by Steven Moore
“I’ll have to find somewhere else to live. It’s okay, Meg darlin’. I understand. I really do. I’m so sorry this is happening. I wish things had gone better over the last few months. I’ll be fine, don’t worry. I’ll go and collect the boat and find somewhere else to moor it for now. And Megan?”
Megan looked at R.B., tears threatening to spill from the corner of each eye. “Yeah?”
“It’s gonna be okay, darlin’, I just know it. It’s only a matter of time before we hit it big with B and S Salvage Incorporated, just wait and see.” He flashed her his trademark grin, but it didn’t have its usual impact.
Megan’s bottom lip trembled a little, and she blinked away a stray tear. “You ... you promise, R.B.?”
“I promise, darlin’, and if there’s one thing you know about us Bodeans, it’s that we always keep our promises. Now, why don’t you sit here and I’ll bring you another coffee and some breakfast, eh?”
Megan nodded. At least that was true. Both Ryan and his brother Troy were nothing if not honest, and she was at least certain R.B. would do everything he could in his power to keep this one. How? Well, that was another question. She only hoped she wouldn’t have to wait long to find out.
It was mid-afternoon by the time Megan had loaded up her modest possessions into a couple of shabby old suitcases and a few small boxes. There was little chatter between them as R.B. helped her load the last of the cases into the trunk, and as she turned to face him, more tears threatened to escape. “I’m sorry to have to do this to you. But my mom’s place is small, and ... well, she’s a little old fashioned, and wouldn’t want you staying over. No offense, you know she likes you.”
R.B. wasn’t so sure about that last statement, but he let it slide. “It’s fine, Meg, honestly. I’m a big boy now, and Ryan Bodean can take care of himself. I have a few friends nearby and I’m sure someone will have a couch or a spare room for me. Besides, as you said, it won’t be for long. We’ll be back tog—" R.B’s cheeks flushed a little. “What I mean to say is, we’ll be back in business before you know it.” It was left unsaid, but what R.B. meant was that they’d be back living together before long. They’d become close in recent months. Very close. He would miss her.
They pulled each other into a hug, and held it for long seconds. Finally Megan eased herself out of R.B’s arms and looked at him, a determined look on her face. “I’ll call you when I get there. It’s only a couple of hours up the road anyway, so you can come and visit at the weekend.”
“I’ll do just that, darlin’. Hey, say hello to your mom for me, eh?” He winked, and hit Megan with his best Bodean smile.
“Ha, I will. And R.B.?”
“Yeah darlin’, what is it?”
“Stay safe, okay.” And with that, Megan Simons climbed into her creaking car, and seconds later, she was driving off, soon out of view.
R.B. stood watching until Megan’s car was out of sight, and then continued standing there watching the empty space for many minutes afterwards. He couldn’t quite tell what it was that perturbed him so much. Other than the fact that he was technically homeless. Other than the fact he was stony broke, and that his ... well, his one true friend had just left him. No, it was what she’d said. Those last three words; stay safe, okay. For some reason, they sounded ominous. Why wouldn’t I be safe?
With a strangely inauspicious sense of uncertainty occupying his thoughts, R.B. set about packing his meagre possessions into his one canvas holdall, a task that took precisely two minutes. Knowing there were still a few days’ worth of mooring for the boat in hand, he decided to make his base there for the next few nights. He glanced at his watch; four-thirty. Next he slipped his wallet from his pocket, though he knew what he’d find; not a lot. Flicking through his greenbacks and coins he counted out nine dollars and another fifty cents in shrapnel. He was sure there was perhaps another twenty bucks on his credit card. At least half a dozen beers and some clam chowder, he mused, and couldn’t help but grin. You’ve been in worse predicaments, Bodean, much, much worse predicaments than this.
And with nothing else to do, Ryan Bodean made his way to Pepe’s, his favorite—and the cheapest, which was the same thing—dive bar in the area. He had some sorrows to drown, and if anyone could help him succeed in that particular pastime, it was old Pepe himself.
