dog island

by Mike Stewart

  “Who is it?”

  “He just said somebody with information about Purcell. Call him, okay?”

  I said, “okay,” and ended the call.

  A recorded female voice full of misplaced emphasis told me the cellular customer I was calling was unavailable. I looked around some and tried Joey’s number again with the same result. I walked back along manicured, sandy paths to Susan and Loutie and the rented house with the canary door.

  Long morning. Loutie listened to Purcell listen to ESPN; Susan read the complimentary copy of USA Today she had found on our steps that morning; and, between unsuccessful attempts to return Joey’s call, I glanced at whatever pages Susan wasn’t reading. I was absentmindedly looking at a four-color pie chart with a line of Zorro masks next to it—something about crime going down—when the phone rang.

  Joey sounded excited. He had been tailing the guy he wanted me to meet, trying to decide whether the man really wanted to talk or maybe just wanted to do us bodily harm.

  I asked, “So, what do you think?”

  I could hear Joey’s radio playing softly as he spoke. “I think we ought to meet with him. Coosa—the cop in Panama City I’ve been working with—says he’s okay. I mean, he’s a fucking snitch, which means he’s basically human shit, but, for a snitch, he’s okay.”

  “How’d you find out about him?”

  “Like I said. Coosa. I guess he figured we weren’t getting much for our money, so he just called me up and gave me the guy’s name and address and stuff.”

  Joey was happier about this than I was. I asked, “Does that seem strange to you?”

  “Yeah, a little.”

  “But you still want to meet with him?”

  “Sure. It’s better than sitting around waiting. And the only trap I’m worried about is one I don’t see coming. I figure we’re gonna learn something whatever happens. The boy’s either gonna tell us something useful ‘cause he wants to or ‘cause we make him. Doesn’t make much difference to me.”

  I said, “You do know that you’re not actually immortal?”

  “Mother’s Milk at ten tonight.”

  “Mother’s Milk?”

  He repeated, “Mother’s Milk,” and hung up.

  chapter eighteen

  Mother’s Milk was a cinder-block edifice deposited on a stretch of stunted timberland north of Apalachicola. A mercury light hanging from a tall creosote post cast an ugly bluish illumination across the parking lot where, days before, Joey had relieved Haycock and his accomplice of the tools of their trade. Halfway down the light post, the proprietor had suspended a Coca-Cola sign—the kind country stores get for free—with the bar’s name painted in green across a lighted white panel. I pulled into the lot and found a place among the pickups, Z-28’s, and Firebirds.

  As I clicked off the headlights on my newly rented Bonneville, Joey startled me by tapping loudly on the passenger window. I jumped hard enough to bang my knee on the steering wheel.

  I popped the locks, and Joey climbed into the passenger seat. He said, “You’re early.” “Wasn’t sure I’d be able to find it.” Joey nodded at Mother’s Milk. “Pretty, isn’t it?” The rusted metal roof drooped, and once-white paint had flaked off the concrete exterior in irregular patches, revealing a soiled pea-soup color. In addition to the lighted Cola-Cola sign hanging from the light post, the bar’s name had been painted in red script across the front wall, which bore the pockmarks of a hundred rifle and pistol shots fired over the years from passing cars.

  I said, “It looks like a good place to get killed.”

  Joey looked thoughtful. “I don’t guess we’d be the first.”

  “You think that’s a possibility?”

  “Hell, it’s always a possibility. It’s a possibility you’re gonna get creamed crossing the road. It’s a possibility you’re gonna catch a cramp one of these days while you’re out swimming in Mobile Bay.”

  “Yeah.” I said, “That’s just what I wanted. I wasn’t worried about somebody sticking a knife in me tonight. I wanted to have a philosophical discussion about life’s inherent uncertainties.”

  “Just trying to put things in perspective.” He looked over at me. “You ready to go?”

  “Yeah. But, before we go in, mind if I ask why you chose this particular establishment?”

  “I didn’t. The snitch—Squirley McCall—he picked it.”

  I smiled. “Squirley?”

