Diamond Reef

by Douglas Pratt

  The next message was from my sister in Arkansas.

  The last message was from Kayla Locke. Tristan's sister? I couldn't remember if he had a sister. Maybe a wife.

  "I talked to her," Missy said. "She said it was important."

  "Did she say what she wanted?"

  Missy shrugged as she slipped her shoes back on her feet. "She didn't say. Just that she needed to talk to you."

  "We better get back before Hunter starts to think something," I said.

  Missy laughed and said, "I'm sure Hunter knows something is up."

  "What if Michael finds out?"

  "Whatever," she muttered as she kissed me, "he does his own thing. Come on, let's go."

  I followed Missy out of the office.

  "I need to head to the front desk," she said instead of saying goodbye.

  Skipping steps two at a time, I jogged down the stairs to the Manta Club. Hunter was still behind the bar talking to a customer. I sat to Hunter's left. He glanced my way and reached into a cooler to grab another beer. He slid it in front of me.

  "Can you hand me the phone?" I asked Hunter.

  Grabbing the phone from under the bar, he set it in front of me. "Glad you're back," he said, "I've been working six days for a month."

  "Take a few days off then," I said. "I can jump in tomorrow."

  "That's great," Hunter said. His mind was already turning over how to spend a day off.

  I dialed the number from Tristan's message. The phone went straight to voice mail. I left a message with my number, then I tried the number for Kayla. Three rings and the voice mail answered -another message.

  Hanging up the phone, I decided to call my sister back later. It would be just another phone call berating my life choices. I could wait until I felt a need to self-flagellate. Some would say that she means well, but I don't think that's true. She's saddled with a husband, an ex-husband, and three kids. She resents me for leaving so early. She wants to be rescued from her crappy life; I dodged that bullet. If I had stayed, then I'd have ended up divorced and miserable. Probably working at the cotton gin or driving a John Deere in circles around a field. The thought made me cringe.

  I drank the beer slowly, waiting on Hunter to make his way back toward my end of the bar.

  "Hunter," I called as he got closer, "can I get a tuna sandwich?"

  "Sure, how do you want it?"

  "Seared, with fries."

  Hunter keyed the order into the computer. A boisterous voice bellowed, "That sounds good! I'll have that!"

  I looked up at the corner of the bar to see Wilson Peterson bobbling around the bar. Peterson, the mayor of West Palm Beach, is a jovial regular. He eats lunch and the occasional dinner, but he has made the Manta Club his Friday afternoon haunt for years. By four o'clock on any Friday, the bar starts to fill with lawyers, elected officials, appointed officials, and several of other people seeking to trade political clout. Today wasn't Friday, so this was just another lunch.

  "Chase, you're back from your trip," he stated.

  "Got in last night," I said.

  "Can I join you?" Peterson asked.

  "Sure," I said. "You aren't meeting anyone?"

  "No, just hungry," he answered. He looked to Hunter and said, "I'll just get an iced tea. Sweet."

  Hunter poured his tea before moving to the customers on the other side. The television started blasting the music for the noon news.

  "Breaking news. Another home invasion ends with the homeowner in critical condition," the female anchor said.

  "Shit," Peterson mumbled. "More of this."

  I reached over the bar to grab the remote that we kept on the shelf. Muting the volume, I asked,"What's been happening?"

  "These home invasions. We've had five in the last two months. This time they only beat the owner into a coma. Last time they killed the owner."

  "Cops have anything?" I asked.

  He shrugged. "They only take high dollar jewelry and cash. The phone won't stop in my office. Damn political nightmare."

  I shrugged back. What else could you do?

  "How was your trip?" he asked, changing the subject.

  "Great. I'm already beginning to hate civilization," I said, glancing at the television. "But, I have to do a little work before I can get back out there."

  Peterson looked across the bar where Hunter was talking to a brunette in her 30's. "I may have a little opportunity for you to make some money," he remarked.

  I cocked my head. "Doing what?"

  Wilson Peterson narrowed his eyes and said, "This must be under the strictest confidence."

  I nodded.