4
Drinking Village
Except Pepe wasn’t working today. Instead there was a bartender R.B. either didn’t recognize or didn’t remember. Probably the latter.
On wobbly legs R.B. returned to his seat at the bar after a visit to the restroom. He’d splashed his face with cool water to wake up a little, but the beers were taking their toll. He’d been ensconced at the bar several hours now, and to say he was lubricated didn’t quite cut the mustard.
“Another, please,” he said, and the bartender shook his head a little. He wanted to say, “Don’t you think you’ve had enough already?” but he didn’t. R.B. wasn’t causing any trouble, and there might just be a good tip in it for him if he kept the stream of beers steady and often.
“Sure thing, coming right up,” was all he said, and he turned to the cooler to grab another Corona. After he placed the beer down in front of R.B. he looked at him for a long moment. R.B’s focus was elsewhere, and the bartender, Danny, thought he saw sadness in his eyes.
“Everything alright there, partner?” he asked.
R.B. looked up, his eyes taking a moment to focus. “Me? I’m fine, man, couldn’t be happier. Let me think ... I’m homeless. I’m almost broke. My girl—I mean, my friend, left town today. Gotta find a new home for my boat. So, yeah, man, everything’s just fine, everything’s just hunky-damned dory, thanks for asking.”
The bartender almost laughed. He’d come across all sorts of clients in his several years working at Pepe’s and other bars in Key West. Down-and-outs. Drifters. Low-level criminals on the run from the bailiffs. Corrupt cops. Shady politicians. Strippers. Everyone seemed to have a story, and although this guy’s problems were more run-of-the-mill than others he’d heard of, there was something about R.B. that struck a chord. It seemed he was just a normal guy with normal problems that right now were getting the better of him. He almost felt sorry for him. But Danny had enough issues of his own and didn’t have time to sympathize with a stranger.
“How about we make that last one on the house and you get outta here, hey?”
Again, R.B. glanced up at the bartender. “You have a problem with me? Am I causing anyone any problems here? Huh?” R.B. didn’t like confrontation, and was not aggressive in any way. Unless he had to be. But he knew he wasn’t causing this guy any grief, and wanted to drink away his woes in peace.
“No, not really. Just, well this is a quiet bar and as you can see our patrons are mostly old fishermen enjoying a quiet drink.”
“Just like me. I’m quiet!” said R.B., much louder than he’d intended.
The bartender shook his head and smirked, as if R.B. had just proven his point.
R.B. looked around at the other patrons. There were about five or six other customers dotted around and it was true, they did look like fishermen. One old timer in particular, who didn’t look up, but who R.B. thought was the oldest man he’d ever seen. Yet R.B. knew most of them had been in the bar a lot longer than he had. “These guys are fishermen, right?”
The bartender nodded. “Most of ‘em, yeah.”
Ryan Bodean grinned. “Then I gotta tell ya man, this is a drinking village with a fishing problem.”
The bartender frowned. “You mean a fishing village with a drinking problem?”
“No, dammit. Everyone here drinks, and clearly no one fishes.” With that R.B. stood from his chair and pulled out his wallet. “I don’t want your freebies, pal. Ryan Bodean buys his own beers.” He slipped his credit card from his wallet and thrust it towards the bartender, who shook his head again, but took the card. He turned to the bar and grabbed the wireless payment terminal, then came back to face R.B., a flicker
of doubt in his eyes. He would have laid good money that the card would get declined. He slid the card into the slot.
“Enter your PIN.”
R.B. tapped in his PIN number and waited, his narrowed eyes focused on the bartender. Long seconds passed, and when the bartender finally looked up his face was pure smug. “And in the least surprising event of the day, Mister ... Uh, Mister Bodean’s card gets declined.”
R.B’s shoulders immediately slumped. He had felt sure there was at least enough money on the card to cover his food and drinks bill. “Man, please try it again.”
