“Could it have been gators?” offered Sherrie.
“No ma’am, dees is sliggers.”
Mason’s curiosity was piqued. “What’s a sligger?” he asked the cook.
“Monsters from de pits of Hell. My granny done told me ‘bout dem long ago, when I’s just a child, but I remember de stories like yesterday. She used to say dey was part devil, part man, part animal. Wit’ teeth like a shark, tentacles like a squid, claws like a gator. Dey come up from de water to take bad children to de underworld.”
“Sounds like the bogeyman,” Mason said with half a smile.
“De bogeyman o’ de water,” nodded the cook.
“Sounds terrifying,” said Eaver, a twinge of uneasiness in her voice. She gazed over her shoulder at the nearby coast below. “Why would your granny even tell you stories like that?”
“As fascinating as your Louisiana children’s stories are,” Sherrie interjected, “I’m sure something else is responsible for what happened here last night.”
“I tell you, I saw ‘em de other night. An’ I smelled dat smell of brimstone with ‘em. Same smell dey left here in de smokehouse. We got sliggers, for sure.”
Sherrie shook her head. “I’d put my money on wildcats or gators before I’d blame any ‘bogeymen from the deep’.”
Cinch shrugged. “Say what you want. I know what I know.” He continued clearing the destruction to make room for him to begin reconstructing the smokehouse.
“Holy shit,” said Danny Young, who had found his way around the restaurant to where the others’ voices had led him. They turned their heads to him when they heard his voice.
“Hey, Danny,” Mason acknowledged. “How’s it goin’?”
Surveying the area around what used to be the smokehouse, Danny just shook his head. “What happened here?”
“We’re not sure,” said Sherrie, “some kind of animal, we figure.”
“Got dat right,” Cinch declared. “Some bad animal.”
Danny was concerned about what had happened to Sherrie’s restaurant, but something else was already on his mind today. “Hey, you guys haven’t seen my dad anywhere, have you?”
Sherrie looked up. “Ricky? No, hon. Haven’t seen him in a while. Why, is something wrong?”
“Well, no, it’s just that he wasn’t there when I came home yesterday and he hasn’t been home since. He didn’t leave a note or anything, which is unusual. He’s not at the store, and not answering his phone either. I left a couple messages.”
“Huh,” said Eaver. “That doesn’t sound like him. Although you should probably be happy having some time without him bitchin’ at you.”
“Yeah,” Mason seconded, “don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”
“That’s not nice, kids,” Sherrie scolded softly. But even she agreed that a day without the unpleasant, arrogant Ricky Young was a nice thing.
Just then the rain began to fall. The storm front had arrived, throwing colder air and moisture at the coastal town.
Sherrie stood. “C’mon, kids, I’ll make y’all some lunch. And then I suppose I should open up the restaurant.” She led the group through the back door and into the kitchen.
Cinch, not hungry, stayed behind. The strong odor on the wood reminded him of his frightening ordeal two nights ago, and it killed his appetite. He remained outside, in the gentle rain, to continue rebuilding the smokehouse as best he could.
CHAPTER 15
“Where the fuck is he?”
Mitch Haverson and Jesse Reed looked at each other, shrugged, and turned their heads back to Malcolm Gibbs, who was sitting opposite them in the diner’s booth.
Big Mal clenched his phone angrily in frustration. He had not been able to get hold of his friend Walt Echerson for four days now. And they had marijuana plants to tend to, selling to be done. Mal addressed his co-workers. “Has he called you guys?”
“No, Mal,” said Jesse. “Haven’t heard from him.”
“It’s like he just disappeared, dude,” added Mitch, the concern in his voice equal to that of his leader’s.
Was that little bitch right? Mal wondered. Did Walt actually decide to leave the group, like Eaver said? Her snotty remark had angered him the other day, and was still eating at him. Partially because deep down, he had always wanted Eaver – at least since her boobs began developing nicely in high school – but she had never given him the time of day. Instead, she spent all her time with that twerp Mason. “Fuckin’ Eaver,” he mumbled, reaching for a french fry.
