Bad Day in a Banana Hammock

by Stuart R. West

  BAD DAY IN A BANANA HAMMOCK

  Stuart R. West

  Digital ISBNs

  EPUB 9781771458405

  MOBI 9781771458399

  PDF 9781771458412

  Print ISBN 9781771458429

  Copyright 2015 by Stuart R. West

  Cover art by Michelle Lee Copyright 2015

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  *

  Dedication

  This book goes out to my friend, Meradeth Houston, who dared me to write it. So blame her.

  And to my loves, my family, Cydney and Sarah. Like Zach and Zora, together we can do anything.

  Chapter One

  Zach woke up with a slamming headache, the first thing that seemed a little off. But the dead man in bed next to him was way off. No recollection whatsoever how it happened, either.

  Zach’s stomach roiled at the implication.

  But…but I’m not gay!

  Tufts of gray hair stuck up from the dead man’s head, a clown’s perm. His eyes, glassy and milky, locked onto the ceiling. His mouth gaped open, a silent moan of horror. One arm perched over his head and his knuckles grazed the wall. Zach carefully pinched back the sheet.

  Dammit. Yep, naked.

  Revolted, he jumped out of bed, clad in nothing but his banana hammock. Dizziness swooped over him and the floor spun beneath his feet.

  “Whoa.”

  Worn bedsprings crunched as he crashed back onto the bed. The dead man’s hand fell on Zach’s back. Hello, sailor.

  “Crap!” He shot to his feet, steadying himself against the wall.

  Where the hell am I? This can’t be happening!

  The room looked skiffy. A hotel, based on the lack of personal items. Dark and dirty, the way he felt. Dust motes swirled in front of a lone window. A breeze flapped the moth-eaten curtains. Outside, the music of congested traffic played. Beeping horns, shouts, testosterone revved engines. A morning rush hour symphony.

  He didn’t want to look at the man again, not by a long shot. But he couldn’t help himself. He inched the sheet down to the corpse’s waist despite the trembling in his fingers. Two red circles punctured the man’s belly. Bullet holes. Dark blood stained the sheet.

  Gah! I slept in it! But I’m not gay!

  Zach’s stomach swelled. His ab muscles tightened. Bile lit his throat on fire. He clamped a hand over his mouth.

  Where the hell’s the john?

  Across the room, light seeped out below a door. His stomach kicked as he stormed the bathroom. Whatever he had for dinner last night decorated the floor. Nachos, maybe.

  But I don’t eat nachos.

  The thought of the junk-food bucked his gut again. His foot skated through the mess, tossing him forward. He caught the sink, locked his arms around it and thoroughly finished his business. Above the mirror, a light bulb hissed, sizzling like bacon.

  Quit thinking about bacon!

  Another round emptied his stomach. Dry heaves rattled him, tying his taut abs into knots. He looked at his reflection, not a pretty sight. Bloodshot eyes. Sweat matted bed hair. Even his usually carefully maintained five o’clock shadow appeared unkempt, little stubbles of dirt.

  What happened last night? Think, Zach, think!

  His sludge-filled, lazy brain wouldn’t cooperate. The commercial jingle for his favorite teeth whitening product wormed through his thoughts over and over and… EZ Brite makes your teeth clean, EZ Brite gets out the green…

  No! Focus…last thing I remember was killing it at the dance club…

  Something rang a bell in his head, a giant cathedral gong of a bell. It quieted fast, nothing more than a dim memory of a dream.

  He sat on the toilet, his legs shaking. His head throbbed, on par with the worst hangover in history. But he hadn’t over-indulged in years. Wouldn’t do it, his body a temple and all that stuff.

  How did I get here? And I’m not gay!

  Too weak to get up, he reached over, swung open the bathroom door. Looked at the dead guy across the room. Still in bed. Still dead. And still really, really naked.

  Crap.

  Okay, call the cops. Wait. They’ll think I did it. But I didn’t…did I? That’s crazy. I’m not a killer. I’m a male dancer! Damn good one, too.

  Deep breaths. Easy does it. Be cool.

  On sea-faring legs, he climbed off the toilet and stumbled toward the bed. He averted his eyes, darting his head around the room like a frightened gazelle. Anything to avoid looking at the guy and his horrible, accusing eyes. And his three belly buttons.