  “And Detective Coosa says it fits him like his momma knew he was gonna grow up to be a snitch. Anyway, he wanted to meet here. I guess it’s his usual watering hole.”

  “So I guess he’ll have some buddies around in case something goes wrong.”

  Joey shook his head. “Snitching ain’t a team sport. Boy’s taking his life in his hands every time he sells some information. So I don’t think we gotta worry about him having backup. He probably just wants lots of people around.” Joey reached over and put his hand on his door release. “You ready?”

  I stepped out onto the dirt parking lot. Joey led the way as we mounted the small porch and walked in through the open front door.

  At six foot six and two hundred forty pounds, Joey is used to other men getting out of his way, and that’s what they did as we entered the bar. Unfortunately, I’m not quite so intimidating a presence. And, as I stepped inside, a patron with a black, mountain-man beard, a yellow Caterpillar cap, and rolls of cellulite hanging from his exposed underarms put a hand across the little entry hall, blocking my way.

  “You haven’t paid the cover charge.”

  I looked at him. “My friend didn’t pay either. Neither did the two people ahead of us.”

  The cellulite mountain man smiled and looked around to make sure his buddies were watching. “Shit. I guess they snuck in when I wasn’t looking.” He tried to mock my voice. “Let’s see that’s two people ahead of you, your friend, and you.” He cut his eyes back to check out the appreciative laughter of his friends. “I guess you’re gonna have to pay for all of ‘em. Let’s see. It’s a ten-dollar cover. Ain’t that right, Louis?”

  One of his buddies laughed and said, “Hell, Jimbo, I believe it was twenty.”

  Jimbo said, “Naw. That’d be greedy. Tell you what. You just make it a even twenty for you and your boyfriend there.”

  I could see Joey over Jimbo’s shoulder. He caught my eye, and I shook my head. I said, “Excuse me,” and pushed Jimbo’s arm out of the way.

  Jimbo didn’t know when to quit. He grabbed the front of my shirt and said, “Goddamnit, boy. Don’t put your fucking hands on me.”

  I brought my right hand up fast, clamped his trachea between my thumb and fingers, and shoved him hard into the wall. Jimbo hit with a thud and lost balance. I pinned him to the wall by jamming my fingers into his chubby neck and squeezing hard enough to make him wheeze and squeak trying to breathe. I heard cussing and caught movement out of the corner of my eye as his friends started to move forward.

  Joey stepped in front of them, and cussing turned to mumbling.

  I looked into Jimbo’s eyes. He let go of my shirt and aimed his right fist at my head. I blocked the punch by spearing his forearm with my left elbow and slapped him hard across his ear in the same motion. A high-pitched squeal came through his pinched throat.

  I said, “You want some more of this?”

  He shook his head, and I let go. Jimbo staggered out onto the small porch holding his throat. I stepped outside and spoke quietly to him, then came inside and walked with Joey to a small table covered in plastic with wood grain printed on it.

  When we were seated, Joey said, “What’d you tell him outside?”

  “That he asked for it, and embarrassed is better than dead.”

  “You be a dangerous man, huh?”

  “Actually, I’m pretty much full of shit. But Jimbo doesn’t know it. Or, at least, I don’t think he does—choking makes you feel pretty helpless. Anyway, I was just trying to keep him from waiting for me out in the p
arking lot with a gun.”

  “He may do it anyhow.”

  I said, “Yeah, well, you can get killed crossing the street.”

  “Wish I’d said that.” Joey said, “You know why he messed with you, don’t you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You got on a diving watch costs more than most of these boys make in a month. Polo shirt and L. L. Bean khakis. You were asking for it.”

  “I believe I told you that I knew why he did it.”

  “Just making sure.”

  We were sitting in the back right corner, well away from the plywood bar that ran half the length of the wall on the left side of the room. A spring training game out of South Florida flickered bright green across the televison behind the bartender. Next to the TV, a Playboy centerfold that someone had blown up into a poster stretched four feet across the pressed-paneling wall. As our eyes adjusted, we could see a sampling of thirty or forty other centerfolds from the past thirty years taped to the walls, and, on the backs of the draft beer taps, the owner had glued a series of life-sized plastic breasts.

