Without asking, Daisy Mae reached up and cranked the air conditioning up to high.
“Gimme just a couple minutes to cool the seat, then.”
“Two minutes,” Ellie Mae snapped, looking down at the 2.5 gallon container between her legs. “We ain’t got enough cash for anymo’ gas and we got a long way to go if we gon’ git to yer baby daddy before dark.”
“Hey, this was yer idear to go after’im.”
“Yeah, he’s gon’ pay fer what he done to you.” Ellie Mae nodded down at her sister’s bulging stomach.
Daisy Mae looked absently out the window and nodded.
Ellie Mae pushed the accelerator deep to the floorboard and the old car grunted in protest. As the motor squealed, it lurched slowly onto the road. A loud bang sent the car into motion and the trailer acted like it didn’t want to go either. Finally, they were rolling.
No sooner than they had gotten up to speed—a brisk forty-two miles-per-hour—a bright red Miata with two younger versions of themselves raced up behind them. The two girls were blonde, tan and skinny, and wearing bikini tops and pony-tails. Justin Bieber blared from the radio and both girls were screaming along.
“Well, looky here,” said Ellie Mae, jerking her thumb back to the oncoming car.
The Miata suddenly started honking its horn and revving its engine. The girls were laughing and pointing at the junkyard wreck driving in front of them.
Ellie Mae threw her arm out the side window. “Go around, dammit!”
“I miss those days,” Daisy Mae said through tears, mascara running down her cheeks.
“Oh, hell no. Don’t be cryin’ over these bitches. Yer just hormonal.”
“My baby needs her daddy,” she heaved in between sobs.
“Don’t worry little sister,” Ellie Mae said, grinning, “when they pass us, you hold the wheel; I’m gon’ moon ‘em!”
Daisy Mae wiped her nose on her sleeve and sniffled through a smile. “Yeah, do it! And I’m gon’ flick ‘em off!”
The two ex-stripper twins laughed as the two younger, blonder girls edged around the trailer.
“Git a load of ‘is!” Ellie Mae shouted, jerking down her skirt, panties and all.
She stood up and shoved what she could of her naked backside through the driver’s side window.
“Yeah, bitches!!!” screamed Daisy Mae, flipping double middle fingers at the young girls.
In the first of an unbelievable turn of events, one of the girls in the Miata was also smoking a Winston cigarette. Upon seeing Ellie Mae’s butt sticking through the window of the rusted-out Chevy Camaro, she flicked her cigarette at it, still lit. In the second of the unbelievable turn of events, the lit cigarette flew through Ellie Mae’s legs and landed in the crotch of her panties—panties that had been absorbing the fumes from the 2.5 gallon gas container between her legs for the entire trip. In the third of the unbelievable turn of events, the fireball did little more than singe the hair from her legs, but Ellie Mae screamed and pushed herself backward over the bench seat in an effort to escape the fire.
She landed in a heap, tearing at her skirt and panties that were smoldering and threatening her backside. Ripping them off, she flung them out the window.
“Dammit, dammit, dammit!!” she howled. “Those skinny-ass whores!!”
“Omigawd, omigawd, omigawd,” Daisy Mae was crying, “we’re gon’ die!”
The pregnant girl was holding the steering wheel, but the car was careening from side to side, threatening to leave the road.
In the fourth and most unbelievable of the wild turn of events, the gas can had slid forward, kicked by the escaping Ellie Mae, and wedged itself between the bottom of the dashboard and the gas pedal. The car was racing along at nearly seventy-five miles an hour and wobbling badly. Daisy Mae was holding her belly with one hand and the steering wheel with the other.
“My baby!!” she screamed, “my poor baby’s gon’ die!”
“No, he ain’t!” Ellie Mae said regaining her composure and getting madder by the second. “Gimme one more second, I’m climbin’ back up ‘ar.”
In one of the least graceful returns to a front seat of all time, Ellie Mae rolled back over the bench seat and plopped down into the driver’s side behind the wheel.
“Give it to me,” she said, jerking Daisy Mae’s hand from the steering wheel. “Them ho’s don’t know who they’re dealing with.”
She reached down between her legs and pried the gas can out from in front of the accelerator. Handing it to Daisy Mae, she said, “Let’s go get us some young blood.”
She slammed the gas pedal back to the floor and whooped out the open window.
“Hell yeah!” Daisy Mae said, still holding onto her belly.
The two young blonde girls couldn’t have looked more surprised to see the rambling wreck come flying up behind them ... and then pass them by. Daisy Mae held up her double birds and screamed ... no words, just a scream.
Her scream died in her throat as she realized they were leaving the red Miata in the dust.
“Hey, why didn’t you slow down, ‘er stop ‘er sumpin’?” she asked, looking over at Ellie Mae.
Ellie Mae’s eyes were wide and she looked as pale as a ghost. She nodded her head down between her legs. “No brakes. We got no brakes.”
“Shit!” Daisy Mae clutched her stomach. “Hey, whar’s yer pants at?”
13
Venus Fly Trap
“That foot’s gotta come off, mate,” Man’ti said, grimacing as he unwound the crusty makeshift bandage wrapped around Darren’s toes, or stubs. “Infected as hell.”
The lanky man was sweating profusely. “Screw that! Just put the damn medicine on and get ‘em bandaged back up, ya prick.”
With that, Man’ti stopped being gentle and ripped the remaining dressing off his companion’s foot.
“Owwww, shit!!!”
“Wrap it up ya bloody self.” Man’ti threw the drug store bag at him.
Darren looked down at his ruined foot. The stubs of his missing three toes were black and green. It looked like frostbite, but it burned like they’d been dipped in lava. He tried to brush off the black with a cotton ball dipped in alcohol, but if the fire hadn’t been hot enough before that, it was blistering now.
“Damn it all,” he moaned.
Man’ti had shoved his way back up to the driver’s seat of the bronze van they’d procured. He clicked on his iPhone and mumbled. “Take the meds too, mate. Doubtful, but ya might save that leg.”
After a few minutes of exquisite pain, Darren had cleaned and bandaged his toes with a piece of diaper wrapped in duct tape. He gingerly pulled his sock onto his foot, but his shoe was not an option. The sharp pain subsided to a dull burn after his CVS medicine kicked in and he was able to limp up to the passenger’s seat.
“Done in by a bloody recliner,” he grunted as he slumped back into the seat.
“I’ll put it on ya tombstone,” Man’ti mumbled, clicking out a text on his iPhone.
“Who the hell ya chattin’ with this time o’ night?”
“Ya mum, that’s who.”
Darren lunged for the phone and Man’ti slammed his elbow into his nose, which promptly exploded into a gush of blood.
“Are you frickin’ kidding me, mate!?” The skinny man’s hands were side by side on his nose, but blood still poured out between his fingers.
“Don’t touch m’phone,” Man’ti said with a darker menace in his tone than Darren expected.
“Shit, mate, all ya hadda do was say so. I think ya broke m’fookin’ nose!”
“Touch it again and I’ll put me fist through ya face.”
Man’ti grabbed a dingy towel from under his seat. It looked like it had been used to check the oil in the van. He threw it at Darren, hitting him in the face.
“Wipe that shit off, we’re goin’ fer a beeyah.”
Darren mopped up the blood pooling in his lap. “What the hell’m I supposed ta wear, mate?”
Man’t
i’s jaw tensed. He looked like he might elbow Darren again, but he un-gritted his teeth.
“Check in me bag,” he said, thumbing toward the back of the van, “think I gotta ‘notha shirt.”
Darren quickly crawled to the back as Man’ti fired up the van. He swallowed two more pain pills and dug into the big man’s black bag and found a black t-shirt.
It was an XXL ... and sleeveless ... a combination that looked absolutely comical when he slipped it on.
“This place betta ‘ave whiskey,” he called to the giant driving the van, then mumbled, “I could use a damn whiskey!”
“Drunken Jack’s has whiskey galore, mate.”
That was the last thing Darren “The Body” McGlashen heard before he passed out.
Tammy-Anne Tidmore had been a teller at the Georgetown Kraft Credit Union since it opened back in 1952, and at eighty-four years-of-age was the longest tenured employee in the company (and maybe in the country). With 48 employees at different branches, the credit union today still boasts a ratio of 297 members per employee—which is relatively small for a credit union. Of the over 13,000 members, Tammy-Anne knew almost all of them by first name.
