by Jack Hardin
They hung up, and Garrett looked at Ellie. “I’ll wait for him to call me back, see if that saves us from driving all over the island looking for him.”
“If we’re going to be tracking down mangoes, let’s start at The Groovy Grove,” Ellie said. “The Potters were over at The Salty Mangrove last week. They’re good people and would help if they know anything. If nothing else, they may have heard another grower mention Jimmy.”
“Fair enough,” Garrett said.
Ellie spent the next several minutes reviewing a couple files she had retrieved from her backpack. Finally, Garrett's contact called him back. When he hung up, he said, “No dice. Parole officer didn’t answer.” He pulled down on the gear shift and started driving away from the small house, and Ellie stared at it as they left. “Do me a favor, Garrett. Next time you want to take me into a place like that, at least have the courtesy to issue me a hazmat suit.”
“Done,” he said. “Speaking of which, let’s stop somewhere and get something to drink first. I have to wash the scent of the pit of hell from my mouth.”
Chapter Ten
The Groovy Grove was the largest and oldest commercial mango grove on Pine Island, nestled in the center of Pineland. It boasted fifty-two acres of fully grown fruit trees, trees that shot upwards a hundred and twenty feet and extended their branches out fifteen feet from the center.
Garrett turned the Expedition west onto Pineland Road and crept along for a quarter mile before turning right into the dirt parking lot of the Grove. The parking arrangement consisted of two long rows separated by a thick steel cable threaded through short wooden posts. Ellie and Garrett stepped out and made their way to a small white building sitting at the edge of the grassline. The building had a quaint window that looked out to the street beyond and was surrounded by flower gardens full of petunias and sunflowers. Pots of yellow and orange marigolds were scattered around the perimeter. Wooden steps led up to the door.
“You ever been out here before?” Ellie asked him.
“Nope. You?”
“Sharla’s an old friend. My father used to bring me out here to pick when I was little. It’s been a long time.”
As they approached the steps, an older lady appeared from around the corner. “Hello there,” she said. “May I help you?” Strands of long gray hair hung out from beneath a wide straw gardening hat, and her eyes were hidden behind sunglasses. She was slender and wore an open, long-sleeved denim shirt over a muted pink t-shirt featuring the Groovy Grove logo. Her hands were enclosed in cotton gardening gloves. Ellie had always thought of Sharla as the embodiment of Southern hospitality and grace.
“Sharla, hi. It’s Ellie.”
“Ellie, sweetie. How are you? I didn’t recognize you with those shades on.” Sharla stepped in and gave her a hug from the side. “It’s always so good to see you.”
“How is business here at The Grove?”
“We’re doing fine,” Sharla said. “Still trying to hold out and remain traditional. Everything farming has moved into big time production, and sometimes it seems like we’re back in the stone age trying to keep things the way we like them.”
“Do you still have your own bees?”
“You bet your bell bottoms we do.”
Ellie politely took a step back. “Sharla, this is Garrett. Garrett Cage.”
“Ma’am,” he nodded toward her and offered a hand. Sharla removed a glove and shook it.
“Hello, Garrett,” she nodded. “Nice to have you out here.”
“Thank you.”
Sharla turned her attention back to Ellie. “So what can I do for you? Are you wanting to schedule a time to pick?”
“Unfortunately not.” She looked over at Garrett. “Garrett is a special agent with the Drug Enforcement Administration, and I’m working with him now on a particular basis.”
“DEA? Well, I’m afraid the strongest drug I have around here is a little bit of coffee,” she smiled.
“Nothing like that, Mrs. Potter,” Garrett said. “We’re looking for someone specific and wanted to come by on a long shot and see if you might know anything.”
“Of course, whatever I can do to help.” She shook her head. “It’s just terrible about that young boy a few weeks back. From what the news folks were saying, it sounded like he might have stumbled onto some drug deal or something.”
Ellie pursed her lips. “It seems that way.”
“It’s hard to believe that things like that happen in our little private corner of the world,” Sharla said. “Well, I don’t know that I can be much help, but if I can offer anything that might put a dent in all this nonsense I’ll be glad to.”