  "This could ruin me, so I need your assurance that you will keep this close to the chest."

  "I will," I promised.

  Peterson swiveled his head around again to make sure no one was in earshot. "I'm being blackmailed."

  I sat quietly, staring at him.

  He continued, "Someone has a very compromising video of me. They want me to pay them $50,000, or they will release it on the internet."

  "What do you want from me?" I asked.

  "Chase, everyone talks about you. I know you don't advertise it, but I know you were Special Forces or something."

  I shook my head. "Force Recon."

  "Right," Peterson said, as if that was exactly what he said. "I don't feel comfortable carrying that much cash. I was hoping you would deliver it for me."

  "Wilson, why don't you call the police?"

  "This can't get out."

  I stared at him. His eyes were shifty, but he was a politician. I liked Wilson, but like any politician, I assumed he was lying.

  "You want me to carry $50,000 in cash and deliver it? Where?"

  He shook his head. "I don't know yet."

  "Do you want to find out who it is and stop them?" I asked. I was waiting for the next proposition to be for me to remove the threat. Not something I take lightly.

  "Oh, no," he assured me. "I just want you to take the money. I'll pay you for the trouble. $5000."

  I scratched the back of my head. Hunter approached us again, and I ordered another beer. Peterson got a refill on his iced tea. Hunter beelined back to the attractive female customer.

  "If you pay the money, nothing will stop them from wanting more later."

  "I don't have a lot of choice," he stated. "This can't get out."

  "I have to ask," I said, "what's on the video? I don't need details, just generally."

  "It's a sex tape."

  "You're single," I said, "What do you care?"

  The look on his face answered that. I could take a couple of guesses. His partner might not be single. Or female. Or it was more than just your average Sunday afternoon sex. An image of the rotund mayor in a sex swing gave me a shiver.

  "Fine," I replied, "I'll help you. Do you know when the drop off will be?"

  He shook his head. "Not yet. I was told to have the money ready, and they would message me."

  "You just want me to go along with you?"

  "No, I was hoping you would go for me. I don't want to be caught up with whoever is doing this."

  "Wilson, you need to reconsider. Paying them won't ensure they will destroy the video. They may come back in a week, or a month, wanting more money."

  "It's the only way," Peterson insisted. "I just need you to deliver the money. I'll pay you well for your time."

  Shaking my head, I asked, "You trust me with $50,000?"

  Peterson looked at me. "I think so. I've got a good read on people. You always shoot straight."

  Hunter appeared with our sandwiches. The garlic aioli that the chef put on the sandwich mixed with the aroma of spices reminded me that I hadn't eaten yet today.

  "Thanks," I said to Hunter, who dropped off our silverware and moved back to flirt with the girl.

  "When they call, you can reach me here."

  "I appreciate this, Chase."

  "Understand something," I said. "I do shoot straight, so I'm warning you ahead of
time. If something goes bad, or I get the hinkiest feeling that something is wrong, I'm calling it off."

  Peterson nodded. "I understand. This should be straight forward."

  "Where is the money coming from?" I asked.

  "What do you mean?" Peterson asked.

  "The $50,000? Where are you getting the cash?"

  "The bank. It's my money if that's what you're asking."

  I unwrapped the roll of silverware and put the napkin on my lap. "Sorry, Wilson, that's exactly what I'm asking."

  "The cash is legitimate," he assured me.

  I nodded as I picked up my sandwich.

  When I bit into the sandwich, the juices from the tuna and aioli dripped onto the plate. My thoughts turned over how long I could disappear in the Exumas with a $5000 head start. That would buy a few six-packs of Sands Beer.

  3

  The man in the salmon polo shirt waved me over. From Georgia, he told me. I guessed he was here on business. Nothing about him said he was a tourist. He had been nursing a bourbon and Coke while watching a replay of a Bears-Cowboy game from 1996. At one point, I heard him mumbling under his breath at the screen and wondered if he was aware the game was over 24 years ago.

  "Can I see a menu?" he asked.

