“Absolutely.” Gino slid the bottle of rum back onto its shelf.
“Let’s make that two,” a girl said from behind Troy.
He turned toward her and arched his eyebrow. The voice belonged to a cute young girl who couldn’t possibly have been older than twenty… ish. Her hair was streaked with blonde, but it looked natural, like the sun had bleached it. Her skin matched that too; brown and smooth. Her nose was freckled, but not obnoxiously so, and her eyes were green… forest green. Deep and dark, but clear and iridescent—did I just think the word iridescent, Troy thought? She wore a tight white tank top and dark denim shorts. Both were clearly expensive designer pieces, designed to look worn in just the right way.
“Darlin’,” Troy started, “I’m happy to buy you a beer, but does your mama know you’re out and about cavortin’ with strangers?”
She laughed and winked at Gino. He exchanged a friendly smile with her and popped the top off two Coronas and shoved a lime into each.
“This one is on me,” Gino said, and walked away to tend to other patrons.
She squeezed the lime into the beer and slid onto the barstool next to Troy.
“Strangers, eh?” she asked. “Guess you haven’t been around the Oceana much. And my mother has been gone for years.”
“Dangit, sorry about your mom.” Troy winced.
“Oh, she’s not dead. Don’t be sorry.” The girl shook her head. “But she was a conniving bitch that ran off with my dad’s lawyer.”
“I see. Well, I’ve only been here a coupla months,” Troy said, squinting. “What’s that gotta do with anything?”
“My dad owns the top floor.” She pointed toward the penthouse.
Aw, hell, thought Troy. He remembered a long-forgotten line from a David Lee Roth song about messin’ with the mayor’s daughter, or something along those lines.
“Mindy?” he asked. “As in, Mindy—my father created Mortgage-Finder.com—Colpiller?”
“Yours truly,” she said and smiled.
“Pleasure to meet you.” Troy held up a finger toward Gino. “Check, please?”
“Oh, come on now,” she said, tugging his arm down, “you can’t just buy me a beer and then bug out ‘cause you know who my dad is.”
“Number one, I didn’t buy you a beer. Gino did.” He eased up off the stool. “And number two, yes, I can.”
She sighed heavily. “Just like all the rest. I’m never going to meet any guys who aren’t afraid of my father.”
Gino swooped in and sat two fresh Coronas on the bar, even though they had barely taken a sip of the first couple he’d served them. He whirled away before Troy could protest.
“I bought you that one,” she said, “so you might as well stay long enough to drink it. I’ll leave you alone.”
“Well, I didn’t mean…” Troy started.
She stood up, clinked her beer against his with a sad look in her eyes, and walked around to the other side of the bar.
Dangit, Troy thought.
He took a sip of beer and noticed Gino looking at him, shaking his head.
“What?” he said with a shrug.
The bartender leaned in to speak softly. “She has no friends, amigo. She’s sheltered and protected in a way you and I will never understand.”
“Yeah, but I don’t need no friends,” Troy protested.
“You may not,” —Gino wiped the already-clean bar— “but she does. She’s harmless. Just wants company.”
“Dangit,” Troy muttered and jerked his thumb toward the blender behind the bar, “gimme two of those one fifty-one piña coladas.”
“Aha!” Gino slapped his chest. “That’s the spirit!”
He clicked a button on his radio and Lola blared out again. The blender whizzed as the crowd woke up and started singing along. Gino slid the drinks to Troy.
I’m gon’ regret this, Troy thought. He held up the two drinks toward Mindy and inclined his head back as if to say, come on over. She laughed and nodded.
She sat down and held out her hand. “Hi, I’m Mindy.”
“Troy,” he said. “Pleased to meet you.”
“You too.” She pulled out her phone and clicked out a text.
Then she looked in his eyes. “I promise, no cavorting.”
“Ha!” he blurted out, “deal.”
He took a sip of his drink. It was exquisite. Gino made the best piña coladas in the world as far as Troy was concerned. Fresh coconut cream, pineapple juice straight from the fruit, and one-fifty-one rum for a straight up kick in the pants. Dang good.
