The Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Series Boxset

by David F. Berens

A flash of something crossed Mr. Smith’s face, then disappeared.

  “What if the information I got from your briefcase was leaked to the press?” Taz was proud of himself for keeping his momentum going. “Whatever deal you struck would be dissolved.”

  “Perhaps, yes,” the man said flatly, “but I still wouldn’t have any reason to give you any money, and all the more reason to hand over all the information I have on your case, and put you away forever.”

  Shit, Taz thought, that made a lot of sense. He began to form a new idea in his head. “Ah know you’re onta something big,” he said, gambling, “worth more than this money yor gettin’ for the Colpiller thing. Am I right?”

  “Go on,” Smith said.

  “You can still get what you want.” Taz thought he was onto something. “If I get what I want, we can all get our happy ending.”

  Mr. Smith seemed to mull this over. He started rocking and stroking the skunk again. “What is it you want?” he asked.

  Taz licked his lips. He had originally planned to ask for the whole two-hundred and fifty thousand, but now that he’d been countered, he thought half might be a good place to start. “One-twenty-five,” he said.

  Mr. Smith immediately started laughing. “Is that all?” He rocked forward and laid the skunk and the little doll into a nearby cradle.

  The skunk walked around in two small circles and laid down, snuggling its nose into the doll.

  “Croist!” Taz could smell the skunk stronger now. “How d’ya fookin’ live wi’ that thing?”

  Smith looked down at the skunk and shrugged. “You get used to it. Now, are we talking small bills, cashier’s check, Australian dollars?”

  Taz was startled. Just like that, Mr. Smith was going to pay him.

  “Of course,” —he stood and took a step toward Taz— “I’ll need to see the papers you have. All of them. Copies you might have made, everything.”

  “Ah dint make no copies,” Taz said, “it’s just your originals.”

  “Perfect.” Mr. Smith stuck out his hand. “Then I suppose once I know the details of your payment, we have a deal.”

  Taz took his hand and shook it. “Thanks, Mr. Smith.”

  “Call me Remington,” the man said.

  “Yes sir, Mr. Remington.” Taz didn’t care that he was grinning from ear to ear. “Pleasure doin’ business wif ya.”

  “Oh, by the way,” Remington said, “I’m going to need to know where the girl’s body is… you know, to make sure it doesn’t show up unexpectedly.”

  Taz opened his mouth to tell him it was in the lighthouse, then shut it quickly. Shit! He’d forgotten Mindy was there too… and still alive.

  “No worries, mate,” Taz said and smiled, “It ain’t gonna show up. Ah’ve taken good care of that.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “Good.”

  He couldn’t help but wonder how Remington hadn’t found out about Mindy being kidnapped too… but he’d take care of her soon enough.

  No worries.

  17

  Good Old Boys

  Gil Dickerson rolled the cigar around in his mouth to moisten the end. The peppery taste burned his lips in a good way, like a hot curry, or a chili pepper. He enjoyed spicy things, not unlike he’d enjoyed his time with Jackie Ranchero-Doral. But he’d always paid the price with indigestion that couldn’t be helped with any over-the-counter medication. With food, he’d learned to be more discerning with his choices. He wondered if he’d ever get that way with his choice in women.

  “Good afternoon, Gil,” came a lilting Boston accent through the door.

  James Hardy, senator from Vermont, walked in with his hand outstretched. “To what do I owe the pleasure of ya company this fine day?”

  Gil stood, took his hand, and shook it. One pump. Let’s get this thing started.

  “Something’s up, James,” he said quietly. “I had a meeting with a little shit who apparently has some information on me, and—”

  “That’ll be enough, Governor Dickerson,” James interrupted. He took a couple of glasses from a bookcase bar, clinked three ice cubes into each, and poured a dark liquor into them. He sat one of the glasses next to Gil. “Light?” he asked pulling a zippo lighter from his pocket.

  “No thanks, Sandy can’t stand the smell of them.”

  “Suit yaself,” James shrugged, “but she’s probably gonna smell mine on you anyway. Might as well enjoy it.”