  I pulled a menu from behind the register and slipped it onto the bar next to him. "Another bourbon?" I asked, looking at his almost empty tumbler.

  He nodded.

  Great night to start back to work. Wednesdays are often slow, but tonight was exceptionally so. That was the business, sporadic even in paradise.

  I had Bourbon and Coke and two others at the bar, Stella Artois and Merlot. None of them were together, and all were male, which meant they didn't want to chat each other up. All of them were staying at the Tilly. Salesmen, most likely. Nights like this, I was praying for a decent looking businesswoman to stroll in for dinner before heading to her room. Then the mixture at the bar gets interesting. Inevitably, one of the three men will start a conversation with her. Sometimes two, or even all three, will vie for her attention. That's when the show starts. Rarely does it get too exciting, but occasionally, sparks fly.

  Not tonight. There are just never enough traveling businesswomen that hang out in bars.

  I gave Bourbon and Coke his drink and took his order for a hamburger and fries. He was boring, staring at a 24-year-old match that didn't matter then and barely sipping his drink. Here he is in south Florida, home to some of the best seafood on the planet, and the man orders a burger. Well-done. With American cheese.

  Kristy stood by the serving station, scrolling through her phone, waiting on a guest to sit at a table.

  "Bored?" I asked her.

  She curled her lip at me as if I was getting on her case.

  She was new. At least new to me. I don't know how long she had been working as a cocktail waitress, but she wasn't here when I left for my trip. Too young for me. She might have been 19.

  "Just slow," she said.

  "Yeah," I agreed. "So, you go to school or anything?"

  "Yeah, I'm taking online classes." She returned to scrolling through her phone.

  Apparently, we weren't going to be best of friends tonight.

  I made my rounds around the bar. Stella Artois needed another beer and a Cuban sandwich. Merlot wanted another glass of red and to know if I knew a good place for dinner. I always loved that question, as if the food here wasn't good enough for dinner. It's always the guys that order the house wine that suddenly become gourmands.

  "Bimini Twist is good." It was. Served the same seafood we do for about twice as much, but he would consider the higher prices a meter of quality.

  "Where is it?" Merlot asked.

  "Got a car?" I asked.

  Merlot shook his head.

  "The concierge can get you a cab. It's a bit too far to walk."

  Merlot nodded, and I was willing to bet myself that he'd end up ordering here after all.

  A woman walked in from the hotel with a toddler holding her hand. I glanced at Kristy. Her eyes rolled, which was the look I expected. Kids in a bar always elicit that reaction. She walked toward the woman to seat her.

  Bourbon and Coke's hamburger arrived, and I delivered it to him with a roll of silverware and a bottle of ketchup. He seemed satisfied not to carry on a long conversation and disappeared into his sports of yore.

  "Chase," I heard Kristy call me around the bar. When I looked her way, she said, "This lady would like to talk to you."

  The woman and her daughter were moving to one of the tables near the window. She looked to be in her late 20's with blond hair and tan skin. She was pretty but didn't take care of herself. The yellowed hair had the stiff look that the combination of salt and sun creates. In contrast, her daughter was wearing a little sundress with pink bows in her hair.

  "Can you watch my guys?" I asked Kristy.

  She shrugged, and I took that as a 'yes.' I took the two steps toward the table in a quick stride.

  "Hi, can I help you?" I asked, standing by her table.

  "Are you Chase Gordon?" Her voice drawled in a soft tone.

  "Yes," I answered.

  "I'm Kayla Locke. This is Abbie. I'm Tristan's wife."

  "Oh," was all I said. Her face was somber, and I felt a blow to my gut. Her message was still in the pocket of my shorts. I hadn't tried to call her again since yesterday.

  I sat down at the table. "What's wrong?" I muttered.

  "I don't know where he is," she said.

  "Tristan?"

  "Yes, he's been gone for over a month. I haven't heard from him in over two weeks." Her eyes widened and moistened.

  "Kayla, I haven't talked to him in years," I said, leaving out the four messages I had from him.

  "I know, I'm sorry. Tristan just always talked about you. 'Go to Chase,' he'd say if something were to happen to him."

