Pretty Sure This Was Yesterday
“Meet me at the Hog’s Snout. Six o’clock.”
“That would be great, man,” Pilate said, looking at himself in the nautical rope-framed mirror in his den as he spoke on the old rotary phone. His hand gripped the avocado-colored handset so tightly that his knuckles were white. Trevathan had never upgraded the phone, and Pilate liked it that way.
“Jordan’s out at bunco ‘til at least nine,” Taters said. “I reckon that’s plenty of time for you and me to murder a Modelo or two.”
Pilate’s eyes watered, a hardness in his throat made it difficult for him to speak. “I’m so glad. I…I didn’t think, ummm...”
“What? Thinking you and me are through?” he snorted. “Not hardly. But we do have some serious shit to discuss, moving forward. Least of which is you owe me for some boat repairs. Jeebus, man, did you bring the boat home from Jamaica in second gear the whole way?” Taters chuckled.
“Oops. We’ll talk. Six o’clock at the Snout. I’ll be the guy in the Panama hat.”
“Then you’ll be the guy sitting alone all night. Just wear your usual hangdog expression, mister. I’ll see you there.”
“Deal.”
“And John?” Taters’ voice mellowed.
“Yeah man?”
“If you get there first, order some conch fritters and a—”
“Modelo Especiale. Got it.”
“Good man.”
It was only three o’clock, and Pilate had a little time to squeeze in a workout. He texted Val, who just had a cancellation. She could fit him in at four. Pilate sniffed his gym clothes, decided they weren’t too nasty, double-checked his bag and headed for the gym.
Val was stretching when he arrived, her powerful legs accentuated by dark blue leggings, a pink Susan G. Komen t-shirt tied up to expose her midriff.
“Hey mister,” she said, flashing a quick smile. “Ready to mix it up?”
He smiled back. “I’d like that.”
“Well, no mercy today. No more nice-guy, got it?” She elbowed his arm.
“I’m in,” he said.
They sparred for the better part of a half hour, then switched to a circuit of light weights and exercises. Pilate’s lungs didn’t love the humidity, but he kept going, sweat running down his face, his shirt and shorts nearly soaked.
“Okay, man,” she said, toweling off. “Good workout. You really pushed yourself today.”
“Needed to,” he said, in between chugs of his Yeti. He looked at his watch. “I better get home and get a shower.”
She looked up from her gym bag. “Oh? What’s up?”
“Gonna meet a friend for a drink,” he said.
She raised an eyebrow, smiling, then wrinkling her nose. “A girl?”
He was surprised at the question, considering he had just unloaded on her about his faltering marriage and his determination to “fix it.”
His face registered confusion and perhaps irritation.
“Oh shit, John,” she said, herself looking confused now. “I don’t know why I said that.”
“It’s okay,” he said. “Really.”
She blushed. “I just, oh man. You just always seem like a guy going to meet a girl. I mean. Oh. Crap. Never mind.”
“Hey, it’s fine. And no, not a girl. Just a buddy I need to catch up with. Going to the Hog’s Snout around six. Won’t be out too long, he’s on a short leash and has to be home by nine.”
She nodded quickly, absently checking her ponytail, eyes fixed on the empty boxing ring. “Well, have fun.”
Pilate sensed an odd unease with Val, but wasn’t sure what brought it on. “Okay.”
Val scooped up her bag, flung it over her shoulder and jogged out the door. She never really walked anywhere.
“Well, that was…interesting,” Simon said.
Clusters of bright orange blooms adorned the Geiger trees near the entrance of the Hog’s Snout, swaying in the humid breeze that wafted the scent of conch fritters, burgers and fries. There weren’t as many trees and bushes these days; development had started to spoil the “outpost” feel of Key West’s venerable Old Town. However, the booze still flowed, cocks still crowed and music still played.
Pilate had blanched when his friend suggested they meet there; years ago he had walked in on a dying man in the Hog’s Snout men’s room, after all. That bloody mess on the floor was always with him, and going to the Snout could make him uneasy until the drinks kicked in. Pilate was pretty sure it was yet another PTSD moment.