  He took another cigar from the box on the table next to Gil. He sucked the end for a second and then clicked it off with a cutter. He pulled his thumb across the zippo and puffed four or five times until a thick, curling smoke came out of his mouth. He passed the cutter to Gil, along with the lighter.

  “What the hell.” Gil lit his cigar and took a sip of the whiskey. He puffed the cigar once and let the smoke ease out of his mouth. “Damn, that’s good,” he said, and rolled the cigar between his thumb and forefinger. “What is it?”

  “Don’t ask, don’t tell,” James said, and winked, “but there’s more where that came from.”

  Gil shrugged and took another puff.

  “Now, tell me about this meeting of yours with this little piss ant.”

  Gil took a piece of paper from the pocket of his suit jacket. It was folded in thirds and printed on a stationary that indicated it came from the Governor of Florida’s office. James Hardy laid his cigar down to smolder on a marble ashtray and stuck his hand out.

  He unfolded the paper and read it, his lips moving slightly with each word. He looked up at Gil without moving his head. “And what, pray tell, is this?” James asked, holding the paper between his thumb and forefinger as if it were hot. “Some kind of joke?”

  “I wish it were, James,” Gil said, and shook his head.

  “You’re naming,” —James looked at the paper— “whoever this Reginald character is, as your Chief of Staff??”

  Gil nodded.

  “Gil,” James said incredulously, “what the hell is the meaning of this?”

  The future governor of Florida leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees. He rolled his lit cigar between his fingers and inhaled.

  Gil proceeded to describe to James the meeting he’d had with Remington Hoyt Reginald at the Pollo Tropical. “He’s got photographs of the two of us together on the boat.”

  “That boat doesn’t exist anymore, Gil.”

  “Teeth, for Christ sakes, James,” —Gil threw his hands up— “he’s got frickin’ teeth that I knocked out of her stupid head.”

  James Hardy’s face grew dark. A glint appeared in his eye that Gil had only seen glimpses of before… and it scared him a little.

  “Now, you listen to me, Guvna,” —James’s Bostonian accent was heavier now— “this piss ant ain’t gonna get in the way of the office you were born to fill. And he sure as shit ain’t gonna get in my way either.”

  “It’s not a big deal,” Gil protested weakly, “he’ll just be my chief of staff for two years, then he’s gone.”

  “Dammit, Gil!” James jumped up out of his chair. “That ain’t the way it works up here. Once you’re in, you’re in for life. Everybody knows that.”

  Gil knew he was right. Power corrupted with deep roots in politics. Once a man had a taste, he could never go without. “Then, what do you propose we do about this?” Gil asked. “If he releases what he has on me, I’m finished. Caput. No Governor’s mansion in Florida. No White House. No nothing!”

  James Hardy put his cigar in his mouth and drew a long puff into his mouth. He let the smoke ease out and sat back down. “He has her teeth?”

  Gil nodded. “And blood.”

  “How in the fu—” James started, but then stopped. “No, you know what? I don’t want to know.”

  Gil raised his hands to retort, but James stopped him.

  “Doesn’t matter,” James said quickly. “What matters is this isn’t the kind of thing that a little discrediting won’t fix, like it did with A
nna Martinez.”

  He pulled his phone out of his pocket and clicked a number. Gil heard it ringing into his ear.

  “What’d you say this guy’s name is?”

  “Remington Hoyt Reginald.”

  “Good.” James held up a finger to his lips to indicate Gil should keep quiet. Someone had apparently picked up on the other end of the phone.

  “Get me the snake.” James listened for a few seconds, then clicked his phone off without a word. “It’s taken care of,” he told Gil, “now, clear your mind of it.” He picked up the piece of paper and crumpled it into a ball.

  “What’s going to happen to him?” Gil asked, leaning back in his cushy, leather chair.

  “The snake is what’s going to happen to him,” James said, and clicked open his zippo.

  He tossed the document into his marble ashtray, flicked the zippo, and lit the corner of it. It flamed up, slowly at first, then quickly the fire burned it to ash.

  “Now,” James said, smiling, “let’s talk about what the new draft of that announcement is going to look like.”