It was no surprise that she looked up when Georgiana walked in to the Jetty Drive branch and exclaimed, “Good mornin’, Miss Laura Kate.”
“Hi, Mrs. Tidmore.”
The grandmotherly lady slipped her hand below the old-school casino style cage and took Laura’s hand. “I heard about your daddy. Fine, fine man. I’m so sorry for your loss.”
Laura nodded and said nothing, afraid the tears would start again. Tammy-Anne squeezed her hand knowingly.
“What business you doin’ this fine day?”
Laura took the twenty-five dollars her stepfather, Rick Hairre, had tipped her, and slid it under the bars toward Tammy-Anne. “Taking care of my late fee.”
The pepper-haired woman looked down at the money and then back up at Laura. She had a smile on her face and a raised eyebrow, as if she was being had by some private joke.
“Uh huh,” she said and winked. “This should put a dent on your balance.”
The teller clicked a few keys, put the money into her drawer, and handed Laura the receipt. “Now don’t be spendin’ all that at once, hun.”
Laura had no idea what she meant, but she shoved the paper in her purse and nodded, not sure how she would manage to spend zero dollars at all.
“See ya later, Mrs. Tidmore.”
A ding from her phone startled her as she got into her Jetta; a text from Karah.
-Srsly where r u? U will not believe what I’ve been up 2!
-Sry can’t talk now. Work at DJ’s tonight. 2 much happening to text.
-What’s going on? I’ll be there. What time u work til?
-Close.
-Ugh, ok, save me a seat at the bar.
-RT
RT—Roger That—was Karah’s signature sign-off and it just so happened it was what her dad liked to say too. The tears threatened to spill out again ... Stop it, Laura, you can cry later, but right now you gotta go sling the whiskey.
She hadn’t shared the news of her father’s murder with anyone at Drunken Jack’s yet; she just didn’t want to deal with the whole scene of, “Are you okay? Do you need anything? Who would murder your dad?”
She didn’t want her co-workers to look at her any differently. For starters, they had no idea that her father was the semi-famous local politician, Rick Hairre, and beyond that she didn’t want to attract any attention from whoever might have killed him.
The last thought stopped her in her tracks. Her Jetta idled at a traffic light, the cars behind her honking and pulling around. What if they come after me too?
Man’ti left Darren passed out in the van. He was a bloody mess anyway, with his rotten foot and broken nose. He figured he’d arouse less attention and get more drinking done alone. On the drive up to Drunken Jack’s, Man’ti had thought once or twice about dumping the scrawny man into a hole and covering him up. But the boss had hired him to come on this job for a reason; somebody had to take a fall.
During the day, Drunken Jack’s was a family restaurant boasting almost fresh crab, shrimp, grouper, clams, oysters and calamari. After sunset, the long wooden bar attracted a rowdier, saltier crowd. Most nights (in season), there was a guitar-playing singer crooning out Jimmy Buffet, Bob Marley, and the occasional Grateful Dead song.
Man’ti didn’t want any seafood and he didn’t want any pseudo-beach tunes blaring in his ears. He parked himself on a barstool way down at the end of the bar, away from the tourist crowd and closer to the ruddy tanned crowd that stared into the bottoms of their glasses.
Most of the people at that end of the bar didn’t even look up when he sat down, and that’s the way he liked it.
“What’ll it be?”
Man’ti was startled. He was looking into the eyes of the prettiest girl he’d ever seen. Georgiana (it said on her name tag) was tan and slender, but not anorexic like a college bimbo. Her blonde hair hung in loose ringlets down around her elfish face, and her eyes were deep brown with an auburn and gold glow in the center of her irises. The huge man of few words was struck even more speechless.
“Well?” she said, holding her arm outstretched at the yards and yards of bottles behind her.
“I um, I’ll have a ... ” he stammered.
The bartender almost rolled her eyes, but was clearly used to this reaction. “Whiskey? You look like a whiskey drinker.”
Man’ti nodded.
She walked away and his eyes followed her down the bar. He watched her every move as she poured a cheap, generic brand of whiskey into a tiny rocks glass.
