Shark Wave (A Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Book 6)

by David F. Berens

  “Well, shit,” she looked at her sister. “We’re losing gears fast. We gotta work out some new wheels.”

  As she said it, a bright red convertible Mazda Miata whooshed by them. Two younger blonde girls sat inside, hair whipping around in the wind. As they passed the blue Ford bucket of bolts, the driver of the red sports car raised two middle fingers to them. The passenger was crouching in her seat in a half-standing position. Before Daisy Mae could ask what the girl was doing, she jerked her pants down and mooned them.

  “Screw you,” Daisy Mae yelled out the crack in the driver’s side window.

  The smell of vomit wafted in and she cranked the window up as fast as she could.

  “You remember when that was us?” Ellie Mae asked with a sigh.

  “Sis, that wasn’t ever us.”

  “Shut up and take me to the bar,” Ellie Mae said. “I need a drink.”

  “Now that’s us.”

  Troy Bodean knew the Black Dog Tavern was his kind of place as soon as he saw it. A blue-gray weathered sign simply declared the place, The Tavern. Above it on the beam holding the sign, stood an iron black dog. Beyond that, he could see the spindly spires of dozens of ridiculously expensive sailboats pointing into the sky. A chalkboard sign out front spelled out a few drink specials in multi-colored chalk. 2 for 1 Corona Lights, the first line said. Troy smiled, clapped his hands together and rubbed them briskly, and then pulled open the heavy door.

  The jangly sound of a nearly in-tune guitar pierced the dinnertime din. Waitresses scurried back and forth from the bar to scattered tables. They held baskets of sizzling seafood and fries and balanced full-to-the-rim pints of beer on round black trays. For the first time since he’d been on Martha’s Vineyard, Troy relaxed.

  “Sit wherever you like, cowboy,” a waitress called to him as she bustled past.

  Troy wasn’t sure why she’d called him that until he got a glimpse of himself in the mirror behind the bar. He scooted a stool out and slid up on it. He pushed his hat back on his head and raised two fingers to the bartender.

  “What’ll it be?”

  The man could have easily been a body double for Archie Bunker, and his New York accent was the same as well.

  “Two Corona Lights,” Troy said. “Like the two-for-one special.”

  “You got it, Mista.” The bartender reached into the cooler behind the bar and sat a beer on a cardboard coaster in front of Troy. “You want I should keep the other one cold for ya?”

  “That’d be real nice.”

  The old man pulled a lime wedge from a tray and started to push it into the neck of the beer. Troy held up a hand to stop him.

  “You got any orange slices?”

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  “I’ll have two of those.”

  “They ain’t on special,” the old man said with a frown.

  “Oh, well, in that case, just give me one.”

  For a second, Troy didn’t think the man was even going to give him one orange slice, but then his expression melted into a smile and he bellowed out a laugh.

  “I’m just kiddin’ with ya, fella,” he said, sliding a cup with several pieces in front of Troy. “You take all ya want.”

  “Much obliged, mister,” Troy said as he tipped his cap to the bartender. “Say, you don’t know a girl named Prosperity do you?”

  He shrugged. “Can’t say I do. Cute name though.”

  “Cute girl,” Troy said and went back to sipping his beer.

  “Aight, here’s what we’ll do,” Daisy Mae whispered as she exited the car. “You get us the closest table to the door. I’ll get the drinks.”

  “I want a fuzzy nipple,” Ellie Mae chimed in.

  “Ain’t no such drink,” Daisy Mae hissed. “It’s either a buttery nipple or a fuzzy navel.”

  Ellie Mae looked confused but refused to accept defeat. “Well, I want ’em both, poured into one glass.”

  “Are you serio—okay, never mind that.” Daisy Mae pointed at the front door of the Black Dog Tavern. “I can see a table right there ain’t got nobody sittin’ at it. Grab it and I’ll get yer damn drink.”

  “Fuzzy nipple,” Ellie Mae said proudly.

  With exasperation, Daisy Mae agreed. “Got it. Fuzzy nipple. Anyhow, what we’ll do is enjoy our cocktails, and when the place gets more crowded, we’ll find us a table of revelers to join. We’ll order from our table, but sit at theirs.”

