The moon glistened off the gentle current and the breeze was soft and warm. He eased down into the hammock and was almost sound asleep when the beep beep of his chariot-for-hire broke the calm. A long black Lincoln Town Car sat in front of his modest cabana. Whoa, he thought, seems a bit fancy for Pawleys. The car’s windows were too dark to penetrate, but the windshield did have the familiar Uber logo and looked pretty legit.
Suddenly, the driver’s door opened and a black man dressed in a black suit wearing a black driver’s hat and black leather gloves jumped out and hurried to the back to open the door for Troy.
“Good even’, Mista Troy,” said a familiar voice from behind a gleaming white smile.
Recognition dawned. “Willie?”
“Yessa,” said the one-eyed ice cream truck driver as he tipped his cap to his passenger.
“You drive for Uber? How is that even possible for someone with only one ey—” He stopped short, realizing Willie was glaring at him (out of one eye, obviously).
He ignored the remark about his eye and ushered Troy into the back of the Town Car. “Only fo’ coupla days now. Ma’ otha car’s in da shop.” The man’s eye squinted angrily and looked off in the distance. “But da man ain’t gon’ keep me down, no sir.”
He closed the door and Troy watched as he limped around the car and slid inside. Willie punched a few buttons on his phone and turned around to speak to Troy.
“You inna hurry, Mista Troy? Gotta stop or two ta make if ya don’ mind. Don’t worry, I won’t start da meter til we get goin’ yo way.”
Troy shrugged his shoulders. “Works for me.”
“Grand, Mista Troy, grand,” he said, beaming, “Got a few bottled wata’s in da cooler if ya get thirsty.”
“Much obliged.” Troy opened the top of the small Yeti cooler and grinned. “Can I have one of these Orange Crème Push-Ups?”
“Why, a’ course, Mista Troy,” Willie tipped his cap at him in the rear-view mirror and they headed back for the causeway. Troy took in the beautiful car’s appointed leather, and the expensive cooler filled with Evian and ice cream.
As he pushed up his popsicle, he asked, “So, Willie, what gives? How’s an ice cream man afford all of this?”
The old, one-eyed ice cream man winked at him—which was an odd sight for a one-eyed man. “I got dem trucks in every neighborhood and beach town from here to da Keys. Ice cream bidness is good.”
“I can see that,” Troy said, finished his push-pop, and carefully placed the sticky wrapper in a small trash can between the seats. He washed it down with a cool bottle of Evian and after a second, finished that off too. Stay hydrated, he thought.
“Got one on da way up from Islamorada that’ll put me back in da ice cream bidness by tomorrah,” Willie said and winked at him.
“Gotcha,” Troy said, tossing the empty bottle into the trash.
No more than a mile later, they pulled into the Pawleys Pier Village—the only condos on the island. Odd, Troy thought to himself as One-Eyed Willie punched in the code to the security gate, but he had no idea just how odd it was about to get.
Forty-five minutes later, a loud bang startled Troy. He rubbed his eyes and looked at the clock on the dashboard. The luxurious Lincoln Town Car was still idling, but there was no sign of his driver. Troy stretched and peered out the windshield toward the courtyard between the buildings. It was dark, but he thought he could make out someone running away from the pool. Probably some kids swimming after hours. Suddenly, another bang shattered the silence.
It clearly wasn’t a gunshot; it was more like a trash can lid being slammed shut. Troy clicked the button on his door and the window slid down. Murmurs floated to his ears across the darkness.
“Git mah jeans, git the chair and git back in here!” he heard a woman’s voice call into the dark. “That gall-dang guard’s comin’ back.”
Troy shook his head and laughed. Pawleys Pier Village sometimes attracted the rougher, more touristy crowd from up and around Myrtle Beach.
Another voice entered the fray. “Drop the butcher’s knife and put your hands up!”
It was an old man, but not Willie.
“You girls are out here runnin’ around like a couple of crazy people givin’ everyone the heebie-jeebies!”
Troy could stand no more; he had to see what this was all about. He gently opened the car door and hunched his way through the walkway to the courtyard. When he got to the corner, he peered around the edge.
