The Complete Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Collection

by David F. Berens

  “It’s Troy, Don. And my shift hasn’t even started yet.”

  “Well, get your ass in here, Troy,” Don barked and jabbed his finger at his chest, “or you won’t have any more shifts to start.”

  Troy shook his head, walked behind the counter, and started helping the line of tourists.

  Taz pulled his bike up to the Tennis Garden and chained it to the rack out back. The first few nights after his encounter with Caroline Colpiller had been sleepless and long. He’d been sure that a knock would come at his door and a policeman would arrest him and drag him away. But the knock had never come, and the longer he got away from that day, the more comfortable he’d grown with believing he’d gotten away with it. He walked into the Tennis Garden lobby and waved to Betty.

  “Hiya, gal,” he said, beaming, “what’s on tap today?”

  “Oh, hi Taz,” she said and smiled back. “You’ve got three lined up for twelve o’clock, starting with some new guy.” She glanced down at a piece of paper. “Ummm… a Mr. Smith?”

  “Fantastic.” He shrugged his shoulders, turned, and strode into the locker room.

  Rounding the corner, he froze. A man was standing there, with one foot propped up on a bench and tying his tennis shoes. He was turned away from Taz, but his face was clear in the mirror across the room. It was the weird fetish magazine dude from the Food Spot. What gives, thought Taz, is this guy following me? He backed out of the room as quickly and quietly as he could, jogged out the front door and scanned the parking lot. Sure enough, there was a rental car—a different one—but the tag said Biscayne Chariots, just like the one he’d seen him in before.

  “Mr. Smith, my ass,” Taz muttered.

  Whatever this guy was up to, Taz wasn’t having any of it. He scooted around the outside of the building, unchained his bike, and hopped on. He dialed the tennis center.

  “Yeah, Betty.” he coughed loudly. “I’m gonna have to cancel m’lessons today. Just got sick in the locker room.”

  “Oh, Tazzie, that’s too bad,” she said in a grandmotherly voice, “that twenty-four-hour stomach bug has been going around. You’d better get home and get some chicken noodle soup in you.”

  “Ah, thanks, Betty,” he said and coughed again, “and can you have Nathan cover m’lessons?”

  “Sure thing,” she said, “don’t you worry about it.”

  “Alright, good,” he said. “Ah’ll most likely see you in the morning.”

  He hung up and pedaled hard without looking back. He wanted to get away fast before Mr. Smith came out and saw him. He got a block away before a thought occurred to him.

  “If this guy’s gonna be followin’ me,” —Taz stopped his bike— “ah’m gonna turn the tables and find out what’s up with this bloke.”

  He pedaled slowly back toward the Tennis Garden and eased around the corner. A Ritz-Carlton maintenance truck was idling in the grass as a worker watered some non-native bushes in the median.

  Peeking from behind a massive palm tree, he could see Mr. Smith getting into his rental car. He dropped his bike and snuck into the truck while the worker had his back turned. He eased down low in the driver’s seat so he could watch the rental car drive away without being seen.

  Mr. Smith turned right out of the Ritz, and Taz eased out to follow him. He could hear the worker yelling in the distance as they drove toward the island causeway.

  “Right, Smith,” he muttered as he drifted back a few cars to keep from being obvious, “let’s see what you’re up to.”

  8

  No Turning Back

  Thursday morning’s Miami Herald was the first paper to run with a story about the future of Senator Gil Dickerson’s political career. The glowing piece outlined how Dickerson had all but clinched the Florida gubernatorial race and that with a decent three or four-year run would easily be the Democratic Party’s front-runner for president. Gil’s phone rang and he saw it was James calling.

  “I guess you saw it too,” he smiled into the receiver.

  “What’d I tell you, old boy?” James Hardy asked. “Everyone in my office is talking about it.”

  “Well, that’s a long way off, James,” said Gil, and he stood up and walked to the kitchen window.

