Lowcountry Punch

by Benjamin Blackmore

  “I came down here for business.” He was holding the hand with the broken finger.

  “Now you know how I handle my business.” I pointed at his injured hand. “You want me to fix that finger?”

  He didn’t know whether to accept or not.

  “Like you said, it’s just business. Get up and I’ll fix your finger. I’ve had plenty of those.”

  He took my hand with his good one, and I helped him up. I picked the gun up off the floor and took the bucket of chicken off the table, and we went into the kitchen. I made sure the chamber was empty and then removed the clip from the Colt, sticking it in my pocket. I set the gun on the counter.

  I took his hand and examined the break. It wasn’t bad enough to need surgery. Without warning him, I pressed the broken finger between both palms and snapped it back into place. He took it well. Using the handle of a spoon and masking tape, I created a splint. I happened to have one ice pack in the freezer. “I guess you get this,” I said, handing it to him. I touched my cheek where he had hit me. “You’ve got a nice right, though. I can vouch for that.”

  He was in utter shock. I don’t think he had ever had his ass beaten before. I started to feel bad, so I took the bucket of chicken off the table and lifted the lid. “Hungry?” I offered.

  At a loss, Ronnie reached in with his good hand and pulled out a drumstick. The little boy who got his pants pulled down at recess took a bite.

  “There you go,” I said. “It’s good poultry.” I nearly patted him on the head like a puppy dog. I pulled out a wing myself and set the bucket back on the table. Before I took a bite, I said, “I apologize for that. I went a bit overboard. After tonight, we’re friends.”

  We went into the living room, and he picked up a framed picture of my family and me from a trip to Disney when I was sixteen. When you first go deep, it’s strange to include your personal life, like the true stories and pictures of your family, but you have to get used to it. I would never use the pictures if there was any danger posed to my mother or brother, Will. I’d brought a few things from home, so the house was properly stocked. If he’d looked in the refrigerator, he would have found jars half full of artichoke relish and pickles. Under the bathroom sink, used cleaning products.

  Ronnie started to ask me things, going through some of the same questions Jack had at Poe’s, and I answered them accurately. We moved into the next room, a room I had set up to be my home office. Our backstopping diligence was paying off by the second. He sat in the swivel chair at the desk and opened the file drawer, thumbing through the phony files we had created.

  He picked up a stack of mutual fund brochures and flipped through them. The brochures were Baroni’s idea—he had called some funds he found online and they mailed them to us. If Ronnie had looked further, he would have found false tax documents, more client files on the computer, and false e-mail communications with my bogus clients. He picked up a business card off the stack that read Moody Investments, LLC. “You mind?”

  “Go for it.”

  He stuck the card in the pocket of his linen shirt. “How about upstairs?”

  “Sure. Follow me.” We were about to find out if my good habits were better than my memory. If that file was on the bed—game over.

  It was all good, though. I’d hidden it behind books on the shelf. Good habits are vital to this business. Satisfied with the bedroom, he skipped the bathroom and we were through in less than ten minutes.

  We didn’t shake hands as he left. I gave him his gun back without the bullets and told him I’d see him in a few days back north. Then I watched him disappear down the sidewalk into the dark cloak of the Savannah night. Despite a few challenges, I was on my way to breaking through.

  16

  Later that night, I was watching ESPN with my feet propped up on the coffee table when Kado called. I’d gone through four Pacifico’s since Ronnie left.

  “Jack’s bringing some in tomorrow,” Kado told me.

  “How’s it going down?”

  “He doesn’t want you coming to the cabin. Not yet. He said he’d pay me a delivery fee to take you your share. I didn’t push. Once he trusts you, things will change. With as much weight as you’re buying, he’d rather sell to you directly. Cut me out. You’ll be his third runner.”

  “That’s exactly what I want. I want to work for him.” Jack continued to impress me with his cautious moves. “What time are you meeting him?”

  “Four. We’ll spend about two hours cutting and then I’ll head your way.”

  “Did he mention Ronnie coming to see me?”

  “What? Ronnie went down to Savannah?”

  “Yeah, not too long ago. No big deal.”