Get a hold of ya self, mate. Man’ti mentally slapped himself in the face. He shook his head and some of his senses returned as she set the glass down in front of him.
“Six bucks,” she said, sliding a napkin under his glass.
The glass of liquor didn’t touch the bar for more than a second. Man’ti picked it up and chugged the whiskey down in one gulp.
“Right, let’s start a tab,” he said, and pulled his wallet from his pocket and handed her an American Express Black Centurion Credit Card, “but don’t be bringin’ me any more ‘a that shit you just poured me. Let’s go top shelf tonight, honey,” he said and winked at her.
She grabbed the card and he held it for just a beat. He saw her eyes flick to the Tag Heuer Monaco V4 on his wrist. She didn’t need to know whose wrist he’d borrowed it from; poor chap hadn’t needed it anymore, as his time had run out. Man’ti grinned at his own pun.
“You’re the boss.”
“At’s right.” Man’ti leaned back and crossed his arms. “Let’s ‘av a bigga glass, hun. I don’t want no tiny shot ‘o whiskey.”
She looked down at the card and read the strange name printed on it. “Is that Swedish or German?”
“It’s thirsty.” He didn’t smile. “And don’t be slo—” He was interrupted before he finished his sentence.
“Let’s make that two ‘o them, sweet tits,” a voice said as a scrawny man slid onto the next barstool and slapped Man’ti on the back.
Oh, fa fook’s sake, Man’ti thought, shoulda dropped ‘im in that hole after all.
The waitress turned her eyes back to the big man questioningly.
He nodded and sighed. “Why not.”
Karah Campobello, you look soooooo cute tonight! At least that’s what she told herself when she checked out the beautiful aqua dress she had ordered from Venus just for this trip. A veritable trap for any man who witnessed its beauty! It had a self-tie halter showing off her sun-kissed tan shoulders from her hammock time and a multi-colored skirt of purple, yellow and pink that blended into a print of leopard and flowers at the bottom. It was jeweled on the top and sparkled like a rainbow. Cute! So damn cute! She thought of Troy and wondered what he’d think about the dress. Hold up, she thought to herself, lemme take a selfie!
She snapped a quick pic with a slightly sly smile and
texted it to him.
-“What ya think?”
-“Nice.”
-“You like?”
-“I like.”
-“I’ll be showin’ it off at Drunken Jack’s in a few.”
There was a long pause before the next message chimed.
-“Not my scene.”
-“Your loss. ;-P”
-“Catch up with you after?”
She couldn’t help but feel a few butterflies in her stomach.
-“We’ll see.”
She clicked out of the text messenger. She knew she would go see him after a few margaritas at DJ’s, and wondered what an evening with Troy might be like on a Tequila buzz. Her background was now set to a pic she took surreptitiously of Troy fishing this morning. Same khaki shorts, same tan skin, new straw cowboy hat.
Her phone pinged again.
-“Ok, you got me. On my way.”
Karah sighed as she slid her phone back into her purse. A man of few words, a very sexy man of few words.
She walked up to the front door of Drunken Jack’s, winked at the cheesy pirate on the entrance sign, and brushed the creases from the drive out of her new dress. It felt like it was going to be a great night.
Laura dug through her purse, spilling lipstick and sunscreen and keys out onto the table in the break room. What the hell? It’s gotta be in here somewhere. In one hand, she held the black Amex card as she rifled through her belongings. As she was stuffing her scattered things back into her purse, inspiration hit her and she reached into her back pocket. There it was; the card the cop had given her. Okay, Deputy Chesney Biggins, let’s see what you can find out about misterrrr ... she looked back at the American Express Card and raised an eyebrow ... Victor Böhring.
14
Hard Drive
The cursor blinked waiting for another entry. Username: _________PIN: ____
Chesney Biggins tapped his hospital style latex-gloved finger on the ENTER key a few more times, hoping something magical might happen. The small zip drive he’d found on Rick Hairre’s body had proven to be password protected and encrypted beyond his limited hacking skills. With his sketchy knowledge of Rick, he’d tried several dozen possible passwords, none of which had opened the drive’s contents. He’d even called in to the local Game Stop to see if any of the pimply-faced employees could work it out.
The Complete Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Collection Page 14