“Hold on, Troy,” Willie said, hitting the gas.
Troy pulled himself up, holding tight to the head rest. “Geezus, Willie, you’re gonna kill us!”
When they rounded the turn toward the exit gate, a crappy old Camaro towing a junked-out trailer rounded the turn across from them. As they barreled toward each other, Willie slammed on his brakes and skidded sideways, throwing Troy up against the window nearest the Camaro. The rusty former muscle car turned hard away from them, leaving the two cars side by side mere inches away from each other.
Troy shook his head and looked over to the passengers of the car. Cinnamon and Starr, both still buck naked, were looking straight at him.
In slow motion, Troy could see the recognition dawn on their twin faces. Their teeth clenched and anger filled their eyes in unison.
“Willie,” he yelled, “go NOW!”
“You got it, boss!”
As they squealed away from the ex-strippers, Daisy Mae and Ellie Mae Gallup were flashing four matching middle fingers his direction and screaming. Luckily, he couldn’t make out what they were yelling about.
As they raced away from the condos, Willie took something from his pocket and slipped it into the dash—Zig Zag rolling papers and a small bag of what looked like Oregano.
“Really, Willie?”
“Mista Troy,” he said and smiled his beaming white smile, “it’s fo my glaucoma.”
From behind them, Troy heard the loud bang again, which he thought might be the Camaro backfiring as it tried to catch up.
“Just get me over to Drunken Jack’s.”
“I jus’ started da meter.”
16
Buckets Of Spew
Karah Campobello checked her makeup in the visor mirror of her silver Land Rover (affectionately named Luna after her first dog) and applied even more bubble-gum flavored lip-gloss. All was good. She tucked her wallet up under the driver’s seat—because no one breaking into a car would ever check there—and headed up the stairs to Drunken Jack’s.
The tinny tunes of some old salty singer doing his best Gordon Lightfoot rendition drifted out of the door and the early evening drone of patrons getting in the mood buzzed a little lower than the crescendo they would reach by midnight.
Karah looked down at her Omega De Ville Prestige Watch, a present from her last boyfriend—he was a nice guy, studying political science, but just a little too straight laced for Karah—and saw that it was 11:47pm. The dinner crowd was rolling out and the late-night crowd was starting to roll in. The party was just about to kick off.
Darren “The Body” McGlashen was looking a little green around the gills. Man’ti realized that all they had eaten all day was the junk food he’d taken from the CVS. Ten shots of whiskey and tequila later, Darren was starting to slur and drool, and standing up was not an option.
On top of that, the skinny man was starting to stink. His nose had the crusty remnants of blood clinging to it from Man’ti’s crushing punch, and his foot—that was wrapped in a sock that was purpled with blood and bound with duct tape—smelled like a bag of rotten almonds soaked in ammonia.
And on top of all that, there were two young frat guys in the early stages of a bar fight at the other end of the room. They were puffing up and bumping each other around. Stupid fooks, Man’ti thought to himself. And that’s when the beer bottle flew out of one of the punk’s hands and bounced off Darren’s left eye. It immediately swelled, and blood pooled into the white sclera, making him look like some kind of black-eyed demon.
“Shit,” Man’ti muttered, watching Darren growl and push up from his bar stool.
The sweet blonde bartender that Man’ti had been softening up saw this begin to escalate and tried in vain to calm things down. “Boys, boys, nothin’ a free shot of Jäger won’t fix!”
She wagged the dark green bottle at them, but no one was paying any attention.
“Which onya stoopid fooks let goa thet bottle?” Darren moved toward them.
Man’ti grabbed the bottle of Jäger out of Georgiana’s hands and took a long swig.
“Hey!” she protested, “you can’t do—”
Man’ti slammed the bottle on the bar. “Jus’ put it on me tab.”
One of the frat guys had claimed the throw and was sizing Darren up. “Don’t know what yer worried about, dude. It didn’t hurt yer looks any, ya creepy fu—”
Darren interrupted him with a swinging roundhouse punch to the side of his head. All the energy he had left exploded the young man’s eardrum, and he screamed.
