Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Box Set 2

by David Berens

  He glanced at his watch and wondered what was taking Troy so long. He finished his drink and went below to pour another. It had been sweaty work pushing and pulling the crates around on the deck, and he didn’t want to be dehydrated. He knew from experience that if his body wasn’t at its peak, he could have another narcoleptic episode.

  He stirred the drink in his glass and dumped an extra packet of Stevia into it. He didn’t like using the alternative sweetener instead of sugar, but that was all he had so he made it work. He took a sip and climbed back up the stairs. When he reached the top, he was surprised to see Country’s pickup truck sitting in the parking lot. He was leaning over the bed of the truck messing with a tarp or something. At one point, he stood up, wiped his forehead with a handkerchief and Michael could see that he was oozing blood down both his legs. That boy’s gonna bleed out, Michael thought. He pulled out his phone to call for an ambulance, unsure if that would go to the same dispatcher that had called Jed, but he was willing to chance it if it would save Country’s life. The man was a criminal—incompetent criminal—but he didn’t deserve to go out like that. He glanced at the screen and saw that Troy had called. He clicked to call him back and watched Country wobble around his truck a few more times.

  “Michael,” Troy said. “S’that you?”

  “It is, buddy,” Michael crouched low as he whispered into the phone. “Where you at? Country just got here and he’s looking pretty rough. I’m pretty sure he can’t give me any trouble, but Jed’s probably gonna be here soon too, and I doubt I can handle both of them.”

  “I’m coming as fast as I can, brother,” Troy said. “Your cruiser died and I’m hiking your way now, but I’m a long way out. Ain’t nobody on this road I can get a ride with.”

  “Okay, I reckon I can maybe hold Country off for a bit, but if you don’t make it before Jed …”

  His voice trailed off as the edges of his vision started to close in. Oh, please, no, thought Michael. He felt the stress triggering a reaction that he desperately did not want to happen right now. But want it or not, sleep was coming. He was out.

  “Michael? Hey, buddy. You there?”

  Troy looked down at his phone. The call was still connected.

  “Hey!” he shouted. “Michael? What’s goin’ on? Are you okay?”

  Nothing. He hung up and dialed the number again. Straight to voicemail. Dangit. He turned at the sound of a vehicle pulling over behind him. In what might have been the most startling thing he’d seen in more than a few years—which was saying a lot—he turned to see a MerryMobile ice cream truck easing onto the shoulder of the road. It wasn’t the fact that these particular trucks looked like a circus tent driving around that shocked Troy. It was the history he had with them and his old friend, One-Eyed Willie. He hadn’t seen Willie in a lot of years and figured the old guy must be dead by now, but here he was sitting behind the wheel.

  As the truck got closer, Troy could see that it wasn’t actually the old guy he remembered with the creepy painted clown eye-patch, but a much bigger man.

  “Ain’t seen you in over a decade and all the sudden I see you everywhere,” the jovial voice called from the truck.

  “Ronnie?” Troy said, peering under a hand shading his eyes. “What the heck you doin’ out here? And what the heck are you doin’ in that thing?”

  “It’s my brother-in-law’s rig,” Ronnie said, patting the side of the red and white monstrosity. “He’s got like a dozen of the things. Kids flock to ’em like … well, like kids to ice cream.”

  “So, you traded in your garbage truck for an ice cream truck?”

  “Nah,” he laughed. “One of his guys called in sick and he didn’t want the kids down on the beach to be disappointed, so I’m running it around today. Strictly part-time, of course.”

  Troy looked around. The stretch of road they were on was about as rural as it got on the island. All he saw was the road and scraggly trees lining each side.

  “But why out here?”

  “It’s the quickest route from one end of the island to the other. Can’t spend too much time driving around or the push-ups and rocket pops will melt.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “What about you? Why you hitchin’ out here?”

  “Car broke down.”

  “The cruiser?”

  “Yup.”

  “You can’t just radio for backup?”

  Troy took a deep breath. Time to clear this up.