The bartender sighed, but did try the card again. Same result. “Declined.”
“Look man, I’m sorry, okay? I thought there was enough credit on there, I really did. I promise to come back and pay, okay? I just need to find the next haul of treasure.” R.B. had told the guy about B and S Salvage Incorporated, much to his amusement. He wasn’t amused now.
The bartender stepped around the bar, suddenly looking bigger than R.B. had realized before. “I’m tired of losers like you coming in here and stinking up the place. Get the hell out!” He grabbed R.B’s shirt and tried manhandling him towards the exit. But R.B. didn’t appreciate that and slapped the big man’s hand away.
“Hey ... get yer hands off me, man.”
The bartender released his grip, but stood tall in front of R.B. “Get the hell out! Now!”
R.B. took the change from his pocket and moved to place it on the bar. “At least take a tip, man, really.” He turned and walked towards the exit, and almost made it before turning again to confront the bartender. He was about to say something about his civil liberties being violated when the huge bartender grabbed him and more or less carried him over the threshold, then shoved him hard out into the street. After a final shake of the head, he disappeared inside the bar.
R.B. tried hard to keep his balance but failed, and sprawled into the gutter across the road, grazing both palms in the process. He lay still for a second, letting his head clear, then tried to stand. Struggling to his feet took great effort, and Ryan Bodean was suddenly more tired than he’d ever felt before. He wobbled into the middle of the road and considered heading back into the bar. “No one pushes me around,” he muttered under his breath. Then the bartender appeared back in the doorway, and threw R.B’s money at him, the few notes fluttering to the ground around him, the even fewer coins scattering across the road. “And don’t ever come back, damned freeloader.” And then he was gone.
At that moment Ryan Bodean didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. But R.B. wasn’t much of a crier, so he laughed, though when a couple of tears slipped from his eyes he wasn’t sure if they were tears of laughter or sadness. He decided to rest his head on the curb for a few seconds and gather his thoughts. And three whole seconds later he was passed out, his legs draped across the mercifully quiet street.
5
Lost
He didn’t know how long he’d been asleep, but when he awoke, a sore head from the unforgiving concrete curb, he was surprised to find himself clutching the small wad of dollars. “I’m rich again,” he muttered, and chuckled. After a few minutes of staring up into the starry sky, he struggled to his feet. Ignoring the loose coins on the ground, he walked away from the bar.
The night was clear, and an almost full moon lit the dark streets as he trudged from one to another, with no real plan or destination in mind other than to just keep walking off the too-many beers he’d had. He felt bad that he couldn’t pay for them. He’d never asked for anything in his life, and if he’d known the card was maxed out he wouldn’t have gone to the bar. But there it was, just the latest in a long string of unfortunate and embarrassing events spanning back over a year.
R.B. couldn’t deny it. This was a new low.
His thoughts drifted as he walked, unaware that the streets were getting darker and narrower, and without meaning or wanting to, images of Megan slipped into his mind. She’d only left for her mom’s early that afternoon, but to R.B. it already seemed like days. And he missed her. They’d become close, and Megan Simons was the only person who truly had his back. Of course, if Troy was around then things would naturally be better. But he wasn’t, and he rarely had been in recent memory. “Just you and me, R.B.,” he muttered to himself, and chuckled again, continuing his aimless wandering. But after another half an hour or so, R.B. realized he had literally no idea where he was ... a difficult task on such a tiny island. He paused, trying to get his bearings, but couldn’t.
R.B. was still a little drunk and put his disorientation down to that. He looked up into the sky, trying to get a sense of which way was east based on the position of the moon, but clouds now concealed the moon and everything was altogether just a little darker, including R.B’s mood. Then he heard a cough, and he glanced around, but saw no one. “Little jumpy, eh?” he muttered to himself, but this time he didn’t laugh. He suddenly had a sense he was being watched, and although still feeling the effects of the beer, an ominous feeling washed over him. He took a deep breath, trying to fill his mind and lungs with more oxygen. Then something moved in his peripheral vision and he swiveled, certain now someone was following him. Why, he had no idea. Deciding it was better to get the hell out of there than confront whoever was following him, he turned and strode off along the road in what he hoped was the right direction to the dock where his boat was moored.