Jesse heard him. “Huh?”
“Remember what she said the other day when we ran into her and Red? About how maybe Walt decided to leave?”
“He wouldn’t do that,” Mitch snorted. “He makes good money with us, and he’s seein’ that little hottie Sarah Primley. Why the hell would he leave all that?”
“Good point,” said Mal. The crew did indeed make good money growing and selling marijuana, although it came with the risk of getting caught. But they were careful about who they sold to. The gang mostly sold in outlying towns, directly to local dealers with whom they had established trust. And the few customers they had here in town would never dare turn them in, because Mal’s crew knew where they all lived. The Sweetboro Boys had a system that was running smoothly, successfully.
“She was just fucking with you, being a bitch,” Jesse added. “I’m sure Walt’s shacked up with Sarah somewhere, tappin’ that ass. Eaver don’t know what she’s talking about.”
Mal nodded. “That’s for sure. I mean, all she does is spend time with her mom. And fuckin’ Mason. I don’t know why she hangs out with Red.” He snarled as his mind conjured an image of Mason smiling cheesily. “That little runt always thought he was better than us. Smug fuckin’ college boy.”
Jesse pulled his phone out. “Still, Walt should’ve let us know where he’s at.” He tried to call their friend one more time. After a moment he shook his head. “Just goes to his voicemail.”
Big Mal grunted uneasily. Then he grabbed another fry and continued to eat his lunch. His buddies quietly did the same.
It was still raining when they emerged from the diner. The rainfall was light, just a drizzle, but would worsen throughout the day and into the night. The crew hastened to Mal’s covered Jeep and jumped inside. They had work to do today, money to make, and the weather was not going to get any better. Mal figured the sooner they got started, the sooner they could be finished.
It would take less time if Walt was here to help, Mal brooded.
Then he had a scary thought. He turned to his cohorts. “You don’t suppose he did something stupid and got arrested, do ya?”
“I can’t imagine so,” said Jesse. “And besides, couldn’t he still call us from jail?”
“Unless he only got one phone call and needed to call a lawyer or something,” Mal pointed out.
“Maybe you should call the police and see if he’s there,” Mitch suggested.
Mal pondered the idea of Walt getting busted for selling pot. If he had, the police would likely have learned of the group’s operation and picked up Mal and the others by now, which had obviously not happened. So no, thought Mal, Walt’s probably not in jail.
Still, calling the police was not a bad idea. Maybe they knew something about where Walt was. Mal decided to call the station.
The phone rang at the front desk of the police station, and Carl Riggins was there to pick up. “Sheriff’s office,” he said into the mouthpiece. “Deputy Riggins speaking.”
“Um, hi there. This is Mal. Mal Gibbs. I was wondering if you could help me with something.”
“Hello, Malcolm,” said Carl, recognizing the voice of the local young man. “I’m glad you called, actually. We’ve been trying to get hold of you.”
Mal tensed; it was never good for a drug dealer to have the police looking for him. “Yeah? Why’s that?”
“We found Walt Jr.’s truck abandoned, day before last. But no trace of young Walt. Just a mess of a campground, and d
amage to his truck.”
“Really?” Mal said, turning to his friends and raising his eyebrow. “Where?”
“Up past Pirate’s Point, overlooking the coast. We’ve been trying to locate Walt ever since, with no luck yet. You’re one of his friends, so we were hoping maybe you’d know where he is? Or if you can think of any of his other friends that might know?”
Mal shook his head without realizing it. “No,” he said into the phone. “That’s actually why I was callin’ you. Was wonderin’ if maybe you knew where he was, or if he was in trouble or something. We haven’t heard from him in a few days.”
“Well, do us a favor, will ya? If you hear from him, have him get in touch with us. We’ll keep his truck here at the station in the meantime. Okay?”
“Okay, will do,” said Mal. Then he ended the call and turned to his buddies. “Cops don’t know where he is, which I guess is good. Means nothing bad happened. Except…”
“Except what?” Mitch asked.