“Thank you,” Ellie and Garrett said in unison.
“Ellie, you’re working with the DEA now? I thought you were working with Warren over at the bar?”
“I’m still helping down there. Garrett and I are old friends, and he asked me to help them out with a few things. It keeps me a little busier.”
“Well, busy is good, especially at your young age.” She smiled. “Do you remember when your father used to bring you and your sister up here to pick? You both were so little. Gary and I had just bought the place.”
Ellie pushed off the wave of sadness that tried to wash over her and forced a smile. “I do. Those are good memories.”
“If I remember correctly, your father thought he was tough enough not to need gloves and ended up with a rash that lasted over a week.”
“He was stubborn sometimes. Well, most of the time.”
Sharla waved a hand. “Anyway, you didn’t come out here to walk down a lane called Memory with me. So how do you think I might help to stop this whole criminal underworld?”
“Well, ma’am,” Garrett said, “we’re looking for a man named Jimmy Joe Claude and thought he might be out this way. Any chance you’ve heard the name or know him?”
“Ah, of course,” she said. “He came to us, oh, a couple weeks ago and asked for a job.”
Garrett looked at Ellie and raised his eyebrows.
“Gary wasn’t all that keen on the idea, but I believe everyone deserves a fresh start.” She set her hands on her hips. “I sure hope that boy is serious about that.”
“Is he here now?” Ellie asked.
“Sure is.” She extended her arm and pointed beyond the office. “He’ll be about halfway back through the grove, picking. Did he do something? I know he has a reputation around the island for trouble. I just hope he doesn’t bring any here.”
“No, ma’am,” Garrett said. “He’s not in any trouble. We only want to ask him some questions and see if he can help us find some answers. We don’t suspect him directly of anything.”
“Good,” she nodded and relaxed the muscles in her face. “Good. Well, he’s back there if you want to have a talk with him. Just make sure he’s not picking while he’s talking. The new guys always forget the wash if they’re talking or not keeping their minds on the simple things.”
“Of course. Thank you, Sharla. It was good seeing you,” Ellie said.
“You too, sweetheart. You let me know if you need anything else. Stop by the shop here on your way out, and I’ll let you both go with a bottle of chutney.”
“Certainly will. Thank you, Mrs. Potter,” Garrett said.
Garrett and Ellie made their way through the rows of trees in the general direction pointed out by Sharla. The grass came in ankle high and looked to be about ready for a good mowing.
“So, your dad,” Garrett said. “He was allergic to mangos or something?”
“Allergic? No. Why?”
“Mrs. Potter said something about a rash.”
“Have you ever picked a mango?”
“Nuh-uh.”
“Mango sap is highly acidic, so when you pick off the stem it spits that stuff at you, and if it gets on your skin it can burn it. It doesn’t show up for a day or two. Pickers have to wash or rinse whatever they pick within a few seconds or it will leave a mark on the fruit and make it ha
rd to sell. I’ll show you when we get out there.”
“Who knew?” he said.
It was another five minutes of maneuvering between the trees before they heard snipping sounds a couple rows over. They followed the soft noise and came out onto a row where a man was standing on a small lift and reaching up into the higher branches of a tree with a picking stick. He snipped a branch, and the picking stick held onto the fruit. He lowered it down and released the mango onto a rubber tarp. Garrett came nearer and called out before getting too close.
“Hello, Jimmy,” Garrett said, lifting his voice and crossing his arms.
The man swung around, and Ellie immediately concluded that he was the clear progeny of his mother. His face was sunken and narrow, the inevitable result of rampant drug use. His eyes sat too far back into his head, and the furrows on his face made him look ten years older than he probably was. His light brown hair was beginning to gray, slicked back so hard the lines left by the comb were still visible, so greasy it could have lubricated an entire diesel block and still have some left over.
He wore faded black jeans too big for his skinny legs and a thin Rolling Stones t-shirt that sat on shoulders the size of sticks. He eyed them suspiciously before recognizing Garrett then sighed and shook his head. “Hey, I haven’t done nothin’, okay?” He looked around shiftily. “You gonna get me fired with them wondering why the DEA is out to see me.”