  Gil felt a shiver threaten to creep up his spine. This deal was getting worse with every passing day. He wondered if politics was really for him, and considered just dropping it all and walking away. But he was sure James Hardy would never let that happen. The boat would reappear, and the murder would be all over the papers. Gil would be in jail forever… if not sent to death row.

  No, he’d made his bed. And he would damn well lie in it, flea infested as it was.

  Brant Reginald had Googled Aliah Ranchero and had found three-thousand two-hundred and forty results. After sifting through fourteen pages highlighting the famous Tex Mex chef, he found what he was looking for… the obituary.

  It was painful to see her grainy black and white photograph, but thankfully, the obit had left out the details involving the pain and drama that had played out after he healed her. He hadn’t planned on extorting money from her, but she’d been so ecstatic about her new lease of life that she’d been easy to coerce into donating it all. And it had been a tidy sum… enough to complete the new television studio inside the church.

  That’s really when his ministry took off, and he knew deep down inside that he owed that legacy to her. Ironically, she had also been the hammer to bring it all down. And if he took that logic all the way to its conclusion, she was responsible for his new pilgrimage. He began to internalize and truly see his changed direction as his epiphany… his reconnection with God. And to show his gratitude, he would find her remaining kin and let them know that her life and eventual death had, in fact, come to serve a higher purpose.

  He also learned in the obituary that Aliah was survived by her husband Manny and her daughter Jackie. Another quick search found the last white pages’ listing for them in Alabama, and he dialed it. Disconnected. More digging revealed Manny had died of heart related stress, and that Jackie was living in Florida. She was some sort of political intern, bouncing from office to office under different candidates. Her last bounce landed her in the office of up-and-coming Senator, Gil Dickerson… soon to be Governor Dickerson, he read in the Miami Herald.

  He dialed the office of Senator Dickerson, and got an unusual answer. Jackie is on leave, and unlikely to return before the election. That’s odd, he thought. “I’m an old friend of the family,” he added to no avail.

  “I understand, sir,” said the girl, presumably another intern, “but we wouldn’t be able to give out any personal information anyway. But we thank you for your support in the upcoming election.”

  He Googled a little more to find information on Jackie’s husband, and dialed him also. He was a little more forthcoming, though not exactly friendly. He shouted something about how her internships had wrecked their marriage and that she wasn’t welcome back in his house. He’d slammed the phone down after that.

  His next call was to Remington. Predictably, he got his son’s voicemail.

  “Son, it’s your dad.” He felt a lump forming in his throat. “I’m sorry. I know that doesn’t mean much to you, but the Lord has changed my path. I hope you’ll forgive me for all I have done to you. I’m no longer with the church in Alabama… actually, I’m no longer with the church at all. I’ve been defrocked.”

  He took a deep breath and realized tears were streaming down his face.

  “God has given me a new direction,” he continued, “and I’m beginning my pilgrimage today. I will be starting my journey this afternoon. I don’t know where it will take me, but I do know that I’d like to see you.”

  He felt a calming presence come over his body. The Lord was truly with him. He continued.

  “If you hear this and if you’ll let me come—” His voice broke, and he paused. “ If you’ll please let me come and see you, son. I love you.”

  He hung up the phone. Composing himself, he figured the best course was to let God guide his steps. He knelt and prayed and waited. After a few minutes, his knees got sore, so he sat up in his chair. He clicked into his email and found that he still had access to the church email address. It couldn’t hurt to just see what was going on.

  The first seven emails were hate mail directed both at him personally and at the church. The next two were threatening to sue. The tenth email was junk mail from Greyhound offering reward customers (the church used them to bus people in from all over the country) a free ticket to anywhere in the continental United States. There it was… his sign.

  He printed the voucher and decided to walk to the bus station. He would take nothing with him from his past. He would be Job. He would leave his possessions behind—everything except his Bible—and follow Him. He walked out to the end of the church driveway and turned left toward the interstate. It was hot as hell, but he knew that was part of his penance, so he just kept walking.

  As he took a few steps onto the ramp leading him to 98 South, a car honked behind him. He waved it around, but it pulled over in front of him and rolled the window down. A meaty, tattooed arm beckoned him.

  Brant looked up at the sky… Is this more of God’s handiwork? He took a few steps toward the car—an older model white Buick LeSabre with peeling paint and a missing hubcap on the rear driver’s side wheel—and saw a faded and torn bumper sticker that read: Jesus is my copilot.

  God does work in mysterious ways, he thought. The large man inside the car leaned over and opened the passenger door. Brant stuck his head down to look inside.

  He was sweaty… like, are you sure you didn’t just step out of a shower, sweaty. His hair was salt and pepper—with more salt than pepper—and tied back in a long, stringy ponytail. His face was plump and his cheeks were rosy. It was hard to tell what his eyes looked like because they were hidden behind rose-colored glasses and large, caterpillar eyebrows. The radio was blaring a song Brant recognized as Me and Jesus (Got Our Own Thing Going) as recorded by Sundance Head—the most recent winner on one of those TV music competition shows.

  He was wearing a dingy wife-beater style tank top (also soaked with sweat) and what appeared to be multi-colored, tie-died swim trunks. On his chest dangled no less than three wooden cross pendants, all hanging on shoelaces or string. No gold or silver.

  “Hello, friend,” he boomed in a voice that was somehow both high-pitched and resonant, “where you headed?”

  Brant was about to politely decline the obvious invitation to share a ride and walk away, but if this wasn’t a sign from God, he wasn’t sure what was… He’d been asking for a sign, and the Lord had provided. So he stayed, and said, “Well, I’m just trying to get to the bus station over in Mobile for now. Florida from there.”

  The man laughed, a boisterous, jolly laugh that Brant thought Santa Claus would laugh be proud of… if he were real. “Friend,” he smiled broadly, revealing surprisingly healthy-looking teeth, “you are in luck. I’m headed down to Lake Okeechobee to meet an old friend for an old-timey tent revival. You know, lots of singin’, lots of preachin’, lots of savin’. I can take you that f
ar if you like.”

  “I’m headed all the way down to Key Biscayne,” Brant said, “but Greyhound is actually pretty reasonab—”

  The man interrupted him. “I’ll take you as far as you want to go with me and you can decide when we part ways. How does that sound?” He swept his hand over the passenger seat, brushing some random fast-food napkins, and the remnants of whatever meals he’d consumed recently, onto the floor.

  Brant slid in beside the man. The seat was hot and sticky, but beggars can’t be choosers. He closed the door.

  “Sounds like a fair deal to me,” he said, holding out his hand toward the man, “name’s Brant. Brant Reginald.”

  The man’s eyes twinkled as he shook Brant’s hand. “Oh, I know who you are, Pastor Reginald.”

  In almost any other circumstance, Brant might’ve felt a little creeped out by what the man had said… but he didn’t get that vibe from this guy. He seemed so… genuine… and nice.

  “I’ve followed your messages on TV for quite a few years now,” he said, and pulled the car onto the ramp headed toward the interstate, “and I loved the series on David and Goliath. You really got that one right.”

  “Thanks,” Brant said, settling in for the ride.

  “Name’s Christopher,” he said as they got up to cruising speed, “Christopher Saint Juneau.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Christopher,” Brant said, and felt himself smiling.

  “Call me Chris,” he said, “all my friends call me Chris.”

  Brant nodded. “You got it, Chris.”

  “Oh, by the way,” —Chris jerked a knob on the dash back and forth— “the AC’s been out since Albuquerque. Hope you’ll be okay with that.”

  “Fine with me,” Brant said, and felt sweat start beading on his forehead, “I’m just happy for the ride.”

  “Cool,” Chris said and burst out laughing. “Or not cool, actually!”

  He laughed until he started coughing, with tears forming in his eyes. It was an infectious laugh and soon Brant joined him. This was going to be an interesting trip for sure. He pulled his phone out of his pocket—no messages from Remington. Maybe a little prayer would help. He opened his Bible and started tracing his finger over a well-worn page in Acts.