“They found Walt’s truck by Pirate’s Point. Said it was damaged, and the campground was a mess too.”
Jesse grinned. “I bet he took Sarah camping, for a night alone with her.”
Mal restated his earlier question. “But where the fuck is he now?”
“Something could’ve happened to them,” Mitch offered.
“Like what?”
Mitch simply shrugged. “I guess we’ll find out when we see him again.”
That would have to be the answer for now. With or without Walt, the crew had work to do. “Well, let’s get a move on. Sooner we unload our stuff, sooner we can get back.” Mal started the Jeep and drove off in the rain.
They spent the next few hours cruising the outlying towns that were about forty-five minutes away from Sweetboro. Their fellow dealers met with them, bought their marijuana, and agreed on the next transaction date. When all the pot was sold, Mal started the wet drive home.
Before calling it a day, Mal would make a stop at the greenhouse. They had not been there in a couple of days, and it was time to tend to the plants. New sprouts would be added to the line and the others moved down until the mature plants at the end would come down to be picked.
It was getting dark by the time the group arrived at their secluded greenhouse. As Mal rounded the last corner up the hill, his headlights illuminated a shocking sight.
The greenhouse was destroyed. The roof was still up, barely, but one of the walls looked like it had been peeled off by a backhoe. The gaping opening revealed the carnage inside. Water pipes and fluorescent grow lights were awkwardly strewn among the greenery.
“What the fuck!” Mal exclaimed. “What the goddamn fuck!” He skidded the Jeep to a halt. Then he and his partners rushed out to investigate.
The structure was barely standing. Mal felt the hot flush of rage surge through him as he contemplated the amount of money this catastrophe would likely cost him. He made his way to the greenhouse, the others at his heels, and tentatively stepped inside through the damaged side.
The partition walls were ripped down, which had brought down the drip system that continually dispensed a mix of water and fertilizer. Sections of PVC pipe were strewn about. The fluorescent grow lights were down as well, leaving broken bulb glass on the plants and ground.
Surprisingly, and to the relief of the owners, the plants themselves had not been harmed. Mal studied each plant like a concerned parent.
“The plants are okay,” he said. “And it looks like they’re all still here.”
“The breaker box is intact,” Mitch reported. “Whoever came in here just fucked with the lights and fan system.”
“And the watering system,” said Jesse. “We’re gonna have to repair all of it, which is gonna suck.”
“Somebody really did a number on us,” Mal growled.
Baffled, Mitch asked, “But why would they leave the plants?”
“I dunno,” shrugged Mal. “Probably knew that they’d be signing their own death warrants if they went so far as taking our plants.”
Jesse attempted to focus on the positives. “Well at least we still have all our pot, so that’s great news. All we have to do is fix the greenhouse.”
Nothing was going to change Mal’s foul mood. “That’s gonna cost money,” he growled. “And we gotta get the watering system put back together and running again, and right now. I’m not gonna risk losing any of our plants.”
Mitch went to the ground and began gathering the pieces of pipe.
“And that fucking smell!” Mal exclaimed. “Like rotten eggs!”
“That’s sulfur, dude,” Mitch claimed.
“Who the fuck would have sulfur?”
“I dunno. A college boy?”
CHAPTER 16
“Go on, Cinch, get outta here.”
The cook shook his head. “I still gotta clean de kitchen, Miss Eaver.”
“Nonsense,” Eaver shooed. “You darn near worked yourself to death fixing up the smokehouse. Now please, go home. Mason and I can handle the kitchen.”
Cinch had done an inordinate amount of work clearing and rebuilding today, and the fatigue he was feeling showed on his aged face. He looked to Mason, who nodded his assurance. “Okay, Miss Eaver,” said Cinch, grateful for the relief. “Thank you. I see you tomorrow, den.”
It had been a long day at Sherrie’s Shack. Cinch had spent the majority of the day patching up the smokehouse, while Sherrie took over cooking duties in the kitchen. Thankfully there were not many customers today, with the dreary weather, and Sherrie had no trouble handling the orders. Sherrie had gone home fifteen minutes ago, just after the restaurant closed, and now Eaver was sending a weary Cinch home to rest.