  “Ooh, I like revelers.”

  “Shut up and listen. When we’ve had our fill, we’ll walk out with the people we meet at the new table.”

  “Oh, are they gonna give us a ride?”

  Daisy Mae took a long slow breath. “Are you really that stupid? I mean, do you not get what I’m sayin’?”

  Ellie Mae’s eyes got wider and she looked down slightly. A puppy dog being scolded. “You take care of the finer details, okay? I’ll follow your lead. I’m just here for the drinks.”

  “A fuzzy nipple.”

  “Bingo,” she beamed.

  The sisters walked into the bar and dropped themselves at the table by the door. When the waitress came over, Daisy Mae ordered a sex on the beach with no umbrella, and, to her surprise, a fuzzy nipple with no question from the server.

  “We get asked to do that all the time,” she explained. “I’ll have those right out to you ladies. Start a tab?”

  “Yes, please,” Ellie Mae chimed in. “But if you lose us, we’ll probably be at another tab—”

  “Haha,” Daisy Mae blurted out and slapped the table to interrupt her twin sister. “Don’t you worry about that none, Ellie Mae. She won’t lose us in here.”

  The waitress arched an eyebrow and Ellie Mae was sure the jig was up. To allay her fears, she reached into her pocket and produced the money they’d gotten from the man that had rear-ended them earlier. She shuffled it around, pretending to count it, even though it was only four hundred-dollar bills.

  “Is anything on special?” She asked the waitress.

  “Fireball shots are two for one until midnight.”

  “Add a couple of those, would ya?”

  “Sure thing. I’ll be right back, ladies.”

  Daisy Mae watched her walk away, and when she was satisfied the girl was out of earshot, she slapped Ellie Mae on the back of the head.

  “You ain’t supposed to give away our new location, dimwit.”

  Ellie Mae wasn’t listening though. She was staring in the direction of the bar. Daisy Mae followed her line of sight and saw a man sitting alone, drinking a beer.

  “You see that guy in the hat, Daisy Mae?”

  “Yup. Pretty good looking.”

  “Uh huh,” she said, nodding. “Kinda reminds me of Troy.”

  “Aw, hell,” Daisy Mae shook her head. “That ain’t Troy. That guy is much older and too skinny. Besides, Troy’s back in South Carolina. He ain’t falutin’ enough for the MV.”

  “Yeah, I guess yer right. Too bad. I miss him sometimes.”

  The door opened and a group of loud men bustled in wearing designer fishing shirts and sunburned raccoon eyes where their expensive sunglasses had likely been all day. They were arguing over who had caught the biggest fish earlier. They took a table a few feet away from the Gallop sisters.

  “That’s them,” Daisy Mae said.

  “That’s who?”

  “That’s our new friends.”

  “Ooh, the ones who are gonna take us home?”

  Daisy Mae opened her mouth to try and explain that the men were just their cover to get out without paying, but she decided against it.

  “If we play our cards right and you keep yer mouth shut … maybe so.”

  The waitress returned with their drinks and put them on the cardboard coasters in front of them.

  “Let me know if you need anything else.”

  “We’ll probably be right over ther—”

  Daisy Mae smacked her sister on the shoulder harder than before and said, “We’ll probably be here all night. So, ke
ep ’em comin’.”

  She lifted her drink and took a gulp while smiling at the waitress and giving her a big thumbs up.

  The girl nodded her head and walked away.

  “Dumber’n a bag of rocks,” Daisy Mae mumbled under her breath, and then said to Ellie Mae. “Now, get yer best moves on, girl. We’re gonna go make some new friends.”

  Ellie Mae raised her glass and whooped.

  Four Corona Lights, half a dozen orange slices, and a basket of crispy fried grouper later, Troy decided it was time to call it a night. It was getting loud and rowdy in here and he didn’t want to be around when the night got crazy. He pulled out his phone and tried to get an Uber but had no luck. Apparently, the ride-sharing cars were banned from the island after ten o’clock.