  Sandy was pruning a rose bush and tossing dead buds into a bucket. She loved that garden. Gil made a mental note to have his assistant pick up some kind of new plant for her.

  “Soonah than you think, my friend.” His accent started to take on a JFK tone. “You’re gonna need to start a short list.”

  “Oh, hell, now,” Gil protested, “let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

  James laughed. “Ah’m just sayin’.”

  “Okay, okay,” said Gil, his smile getting a little wider, “I’ll get a yellow pad out and get started today.”

  A couple of seconds of silence followed. Gil could hear James sipping a cup of coffee… or maybe brandy… who knew what he’d be drinking at this hour.

  “So, um—” Gil started.

  James interrupted him. “All squared away, my friend. No need to talk about that anymore… not on this line.”

  Gil turned away from the window, as if he needed to shield his wife from the conversation. “The boat?”

  “I don’t know what boat you’re talking about, Gil,” James said, his tone darker. “There nevah was a boat.”

  Gil knew that the boat had been demolished or sunk or blown up or something. It had officially been disappeared. He breathed a sigh of relief… a small one. Without the boat, there was nothing to connect him to the girl, even if they did find her. He felt like a small glimmer of light was starting to shine at the end of the tunnel.

  “Hun?” Sandy’s voice echoed from the back door.

  “Gotta go, James,” Gil said and clicked his phone shut. “In the kitchen, dear.”

  She walked in, pulling her gloves off her hands. She leaned forward and kissed him, careful not to get any dirt on his freshly starched shirt. “Off to the office?” she asked, rinsing her hands in the sink.

  “Oh, uh, yeah,” he said and brushed his tie down, “just for a bit. Voting on the Saracen bill.”

  “Okay, dear,” she said and smiled blankly. “Would you like a sandwich or something to take with you?”

  “No, no,” he said, slipping on his suit jacket. “I’ll get something on the way.”

  She dried her hands and touched him on the cheek. “My hero. Saving the world, one bill at a time.”

  Gil shuddered. He certainly didn’t feel like a hero today… maybe he would tomorrow.

  “Will you be late?” she asked.

  “Not sure,” he said, walking for the door, “depends on how many nays we get. Could be in for a filibuster too.”

  “Oh, gee,” she said, frowning, “I’m sorry, hun. Well, don’t worry about me. I have my bridge club tonight.”

  Gil nodded and walked out. He started his car and turned on the radio. Talk Chat 101 was on and the caller was talking about how Gil Dickerson was going to be a fine governor and how he’d vote for him for president today if he were on the ballot. Gil turned it up and pulled out of the driveway.

  Maybe today he’d turn the corner, from looking back, to looking forward.

  Remington Hoyt Reginald pulled his rental car into the cramped garage under his apartment building. Liberty Square was no fancy neighborhood, and his place was no shimmering high-rise, but at least it came with parking. As he jogged toward the elevator and chirped his car alarm, he saw Myrtle Tomlinson was getting in too. Dammit, he thought. He was still in his tennis clothes from the busted lesson with Taz at the Ritz. She was older, maybe seventy-five, and very frail, but she was nothing like Gram. Crotchety and angry at all times, she was the kind of person you didn’t ask if everything was okay, you asked if anything was okay. Remington pursed his lips together as he stepped in.

  “Hard to play tennis with a briefcase,” she said, glaring at him through one slitted eye.

  “Yeah,” he said, “tough day at the courts.
Up, please.”

  “What floor?” she practically growled.

  “Mrs. Tomlinson,” he said flatly, “I have lived on the third floor for the past five years.”

  She punched the number three angrily and scowled at him.

  “Someday when you get older,” she said, jabbing a finger at him, “you’ll start forgetting things too. Like what you had for breakfast, or how to button a shirt, or maybe whether or not you’ve crapped your pants—if you even wore pants, that is.”

  “Doubtful,” he said. The elevator dinged and he got off. “Have a wonderful day,” he called sarcastically.

  “Screw you,” came her muffled reply from behind the closing doors.