“Damn, that’s good!” Mindy said.
“Yup,” Troy agreed, “never had better.”
She took another sip and her phone chirped. Looking at the screen she pursed her lips.
“Leave me alone, Taz,” she muttered.
“Taz?”
“My sister’s tennis pro,” she said, “he’s a little weird and totally obsessed with her.”
“Yikes,” Troy said.
“Yeah, I was supposed to have a lesson with him tonight, but then the rain came.” She glanced at her phone. “Now he won’t stop texting me.”
Troy raised his eyebrows as Gino leaned in to check their drinks.
“How is Caroline, by the way?” the bartender asked.
“Caroline?” Troy asked.
“Actually, I haven’t heard from her all day,” she said to Gino.
“My twin sister,” she said and turned to Troy.
“Twin… sisters...?” Troy stumbled over his words.
“Yeah,” she winked at him, “there’s two of me.”
“Check, please,” he joked to Gino.
Mindy laughed and Troy thought it was incredibly infectious.
“Just remember,” she said with a wink, “no cavorting.”
Regrettin’ this already.
2
Ain’t Missin’ You
Private investigator, Remington Hoyt Reginald, dabbed his upper lip with a pristine white, monogrammed handkerchief. The lingering taste of his morning mint julep kept his tongue a bit dry and thirsty. His purple ascot was tucked to perfection into his highly-starched, blush-pink Hilditch And Key dress shirt. The cufflinks were in the shape of handcuffs—one cuff on his right sleeve, one cuff on his left—just above the monogram. Salvatore Ferragamo cap toe oxford shoes finished his outfit in splendid burgundy. He looked amazing, if he did say so himself.
All this was likely wasted on his client, Jack Colpiller, who was wearing a white V-neck t-shirt—it looked to be Fruit of the Loom brand—and a pair of light blue swim trunks—at least those were Ralph Lauren. His flip-flops proudly bore no visible logo. Probably bought from one of the ridiculous tourist shops down by South Beach, Balls or Wings or Eagles. Ugh, thought Remington, no accounting for taste.
“Her mother probably has her brainwashed against me,” Jack said as Remington scribbled in a small moleskin notebook. “After her part of the will too, I’m sure.”
“Mmhmm,” said Remington, who didn’t look up.
“Hell, I just want to know where she is,” he said and threw up his hands. “Damn women.”
“Not to worry, sir.” Remington closed his notebook and slid it into his briefcase. “I’ll let you know before tonight.”
Jack Colpiller stood up and flip-flopped his way over to the massive black grand piano that stood next to the nine-foot high solid glass wall looking out over the beach. He grabbed an envelope from the top of the piano and opened it. He flipped through it and handed it to Remington.
“Your downpayment,” he said to the private investigator, “count it if you like. The rest when she’s back home.”
Remington slid the envelope into his case without opening it. He hid his disdain for the implication that he would count the money in front of a client—even a client with the status of Colpiller—even if it was seventy-five grand.
If the money was short, he would be issued an invoice for the remainder. He already had an idea that the daughter had,
in fact, run off with a boy, or maybe she had run off to her mother. He knew this because he’d located her car near the club district on South Beach. Typical rich bitch-leaving-daddy scenario. All he had to do was get her tag run at Miami P.D., verify her whereabouts, take a few high-resolution photos of her, and the rest of the two-hundred and fifty-thousand dollars would be briefcased over to him. All of this was chump change compared to what his other case could lead to, but he hadn’t discovered that yet. He had no idea what he was about to get into.
Pushing the elevator button to descend, he put on his most confident smile.
“I’ll most likely find her by ten o’clock tonight,” he said as the doors slid open and he stepped in.
Jack just nodded and raised his glass. It looks like whiskey, thought Remington, who drinks whiskey this time of the morning… actually, who drinks whiskey at all… ugh?