About ten feet apart from each other stood the hundred-year-old man (presumably the security guard) and a naked blonde girl holding a butcher knife and a pile of clothes in front of her bare body. On top of all that… she looked vaguely familiar. He’d seen her before, but couldn’t place where.
“Don’t git no closer, old man!” she said and pointed the knife at him menacingly. “I knows what yer after! Ain’t nobody gits to see this without payin’.”
Troy almost laughed when the man shrugged his shoulders.
“You girls are trespassing and I just need you to leave.”
Another voice called out from the balcony right up behind Troy. He hit the deck as she called out, “We ain’t causin’ no trouble old man. That gate was open and she’s jus’ gittin’ a bath!”
“Lady, you can’t be bathing in our swimming pool. Now, look, you just get your things and go and I won’t call the cops.”
Ignoring him, the naked girl called up to her friend on the balcony. “Daisy Mae, how’n the hell’d you git up ‘ar?”
“I climbed the gutter, dumbass.”
“Oh, well, git on down. I found you some clothes hangin’ out by the pool.”
Troy couldn’t see it, but apparently the young lady on the balcony was climbing down again.
“Be careful, Daisy Mae. Don’t hurt ‘at baby, now.”
Baby? What the hell? Troy could see that the security guard was obviously concerned about the woman scaling the gutter.
“I got dis, Ellie Mae,” called the voice, grunting with effort, “I ain’t gon’ hurt little T.C.”
T.C.? That’s weird, Troy thought, that’s what dad used to call me. When she finally thudded to the ground, Troy could see she was also naked and dripping wet and more than eight months pregnant!
“Now, listen you two,” the security guard said, his hands up in front of him. They were shaking wildly with fear—or maybe a palsy of some sort.
“Just leave that,” —he pointed to the knife— “in there, —he motioned to a trash can nearby— “and get your dirty jalopy and trailer out of here.”
The first girl (Ellie Mae?) started handing clothes to the pregnant girl (Daisy Mae?).
“Let’s blow ‘is joint,” Ellie Mae said as she tossed the knife into the trash can. “We got what we need.”
“If you call ‘em cops, old man,” Daisy Mae spat at the security guard, “we gon’ come back’n gut ya.”
“Whatever,” he said, still holding his hands out in front of him. “Just go.”
The two girls, who had to be twins, started toward the walkway that Troy was laying down next to. He froze, hoping the darkness would hide him. Suddenly, One-Eyed Willie came down a set of nearby stairs singing, Zip-a-dee-doo-da…
Every head turned. Willie froze.
“What de hell…” he mouthed into the night.
The oldest security guard in the world turned toward Willie. “Who in the hell is this now, your pimp?”
Ellie Mae’s face twisted in rage. “We ain’t no ho’s, ya old bastert!”
Daisy Mae agreed whole-heartedly. “Yeah, stupid. There ain’t no sex in the champagne room!”
“Just cuz we strip don’t mean we do nothin’ else!”
“Yeah, loser,” Daisy Mae laughed as she sang out, “if ya ain’t got no twenty, you ain’t gettin’ any!”
Troy froze. Oh, shit, he thought, it’s Cinnamon and Starr from the Peppermint Hippo back in Vegas! He never knew their real names, but it was definitely them. Starr (or Daisy Mae) wa
s always trying to get with Troy after getting all coked up on stage, claimed she wanted to have his babies.
“What in God’s name are they doing here?” he mumbled to himself.
There was a moment of silence as everyone suddenly realized no one was moving to leave.
“Okay, well, it’s been real nice meetin’ y’all, but I got ta go,” Willie suddenly said and started walking away from the group.
The cacophony rose again with all the parties yelling at each other, no one seeming ready to give in.
Troy took this as his cue and jumped up as quietly as he could and ran back to the car.
He ducked into the back of the Lincoln, but he could still see the chaos erupting in between the buildings of the Pawleys Pier Village. A set of naked, blonde twins (one of whom was busting out pregnant), Methuselah the security guard, and a black, one-eyed ice cream truck/Uber driver all scrambled in different directions. Troy could almost hear the theme song from The Benny Hill show playing, or maybe it was the Keystone Cops song—either way, it was hilarious.