  “Hey, friend.” Troy flagged the bartender down. “Can you call me a cab? And is it okay to leave my car here until morning?”

  “Yeah and yeah.” he picked up the phone from behind the bar and dialed a number. “Where ya headed?”

  “It’s the big gray and white place with blue shutters out on Main Street. Can’t remember the address.”

  “The Boonesborough place?”

  Troy shrugged his shoulders. “Couldn’t say. All I know is they rent it out to Airbnb’ers.”

  “Yeah, yeah. That’s the one. Damn nice place.”

  “I’ll say.”

  “Here,” the bartender said popping a cold Corona Light. “Lemme buy you one more while you wait for the cab.”

  “Good deal.”

  Eddie “Fat Fingers” Rollins leaned away from the man sitting at his bar in the straw cowboy hat. When he saw that the man wasn’t listening, he whispered into the phone.

  “Yeah, Frankie? We got a problem.”

  The man on the other end of the line asked what was wrong.

  “I got some guy down here, says he’s stayin’ in WB’s place.”

  “Lots of people stay out there,” the man said. “No big deal.”

  “I know dat,” Eddie said, “but this guy’s askin’ about Prosperity.”

  “Keep him there. I’ll send Jed to take care of him.”

  “You got it, boss.”

  8

  I’m Talkin’ About Sharkin’

  Frank McCorker hung up the phone. His hand lingered on the receiver of the pale yellow, rotary model. He’d insisted on having this ancient beast installed in his office, claiming it reminded him of the good old days. In reality, it was because he knew it was practically impossible for an electronic trace to work on the damn thing. His security routine was to unscrew the caps on the handset, check for bugs, and dial the numbers he wanted to call. Airtight, just the way he liked it.

  He sat back in his faux leather office chair, and the ancient springs creaked under him. With his fingers steepled in front of his face, he considered the sudden appearance of someone squatting in the Boonesborough Airbnb. That wasn’t so much of a problem as was the fact that he was asking questions about Prosperity. He’d known hiring the girl was going to be a problem. She wasn’t vetted properly, and in his experience, that’s where leaks began.

  His cell phone pinged and he looked down to find a message from Santee, or Country, or whatever the hell the man wanted to be called.

  -Found a rat poking around in the cellar. Says she was cleaning up and found the room. What you want me to do with her?

  “Jesus Christ!” He slammed a fist down on the steel desk. “I’m surrounded by amateurs.”

  He tapped out a response, then deleted it, tapped out another, but deleted it too. He considered what—if anything—he wanted to say on this unprotected line. In the end, he decided he would wait until he spoke to the others before he would deal with that. As if on cue, a rap echoed on his door and Senator Winchester Boonesborough ambled in with his stupid cap-toothed grin.

  “Well, hello Mister Governor-elect.” He held his hands out wide. “Polls are trending in your direction. I believe we have ourselves a win.”

  “Really? I hadn’t looked.”

  “I know that, Frank. That’s why you have me.”

  He sat in one of the chairs in front of Frank’s desk and crossed his legs. His smile never left his face.

  Frank tried not to shake his head, but he must’ve been unsuccessful because he saw a tic of disappointment sneak into Winchester’s eyebrows.

  “Am I crazy, Frank, or do I detect a little more crankiness than usual from you today?”

  “We’ve got an issue that needs addressing. Is Jed coming or is he too busy banging that new chick down at the club?”

  Winchester glanced at his shiny watch. A damn Rolex, thought Frank. He shrugged his shoulders.

  “He should’ve been here by now.”

  Frank glanced down at his own watch. 1108 hours. Eight damn minutes late. He was quickly losing faith in his team. Frank liked to call their group The Sharks, but Winchester had always balked at that. Seems his wife had a bizarre accident out at Jaws Bridge. Bunch of damn seagulls swarmed her and she fell off. Her body was never found and some of the eyewitnesses claim they saw a big tiger shark grab her and take off. Frank knew better, but he swore Winchester was trying to get him elected so he could demolish that bridge.

  With no knock, Jed Manning walked in. He was the picture of highway patrol with his tan and brown uniform and a thick mustache. His shirt was slightly rumpled as if he’d just tucked it in. Disgraceful, thought Frank.