  Maybe he’s not dead.

  Zach crept toward the bed, praying for a sign of life.

  “Hey…look, guy, you okay?”

  He stuck a shaking hand over the corpse’s face, fingers splayed. Then he changed his mind, nudged him with his elbow instead. Seemed less gross.

  “Mister? Hey…wake up.”

  Nope. Still dead as disco.

  Dammit! This doesn’t happen to me! This can’t happen to me!

  A cool breeze burst in from the open window, goosing his exposed butt cheeks.

  Pants! Where’re my pants?

  Zach gave the room a quick once-over. Nothing. No sign of his clothes. Or the dead man’s either. He dropped to his knees, his cheek to the floor. Too dark to see under the bed. He reached in, swept his arm.

  Tiny legs skittered across his hand. “Ah!” He yanked back, flapping his hand. Nothing under the bed except for critters. Bad enough he had to touch a dead guy.

  No pants. No phone, no wallet, no anything.

  Think!

  EZ Brite, nice and easy, seconds to apply, really breezy…

  Stop it!

  Okay. Stuck in a room, who knows where, with a dead guy. And no clothes. And I know I’m not gay.

  Then he saw the shoes, couldn’t believe he’d missed them earlier. On the dresser next to the dead guy. Not very stylish, boxy old man shoes. But they’d have to do.

  With an eye on the dead man, he quickly snatched the shoes away. No need pissing him off now. Somewhere he’d heard vengeful ghosts don’t like to have their property stolen.

  Now I’m just being stupid. Tend to the matter at hand, worry about gay ghosts with a mad-on later.

  The shoes devoured his feet, way too big. In the bathroom, he padded the extra space with toilet paper. Not a bad make-shift cure. On the way out, he glanced at himself in the mirror. Come to think of it, he didn’t look all that bad. He struck a pose, arms in front, muscles tensed. One for the ladies.

  I still got it. Even when I feel like crap.

  A quick wink at his reflection and he left the bathroom. Wearing only his banana hammock and old guy shoes. All he had except for his wits.

  First…where am I?

  He pulled the billowing curtain aside. The familiar skyline of downtown Kansas City greeted him, a horizon of buildings. An old-fashioned fire-escape ran down the side of the building, the metal stairs rusted into a sunset orange. Clearly an old hotel on the outskirts of downtown.

  Bang, bam, bang!

  The pounding on the door shoved his heart into his throat. He jolted upright, straight into the window-frame. Crack. Pain seared across the back of his head. Small lightning bugs danced before him, then cleared the room. Like he had to do.

  Bang, bang, bam!

  “Open up. KCMO police.”

  I can’t get busted! Someone with my looks wil
l never last a day in prison!

  Zach didn’t even think about it. He climbed out the window on autopilot.

  Clang!

  The fire escape shook, rattling like an oncoming locomotive. Behind him, fists pounded on the door and voices shouted.

  “Open the door now!”

  Zach raced down the stairs, pivoted at a landing to the next flight. His shoes clopped, the heels lifting and dropping, his toes straining to keep them on. Three flights down, two to go. A Riverdance of footsteps poured into the room upstairs. Panicked voices. A woman screaming.

  He slowed on the last flight and tiptoed. Maybe they wouldn’t hear him. Or look out the window. Once he hit the alley, the sound of a squawking police radio drifted down, urgently static.

  Zach stumbled down the alley, the shoes slowing his progress. He lifted his legs high, shuffling the shoes in a ridiculous parade march. Sunlight illuminated a street ahead, a beacon to freedom.

  Then what? I can’t run through the downtown streets in my thong.

  Next to a dumpster, he stopped. He only had minutes, if that. Time enough for a quick dumpster dive for something to wear.

  Runch, spak. The dumpster lid hit the brick wall, way too loud. Zach clenched his teeth, looked behind him.

  “Hey! What’re you doin’?”

  Zach froze. He couldn’t see the source of the voice. Maybe the dead guy’s ghost already haunted him.

  “Leave my stuff alone!”