  “Jack did say he checked you out. Said it all looks good. I told you he’d be careful.”

  “Nothing I haven’t seen before.”

  “He invited you to go fishing with him Saturday. That’s a start. He said the boat leaves at 4:30 a.m., if you’re interested.”

  “You going?”

  “No. He understands. I’ll be up at the restaurant until two or three cleaning up from the night before. I never go fishing with him. Ronnie will be there, though. I don’t know who else.”

  “Got it. I’ll be there.”

  I shot Baroni a text letting him know that Jack was making some sort of move between now and then. If we were correct, he’d be driving to Atlanta first thing in the morning, picking up the powder, and then going straight to the cabin. We’d installed a GPS transmitter near the engine of his Land Rover, so following him wouldn’t be a problem.

  But, as I found out around noon the next day, finding Jack’s source wasn’t going to be that easy. Jack did go to Atlanta, but parked his car in the crowded Lenox Square parking lot, then disappeared with a backpack into the mall. Our team, working with agents from the Atlanta office, lost him. He showed up back at the car an hour later with two bags and drove straight to his cabin in McClellanville. We were no more the wiser, save the confirmation that he was picking up his coke in Atlanta.

  Later that day, I drove up to Charleston to meet Kado in a Wal-Mart parking lot. He climbed into my truck with a grocery bag and pulled out two kilos. In exchange, I gave him sixty grand in clean bills, which he would have to give to Jack. Hopefully, we would recoup it at the end of the operation. After a little encouragement and praise, I drove away, knowing Kado still had his share of the coke. We had a GPS transmitter in his car, and part of Baroni’s surveillance team would follow him as he delivered. Kado had already given us the names of his buyers, so we just needed audio and visual evidence to support his testimony. Teams were following Jack and Ronnie as well. We’d have a big fat list of buyers soon.

  I met Chester a mile away. He took the cocaine to book into evidence at the police station. He did his best to convince me that going fishing with Jack wasn’t safe. I told him the only way we were going to get anywhere was if Jack and I became friends. I needed to spend time with him. If Jack kept using Kado as a middleman, we’d never find the sources.

  Then, despite the voice telling me it wasn’t a good idea, I went downtown to meet Liz.

  I pushed open an ancient iron gate, clearing a path through lush flora obstructing the walkway in front of me. Two blocks from the Market in downtown Charleston, and I was in the middle of nowhere, only the moon lighting my way. After thirty feet, the garden opened up, revealing four small apartments overlooking a saltwater pool fortified by a tall stone wall. Flowers and plants hung from their hooks and patio furniture was scattered about.

  Liz’s head rose out of the water. She was alone. I kicked off my flip-flops, peeled off my shirt, and stepped down into the warm water. She met me on the last step and wrapped her arms and legs around me. “You finally came to see me.”

  “I missed you.”

  “Me, too.” We kissed and drifted in silence a while, holding each other, basking in our reunion.

  “What time are you fishing in the morning?”

  “I have to be at P
atriot’s Point at 4:30 a.m.”

  “Who are you going with?”

  “Just some clients. Can I ask you something?”

  “Depends.”

  “Something I’ve been thinking about. What makes you so good? I mean, of all the artists out there, how did you become so famous? How do you stand out?”

  “You don’t think I have some talent?” she asked jokingly.

  “You know what I mean. How does any artist compete these days?”

  “My second year at NYU, a few of us had a show at the Rosenberg Gallery at NYU. A really big critic happened to see one of my paintings, and it made her cry. She wrote about it the next day in the Times.”

  “And that was it?”

  “That was it.”

  After drying off, we took a long walk through downtown. With each step, I fell deeper and deeper under her spell. I wasn’t sure I could ever leave Liz or Charleston.

  We came across an entrance to a park, its open gate beckoning. Several monuments stood among the thick grass and proud oaks. We held hands and walked up to each one. One paid tribute to Andrew Jackson’s mother, Elizabeth. She died in Charleston from cholera, a disease she contracted while nursing Continental soldiers on a prison ship during the Revolutionary War.

  A stone pillar standing at the far side of the park displayed a bust of a man bearing a bushy mustache. I was drawn to him. I read his name and blurted out, “Hey, I know this guy…Henry Timrod, the poet.”

  Liz tuned in, smiling. “You just like the ‘stache.”

  “No…I really do know him.” I told her how I’d recently read an article discussing Bob Dylan’s fascination with Henry Timrod. In his album Modern Times, Dylan sampled some of Timrod’s poems in the lyrics. Some critics accused him of plagiarism, but it wasn’t that at all. Dylan had always taken ideas from people, from F. Scott Fitzgerald to the Bible. He called it “conjuring:” having conversations with the dead and sharing with the artists of another time. Liz knew exactly what I meant.

  Later that night, after we’d returned from our walk and climbed back into the pool, all the lies finally got to me. I felt compelled to confess.

  “There’s something I have to tell you,” I said, “and I don’t know how you’re gonna take it.”

  Liz met me in the center of the pool. Only the two bulbs in the floor of the pool lit the water and the darkness.

  “You sound so serious,” she said.

  “I am. I’ve been debating this for a while.”

  “No turning back now.”

  “I Googled you a couple days after we met.”

  “That’s your secret?” She bonked me on the head.

  “Yes, and I’m completely embarrassed about it. I needed your number.”

  She kissed me. I think she liked that I’d Googled her. “That’s so sweet.”

  “Did you know you have your own Wikipedia page?”

  “Yes.” She made fun of me for a while, and we talked about the day we met. I brought up Andy Warhol, and her eyes lit up.

  “He’s a genius,” she said. “He did a series of screen prints that I love…all endangered animals. I wish I could show you a picture right now. There’s one of an orangutan. He has a big purple and white beard—you know, classic Warhol—and he has these round, sad, blue eyes and if you really look at him, it’s almost like he’s saying good-bye, the last of his species signing off.” She talked more about Warhol and others she loved: Jackson Pollack, Larry Poons, and Julian Schnabel, and then her time spent with Hedda Stern, the woman who had mastered so many mediums.

  We held each other in the cool water under the moon. Then we went inside. Liz put on Neil Diamond and we danced our way to the bedroom.

  A sudden rap on the door stopped us short.

  “Who could that be?” I asked, amazed at the timing.

  “I have no idea.”

  “Let’s pretend like we don’t hear it.”

  She kissed me. “Okay.”

  Another knock, this time louder. More followed. Then, “Liz! Liz! I need to talk to you.” It was the muffled voice of a man. He beat on the door again.

  “Oooooh, God.”

  “Who is it?”

  “You don’t wanna know.”

  We both hopped out of bed. “I’ll take care of him,” I said. This guy had done enough. I could tell he scared her. I decided to make it perfectly clear how he fit into her life: not at all. I pulled on my shorts and headed to the door. I was happy to put him in his place.

  More knocks and yelling.

  “T.A.,” she whispered. “Stop.”

  I did and turned to look at her. My fists were clenched.

  “Let me take care of it.” She began buttoning her shirt. “I’ll send him home.”

  He beat on the door again, five times in rapid succession. Liz kissed me. “He’s drunk. I’ll deal with it. I don’t want him to know you’re here. It will just make it worse. He’s dangerous. You don’t understand.” For a second, I thought she was going to cry.

  “Then let me take care of him.”

  “No.” She wasn’t going to argue.

  “All right. I’ll be right here. Say my name and I’ll be there.”

  “I know you will.” She squeezed my arm and went to answer the door.

  I looked around for good weapons. Not that I would need one, but it’s good to survey the area. Not only to know what I can put my hands on, but also to know what he can. If paintbrushes and paint and canvases were weapons, I could have stormed Normandy. Apart from those, there wasn’t much to work with. My heart thumped. I was ready to go, ready to defend my lady’s honor. This guy had no idea what was coming.

  Through the kitchen, I watched her open the door and slip out. They began to talk, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying. I could hear anger in the man’s voice. After a couple minutes, I went into the living room. Still couldn’t understand anything.

  I put my ear to the door.

