The Complete Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Collection

by David F. Berens

  “It disguises the number so that he can’t tell where we’re calling from,” he said. “It shows up as a pizza place on his end.”

  Joe put his mouth back to the receiver, and Troy decided he couldn’t stand the waiting anymore. Ever since Afghanistan, he’d been about as non-confrontational as a man could get. He made eye-contact with Joe and mouthed the question, Water? Joe mouthed back, Down the hall. At that moment, the line picked up.

  “G’day?” said the speaker on the other end.

  “Ah, yes, sir.” Joe tried to make his voice sound higher than usual. “This is Joe from Super Sid’s Pizza Emporium. I’m your delivery driver and I need directions, please.”

  Taz was quiet for a second, but then answered. “Ah sure as shit dint order any pizza,” he said gruffly, “and ah’m kinda busy right now, so—”

  “Oh, um, sorry, but my manager says it’s way over time and you can have it anyway,” Joe said, shrugging to indicate he couldn’t think of anything better to say. “Just tell me where to bring it.”

  Troy opened the office door as quietly as he could and stepped into the hall. Before he closed it behind him, he heard Taz say, “Look ‘ere, ya twit, I didn’t order any fookin’ pizza and I don’t…”

  Troy gently closed the door, missing the rest of the conversation. He hoped Joe could keep the kid on the line long enough for the machine to work its magic and get a location for Taz.

  As he stepped into the hall, he noticed an odd collection of men walking single file past him. They all had dark hair, curly, and a little shorter than shoulder length. And they all had beards and blue eyes. It was like a convention of Troy wannabes parading past him in the police department. He nudged the last guy in line.

  “Hey man,” he said, “you know where the water fountain is in this place?”

  The man looked down the hall toward where the convoy of Troys was heading. “It’s down there, bro.”

  “Right on,” Troy said and fell in behind them. “Thanks, man.”

  “You bet,” the guy said. “You here for the lineup?”

  “S’cuse me?” Troy asked.

  “Peepin’ Tom thing,” he said, “down on Key Biscayne.”

  “I don’t have a clue what—”

  Troy was interrupted by a mean looking officer who stepped out of a room in front of the walking line of men.

  “Shut it,” he said, and waved the first man into a door to the left, “and get your butts in there.”

  Troy slowed to let the guys get a distance ahead of him. The officer cocked his head to the side and furrowed his eyebrows.

  “You too, dude,” he said, and waved harshly at Troy, “fall in.”

  “Oh, no, sir.” Troy held up his hands. “I ain’t no Peepin’ Tom. I’m here with the other—”

  “Yeah, right.” The officer grabbed Troy by the arm. “That’s what they all say. I’m innocent, I’m innocent. Get your ass in there.”

  “I think you’ve got a little mix up here, sir,” Troy tried to protest, but the officer shoved him into the room and closed the door.

  Troy heard the lock click behind them. Inside the long narrow room, the other guys were lining up along the wall to the left. On that wall were lines indicating height, and on the opposite wall was a mirror… obviously a two-way mirror with someone on the other side, hoping to pinpoint the South Beach Peeping Tom.

  Troy walked up to the mirror and put his hands beside his eyes, peering into the glass. “I think there’s been some kind of mistake here,” he said, seeing nothing in the mirror but his own eyes. “I’m not here for a lineup.”

  “Against the wall, number five,” a voice crackled through the loudspeaker, “or you’ll be spending a night in a jail cell.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Back it up, number four!”

  Troy wasn’t sure why he’d been dubbed number five, but then he looked at the other guys in line. They all had sheets of paper that had large numbers printed on them… one through four. He had no sheet of paper. Troy moved toward the door and as soon as his hand touched the knob, it jerked open and the mean looking police officer grabbed him by the arms, flipped him around backwards, and had him cuffed behind his back within seconds.

  “Get in line now, number five!” he yelled at Troy, and shoved him back against the wall with the other four men.

  He reached up and jerked the cowboy hat off of Troy’s head, then walked out the door and slammed it behind him.

  Number four looked at him with a grin. “Nice work, bro. Fight the po-leese.” He held up a fist, presumably to fist-bump Troy, but then realized Troy was now handcuffed, so, he bumped his shoulder.

  “This is a load a crap,” Troy muttered, and backed up against the wall.

  When they got situated into a reasonable line, the loudspeaker crackled again.

  “Number one,” it said, “please step forward.”

  The man took a step.

  “Turn to your left.”

  The man complied.

  “Turn to your right.”

  It was strange watching the reflection of the similar looking men watching the first guy go through the motions.

  “Now,” the voice continued, “say the line.”

  The first man held up a piece of paper and read it. “Show them to me. Oh, yes, Mrs. Morgenstern, show me those huge funbags,” he said flatly. “I’m gonna motorboat those beautiful balloons,”

  Number three snickered, and predictably the voice in the speaker told him to shut his mouth.