  “I’m not really a cop, Ronnie,” he said, “but I’m working with one and he’s probably in trouble right now. You don’t suppose you could give me a ride?”

  Ronnie looked around at the back of the truck. “I’m not really supposed to have passengers in this thing, but …”

  “Ain’t nobody gonna know about this,” Troy said, climbing into the back. “If you’ll drop me off at the Black Dog, I’d really appreciate it.”

  “Oh, it ain’t that I’m worried about getting caught,” Ronnie explained. “I just don’t know if it can handle both of us.”

  “Let’s give it a shot,” Troy said. “My buddy’s countin’ on me.”

  “Will do.”

  They pulled out and raced down County Road … at just under twenty miles an hour.

  Country tugged on Prosperity’s body, wrapped tightly in a tarp in the back of his truck. He was able to slide her close to the tailgate with what felt like superhuman effort. Why’s it gotta be so damn hot today? His head swam and he knew he was stumbling, but that wasn’t too uncommon outside the Black Dog Tavern. He guessed most people would just think he was drunk. He leaned back to stretch his back and couldn’t keep his eyes from rolling back in his head. He fainted and fell straight back onto his butt. The fall didn’t hurt him, but it did shake the cobwebs loose from his brain. The entire front of his shorts and most of the front of his legs were sticky with a steady trickle of blood. He made a mental note to jump in the water and clean off after he got these two aboard.

  He glanced toward the boat and for a second he was sure he saw someone sitting in the captain’s chair. He blinked away the sweat in his eyes and realized there was no one there. Must’ve been a hallucination. Gotta get this done and fast before I pass out.

  He climbed up into the bed of the truck and shoved Prosperity off the tailgate onto the ground. She groaned once, but then got quiet again. He sat down and wedged his feet between T.J.’s body and the back of the truck bed and pushed. He shoved him as far as he could like that, then stood up and rolled him the rest of the way out. The kid fell on top of Prosperity, but didn’t make a peep.

  “Big catch, eh?” a salty fisherman called from the back of another boat. “Good for you. I didn’t catch a damn thing … except a buzz! Ha!”

  Country thought for sure he’d been busted, but the old man’s words were slurred and he fell into hysterical laughter. He was piss drunk.

  “Me neither, old timer,” Country called, with a wave. “All I got here is a mess of fish food.”

  “What the hell you fishin’ for? Great whites?”

  “Somethin’ like that.”

  The fisherman shrugged. “Eh, suit yourself. Good luck to ya.”

  Country waved the man off. He didn’t have time for chit chat. He scanned the parking lot for some kind of wheelbarrow or cart or something he could load the bodies on. Leaning against the ice machine, he saw what he needed. A hand truck. He walked as steadily as he could toward the dolly and wheeled it back to his pickup. He decided to try loading T.J. first, since he wanted to deal with the biggest threat while he was still unconscious. It turned out to be relatively easy work and he was so relieved that he took a second after he’d rolled T.J. into the boat to jump into the water and wash himself off.

  The cool dip reinvigorated him and he felt like new as he climbed back onto the boat. He could tell he was still oozing, and he grabbed a towel and shoved it into his pants. It made him look like a sock-packing hard rocker in Eighties-style spandex—only without the long hair, or
the makeup, or the cold sores.

  He decided to go back and get Prosperity before tucking T.J. away down below. He waddled across the parking lot, shoes squeaking, the dolly jumping, clothes dripping wet, and grinning like a Cheshire cat. He was close, so close to pulling this off. If he could get the girl on the boat, get them all out to deep water and drop ’em in, he’d be done with the whole mess. Then he could get back in with The Sharks and when Buff paid him his due, he could get proper stitches in his—

  He stopped short to see Prosperity’s head sticking out of the tarp roll. She was wide-eyed and wriggling like a worm on a hot sidewalk. Her eyes got even wider when she saw him, and he was sure that it was because she was impressed with the bulge in his pants. Too bad he would have to knock her out again. He licked his lips thinking about things he might do while she was unconscious. His groin ached reminding him that he was in no shape for such things. He gritted his teeth and kicked her before she could scream.