As Willie jumped into the car, he jerked it into reverse and said, “We getting’ outta dis crazy place!” He slung the long black car out of the parking spot so fast that Troy slid across the slick leather back seat and went tumbling to the floorboard. His cowboy hat flew off and he reached down to get it.
“Hold on, Troy,” Willie said, hitting the gas.
Troy pulled himself up, holding tight to the head rest. “Geezus, Willie, you’re gonna kill us!”
When they rounded the turn toward the exit gate, a crappy old Camaro towing a junked-out trailer rounded the turn across from them. As they barreled toward each other, Willie slammed on his brakes and skidded sideways, throwing Troy up against the window nearest the Camaro. The rusty former muscle car turned hard away from them, leaving the two cars side by side mere inches away from each other.
Troy shook his head and looked over to the passengers of the car. Cinnamon and Starr, both still buck naked, were looking straight at him.
In slow motion, Troy could see the recognition dawn on their twin faces. Their teeth clenched and anger filled their eyes in unison.
“Willie,” he yelled, “go NOW!”
“You got it, boss!”
As they squealed away from the ex-strippers, Daisy Mae and Ellie Mae Gallup were flashing four matching middle fingers his direction and screaming. Luckily, he couldn’t make out what they were yelling about.
As they raced away from the condos, Willie took something from his pocket and slipped it into the dash—Zig Zag rolling papers and a small bag of what looked like Oregano.
“Really, Willie?”
“Mista Troy,” he said and smiled his beaming white smile, “it’s fo my glaucoma.”
From behind them, Troy heard the loud bang again, which he thought might be the Camaro backfiring as it tried to catch up.
“Just get me over to Drunken Jack’s.”
“I jus’ started da meter.”
16
Buckets Of Spew
Karah Campobello checked her makeup in the visor mirror of her silver Land Rover (affectionately named Luna after her first dog) and applied even more bubble-gum flavored lip-gloss. All was good. She tucked her wallet up under the driver’s seat—because no one breaking into a car would ever check there—and headed up the stairs to Drunken Jack’s.
The tinny tunes of some old salty singer doing his best Gordon Lightfoot rendition drifted out of the door and the early evening drone of patrons getting in the mood buzzed a little lower than the crescendo they would reach by midnight.
Karah looked down at her Omega De Ville Prestige Watch, a present from her last boyfriend—he was a nice guy, studying political science, but just a little too straight laced for Karah—and saw that it was 11:47pm. The dinner crowd was rolling out and the late-night crowd was starting to roll in. The party was just about to kick off.
Darren “The Body” McGlashen was looking a little green around the gills. Man’ti realized that all they had eaten all day was the junk food he’d taken from the CVS. Ten shots of whiskey and tequila later, Darren was starting to slur and drool, and standing up was not an option.
On top of that, the skinny man was starting to stink. His nose had the crusty remnants of blood clinging to it from Man’ti’s crushing punch, and his foot—that was wrapped in a sock that was purpled with blood and bound with duct tape—smelled like a bag of rotten almonds soaked in ammonia.
And on top of all that, there were two young frat guys in the early stages of a bar fight at the other end of the room. They were puffing up and bumping each other around. Stupid fooks, Man’ti thought to himself. And that’s when the beer bottle flew out of one of the punk’s hands and bounced off Darren’s left eye. It immediately swelled, and blood pooled into the white sclera, making him look like some kind of black-eyed demon.
“Shit,” Man’ti muttered, watching Darren growl and push up from his bar stool.
The sweet blonde bartender that Man’ti had been softening up saw this begin to escalate and tried in vain to calm things down. “Boys, boys, nothin’ a free shot of Jäger won’t fix!”
She wagged the dark green bottle at them, but no one was paying any attention.
“Which onya stoopid fooks let goa thet bottle?” Darren moved toward them.
Man’ti grabbed the bottle of Jäger out of Georgiana’s hands and took a long swig.