“Shit.” Man’ti cracked his knuckles.
The frat guy was in shock at the blood trickling down the side of his face and his eyes locked with Darren’s, who was now exactly one second from passing out.
“I’m gonna kill you, dude!”
He pulled his leg back and in the slow motion that happens in some movie fights, Man’ti saw that the young man was wearing a soccer jersey. He let out a snort. This ain’t gonna end well, he thought. Darren was lifted about a foot and a half off the ground when the soccer playing frat guy’s kick rocketed into his groin. As he crashed back down to the ground, agony spreading across his bloody eyes, he began gurgling loudly.
Man’ti moved to keep him from falling back, and put his hands up under Darren’s arms. In the process, he dropped his cell phone; it hit hard and shattered into a million pieces. His beaten colleague gagged hard again.
“Oh, fook no.” Man’ti shoved him toward the grinning frat guy.
And that’s when Darren threw up. Buckets of spew splashed across the frat guy’s face and shirt and even more soaked him down to his shoes. The horror—a horror that can only come from being barfed on in public after suffering an exploded ear drum in a bar fight with a creepy homeless looking dude—splashed across the kid’s face like ... well, like vomit.
“Are you FREAKIN’ kidding me?!?” he screamed.
Darren sagged to the floor, sliding around in the contents of his own stomach. Man’ti threw a quick rabbit punch at the kid’s face, and he slumped down unconscious.
Bouncers from the front door suddenly reached toward hidden earpieces and turned toward the melee.
“Time to go,” Man’ti said to the semi-conscious Darren.
He wondered if he should just leave him. But doing that would probably lead the cops back to him. Darren groaned as Man’ti heaved him up onto his shoulder. The blonde bartender was staring wide-eyed at him and holding her phone up to her ear.
“Gimme ‘at cell, ya bitch,” the giant man said and grabbed it out of her hand.
He looked down at the screen. She had called 9-1-1. Shit, he thought.
“9-1-1, what’s your emergency,” the speaker squelched.
Man’ti clicked it off. “Back door?”
“You can’t leave! The cops are coming to—”
He shoved her back against the wall behind the bar, dislodging a bottle of triple sec. It crashed to the floor and the smell of orange floated up around them.
“Back fookin’ door, or I break ya face like thet bottle.”
Georgiana squeaked, tears forming in her eyes. He almost felt sorry he’d gotten so rough with her, but she had called the police. She pointed to a door behind the bar.
“Sayonara, sweet tits.”
17
The Hat
Karah Campobello—dressed in her multi-colored skirt of purple, yellow and pink that blended into a print of leopard and flowers at the bottom with jewels on the top that sparkled like a rainbow—was about to take the first step up into Drunken Jack’s when the giant man flew past her from around the back of the bar. He bumped her shoulder hard, tumbling her back off the step and almost sending her sprawling to the ground.
“HEY, watch it buste—” She suddenly stopped when the huge tattooed man turned back to glare at her. He was carrying another man on his shoulder who looked like he might be dead. Did he kill somebody? Is he going to kill me? She felt herself involuntarily crab walk backward away f
rom him and fear made her whimper out loud.
A bouncer from the top of the stairs slammed the front door open and yelled. “Dude, get your ass back here!”
The big man turned and ran into the parking lot. The bouncer bounded down the stairs and knelt down to Karah.
“Are you okay, miss? Did he hurt you?”
“I’m fine, I’m fine.” Karah took a deep breath. The bouncer, whom she had met before, recognized her and helped her stand up. “Thanks, Eric.”
He nodded and looked back into the parking lot. A bronze van with white pin striping and a painted sunset on the back was squealing out of the lot.
Karah dusted off her elbows and checked the backside of her incredible dress to make sure no damage was done. When she was sure of that, she composed herself and walked into Drunken Jack’s. The music was cranking up again and the Pseudo-Jimmy Buffet singer was droning on about being sorry for the interruption while tuning his guitar. The bar side of the restaurant was in complete disarray.