“Feeling triggered?” Simon said as Pilate looked past the restroom area and took a seat at the open air bar. Pilate distracted himself, checking out the hundreds of stickers, coasters, post cards and antique banknotes affixed to the walls and ceiling.
He was early; even if Taters was on time, Pilate would have half an hour to himself, sharing the place with a few dozen people eating and drinking in the various dining areas. This satellite bar had attracted only a couple of old conchs and a loud group of tourists congregated at a tallboy in the corner.
“What can I get you?” the bartender asked, wiping down the bar in front of Pilate and dropping a laminated menu.
“Pina Colada,” he said. “Kidding. Can I get a Stoli rocks with lime and an order of fritters?”
She smiled back and nodded, eyes on the other side of the room. “Coming up.”
Pilate looked around, self-consciously patting the breast pocket of his red Magnum, P.I.-style Hawaiian shirt, as if looking for cigarettes. An old habit when he sat at bars, even though he quit smoking years ago.
When his drink appeared, Pilate downed a healthy mouthful. He scanned the menu. Oysters looked good, despite his reservations about the effects of several recent Gulf oil spills. He sighed and put down the menu, deciding the fritters would do until Taters arrived.
He checked his cell for texts. Nothing. Pilate chewed his lip a bit, then typed
“Hey Val, thanks again for the great workout. Looking forward to our next bout.”
“Oh my god, really?” Simon said.
“I just want her to know it’s all good,” he replied.
He sipped more of his drink, startled when his phone vibrated on the bar in front of him.
“I am so damn sorry man, Jordan staying home. Can’t make it. Will call you soon.”
Pilate felt hollow in his gut, as if he had been caught doing something wrong. He forced himself to breathe deeply a moment, then responded with a quick
“No worries, Taters. just lmk when you get some time”
He dropped the phone on the bar with a clunk and pointed at his glass when the bartender slid the basket of conch fritters and a tumbler of ice water in front of him. His phone vibrated again, with a thumbs up emoji from Taters. Pilate finished his first drink and moved it closer to the bartender’s side of the bar and nibbled on a fritter.
After finishing off the second drink and destroying the basket of fritters, he needed to answer a call of nature. “I’ll be right back,” he said to the bartender. “Can we do this again?” he said, holding up his drink. She nodded.
“Want more water?” she asked.
“Never touch it,” he said as he excused himself, stopped and looked back at her. “Hey, is there a different restroom—that one’s not good for me.”
She looked at him, uncomprehendingly. A tall, lanky man with greasy black hair haphazardly tucked under a sweaty Jimmy Buffet trucker cap leaning on the bar a few feet away volunteered that there was one on the other side of the restaurant. Pilate nodded in gratitude and headed towards it.
At the urinal, Pilate felt the back pocket of his shorts vibrate. After he washed up, he checked to see a text reply notification from Val.
“No worries, man. had a brain fart. got embarrassed.”
Pilate leaned against the wall and texted a reply.
“Oh. I probably acted like I was bothered by it when I wasn’t. Let me make it up to you with a drink. Come on over to the Snout.” Pilate
strode past the other diners as the restaurant started to fill up. When he got back to his seat at the bar, there was now only a couple of seats left open. His drink was waiting, the empty fritters basket collected. He took a quick sip and looked at his phone.
“I’d love to, but you have your friend there and u don’t need a 3rd wheel.”
The drink had him feeling good, further amped up by a rush at the prospect of hanging out with Val somewhere that didn’t smell like Rocky Balboa’s armpit. He thumbed his screen and typed:
“Actually, he canceled. Come on out. Don’t make me drink alone.”
Pilate scanned the bar, looking for a pair of seats together should Val accept his invitation. More people had trickled in, and this section was no longer as empty as before. Everyone seemed paired up, conchs and tourists alike, though the lanky man under the sweat-stained Jimmy Buffet trucker cap nursed a Bud by his lonesome.