  Troy had started to laugh too, but when the name came, he froze. Morgenstern. Morgenstern, he repeated to himself, why do I recognize that name?

  “Back in line, number one.”

  This continued down the row, each man passing the script down. By the time it had reached Troy, he was sweating. The cop re-entered and took off the handcuffs.

  Troy turned to him and started to ask about his hat, but the man looked meaner than before, so he kept his mouth shut.

  “Step forward, number five.”

  Troy stepped forward and shielded his eyes from the bright lights. “Um, respectfully speakin’, sir or sirs, I ain’t involved in this case.”

  “Turn to the right.”

  Troy turned and said, “It’s a case of mistaken identity. If you’ll just get Detective Joe Bond in here, he can clear all this up.”

  “Turn to the left.”

  Troy did as he was told, and said, “I’m not sure what the deal is, but if we can get Joe to come down for a sec, this’ll all be—”

  “Read the line,” the voice interrupted.

  Number four reached out, handing him the script. Troy held it in his left hand and stretched out his right, palm up. “But I don’t have anything to do with—”

  The mean cop took a quick step toward him and drew his baton. “Read the damn line.”

  Troy stepped backward from the cop. “I got it. Read the line.”

  The cop grimaced at him and stepped back toward the door. Troy held up the paper, and as he read through it in his mind, it clicked. Mrs. Morgenstern. Funbags. Beautiful Balloons. Dangit. It was Billy, the security guard at the Tennis Garden, and Linda Morgenstern. His mouth went dry.

  “Read the line, number five!”

  Troy swallowed. “Can I get a lawyer.”

  Taz hung up the phone, trying to decide what was stranger; the delivery dude not taking no for an answer on bringing him a pizza he didn’t order, or the freak of nature sitting in front of him in the old lady’s nightgown, listening to classical music, stroking the back of a skunk like a cat with one hand, and clutching a small, white-faced doll in the other hand.

  “So, we meet at last, Mr. Hull,” the man in the gown said. “What is it that I can do for you?”

  Taz was still wearing the bandana to mask the smell of the skunk still heavy in the room, but it wasn’t doing much to help. He pulled the bandana down. “Money,” he said, “plain ‘n simple.”

  “And why should I give you anyt
hing?” the man Taz knew as Mr. Smith asked, adding, with the hint of a smile on his lips, “I know what you’ve done. I’m the one with all the cards. I could have you in jail with a single call to the police.”

  Taz thought for a second. It was a good question. He hadn’t really thought this through. He knew Smith had information about his own case, but he also had information about the senator’s case as well. And as he stood there, watching this strange man rock the baby doll and the skunk, the pieces clicked into place. He smiled. “Because,” Taz said through his teeth, “ah know what you’ve done too.”

  The man’s smile faltered a little, but he recovered quickly. “Which is?”

  “You’ve struck a deal wif the devil, aincha?” Taz asked rhetorically. “Ah watched ya meet with the good senator. I dunno what you asked for, but if you weren’t blackmailing the man he’d be in jail by now.”

  “My business with the senator has absolutely nothing to do with you,” Mr. Smith said, though he stopped rocking. “And that doesn’t matter now anyway. That business has already been conducted.”

  “Conducted in private, yeah?” Taz said, grinning. “But what if it ain’t private anymore?”

  A flash of something crossed Mr. Smith’s face, then disappeared.

  “What if the information I got from your briefcase was leaked to the press?” Taz was proud of himself for keeping his momentum going. “Whatever deal you struck would be dissolved.”

  “Perhaps, yes,” the man said flatly, “but I still wouldn’t have any reason to give you any money, and all the more reason to hand over all the information I have on your case, and put you away forever.”

  Shit, Taz thought, that made a lot of sense. He began to form a new idea in his head. “Ah know you’re onta something big,” he said, gambling, “worth more than this money yor gettin’ for the Colpiller thing. Am I right?”

  “Go on,” Smith said.

  “You can still get what you want.” Taz thought he was onto something. “If I get what I want, we can all get our happy ending.”

  Mr. Smith seemed to mull this over. He started rocking and stroking the skunk again. “What is it you want?” he asked.

  Taz licked his lips. He had originally planned to ask for the whole two-hundred and fifty thousand, but now that he’d been countered, he thought half might be a good place to start. “One-twenty-five,” he said.

  Mr. Smith immediately started laughing. “Is that all?” He rocked forward and laid the skunk and the little doll into a nearby cradle.

  The skunk walked around in two small circles and laid down, snuggling its nose into the doll.

  “Croist!” Taz could smell the skunk stronger now. “How d’ya fookin’ live wi’ that thing?”

  Smith looked down at the skunk and shrugged. “You get used to it. Now, are we talking small bills, cashier’s check, