was probably Jed Manning. He was dirty and was probably part of the inner circle that put this whole thing together. Michael decided it was time to do something honorable—if he could stay awake.
32
Yer Fired
Troy caught sight of Country’s rusty pickup truck just as his phone rang. Oddly, it was Country’s number that showed up on the caller ID. He thought for sure he’d been made following him.
“Howdy, Country,” he said.
“Well, I reckon that’d make more sense,” Michael Banks said. “But actually, it’s your old pal. I just happen to have your boy’s phone.”
“Michael,” Troy said. “Is that you? Where ar
e you? Why’d you bail out on me back at the boat?”
“That’s just it, young fella,” he said. “I ain’t never made it off the boat. I was locked down in the bedroom.”
“Locked in the bedroom?”
“Yup,” Michael’s voice changed. Now it had a tinge of guilt. “I must’ve had an episode.”
“That’s okay, partner,” Troy said. “What’s goin’ on out there now? I’m on Country’s tail. I don’t know where he’s headin’, but I’m gonna tail him for a bit.”
“All good now. I’m alone out here. But, you gotta get out here and help me. Jed is on the way and I’ve got to get Florence off the boat.”
“Florence?”
“Yup,” Michael said. “McCorker’s wife, Florence. She’s long dead and been shoved into one of these crates.”
Troy’s mind swam. Florence was Buff Summerton’s wife—but of course Michael would know her as Frank McCorker’s wife. She was dead. If they were evil enough to kill her, Prosperity didn’t stand a chance. She was probably already dead.
“Dangit,” he muttered into the phone.
“You okay, Troy?”
“Yeah. It’s just that I was holdin’ out hope that Pros would be okay. Doesn’t seem likely now. I thought maybe Country would lead me to her.”
“Well, she ain’t out here,” Michael said.
Troy watched as Country’s truck zoomed past the pharmacy and took a left turn onto Old County Road. Where the heck is he goin’? There ain’t nothin’ out here.
“Troy?”
“I’m here. Sorry. Country just led me down Old County Road and I’m tryin’ to figure out why he’d be headed out that way.”
“Hmmm,” Michael said. “Not much there. Just a couple of schools and the old Whippoorwill Farm. Other’n that, I don’t—”