Troy Bodean woke up alone in his bed. The sheets were tossed off him and the fan was sitting right next to him, blowing as hard as it could… and he was still sweating. The apartment was provided by Don Henderson’s beach services company as part of Troy’s employment. It was intended to be shared by two of the company’s workers, but when Eduardo got deported, the apartment became Troy’s alone. He’d given up a chunk of his pay to keep it that way. Small as it was, with only three rooms—bedroom, bathroom, and combo kitchen, dining, living room—it wasn’t half bad. He had a futon in the living room, a twin mattress on the floor of the bedroom, and a plastic chair and TV tray in the dining area of the kitchen. No television, just his phone. But it was good enough for catching up on the Dolphins, and occasionally, the Braves.
The heat was stifling, even at six in the morning. With no air-conditioning and the slatted, jalousie style windows, there was very little air-flow and the ceiling fan had died a few days ago. Thankfully, his next-door neighbor had loaned him a box fan and it did a terrific job of pushing the hot air around the apartment. The good news was it was Monday and he was off work. He thought he might even take a dip in the pool.
The miserable little three-story apartment building he lived in was shaped like a horseshoe. In the center of the horseshoe was a small, oval shaped pool. Because of the shape of the building, it was eternally in the shade—which was nice when it was so dang hot. Troy grabbed his beach towel (a five-finger souvenir he quietly lifted from the Ritz) and walked out his door. The inside of the horseshoe was the walkway connecting all the apartments and various stairwells leading down to the ground floor. Troy’s place was right in the center. He looked down the three stories to the pool and saw it was empty except for Auggie.
Auggie was his octogenarian Jewish neighbor. He had retired from a home shopping network ten years ago and used his entire life savings to buy one of the ratty top floor apartments. Naturally, he worked as a Walmart greeter to supplement his Social Security.
Troy padded down the metal stairs and walked toward the pool. He dipped his toe in the water. It was frigid. Auggie was leaning against the shallow end of the pool, arms spread akimbo as if he was basking in a hot top. His body was covered with masses of salt and pepper hair, so much that he looked like he was resting in a sea of aging kelp. Troy shivered internally but smiled on the outside.
“How’s it going, Auggie?” he asked the old man.
Auggie didn’t open his eyes. He just raised one hand in a hello gesture, and said, “It doesn’t go, ya gotta push it.”
“That right?” Troy dipped a second toe in the water… it was still freezing.
He was pulling off his shirt to take the plunge, hoping that he would get used to the chilly pool, when his cell phone beeped.
“Dat’s gotta be you,” Auggie said, “I ain’t had one in twenty years.”
Troy laughed as he pulled his phone from his pocket.
-Beach in 10?
The number wasn’t a contact in his phone. Troy was puzzled by it, but couldn’t resist.
-Who is this?
-Oh, c’mon now. You haven’t forgotten me already have you?
Troy arched an eyebrow. Before he could type a response, the next message pinged.
-It’s Mindy, silly. C’mon down. It’s better than your crappy pool I’m sure! LOL
Coupla things, Troy thought, how’d you get my number? And how the hell did you know about my pool?
As if she’d read his mind, her next text spelled it out.
-You’re probably wondering how I got your number. Gino gave it to me. And you told me about your place. Probably trying to get me to come home with you. LOL
Oh, dangit. Troy mentally face-palmed himself. That’s not good.
-I’m kidding, Gino told me where you lived. No biggie, just get ur ass down here. No cavorting, I promise. The beach is awesome today.
He wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or not, but he took a look at Auggie drowning in his own body hair and tapped out his reply.
-On my way.
-Good. I need you to put sunscreen on my back.
“Oh hell,” Troy mumbled out loud, “no cavortin’ indeed.
He pulled himself out of the pool and nodded to Auggie.
“Check you later, Aug,” he said.
“Ah, good,” the old man smiled. “I could use a check!”
He slipped on his flip flops and headed out the rusty gate.