  “Sorry I’m late. Traffic was crazy.” He sat down in the chair next to Winchester. “What’d I miss?”

  Frank took a deep breath. “Something strange is going on out at the Boonesborough place.”

  Winchester sat up. “My place? No one is there. It’s not rented for another month. I’d have to check with the management company but—”

  Frank slammed his fist down on his desk, interrupting him.

  “It’s not empty,” he growled. “At least not according to that idiot, Santee.”

  “Country,” Jed raised a finger. “I think he likes to be called Country.”

  “I don’t give a rat’s ass what he wants to be called. I think he has the maid held hostage in the cellar.”

  “She’s still down there?” Winchester blustered. “Good God, she has to be stinking up the place by now.”

  “Not that maid. The new one.” Frank turned to Jed. “You need to call your boy and find out what the hell is going on.”

  “Will do,” Jed said, smacking a piece of non-existent gum.

  “Now, let’s get down to business.” Frank pulled a folder out of his desk.

  He didn’t like keeping physical records of their deals, but after the election cycle had started, they had ramped things up considerably.

  “We’ve got a new shipment coming in next week. It’s a big one.” Frank traced a finger on the sheet. “Do we still trust Santee, or Country or whatever, to take care of this one?”

  “He might need help,” Jed said.

  “Fine, but I want you picking his muscle. I don’t want one of these late night calls about new people screwing things up.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Jed stood and walked out.

  Frank turned to Winchester. “This shit is getting out of hand.”

  Winchester stood up and walked to the door. “Relax, Frank. I’ll take care of everything. And besides, in a couple of weeks, you’ll be governor and all of this will go away.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  Frank’s cell phone pinged as Winchester closed his door behind him. It was Country again.

  -Well?

  -Keep her on ice. We’ll discuss disposal tomorrow.

  -Cool.

  Troy Bodean had moved to a new seat at the end of the bar as the Black Dog late night wave of patrons started to crowd in. The bartender had put a new beer in front of him, complete with an orange slice. He’d said the cab was on the way, but it seemed to Troy that had been over an hour ago. But, the man with the guitar on stage was singing well enough and Troy didn’t
really have anywhere to go. He was mildly surprised when a blonde college-aged girl walked up.

  “Seat taken?” She said pointing at the stool next to him.

  “It is now.” He nodded and tipped his cap.

  “I’m Julie,” she said.

  She was a pretty girl, but she never made eye contact with Troy. Her eyes kept flitting around the bar from the bartender to another man sitting a few seats away.

  “Everything alright, darlin’?”

  “No time for that,” she whispered. “Were you asking about Prosperity? Prosperity Spartanburg?”

  Troy cocked his head to the side. “I was, and you are?”

  “I go to school with her. She’s never absent—I mean like never—and she hasn’t been there for two days.”

  He took a sip of his beer. He wasn’t exactly sure how to play this since he was likely the last person to see Prosperity before she went missing.

  “And?” He said.

  “Something’s wrong,” the girl said, wringing her hands. “I just know it. I tried to call her cell yesterday ten times. It went straight to voicemail every—”

  “Ya need a drink, little lady?” The bartender interrupted her.

  “Oh, uh, no, I—”

  “Get her a Corona Light, and get me another. Both on my tab,” Troy said.

  “Thanks, Mister, uh …”

  “Troy. Troy Bodean.” He knew his speech was starting to slur, but hell, it didn’t matter after eleven o’clock, right? “Let’s get a seat down by the stage.”

  They moved and Julie filled him in on the last time she’d spoken to Prosperity. Nothing strange, but then she’d disappeared completely. Didn’t come to school. No texts. No calls. Nothing.

  Troy decided to trust the girl and tell her he’d seen her back at the Airbnb just before he’d gone to the store.

  “I tried to tell her not to take that job. That one woman who worked there before disappeared not long ago. But no one will do anything about it because it belongs to Boonesborough.”

  Troy heard what the girl had said, but his mind felt like it was a computer with the spinning processing wheel stuck in a loop. There was so much to take in that he wasn’t sure where to start.