  He inhaled slowly as he trotted down the dingy hall to his door. He looked left then right, waiting to see if anyone was watching him. When you watched others, you started wondering if they were watching you back. He clicked the key into the lock, rushed inside, and shut the door quietly behind him. The air inside the apartment smelled faintly of mothballs and old people. The memories came at him as they always did.

  “Gram, I’m home,” he called into the room.

  There would be no answer, but he still liked to announce himself. He dropped his briefcase by the door and tossed his keys into a bowl on the antique table beneath the mirror. He noticed he was still wearing the tennis whites he’d worn for the lesson. Ugh, he thought, disgusting, white after Labor Day.

  Pulling off the clothes as he walked, he wandered into the kitchen and jerked open the refrigerator. Twisting the cap off the Perrier made a satisfying hiss, and he practically chugged it down, washing the sour taste of vomit from his mouth. He felt his stomach rumble and a deep belch escaped his lips.

  “Excuse me,” he called out.

  Gram preferred manners, and he was obliged to display them at all times, even when no one else was present.

  Feeling himself slowly recover back into his calm and cool surroundings, he walked toward the back door. The breeze was swaying the trees outside. He slid the door open and stepped onto his balcony. He took a sip of his bubbling water and inhaled slowly. Closing his eyes, he tried to let the ridiculous events of the day drift away into nothingness. The warmth of the sun began to sink into his skin and sweat began to form on his brow. A wolf whistle came from across the street and he jerked his eyes open to see a group of young Latino boys staring at him and pointing. He looked down and realized he was still buck naked.

  “Oh, shit,” he said, and jumped back into his apartment and slammed the door behind him. He hurried back away from the huge sliding glass door and into the hall.

  He skipped back to the bedroom and walked straight through to the shower. He jerked the knob over and it thankfully ran hot quickly. He took one more sip, laid the bottle on the counter, and stepped in. He let the rushing water run over him. When he was finally pink and pruned, he stepped out. He was ready.

  He wrapped his luxurious white Brunello Cucinelli bathrobe around his body and combed his hair back. His hairline was still perfect and his forehead was smooth… no Botox needed here.

  Opening the jewelry box on his bedside table, he took out the brass skeleton key.

  It was time.

  Taz held his breath. The man who’d been following him—that he was now following—had stopped quickly and turned into the apartment building’s parking lot. Taz screeched to a halt and jerked the wheel of the Ritz-Carlton maintenance truck left into a handicapped parking space at the front of the building. He hunkered down and watched the angular man exit his car and speed walk to the double glass doors into the building. Strange bugger.

  The man was definitely paranoid, constantly turning his head from left and right, watching. Taz crouched lower in the truck seat and remained motionless waiting for the man to stop his incessant swivel-headed scanning.

  The man entered the lobby elevator next to a hideous old hag, have some sort of terse exchange with her, and then the doors closed. The numbers on the door dinged up until they stopped on the third floor. Then after a moment, it continued on up to five.

  Third floor or fifth floor, Taz thought. He hopped out of the truck and jogged to the stairwell. He didn’t want to bump into the man coming back down the elevator having forgotten something, or pop out on his floor suddenly with no cover. He took the stairs three at a time and was breathless as he reached the third floor. He peeked out the security window down the dingy hallway. No sign of anyone.

  He opened the door and stepped into the hall. There were six doors, three on each side, and he walked to the first one and put his ear near the door. The sound of a muffled television playing some Spanish game show drifted out the door, followed by the spicy smell of tacos, or enchiladas, or burritos, or something like that. His stomach growled.

  He stepped to the next door and pressed his ear to it. He jumped when the door suddenly pushed in and opened.

  “Oh, shite, sorry,” said Taz, and jumped back and raised his hands up, “ah was just lookin’ for a…”

  He stopped when he realized no one was standing at the door.

  “Allo?” he called.