  "Why me?"

  "He trusted you. He talked about you all the time."

  I grabbed her hand. I wasn't sure what I was supposed to do in this situation. "Kayla, I don't know what you want me to do."

  Shaking her head, she said, "I don't know. I don't know what to do."

  Abbie started pulling at her mother until Kayla lifted her into her lap. The girl reached up and stroked her mother's hair while she sang softy

  "He's never been gone this long before."

  "Where does he go?" I asked.

  "He usually goes on 'fishing trips.' That's what he calls it. He's really smuggling drugs, but he wants to pretend that's not it. For us."

  "Drugs?" I sighed. The kid hadn't changed. That kind of work never ended well.

  "He tried getting work, but the dishonorable kept following him. This started as a last resort, but the money was real good."

  "How long do these," I paused, looking at Abbie staring at me, and continued, "'fishing trips' usually take?"

  "A few days. Maybe a week."

  "Does he have a boat?"

  "Yeah, but it's still in the slip."

  "How does he get the," I glanced at the little girl, "...uh...fish?"

  "In his boat," Kayla said.

  "Did he say he was going on a 'fishing trip?'" I asked. The subterfuge seemed futile since Abbie seemed to be in her own world, playing with her mother's buttons on her blouse.

  "I don't think so. Something happened last month, but he didn't talk about it. He was worried about getting more money."

  "Chase," Kristy said from the bar.

  "Excuse me, Kayla. Do you guys want something to eat?"

  Abbie's head twisted toward me and nodded.

  Kayla shook her head. "No, Abbie. Thank you, though."

  "Give me a minute, okay?"

  I ran behind the bar to close out Stella Artois. Merlot also wanted to order the filet and snapper combo. I knew I'd win that bet.

  I ordered a plate of chicken tenders and a grilled chicken for Kayla and Abbie.

  "Kristy," I asked, "would you grab a chocolate milk from the kitchen and a soda for
me?"

  Kristy rolled her eyes and traipsed toward the kitchen.

  I sat back down at the table with Kayla. "Alright, what happened last month?"

  Kayla shook her head. "I don't know," she answered. "Not exactly. He was bitching about the Coast Guard. He said all they could do was cruise around on their boats. They weren't real military."

  "You said you talked to him a couple of weeks ago. What did he say?"

  "He said he had a job that was going to keep him busy."

  I sighed. "No idea what kind of job, I guess?"

  "No."

  I looked over towards the bar. Missy had entered and stood by the bar, looking in my direction. I nodded at her, and she turned and left the club. Kristy passed her carrying a glass of chocolate milk. She stopped at the bar and grabbed a glass of soda. She brought the drinks to the table.

  "You didn't have to," Kayla said.

  I smiled, "No, I did it mostly for Abbie." I pushed the chocolate milk to Abbie. "Do you like chocolate milk?"

  Abbie grinned and bobbed her head. Kayla handed the glass to Abbie. "Be careful, Abs," she warned.

  Abbie sipped the milk and smiled at me. Her lip was coated in brown milk.

  "I ordered her some chicken tenders," I said. "I hope that's okay."

  "Oh," Kayla said, "I can't afford that."

  I cocked my head. "It's my treat. Are you strapped financially?"

  "Yeah," she dropped her head, "usually Tristan would've brought some money by now."

  I sighed. Tristan had stepped into it. I know he made some bad decisions, but Tristan was loyal. The Marine I knew wouldn't have abandoned his wife and daughter like this. The best guess I had was that the issue with the Coast Guard was likely a boarding. He probably dumped whatever contraband he was carrying on board. The owners of the drugs would be less than happy if he came back empty-handed. I hoped that he was hiding out while trying to find a way out of the situation and not dumped in the Glades somewhere.

  "Hang on," I said, and I walked behind the bar. I swiped my card and opened the register. I counted out $500. That would be my weekend pay, but I could figure that out later.

  I returned to the table as Kristy brought the girls' meals to them.

  "Here," I said, handing the wad of twenties to Kayla. "Maybe this will help until we find him."