  No, not a ghost. A woman’s voice. With his hand still on the lid, Zach peered behind the dumpster. A woman lay beneath cardboard boxes, a grocery cart full of clothing and junk next to her. Using the wall as a crutch, she climbed to her feet. A gloved finger jabbed out.

  “What’re you doin’ in my dumpster?”

  “Ah, sorry, ma’am.” Zach strapped on his million-dollar smile. “Didn’t know this was your turf. But, as you can see by my wardrobe…” He flourished his hands over his torso. “…I’m kinda in a bad way. Just wonderin’ if I could borrow something to wear?”

  “Hah!” She squinted, a distaff Popeye look. Or maybe she only had one eye, Zach couldn’t tell for sure since she never released the squint. “You ain’t homeless. Homeless boys don’t got muscles like that!”

  “Shh! Please keep your voice down. Can you help me out? Please?”

  Fsk, fsk, fsk. She rubbed her chin, her whiskers rivaling Zach’s five o’clock shadow. “How much it worth to you, sonny boy?”

  “What? Look…I don’t have any money on me…”

  “Then whaddaya got to offer?”

  Crap. I don’t have time to bargain. “I…uh…can dance for you. Maybe?”

  She doubled over, screaming. Going into a seizure, Zach thought. When she straightened, though, tears of laughter moistened her good, open eye. “What kinda dumb-ass you take me for? A dance? What’re you some kind of pervert or somethin’?”

  “No, ma’am. I’m…a male dancer.” Zach eyed her cart, planning his move. Surely she wouldn’t miss one item of clothing. Add it to his quickly growing list of crimes.

  “A stripper?”

  “No…a male dancer. We prefer to be called—” It’d take too long to explain the important difference to a grocery cart lady.

  Taking a cue from the bag lady, Zach squinted and pointed down the alley. “Hey, what’s that?”

  “What? Where?” When the woman turned, Zach snatched the top piece of clothing and dashed toward the street.

  “Hey! Dammit! Stop!” The woman’s already impressive vocal chords hit a new high. Her screams bounced off the brick walls, a chorus of bag ladies. “I been robbed! Help! Thief!”

  Zach didn’t slow. He unfolded his stolen treasure as he ran. A short fur coat, clearly faux. He thrust an arm into one sleeve, swung it over his shoulders, and hooked his other arm through it. It provided little coverage, leaving his midriff and thong exposed. Better than nothing. His arms pumped as he hopped over discarded syringes and broken glass. One shoe finally gave out, staying behind. Near the end of the alley, he hopped on one leg. Behind him, footfalls clanged down the fire escape. A volley of voices lifted, shouting.

  “Stop!”

  Zach barreled into the street, skidding to a halt on the sidewalk. Blocks away, a siren screamed. Red and blue cherries spun in the distance, coming his way. Business men and women stopped to gawp at him. A woman dropped her cell phone and gasped. For once, Zach really didn’t enjoy an audience.

  “Just go about your stuff, ladies and gentlemen.” Placating hands went up. Zach put on a serious yet gentle face, one meant to say, I’m harmless. Please ignore me. Sorta hard to do when you’re standing downtown in a sexy golden thong, a fur coat and one shoe.

  A car horn blared. The cop car stuck in rush-hour traffic. Footfalls crunched over broken glass in the alley at his back. Coming his way.

  Nowhere to hide. Can’t blend in.

  A cab! Across the street. Suddenly self-conscious, Zach clamped his hands over his butt cheeks and scurried through the traffic. Tires screeched beside him. Chang! Bumper met bumper. One driver hauled out of his dented car and ran toward the other driver, busy screaming and punching at the sky.

  Yeah! Get your mad on, guys! Give the crowd something to look at besides me!

  Zach slid into the taxi’s backseat.

  Behind the steering wheel, the cabbie was contemplating a breakfast burrito. Zach sunk down low. “Hi. Can you take me to Overland Park?” The only place he could go. The only person who could help him, the person who always helped him.

  The cabbie peered into his mirror and dropped the burrito. He gave Zach a long look before pronouncing judgment.

  “A little early for Halloween, boss.”

  Zach looked ridiculous, no doubt about it. He really, really hoped no one had their phones out, shooting his posterior for posterity. “Long story and a bad morning.”