  35

  Private Enterprise

  “That boy ain’t checked in for a while now,” Daisy Mae said, wringing her hands. “You think he’s alright?”

  Ellie Mae applied a liberal, almost shocking amount of baby oil to her bare breasts. She tossed the bottle to her sister and huffed in exasperation.

  “You gonna ask me that every two minutes? He’s a big boy and can take care of hisself. He’s fine. Now, shut up and get ta tannin’. You been lookin’ a little pekid these last few days.”

  “Just cause I don’t look like a dayum tangerine don’t mean I cain’t get the dolla bills.”

  She slathered on a healthy dose of the oil and tossed the nearly empty bottle aside. It rattled around on the pile of similar bottles lying nearby. Daisy Mae leaned back in her lawn chair—a chair she had stolen from the last hotel they had stayed in before their money ran out. Sitting on the roof of the Tail Spinner, they could hide behind the sign on the front of the building and tan in any state of undress they preferred.

  “I hate to keep bringin’ it up, but it ain’t like T.J. to not call or text and tell us where he is. What if somethin’ bad has happened to him. I mean, we ain’t even got the money yet.”

  Ellie Mae shook her head and hissed over her teeth. “He’s fine. If somethin’ was wrong, he’d call one of us fer sure.”

  “But how could he call if somethin’ was wrong? What if that man done took his phone and killed him dead?”

  Ellie Mae growled under her breath. “Daisy Mae, if’n you don’t shut yer trap right now and commence with some serious tannin’, I’m gonna come over there and shut it for ya.”

  “I’m sorry, Ellie Mae.” Her voice was full of hurt. “I’m just worried about the boy. He’s our one and only.”

  “Only man on Earth we can trust,” Ellie Mae said.

  “What if they done murdered him and plan on dumpin’ him with that other body they got?”

  Ellie Mae was quiet. Daisy Mae could hear her sister’s breathing get faster.

  “Okay, fine,” she said finally. “You wanna go check it out, don’t you?”

  Daisy Mae nodded her head vigorously. She stood up and started to put on her shirt. Several men in the parking lot below looked up to see her standing bare-chested and began to applaud. She quickly ducked down behind the sign.

  “Show don’t start till dark, boys,” she hollered over her shoulder. “Dang vultures.”

  Ellie Mae laughed and settled back down in her chair.

  “Hey, I thought you said we was goin’ to check on T.J.”

  Ellie Mae pulled her sunglasses up to her forehead.

  “We are,” she said rolling her eyes at Daisy Mae, “but we got fifteen more minutes on this side. Cain’t be gettin’ uneven tan lines.”

  Jed sat in his police cruiser watching Country flail like an idiot trying to load what appeared to be two bodies onto the boat. He figured he’d let him get it done before he showed his face. That way if anyone saw him, he’d be the one to get caught with the bodies. It took almost forty-five minutes, and Jed was sure the man was going to pass out before he got it done.

  “Is he drunk?” he asked himself, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel.

  Against all odds, Country managed—with the help of a hand truck he found at the bar—to get both bodies onto the boat. Jed breathed a sigh of relief. His phone chirped and he saw it was Buff calling.

  “Is it done?”

  “Not yet,” Jed said, scanning the parking lot to see if he’d been noticed. “I had to wait on the dumbass to get the boat loaded.”

  “I’m not going to ask,” Buff said. “Listen, Winnie and I have been talking. He’s worried that you’re not in the right frame of mind to get this done.”

  “I assure you, sir, that I—”

  “Just let me finish. You’re going to want to hear this.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Jed heard something underneath Buff’s gruff tone. It was something faint and unusual. Was it … fear?