Glancing over his shoulder now, he saw a figure step out from the shadows and follow him along the road. “What the hell?” The figure following was just a silhouette, but had the gait of one of the walkers from The Walking Dead, and R.B. couldn’t deny he was a little freaked out by it. So he decided to run, but as he turned, he tripped up a curb and fell flat on his face. Suddenly panicked, he spun around and was alarmed to see the shadowy figure was already upon him. Before he could react, he felt a hefty slap to his left cheek, quickly followed by another to his right. “Goddammit! Who the—”
And then one more weighty slap to the back of his head silenced him, and Ryan Bodean was well and truly dazed. He stopped struggling and laid back on the sidewalk. He was exhausted, still a little tipsy, and all his fight had gone. He knew he was about to get mugged, and the thought tickled him. “Take it all,” he said, then a little louder, added, “Go on, old man ... take everything I’ve got. Maybe you can retire.” And then Ryan Bodean burst out laughing at the irony of being mugged for the first time in his life, because for the first time in his life he had nothing worth mugging.
And then he passed out again.
6
Kidnapped
“Uurrgghhh!”
Ryan Bodean rolled onto his back and gingerly opened his eyes. He blinked a few times, trying to clear his senses, but his head pounded as he remembered the amount of beers he’d sunk last night. He closed his eyes again and tried to drift back off to sleep and get rid of his hangover. Then his eyes shot wide open again when he realized with sudden panic he wasn’t on his own boat.
“What the—”
R.B’s own boat was a wreck. It was a dilapidated, creaking bunch of warped timber, and every time they took her out and she didn’t sink was an unexpected bonus. But glancing about this cabin now made R.B’s wreck seem more like a million-dollar yacht. He leaned forward, or at least he attempted to.
“Stay down, son,” said a deep, gravelly voice that made him jump. “Best you just stay down.”
R.B. turned to see the old man from last night. “What the—” he started, but as he tried to hustle up and out of the bed, he was unceremoniously shoved back down with enough force that he knew in an instant he was no physical match for this man.
“Just stay down and let me explain.”
“Explain? You damned kidnapped me. Let me the hell off—”
It took just one firm slap from the old man, and R.B. fell silent once more. “I said stay down. This’ll go much better if you just stay down. Got it?”
Ryan Bodean stared at the man. R.B. wasn’t a fighter, but he could
look after himself. Yet there was something about this old timer that stayed his growing aggression. With wild salt and pepper hair, narrow, wrinkled eyes, and a ruddy, bulbous nose that betrayed what to R.B. appeared to have been at least sixty years of heavy drinking, he was suddenly ashamed to have been beaten up by a man of at least eighty. And yet his shoulders were solid, and the tattooed forearms that stuck out from his grease-stained t-shirt were massive. This was one tough customer.
But it appeared he had in fact been kidnapped, and that was simply not okay. “Listen, old man, I don’t know who the hell you are, so I’m giving you five seconds to get the hell out of my way or you’re going to regret picking on Ryan Bodean.”
With that the old man’s eyes crinkled into what R.B. thought resembled a weary smile. But then he sighed, and said, “That ain’t gonna happen, son. So what’re ya going to do, eh?”
R.B. took a couple of deep breaths, and launched himself from the bed, but before he made it to his feet, one sharp uppercut knocked him out cold.
An hour later R.B. was awoken by a bucket of icy water being poured on his face. “What the f—”
“Calm down, son ... remember what happened last time?”
R.B. tried to wipe his face but realized his hands were tied behind his back. Then he tried to stand, but before he knew what was happening his tightly bound ankles made him plummet forwards off the bed and land in a heap at the old man’s feet.