Like the parted waters of the Jordan River, the ends of the bar were populated with people rubbernecking like there had been some sort of car wreck. The center of the bar looked exactly like that’s what had happened. Laura Kate Starlington was pushing a moldy mop through a mess of stinky vomit and glass and maybe even a little blood.
Karah caught her eye and mouthed, OMG, what happened??
Laura rolled her eyes and nodded to an empty spot at the far end of the room.
Karah mouthed, Margarita?
Laura nodded again.
Side-stepping through the crowd, Karah made her way to the empty table.
“If we couldn’t laugh, we’d all go insane,” the singer crooned as she sat down and the crowd clapped half-heartedly.
A few minutes later, Laura slid two-mile-high Margaritas onto the table and slumped down in the chair across from Karah. Her usually blonde, vivacious, and beautiful cousin was looking particularly hollow-eyed, harrowed and disheveled.
“You would NOT believe what kind of day I’ve had,” said Laura, and took a long gulp from the tequila-laden beverage that conspicuously didn’t have a salt ring or an umbrella in it.
“Tell me.” Karah reached across the table and took Laura’s hand.
Her cousin’s shoulders slumped and heavy tears began to form in her eyes. “Daddy’s gone.”
Over the next thirty minutes, she told the story of Rick Hairre’s untimely demise. Though Rick wasn’t a blood uncle to Karah, she was still shocked and saddened to hear he was tortured and murdered.
“Sweetie,” Karah said as she wiped a tear from her face, “you need to go home.”
“Can’t.” Laura sniffed and rubbed her red-ringed eyes. “Can’t afford to.”
“Have you called his family?”
“Oh shit,” she said, suddenly realizing she hadn’t told anyone about it. “I guess I should call the Starlingtons, not that they give a rat’s ass. I don’t know if there’s anyone else to tell.” She reached down into her apron pocket, then said under her breath, “Dammit.”
“What?” Karah asked.
“My phone got stolen by some giant tattooed asshat who was in here throwing punches at college guys.”
Karah slid her phone across the table. “I think that asshat ran over me in coming in.”
Laura’s expression looked surprised.
“It’s okay,” Karah said and waved her hand, “Eric came to my rescue.”
Laura clicked open the phone. “He likes you, ya know.”
“Uh huh.” Karah’s eyes twinkled. “But I’ve got a bigger fish on the hook than him.” Karah reached over and clicked the Instagram icon, opening the app. She slid over to the photograph of Troy she’d taken shortly after he’d been attacked by the Jon boat. Hmm, 147 likes. Nice, she thought.
“I know, I know.” Laura pointed at her screen name under the picture. “I saw it and the other fourteen pics of him you sent me. Cute.”
“You have no idea.” Karah pulled out a tube of shimmering lip gloss. “He’ll probably be here any minute.”
“Really?” Laura raised an eyebrow and clicked out of Instagram.
The phone’s background was a picture of Troy that had been taken the day after the fishing incident. He hadn’t known she was taking his picture from the porch of his own beach house.
He was standing out on the beach wearing a straw cowboy hat and khaki shorts. Karah’s cousin shook her head and grinned.
“It’s the hat, isn’t it?” Laura asked.
“Definitely the hat.”
Something tickled the back of Laura’s mind. Something about the hat. It was one of those things that you searched your mind for, but couldn’t come up with it ... the name of a movie or a song. Eventually, you just searched the internet and everyone would say, ohhhh, yeahhhhh, that’s what it was. She didn’t think about it long. It would come to her.
The darkness slowly receded from Darren’s beat up brain. He tumbled around unrestrained in the back of the bronze van as his partner, Man’ti, slammed on the gas. The sound of gravel pelting against the underside of the van told him they were off-road, or at least on an unpaved road.
He could feel the infection burning again in his foot and leg. When he put pressure on the disgusting makeshift bandages, a rotten smell oozed out and fire shot up his ankle. He pulled himself up and peered out the front windshield of the van. Darkness was all he could see.
“Where the fook are ye takin’ us, mate?” he asked to his hulking New Zealander driver.
“We gotta disappeyah fer a bit.” Man’ti looked back over his shoulder.