3
Canal Point
Senator Gil Dickerson of Florida could feel his smile turning into a leering ogle as his young intern untied the strings on her bikini top. She handed him a bottle of cocoa-butter, some European crap sunscreen promising the darkest tan money can buy.
“Do my back?” she said, smiling coyly over her bare shoulder.
Gil pointed the bottle at her back and squeezed. It spurted out all over her already dark skin and she giggled at the dirty innuendo.
“Naughty boy,” she said as he rubbed it in.
He applied enough pressure to let her know he got the message she was sending, and that he was more than willing. Sure, he was older by three decades, but when you were famous, none of that mattered. And Gil was in great shape for his age. Standing at almost six-feet two-inches, he was tall enough to appear confident, but not so tall that he appeared overbearing… perfect for a politician. And his salt and pepper hair and beard combined with a slightly olive complexion were enough to garner him a Sean Connery lookalike comparison. And he played it up for all it was worth, even affecting a slightly Scottish brogue.
While attending Harvard Law, he found the actual study and eventual practice of law to be tedious and boring. But he did it well enough to make the Harvard Law Review. At one of the swanky banquets the review was known to host, he shook hands with several influential people. Some of them took notice of his physical, social, and commanding spoken presence in the room. When he spoke, more people listened than didn’t. And thus, the grooming began.
It began innocently enough, with speeches at small functions—tests for his crowd appeal—and grew into introductions for higher officials at political rallies. He was ushered along the political path of backroom deals and slightly shady support functions until they were sure they had their boy. And he loved it. Along with the under-the-table support came money, women, and power. Power quickly became his most desired benefit. The women came and went, all in search of a golden ticket, until Sandra. A staffer in his first campaign, she spent hours working on getting him elected, and though it was only for a small-town Representative’s seat, it showed her ability to make Gil into the perfect candidate. At several of his meetings with backers, it became clear that he was going to marry Sandra, whether he wanted to or not. She was going to be part of the package. Every politician needs a First Lady.
Gil didn’t mind; he and Sandra had enough in common that they enjoyed each other’s company. They had sex, but it was forced and dull. He was careful to conceal the fact that he was uninterested… so as not to hurt her feelings. Some of his colleagues began to suggest that he find enjoyment elsewhere and laughed when he asked
what they meant by that.
“Staffers, man,” said James Hardy, Senator from Vermont, “why the hell you think they’re all sweet young college girls?”
The others in the room slapped each other on the back and plenty of winks and nudges went around the group. It wasn’t long before Gil was personally selecting his interns… just for such purposes. He got good at spotting the girls who knew what they were there for, and had them in bed after a few trinkets and gifts. He felt confident that Sandra never knew about any of it, and even if she did, she knew enough to keep her mouth shut.
On the night they celebrated the start of his campaign for Governor of Florida, he was presented with a piece of paper rolled up like a scroll with a red ribbon tied around it.
“What’s this?” he asked, feeling the corners of his mouth turning up into a grin.
“We got ya a little something special,” said Harry Turnbull, Senator of Maine, and winked at him and smacked his back a few times. “Enjoy, Senator Dickerson. And I’ll be appreciating your vote item numba one-fifty-three.”
Gil laughed as he untied the ribbon. “You had me at something special.”
The paper curled open and he could see it was a resume. He held it up and shrugged his shoulders.
“What the hell am I sh’posed to do with thish?” he said in his best Connery accent.
James Hardy grabbed his elbow and squeezed it, bobbing his eyebrows up and down. “Whatevah the hell you wanna do, Senator.”
The others in the room all broke into raucous laughter. The intern whose resume he held was hired the next Monday, and their sexual interludes started on Tuesday. Sometimes they’d jump into a closet, sometimes an elevator, and often, his car in the parking garage. He was actually surprised that they’d never gotten caught. It wasn’t until they’d been romping for six months that she started to ask him to take her away on weekend trips. And that’s how they ended up sitting on the Senator’s boat at Canal Point on Lake Okeechobee at another Senator’s private lake house with barely any clothes on.
The Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Series Boxset Page 43