Pilate’s phone vibrated again.
“Ok. Tell me again where u are.”
He texted back the info.
“Be there in 20 mins or so. SEE…U R DRINKING WITH A GIRL TONIGHT.”
Pilate chuckled and texted back a laughing face emoji, then put his phone down and drank more of his vodka. He felt excited about seeing Val socially like this, but didn’t really have any assumptions it was anything more than two friends having a drink. He also felt a little guilty, but the vodka was translating that into self-righteousness just fine, thanks. “If she can have coffee with Deadpool McDreamy, I can have a drink with my personal trainer.”
A few moments later, he felt a mild wave of nausea roll over him. “Ugh, not now,” he thought as his bowels cramped up.
“Maybe you should have had the oysters after all,” Simon said.
The cramps came faster and more forcefully; sweat broke out on his forehead. Pilate signaled the bartender. “Hey, I have a friend joining me, can you hold my place here while I go comb my hair?”
The bartender looked annoyed. “What?”
“Just please hold my seat while I go to the can, okay? You have my credit card. My friend, her name is Val. She’s on the way.”
She made a face like she wanted to say an exasperated “Okay!” and moved on to another customer.
Pilate made a beeline for the restroom of death he had wanted to avoid; he could tell that he needed to hurry if he didn’t want to make a mess of himself and the bar. He made it inside; it took only an instant to realize the restroom had been repainted and perhaps even remodeled after the murder there a few years ago. Sure, it was still kind of run-down, but it lacked any sign of the bloodletting he had witnessed.
Blessed with an empty stall, he got there in time to lower his shorts and sit, only to realize he needed to throw up even more. Pilate managed to get back on his feet, pull up his shorts, turn around and vomit. Over and over, his gut spasmed, sending the drinks, fritters, and bile into the toilet.
The sweating and cramps started to subside, but he felt woozy and placed a hand on the cinder block wall. He heard a man’s voice, oddly nasal.
“Hey sir, are you okay?”
“Hmm?” he said, losing his balance a little, trying to exit the stall but his feet kept wanting to twist underneath him. His chest tightened; a roar filled his ears. “I think I’m—"
All went black.
“Wake up, Mister Pilate.”
With great effort, Pilate opened one eye halfway, it was dark and he felt sour, hot breath on his face.
A mild slap on the cheek. “Wake up or it’s strike one.”
Pilate forced his eyes open, taking in a silhouette of a tall figure standing in a doorway.
“Jack? Lindstrom?” he stammered, raising his head off the floor. “You’re dead. I’m not playing this game again. I saw you die.”
“Is that so?”
“I’m not spending one more minute of my life thinking of you, bad hooch or no,” Pilate said. “You’re not real.”
“There’s water in a bottle there, sir,” the voice said. “It’s not Parry-air but it will do.” Honk honk. “We’ll talk later. Get some rest.” The figure stepped out of the doorway and slammed shut a steel door.
Today...Perhaps
From his perspective lying on the floor, the metal room was pitch black, save for a couple of pinholes of light coming through tiny holes drilled in the massive door. The holes were big enough to let in a dim, shadowy light, but not enough air to feel any breeze. He felt clammy; the atmosphere was again oppressive since his captor had slammed the access panel shut a few hours ago. He wished for a pull on his inhaler.
“You really need to work on keeping that guy happy so he doesn’t close that panel in a huff,” Simon said from the corner. Pilate imagined his old friend sitting placidly in the wheelchair, legs crossed, a Playboy on his lap, cigarette in his lips, his face in shadow.
“Definitely wish I had finished that drink instead of painting the wall with it,” Pilate croaked.
“Yes, and now there’s the broken glass to contend with,” Simon said.
Pilate sat up on his elbow, one hand finding the large shard.
“That’s probably as big a piece as is left,” Simon said.
Pilate agreed silently and placed the glass at the head of his sweaty beach towel bed. He tried to make that end of the bed more pillow-like, manipulating the damp fabric into a bump when his hand connected with something that wasn’t broken glass. “What the hell?” It was a smooth, familiar rectangle, about four and half inches long and a few centimeters in diameter. He scooped it up. “No fucking way. My cell phone.”
Pilate instinctively felt for the iPhone home button, and pressed. The screen came to life, a photo of his children beaming at him, along with the date and time: 2:02 a.m. He pressed his thumb into the button, dismissing the lock screen and bringing up his familiar home screen.
“Yes!” Pilate said, dialing 911. The words “No Service” appeared at the top of the screen, and he felt the hope that had begun to break out die a lonely death in his heart.
“Damn it. Of course, there’s no way a signal will get out of this steel box,” he said.
“Yes, well, that seems to be the direction we’re all going,” Simon added. “I guess he did hang on to your wallet though. Maybe he dropped it somewhere nearby too.”
Pilate ignored him and went to his text messages, thanking God he had set the font size larger only last week so that he could make out the text without his readers, which were sitting on his nightstand at the Trevathan cottage. He had five messages. A text from Taters arrived about ten minutes after his last text from Val:
“Hey man, I was out of line. I just told Jordan that I want to see you I’m not a damn child and she can’t tell me who I can play with. See you in a few. Order me a Modelo. I’m fired up.”
The next was from Val:
“Hey, where are you? I’m here.”
She had followed up in five minutes with:
“John, are you around? Asked bartender. She said u not tabbed out. Where R U?”
Ten minutes later, Taters chimed in again:
“I’m chatting with your girlfriend, buddy. She’s pretty cool. Better come back soon before I tell her about your wife. LOL Seriously where you at?
A final text came through from Val twenty minutes later:
“You’re not home. Not at the bar. Are u okay? You have 10 mins to respond or I’m calling the lunk”
“Oh, I hope you did, Val,” Pilate said. He thumbed his keyboard and typed a response to Taters and Val:
“I’m in big trouble! Locked in steel container I think - really hot in here. Crazy guy locked me in no water REALLY HOT. NOT A JOKE. I need HELP NOW. Don’t know where I am. He’s nuts he may abandon me Please don’t let me die in here”
Pilate hit send. In a moment, he received the response:
“Message Send failure. Please check your network connection and try again.”
“Oh goddammit,” Pilate said. “Damn it. Damn it!” he shouted.
“Don’t give up, John. This guy isn’t so smart, leaving you your phone,” Simon soothed.
“He probably didn’t notice I had it. I bet it fell out of my pocket when he dumped me in this goddamned steel sweat lodge.”
“All the same, he’s not careful. And he’s crazy,” Simon said. “The guy likes Buffet and Bud light, after all. We need to be prepared when he returns.”
“Prepared how?” Pilate rolled over on his back.
“Check the battery on the phone, John.”
“42 percent,” he said.
“More than enough. Turn on the flashlight app.”
Pilate found the app and turned it on. The light shocked his eyes. He swung the light’s beam around the container’s grey, corrugated steel walls. Hanging from the ceiling was a cord and a broken light bulb. The floor was clean, save a few dust bunnies in one corner and tiny bits of broken glass from his martini just about everywhere. The wheelchair, despite the evidence of his conversation, was empty. It had served its purpose, to quickly spirit a helpless John Pilate from the Hog’s Snout restaurant to the tall man’s car, then to…wherever the hell this was. The bucket in the other corner was untouched. He looked at every inch of his prison, searching for a way out.
“Nothing,” he said. “Just an empty steel box. I’m really in bad shape here.”
Pilate got off his knees and stood up, shining the light at the walls again, checking out the door and the ledge by the access panel. Again, nothing. He hopped up to reach for the broken light bulb, managing to brush it with his fingertips. He stood underneath, shining the light on it, wondering if there might be a way to weaponize it. He traced the cord from the center of the room to the back where the cord disappeared into a hole.
“What the...” Pilate glimpsed a faded stencil spray painted on the wall just below the hole.
Xtra Keys Self Storage
5027 Suncrest Road
Key West, FL 33040
Pilate's Shadow Page 4