“Hey!” she protested, “you can’t do—”
Man’ti slammed the bottle on the bar. “Jus’ put it on me tab.”
One of the frat guys had claimed the throw and was sizing Darren up. “Don’t know what yer worried about, dude. It didn’t hurt yer looks any, ya creepy fu—”
Darren interrupted him with a swinging roundhouse punch to the side of his head. All the energy he had left exploded the young man’s eardrum, and he screamed.
“Shit.” Man’ti cracked his knuckles.
The frat guy was in shock at the blood trickling down the side of his face and his eyes locked with Darren’s, who was now exactly one second from passing out.
“I’m gonna kill you, dude!”
He pulled his leg back and in the slow motion that happens in some movie fights, Man’ti saw that the young man was wearing a soccer jersey. He let out a snort. This ain’t gonna end well, he thought. Darren was lifted about a foot and a half off the ground when the soccer playing frat guy’s kick rocketed into his groin. As he crashed back down to the ground, agony spreading across his bloody eyes, he began gurgling loudly.
Man’ti moved to keep him from falling back, and put his hands up under Darren’s arms. In the process, he dropped his cell phone; it hit hard and shattered into a million pieces. His beaten colleague gagged hard again.
“Oh, fook no.” Man’ti shoved him toward the grinning frat guy.
And that’s when Darren threw up. Buckets of spew splashed across the frat guy’s face and shirt and even more soaked him down to his shoes. The horror—a horror that can only come from being barfed on in public after suffering an exploded ear drum in a bar fight with a creepy homeless looking dude—splashed across the kid’s face like… well, like vomit.
“Are you FREAKIN’ kidding me?!?” he screamed.
Darren sagged to the floor, sliding around in the contents of his own stomach. Man’ti threw a quick rabbit punch at the kid’s face, and he slumped down unconscious.
Bouncers from the front door suddenly reached toward hidden earpieces and turned toward the melee.
“Time to go,” Man’ti said to the semi-conscious Darren.
He wondered if he should just leave him. But doing that would probably lead the cops back to him. Darren groaned as Man’ti heaved him up onto his shoulder. The blonde bartender was staring wide-eyed at him and holding her phone up to her ear.
“Gimme ‘at cell, ya bitch,” the giant man said and grabbed it out of her hand.
He looked down at the screen. She had called 9-1-1. Shit, he thought.
>
“9-1-1, what’s your emergency,” the speaker squelched.
Man’ti clicked it off. “Back door?”
“You can’t leave! The cops are coming to—”
He shoved her back against the wall behind the bar, dislodging a bottle of triple sec. It crashed to the floor and the smell of orange floated up around them.
“Back fookin’ door, or I break ya face like thet bottle.”
Georgiana squeaked, tears forming in her eyes. He almost felt sorry he’d gotten so rough with her, but she had called the police. She pointed to a door behind the bar.
“Sayonara, sweet tits.”
17
The Hat
Karah Campobello—dressed in her multi-colored skirt of purple, yellow and pink that blended into a print of leopard and flowers at the bottom with jewels on the top that sparkled like a rainbow—was about to take the first step up into Drunken Jack’s when the giant man flew past her from around the back of the bar. He bumped her shoulder hard, tumbling her back off the step and almost sending her sprawling to the ground.
“HEY, watch it buste—” She suddenly stopped when the huge tattooed man turned back to glare at her. He was carrying another man on his shoulder who looked like he might be dead. Did he kill somebody? Is he going to kill me? She felt herself involuntarily crab walk backward away from him and fear made her whimper out loud.
A bouncer from the top of the stairs slammed the front door open and yelled. “Dude, get your ass back here!”
The big man turned and ran into the parking lot. The bouncer bounded down the stairs and knelt down to Karah.
“Are you okay, miss? Did he hurt you?”
“I’m fine, I’m fine.” Karah took a deep breath. The bouncer, who she had met before, recognized her and helped her stand up. “Thanks, Eric.”
He nodded and looked back into the parking lot. A bronze van with white pin striping and a painted sunset on the back was squealing out of the lot.
The Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Series Boxset Page 8