Darren could taste the foul, stale vomit crusted in and around his mouth. “Stop at the next petrol station. Ah need a drink.”
“We ain’t stoppin’.”
This bloke’s forgot who’s in charge here, Darren thought as he climbed into the passenger’s seat.
“Now, listen, ya freak of nature.” Darren pulled a small pistol from his belt and pointed it at Man’ti. “Ya moyt be big, but me gun’s bigga. Ah need a drink and a hospital.”
It was a tiny pistol, maybe a .22 caliber that looked to maybe be a woman’s purse gun. Man’ti did not appear to be impressed. In fact, Darren watched in disbelief as he slowly smiled, then grinned, and then began to laugh.
With impossible speed, Man’ti grabbed the back of Darren’s head and slammed it forward into the dashboard. Darren felt a crack somewhere under his left eye in the split second before the airbag deployed, throwing him backward into the seat and pinning his hand with the gun against his face. Either the van’s ABS or Man’ti, he didn’t know which, slammed on the brakes, bringing the van to a squealing halt.
Without thinking, he emptied the revolver and fire burned his cheek. The barrel had become red hot and was melting his face, but he didn’t care as long as Man’ti was full of bullet holes. The sound of glass shattering out of the driver’s door was pleasing to hear, and he waited to hear the big man screaming. That sound never came.
The airbag began to deflate, releasing Darren only to see an extremely mad Man’ti staring at him. There were no bullet holes in the man.
Darren lifted the revolver and grinned. “Say g’night ya bahstad!”
He clicked the gun ten times before he realized it wasn’t firing. Tears began to form in his eyes as he remembered he’d just emptied the gun a few seconds ago. Shit, he thought..
Man’ti grabbed the tiny gun and jerked it out of Darren’s hand. It was so small that the gun’s trigger guard was tight on his forefinger and in one quick motion, the giant Kiwi had not only ripped the gun out of Darren’s grip, but had also removed his forefinger and the top half of his thumb. He hadn’t thought he could feel much more pain, but suddenly he did.
“Ah, fer shit’s sake!” Darren grasped his hand. “Not me hand.”
Suddenly, Man’ti’s hand was around his throat and Darren “The Body” McGlashen began to think his time on earth was done. But amazingly, he didn’t die.
“Mate,” Man’ti said through gritted teeth, “you and me’s through. Ah’m callin’ the boss, see what bridge he wants me to bury ya unda.”
Darren could feel the whimpers coming out of his mouth. “Jus’ leave me, mate. Out by the road ... anywhere ... I probly won’t make it anyway.”
“Shut yer fookin’ trap,” said Man’ti as he pulled a cellphone from his pocket.
The big man stepped out of the van and walked around to the front, cellphone up to his ear. Darren watched as he spoke, trying to read his lips, and thus, his fate. Man’ti looked back toward him and nodded in apparent response to whoever was on the phone.
Darren groaned and whimpered and shook uncontrollably ... until he noticed the keys were still in the van’s ignition. Man’ti did not appear to be in a hurry to get off the phone, and a plan began to percolate into Darren’s hazy mind. He waited for Man’ti to rotate and face away from the van, and as quietly as he could, he inched over into the driver’s seat.
With his intact left hand, he quietly locked the door. With his torn up right hand, he gingerly reached for the key. In an instant, Man’ti whirled around.
“Don’t even ... ” he started to yell as Darren fired up the van.
Darren laughed maniacally as he gunned the van and put it in drive. Pain shot into his ruined right foot as he slammed the accelerator to the floor.
Man’ti had run around to the driver’s side where the window had been shot out and was reaching for Darren, but he was too slow. The bronze van was powerful, if nothing else, and before Darren could hear the rest of the New Zealander’s yell, he had left him in the dust.
Darren wasn’t sure if he was still laughing or crying when he looked up into the rear-view mirror and caught sight of his face. His left eye was still blood red from the beer bottle at Drunken Jack’s, his left eye socket looked like someone had thrown a baseball at him and left a crater in his skull ... but his right eye was still okay. His right cheek had the perfect red, blistered outline of a pistol melted into it.
The Complete Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Collection Page 16