“We’re not going to get you fired, Jimmy,” Garrett said firmly. “We already told Mrs. Potter that we wanted to talk with you and that everything is fine. We only have questions. Can you come down here please?”
“Well, talk with me later. I’m workin’ right now.”
“We already went to your house and spoke with your lovely mother,” Garrett said. “I didn’t waste my time tracking you down out here to talk with you another time.”
“I’m not into anything. I’ve cleaned up and am going straight.”
“Yeah, you and Boy George,” Garrett replied. “You know things Jimmy, things that we would like to know too.”
“So?”
“So I need your help. Can you come down here?”
Jimmy sighed again and pushed a button on the lift that lowered him down to the ground. He lifted the safety bar and stepped out into the grass. “I got nothin’ to say.” His eyes bored into Garrett’s. “Especially to you.”
Garrett smiled smugly. “I mentioned that we went by your mother’s house. You know, it smelled like she was diffusing essential oils.” He looked at Ellie and snapped his fingers. “I forget, Ellie, what was the name of that scent she had going?”
“I believe they’re calling it Mighty Marijuana, Garrett.”
Jimmy’s eyes widened briefly. He rubbed the back of his neck, pockmarked by adolescent acne twenty years now gone.
“I’m sure I could go over there right now and find a dub bag or two,” Garrett continued, “but I don’t want to do that. If you say you’re trying to go straight, I...well, I’m not sure I believe you, but I’ll go with it. You’re out here sweating for a few bucks an hour for whatever reason, so I’ll buy it for now. Just help me out, and we can leave you alone.”
Jimmy brought a hand up to his pointy, stubbled chin and rubbed it. “Well, get on with it,” he finally muttered.
Garrett reached behind him and retrieved his wallet from his back pocket. He slipped a couple fingers in between the leather folds and pulled out a small picture. He held it up. Jimmy squinted at it.
“You seen this boy in the news?”
“Nope. Don’t watch the news.” Jimmy turned his head - not enough - and spit into the grass, almost hitting Garrett’s shoes.
“Well, he was murdered a few weeks ago by someone dealing.”
“Who killed him?”
“We don’t know who killed him.”
“Then how do you know they was dealin’?”
Garrett sighed and put the picture back. “It doesn’t matter, Jimmy. The facts are what they are, and we want to find the person who did it. What have you have heard?”
“Look, man,” Jimmy said. “I ain’t into killing no kids. I ain’t into killing nobody. Have I done drugs, moved drugs? Yeah, I done drugs and moved drugs. But that’s it.” He raised his thin eyebrows. “And not no more either.”
“But you know people who deal who would be the kind to kill a child?” Ellie asked.
Jimmy rubbed a shirt sleeve across his forehead and looked indifferently at Ellie. “‘Course I do. But that doesn't mean I know who done it. You got a couple hundred people in this county pushin’ drugs on some level and ten thou or more using ‘em. Who’s willin’ to kill a kid over it?” He shrugged. “Beats me. Coulda been high, coulda been for leverage, revenge. Who knows? Sounds like you got a snark on your hands. Besides, I ain’t no snitch.”
“I’m not asking you to rat anybody out, Jimmy,” Garrett said. “I’m just looking for direction. Something - anything - that can help us get these guys. Right now I’m walking in blind.”
Jimmy sighed again, spit again. “There’s a guy in the klink in Hardee Correctional. Works with Nunez on some level.”
“Tommy?” Garrett asked.
“No, not Tommy. You gonna let me finish?”
“Go ahead, Jimmy,” Ellie said.
“He’s two through a dime for moving coke. Victor. Victor Calderón. But he’s gettin’ tired. Wants to get outta there. He was a tough guy going in but ended up getting a chitolean for a cellmate, and he’s had to hold his pocket for two years now. You ask, he’ll probably talk. If,” he said with emphasis, “you cut him a deal. ‘Cause if Nunez finds out he talked...” Jimmy ran his index finger around his throat.