  Zach peeked over the back of the seat. Several cops milled about the fender bender, pointing fingers and issuing orders. The bag lady joined the fracas, hassling one of the cops. One policeman tilted his hat back and stared at Zach through the windshield with “lock him up and throw away the keys” eyes. Zach yelped and flattened on the seat.

  “Cops lookin’ for you, kid?”

  “No! What makes you think that?” Zach’s desperate laugh sounded like a chicken’s hiccup. “Let’s just go, ‘kay?”

  The cabbie sighed. “Don’t look to me like you got any cash on you.” He took a bite out of his burrito. Crumbs flaked away, dotting his beard.

  “I’ll give you anything. Whatever you want! Just get me outta here. I swear I didn’t do anything illegal! How ‘bout…I let you in free for a month at my club?”

  “Oh? You own a club?”

  “Well, no…I perform there.”

  “Wait…you a stripper, for God’s sake?”

  Again with the nasty labels and prejudice. Male dancers continually fought an uphill battle. Still, no time to fight, just retreat. “Whatever, yeah.”

  “Why in hell I wanna go to a male strip club? I ain’t gay.”

  “Neither am I! Wait…you got a wife? I’ll give her free passes!”

  The cabbie chortled, burped, and wiped his mouth. “You think I want her lookin’ at you guys? No way. Sorry.” He slammed up his meter flag. “Out.”

  “Okay, okay, fine. You take me to my sister’s in OP and she’ll pay you double.”

  Like the window in an old cash register, the driver’s eyes lit up, practically dinging. “For real?”

  “Yeah, my word’s solid, brah. Just…get me out of here! Now!”

  “Deal. Better not be welching on me.”

  “I’m not…please, can we go? Fast?”

  “Fast is my middle name.” He chunked the gear in drive, flipped the flag down. Lurched into the street, leaving a small token of rubber behind.

  Zach stayed low and held his breath. They waited for an eternity at a stoplight. Zach poked his head up and risked another look back. The cops had their hands fu
ll with the jammed up traffic. And the dead guy in the hotel room.

  The car leaped forward, along with Zach’s stomach. Probably the only way the cabbie knew how to drive. Zach closed his eyes, trying to find his inner core. With his ringing head and his frazzled half thoughts, no amount of meditation helped. Instead, he found the EZ Brite jingle again. Or, rather, it found him. His damn new mantra. He loosened the beast, singing under his breath.

  “…makes your smile white and purty, open wide and bring on the flirty—”

  “Hey! You singin’ that EZ Brite song?”

  “Um…yeah.”

  “I love that song!”

  Chapter Two

  Zora stared into the dryer, stuck in the deep knee bend of advanced pregnancy. Unable to get up. Of course that’s when the doorbell rang, the way it always seems to happen. Her knees wobbled, unsteady, threatening to dump her over. In her condition, she felt less than athletic.

  “I’ll get it,” screamed Nikki, her six year old. Always ready to open the door to strangers, but can’t open and shut a clothes dryer. Maybe if Zora installed a TV above it.

  By the time Zora rolled onto her side and negotiated the six-point maneuver necessary to get to her knees, the real screaming started.

  Nikki. Justin caterwauled alongside her.

  Eight months pregnant or not, Zora bounced to her feet.

  Hold on, kids! Mom’s coming to the rescue!

  She looked hurriedly around for the closest potential weapon and grabbed a bottle of stain remover. Hey! Any old port in a storm! Bottle in hand, she hustled down the hallway.

  Nikki stood in the open doorway, still yelling at the top of her lungs. Her hands were fastened over her four year old brother’s eyes, not so much his screaming mouth. Zora took one look over her daughter’s head and joined the line-up, her hands slapping down over Nikki’s eyes. Figures. Zora’s brother Zach stood outside wearing nothing but a fur coat, a golden thong and a stupid, shameless grin.

  “What in the…what now, Zach?” She turned her linked entourage away, shushing them.

  “Oh my God, Zora, you’ve gotta help me! I’ve had the worst day! My wallet and phone and pants are missing, and I’m not gay, and I woke up next to a dead guy, and I just spent 45 minutes singing the EZ Brite song with a cab-driver, and he can’t sing at all, and—”