  I pointed at the plastic boobs and said, “Mother’s Milk.”

  Joey said, “Lot of thought went into that.”

  I nodded.

  Joey looked around the room. “Something else I was thinking about. There aren’t a hell of a lot of bars where you can half choke a man to death at the front door and nobody seems to notice.”

  “Probably happens too much to worry about.”

  “Probably.”

  A dishwater blonde came over and asked what we wanted. We said we wanted beer, and she went away.

  I said, “I guess you don’t see Squirley.”

  “Nope. Told him to look for me.”

  “You stand out in a crowd.”

  Joey nodded.

  I had been studying the centerfold for March ‘77, trying to decide what she probably looked like twenty years later. The waitress brought our beer, and I drank some.

  Joey said, “You notice on these centerfolds how the old ones were photographed without any nookie showing. Then they started showing it. Then they started shaving the stuff they started showing. It’s like we thought we wanted to see it, but we really didn’t.”

  I closed my eyes and rubbed the bridge of my nose.

  I heard a new voice. “Joey?”

  I looked up at a man standing next to our table.

  Joey said, “Squirley. Sit down and have a beer.”

  The man nodded his head by repeating a birdlike ducking motion, like someone trying to swallow peanut butter.

  I noticed that Squirley wobbled a little as he sat. I also noted that he hadn’t been squandering his hard-earned snitch income on soap or razor blades.

  Joey looked irritated. “You already drunk?”

  “Working on it.” He held up his hand and snapped his fingers at the waitress. She flipped him a bird and walked to the bar. Squirley jerked his thumb at me. “Who’s zis?”

  “I’m Tom.”

  “You buying, Tom?”

  I said, “Sure,” and motioned to the waitress.

  She came over with a fresh beer balanced on her tray. “Somebody gonna pay for this? I ain’t giving it to him till somebody pays for it.”

  I put three ones on her tray, and she put the glass in front of Squirley. He drank half of it and said, “I don’t usually do business here.”

  Joey said, “You picked it.”

  Squirley nodded gravely and drank the rest of his beer. “Gimme another three. I’ll just get me one more beer, and we’ll go outside and talk.”

  I looked at Joey. He nodded, and I counted out three ones. Squirley McCall gathered them up and wove his way to the bar, where he pushed his way roughly through a small group of Latino men. Squirley waved at the bartender, who pretended not to see him. Squirley almost shouted. “I got the goddamn money. Gimme a beer, Leonard. I say I got your goddamn money.”

  Joey sighed.

  When Squirley finally got his draft, he turned his back to the bar and leaned one elbow on the edge while he took in the first gulp. He looked around at the small band of Latino patrons and said, “Lucy, you got some splaining to do,” and began to laugh uncontrollably. One of the men said something I couldn’t hear. Squirley grinned and said, “How do you get 148 Cubans in a shoe box? Tell ‘em it floats.” And he laughed so hard he gave himself hiccups.

  I decided to go fetch our snitch while there was still enough left of him to snitch with. As I stepped through the men Squirley had just insulted, I said, “Excuse me,” and grabbed one of his arms.

  One of the men stepped in front of Squirley. “We are not Cuban. We are Peruvian. Not everyone who lives south of this country is from the same place.”

  Squirley smiled. “Who gives a fuck?”

  The man turned to me. “Does your friend want to have his heart cut out?”

  “He’s not my friend.”

  “He should leave.”

  I said, “Sounds about right.”

  Joey had wandered over in case my rescue of Squirley turned into a war. Now he grabbed the snitch’s other arm and we started for the front door.

  Squirley said, “Other way. Other way. Go out back and talk.”

  Joey looked at me. I said, “Guess he’s got his reasons,” and gently steered him as he staggered to a doorway in the back wall and then led us through a filthy kitchen and out a back door. Once outside, Squirley walked over and leaned against a particularly foul-smelling Dumpster.

  Joey looked disgusted.

  I said, “You really think this idiot knows something?”