  I heard Liz say, “One more word and I’ll call the cops. I’ll take out a restraining order against you. You’re hammered. You’re not going to accomplish anything right now except make me hate you. Go away.”

  Then there was silence. Was she okay? I started twisting the doorknob just as Liz came back inside. “He’s gone.”

  We went back into the bedroom. I was too wired to fall asleep after that. I asked her what she’d ever seen in a guy like that, and she told me he’d changed, that she’d cared for a different man. She didn’t seem eager to talk about him, and I didn’t press. We stopped talking and I lay down alongside her. I didn’t sleep much, and I don’t think she did, either. I held her through the night.

  It wasn’t easy leaving her side a few minutes before four in the morning. She was on her stomach with her arms under the pillow, and the sheets were pulled just above her waist. Her back was soft, and it rose gently as she breathed. I wanted to meet her in her dream and love her there as well. I slipped out of bed quietly, leaving her with a kiss. She mumbled good-bye.

  17

  You can’t wear a wire every time. Seventy miles offshore is one of those times. Jack steered the Viking into the shipping channel, and we raced the other vessels out to sea. I fell back in time, remembering the pirate stories my grandfather used to tell. Edward Teach, a.k.a. Blackbeard, sailed this harbor back in 1718. Teach and his men picked up syphilis after a visit to the brothels in Port Royal, Jamaica, and on their way up the East Coast, they blockaded the Charleston harbor until their demands for medicine were met. Now, years later, I had some plundering of my own to do.

  The Taggin’ Wagon was named after the practice of tagging and releasing blue marlins, but of course, you could take it a couple ways. She was a good-looking yacht, a sixty-one-foot sleek sport fisher with an open fly bridge, a tuna tower, and a baby blue hull. Jack or his old man had definitely dropped several million on it. The yacht’s infamous name was printed on the back with its logo, a blue marlin jumping into the back of an old western wagon.

  Wh
en I got to the marina, which wasn’t more than a mile from Jack’s condo, he gave me a tour of the inside. The salon had a wraparound ostrich-skin couch and a flat-screen on the wall; all the upgrades. The galley wasn’t large, but Martha Stewart wouldn’t have bitched. Through the companionway, there were three staterooms, all very comfortable.

  I once heard someone say that the Charleston breeze blew like an Egyptian princess blowing an eyelash off her lover’s cheek. Cheesy, I know, but there on the fly bridge I was reminded of what they meant; I inhaled her sweet breath. A Maersk Sea Liner container ship passed our port side, its size dwarfing ours. Ronnie was below in the salon with two women, both of whom he had allegedly slept with the evening before.

  I could tell Jack was hungover. “I understand you and Ron had a little go at it in Savannah.”

  I nodded slowly. “I hope he’s not going to hold that against me for too long.”

  “You never know with him. That’s impressive work, though. He’s a big guy. I might be able to use you sometime. You be up for that?”

  “I’ll do anything for a price.”

  “Where’d you learn how to fight?”

  “With a temper like mine, you get tons of practice.”

  Once we hit the open ocean, I felt seasickness coming on. I never get it on a sailboat, but sometimes powerboats do it to me if I get out too far. If you’re not familiar with seasickness, imagine having the worst hangover of all time and multiply it by ten. It usually sets in slowly, like it did that day, and you try to position yourself somewhere on the boat to fight it off, somewhere with less motion, but you know it’s coming. Sometimes staring at the horizon can help. That or jumping overboard, turning around and going home, or lying on the closest cushion and closing your eyes. I did the latter.

  An experienced mariner knows the moment the seasickness gets someone. I waddled over to one of the cushions on the fly bridge and lay flat on my back, eyes closed. Jack knew immediately and asked if I had taken some medicine. I told him I had, and he yelled down to the cockpit for a bottle of water and a towel with ice. I drifted off into some state between sickness and sleep and came back to the feeling of ice on my forehead. I opened my eyes a little, and one of the girls was sitting next to me. Her face looked fuzzy. She held an icy hand towel to my forehead and was squeezing it slowly, letting the cold water drip down my neck. It helped for a while.