When the old Creole left, Eaver closed the door behind him and turned to face Mason. “I’m worried about that old boy,” she said.
Mason was concerned as well. “You mean that talk about the sligger monsters?”
“Yeah. I think he really believes what he was saying.”
“Think his age is starting to affect his mind?”
“I dunno, he is getting up there in age. But despite that, I’m sure his grandmother did tell him those stories.”
“Well sure,” reasoned Mason, “but probably something they used to say down there to make kids behave. Like when we were told about Santa.”
Eaver grinned. “I suppose. And he was probably drunk as a skunk the other night when he said he saw them. Some kind of critter by the water, his age, booze, and his imagination mixed together to make him think he saw something he feared as a kid.”
Mason finished wiping down the last of the dining room tables, then walked to the front counter where Eaver was cleaning. “So what do you think he actually saw that night?”
“Hell, I have no idea. It might’ve been a gator that he spooked, or a big ol’ cat’ swimming up close to shore, or it could’ve been something as little as bullfrogs or turtles getting in the water. Who knows? Depends on what he was drinking, too.”
Mason laughed a little. “That’s true. Does he still make his own moonshine?”
Eaver nodded. “You know he does. Got the same little still set up behind his house. Now come on back here and we’ll get started on the kitchen. Then we’ll just sweep the floors and get on outta here.”
Mason rounded the corner of the counter and joined Eaver by the cash register. While she was placing a fresh trash bag in the receptacle, his eyes scanned the pass-through to the kitchen. He spotted Cinch’s shiny cleaver, stuck in a slab of butcher block, and he pulled it out to admire it up close.
Eaver saw her friend holding the large cleaver. “Careful, Mason, Cinch keeps that thing razor sharp.”
It looked it. Rather than satisfying his curiosity, Mason decided to set it gently on the counter. “Yeah, probably not for the average Joe to mess with. Well, if anyone is a master of cutlery and cookware, it’s ol’ Cinch.”
He took up a rag and started helping Eaver clean the blue and white ceramic tiles covering the wall
s behind the counter.
The entryway door opened, sounding the little bell above it.
“Sorry, we’re closed,” Eaver called out. She craned her neck around the corner to see who had come in. Three figures had entered the restaurant, and were closing and locking the door. Then they turned to face her.
It was Malcolm Gibbs and his crew.
Oh shit, thought Mason when he saw their faces, what are they doing here?
“We ain’t here to eat,” said Big Mal. He and his cohorts approached the counter, staring at the pair on the other side. Mal looked angry; his large frame, two inches taller than Mason’s, was tensed and his square jaw was set in a scowl. He directed his eyes to Mason.
“We been lookin’ for you, Red.” He walked to the opening at the end of the counter.
Mason felt his adrenaline pumping, just like when he used to encounter Big Mal in high school. He tried to stay calm. “Oh? Why’s that, Mal?”
“Don’t play stupid with me,” warned Mal, stepping around the counter. “We know it was you who destroyed my greenhouse.”
Mason, shocked by this serious accusation, shrank back a bit closer to Eaver. “What are you talking about? I wouldn’t even know where it was!”
Big Mal was now behind the counter, nothing separating him from his mark. “You’re the fancy ol’ college boy, with access to things like sulfur. Which is what my whole greenhouse smelled like!”
“Mal, listen. First of all, going to college doesn’t mean bringing chemicals back home with me. Secondly, why on Earth would I want to ruin your greenhouse? It would serve me no purpose, now would it?”
“Don’t talk down to me, you little inbred runt!”
Runt? thought Mason. I’m over six feet tall! This guy is clearly a mental marvel. “I’m just saying,” Mason reasoned, “that I’ve got no reason to do anything like that. You’ve got the wrong guy.”
“Besides,” Eaver added, “the same thing happened to our smokehouse out back. Same nasty smell was in there, too.”
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