  “Look,” Buff continued, “this enterprise has taken a turn into shitsville, and we need the whole damn thing to be resolved, and we need it done yesterday.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Jed’s eye caught a trio of fishermen on a nearby boat tossing their empty beer cans into the water. They were loud and raucous. Had they seen him? One of them stood up, unzipped his pants, and started peeing off the boat. A fellow drunkard rushed up behind the man and shoved him. In most cases, the man should have fallen into the water and all would be fun and games. But somehow the pissing man broke the laws of physics and toppled backward onto his assailant. Jed almost laughed at the fact that the man’s steady stream of urine had now become a wild, fire-hose of spray up into the air. They were all soaked in piss. And then the fight started. Normally, Jed would have broken it up and hauled the men into the tank to sleep off their escapades, but he had more important things to attend to right now.

  “Jed?”

  Had Buff still been talking? Oops. He’d zoned out and hadn’t heard the man.

  “Sir, I want you to know, you can count on me. I’m about to get on the boat and take care of this. In the morning, you’ll be wondering why you hadn’t put me on it in the first place.”

  “I am kind of wondering that right now.”

  “Consider it done.”

  “Good man,” Buff said. “And just so you know. As we discussed, there will be a post for you in the future after the election. When our boy, Country, is out of the picture, there will be a need for someone to take over his deals. And they’ll only be getting bigger. I’m sending you a number. It’s not our usual drop guy—apparently, they took his plane somewhere just off Key West, but don’t worry about that. Everything is fine, we just had to adapt. After you’ve made the other, um … drops ... and get into position, send her a quick text. She’ll be there to receive the shipment by boat.”

  Jed felt his pulse quicken. He was about to tell Buff thank you when he glanced back at the boat with now four bodies, a crate of guns, and a crate of drugs all due to be delivered to various points out in the ocean. His breath caught in his throat. There, in broad daylight, making a spectacle rivaling that of the drunk pee fountain men, was Country. He wasn’t alone. He was wrestling with a man Jed knew well. Santa Claus. Otherwise known as Michael Banks. He checked his Glock’s magazine—about half full—and jumped out of his car.

  “It’s over, Country,” shouted Michael. “I know what you’ve done and I’m not going to let you get away with it.”

  Country lunged at him, but Michael stiff-armed him and stepped to the side, sending him tumbling across the deck. His head cracked against one of the crates and Country howled.

  “I’m gonna kill you for that, Banksy.”

  “You were gonna kill me anyhow, Country.”

  He stood up and Michael noticed his crotch for the first time. It looked like he had a basketball stuck in his pants. It was almost comical.

  “Yeah, well now I’m gonna kill you twice.”

&nb
sp; He started cackling and swaying back and forth. He’s delirious, thought Michael. Country’s eyes were sunken into deep dark circles, and his skin was ashen. Michael wondered if the man might just pass out if he could keep away from him long enough.

  “Santee,” Michael said, “let’s just take it easy, now. I can see you’re hurt and you look like you might have internal bleeding or something. Let’s get you to a hospital and—”

  “Shut yer damn ass, old man,” Country yelled, and my name ain’t Santee. It’s Country. Ain’t nobody stupid enough to name their kid Santee … except my mama.”

  Michael watched as Country’s eyes teared up and strangely, he shoved his hand into his pocket. Does he have a gun? Michael followed his instincts and hit the deck and rolled. If Country pulled a gun, he wanted to be a moving target at the very least. But he never heard a shot.

  Instead, Country yelled, “Oh no. Where is it? My lucky finger. Oh, damn, no. I’m sorry, Mama.”

  Michael lifted his head to see Country on his hands and knees crawling around on the deck of the boat. He looked like a person searching for a lost contact. Michael jumped up and ran at Country. He wasn’t exactly sure what the plan was—maybe wrestle him down into the bedroom and lock him in, or tie him up somehow—but he never got to put that plan into action. A fist from out of the blue slammed into his chin and knocked him backward. Damn. How did he move that fast?

  His head swam as he looked up. Country was still lying on the deck, running his hands back and forth searching for something. And standing over him with a balled fist was Supercop, Jed Manning. Michael felt his eyes roll back in his head and he passed out.

  Part IV

  Waistin’ Away

  “Sunset waves on the beach tonight,