  No response. Gently, he put a finger on the door and pushed his way in. The apartment was bare; no furniture, no pictures, no television, no people… nothing. Apparently, this unit was vacant. He pulled the door to, but didn’t click it shut. As he got closer to the third door, he heard the elevator ding, but it sailed past the third floor without stopping. Inside the third apartment, he heard a shower being turned on.

  A voice called out from behind the door. “Excuse me.”

  He had no idea what that meant, but he stepped away from the door. Taz thought the man had somehow figured out he was here. He ran back toward the second door and stepped inside. He pulled the door shut and crouched down, waiting for the man next door to discover him. Through the paper-thin walls of the apartment, he heard the man close a shower curtain and begin humming. Maybe he hadn’t discovered him after all. Taz stood slowly and looked around.

  The tile floor echoed as he walked, so he slipped off his shoes and padded toward the back in his socks. He slid the balcony door open and stepped into the balmy heat. He looked to his right and saw a similar balcony outside the other man’s apartment. It was about four feet away. Not an easy jump… but doable. Taz inclined his ear and could still hear the shower flowing.

  He climbed the rusty, rickety and wobbly rail, and using his hand against the stucco exterior of the building, he steadied himself for a jump. Just over a meter, he thought, nothing to it. He crouched and heaved his legs up and out. As he did, the railing under him slammed backward, falling completely away from the balcony and grating loudly as it slid down and crashed onto the pavement three stories below him.

  “Shit!” Taz yelled as he flailed through the air.

  His hands reached out and barely grasped the railing on the man’s balcony; if it was loose like his, he would surely fall. His suddenly sweaty palms slid down the railing as if it was covered with Vaseline. His heart thumped out of his chest as he reached the bottom. His grip was good from all those two-handed backhands, and he managed to hang on to the lower rail. He swung wildly in the air beneath the balcony. Slowly, he began to regain his composure and balance. Swinging there, he waited for the man’s balcony door to open and the dude to come out and discover him hanging there… but it never did.

  Over the din of nearby traffic, he could hear the shower still running. Catching his breath, he pulled himself up the railing—thank God it was solid—and onto the balcony. No turning back now; he wasn’t sure he wanted to jump back to his balcony without a railing to hold onto.

  He crouched below the level of the window, probably the kitchen, and waited. The shower turned off and he heard the man humming as he moved across the apartment.

  He could easily see the man walk past the big sliding glass door, but the man, whose eyes had been darting left and right all day, never turned to look out. He was walking with intent, and had some kind of key in his h
and as he stalked through the living room into another room across the apartment. The man walked through the door and closed it behind him. The apartment was empty. Taz reached up and wrapped his fingers around the handle on the door. He tugged. The door slid open.

  9

  Gram Dolls

  Gram, or more specifically, Martha Inez Reginald, had been dead for over fifteen years. Remington had killed her. Of course, he hadn’t meant to kill her… it had been a complete accident, but he was to blame either way. The courts had exonerated him, finding no fault in the inquiry, and sealed the records as he was still technically a minor when it had happened. Remington could remember it like it was yesterday. Sometimes, he’d wake up in a cold sweat, trembling and crying… reliving the nightmare of that fateful day.

  He’d heard the story so many times he could almost recite it himself. Gram would finish washing the dishes from Sunday dinner and waddle into the living room, damp dish towel still hanging from her hands.

  “Do you want some pie, Remi?” she’d always ask, forgetting that he despised pie.

  “No, Gram,” he’d say with a patient smile, wondering if there would come a day that she wouldn’t remember him at all, “but thank you for offering.”

  She’d pat him on the head. “Such a well-mannered young man. Gram loves you so much, Remi.”

  And he’d smile as she slumped down into the squeaky armchair by the door. The TV would be on, naturally showing her son’s local televangelist program, but the sound would be down low. Something, something, Gawddd, something, something, Hellfire! Remington hated hearing it, but he got pretty good at tuning it out.

  Sunday mornings were always the same, and most of them were good. But not this one. This one would be the worst… the worst one ever.

  “Did I ever tell you…” Gram started.