“That all?” Garrett asked, jotting notes on a pocket-sized pad.
“Look, man. You come bug me at work, threaten about my mother. I give you some goods and you want more? Get the hell out of here. I ain’t doin’ your job for you.”
“You were in the clink for what, six, seven months?” Garrett said. “I’ll bet you held someone’s pocket, didn’t you?”
Ellie shot her eyes toward Garrett. “We appreciate the help, Jimmy,” she said. “We really do.” She shifted her focus behind him. “Do you mind if I borrow that picker from you for a minute?”
“Uh, sure,” he shrugged but didn’t remove his glare from Garrett.
Ellie walked behind him and grabbed up the eight-foot picker. She stood under the tree and looked up, trying to find a ripe mango near enough so she wouldn’t have to use the lift. Finding one, she extended the pole and set the pinchers around the stem of the fruit. She pulled the handle, and it cut the stem and held onto it. She brought it down and released the mango into her hand. “Thanks, Jimmy,” she said, and handed the picker back to him. She motioned for Garrett to come closer. “Once you’ve got it in hand, you grab the top of the stem and pull it back.” The stem snapped and what looked like spit flew out of the newly-formed navel. “That stuff is the sap.” She stepped over to a large container filled with clear fluid and submerged it. “This is the mango wash.” After leaving the mango under the clear liquid for a couple seconds, she pulled it out and held it up. “That’s all there is to it. Just have to keep the acid off the fruit’s skin.”
“I never would have known,” he smiled.
Ellie gently set the mango with the other picked ones then wiped her hands on a rag hanging from the lift.
She turned and smiled at Jimmy. “Thank you again.”
He nodded, put his gloves back on, grabbed the stick, and got back in the lift. She and Garrett turned and started the walk back to the car.
“Hey,” Jimmy called out. They turned and looked at him. His face was softer but not soft. “Hope y’all find who killed that boy.”
“Thanks, Jimmy,” Ellie said.
They were both quiet on their exit from the grove. Ellie finally spoke up. “What do you think?” she asked.
“He gets under my skin, that guy. I haven’t seen a turd like him clean up yet.”
/>
“I meant what he gave us.”
“Yeah. I know. It’s worth checking out.”
“I’ll do it,” she offered. “If someone is going to try talking with Victor, we’ll probably need a way to get him out of there so Nunez doesn’t find out.”
“For sure. Let’s schedule a meeting tomorrow back at the office, and we can figure out a plan.” They came out of the grove a few yards from the parking lot.
“Let’s stop in and see Sharla,” Ellie said. “I’m not leaving without cashing in on free mango chutney.”
Chapter Eleven
“He’s late,” Andrés said. “I don’t like it when he’s late.”
Chewy looked at the dash clock. “We’ll give him five more. After that we’re wind and spirit.”
They were positioned in a twelve-year-old Chevy Malibu behind the rundown visage of an old bank which had the good fortune many years ago of being home to Martin and Hooper’s Savings and Loan until it was endowed with the bad fortune of being a casualty of the eighties’ S&L crisis. It never recovered and would never be absorbed into a conglomerate in small part because Fenwick Martin thereafter perished of a stress-related heart attack and in large part because Clyde Hooper put a 12 gauge in his mouth one evening and pulled the trigger. His wife reported that Clyde had told her he was getting up to get a glass of milk. He never drank milk, she said. The bank building was never repurposed and spent the last thirty years in a commercially abandoned area of town withering away under the hot Florida sun.
“I don’t remember him ever being late. Do you?”
“Nope.”
“Boss isn’t going to like this,” Andrés said.
“No, he’s not. Now quiet. I can’t hear when you’re thinking out loud.”
“We spend our lives under the poison of other peoples’ critical gaze, never allowing ourselves to be who we really are…”
Chewy was prone to spend idle minutes listening to what he called ‘prophets of personal power.’ Self-help gurus: Zig Ziglar, Tony Robbins, Brian Tracy. Tonight it was Johnny Burkis; the big-haired, shiny-shoed, high-pitched sage out of Salt Lake City.