  Joey shook his head. “You never know. Almost every snitch is a drunk or a junkie or both. You pretty much gotta find somebody who’ll sell out his friends for fifty bucks if you want information, and that usually means somebody who needs a bottle or a fix.” He motioned at Squirley with his hand. “That, unfortunately, is your basic professional snitch.”

  “But who would tell that dumbass anything?”

  Joey said, “I don’t know. But Coosa says he’s pretty reliable.”

  Squirley perked up. “I can hear you talkin’. You don’t want help? Fine. Fuck off. I got better stuff to do.” Joey and I walked over and stood in front of Squirley. He was still mad about being hauled out of the bar in front of the Peruvians. “Bunch of fucking Ricky Ricardo spic assholes. Buying up the whole fucking coast. Motherfuckers coming up here outta South Florida. Already ruined it down there for real Americans, and, much as I care, they’re welcome to it. Fucking Margaritaville. We don’t need that shit up here.”

  I said, “Who’s buying up the coast?”

  Squirley seemed to sober up a little. He shifted his eyes from side to side, checking for spies, signaling that he was about to impart confidential information. He said, “I’m gonna tell you, just to let you know that old Squirley knows what he’s talkin’ about, you know, that old Squirley got his finger on the place.”

  His breath fogged the air between us, competing with the Dumpster’s aroma—stench layered on stench. I nodded encouragingly.

  “There’s a buncha rich cigar spics, call themselves ‘Pro-Am,’ like that golf show. They own all kinda shit around here. Houses, boats, some of the businesses in town. Most people don’t know that shit.”

  Joey said, “They got a leader?”

  “I guess they do. Don’t know many names, though.”

  Joey just looked at him.

  Squirley seemed to shrink a little inside his skin. His husky, alcoholic voice cracked when he said, “I thought you was bringin’ some money.” Joey handed him a twenty. Squirley turned it over in his fingers, examining both sides like he wasn’t used to dealing in such small denominations. “Not much.”

  I said, “That’s just for starters. To see if you know anything worth paying for.”

  Squirley raised his eyebrows, dropped open his mouth, and held his palms in the air with the twenty protruding from trembling fingertips. He tried to look hurt, to look put-upon. Th
e snitch said, “You called me. So you know…”

  Joey said, “Give us the fucking name.”

  Squirley stopped to think. As he did, he popped the knuckles of his right hand, one at a time, snatching them with his thumb. “Martillo is one.” He pronounced it Marr-til-oh. “And another one I heard is something like Carpet Hero, but I think that one’s a nickname.”

  Joey sounded disgusted. “Yeah. I bet that’s it.”

  Squirley looked at us and blinked puffy, bloodshot eyes.

  I said, “What’s Leroy Purcell doing down here?”

  He grinned. “You know a little somethin’, don’t you? I’ll tell you what Leroy’s doin’. He’s pissin’ in the wrong pond. That’s what he’s doin’. And I reckon you know he’s the one brought the spics in here.”

  I asked, “Whose pond is this down here?”

  “Well, you see, that ain’t exactly clear.”

  Joey said, “What’s that mean?”

  “Could mean lotsa things, couldn’t it? I reckon it mostly means I wanna see some more green before I tell you what it means.”

  I said, “A hundred. If we don’t already know what you know.”

  “I don’t do business like that. You hand over the goddamn money…”

  Joey stepped forward and hit Squirley with an open right, and the putrid little bigot spun and hit the wall behind him face first. He hung there a moment, as if hurt or dazed. Joey’s .45 auto appeared, and my giant friend pressed the muzzle behind Squirley’s left ear.

  I jumped. “Whoa, Joey…”

  Joey kept looking at our drunken snitch. “Drop the knife.” Squirley hesitated, and Joey cocked the hammer on his Colt.

  Slowly, the drunk’s right hand moved out from the space between his stomach and the wall. It held a hunting knife with a six-inch blade. Squirley lifted his blade to the side and dropped it in the gravel.

  Joey said, “Put your hands on the wall and spread ‘em. That’s right. You’ve done it before.”

  Joey patted him down and told him to turn around.

  Squirley looked scared. He said, “Do I still get the hundred?”

  Joey shook his head and laughed.

  I said, “Tell us what you know.”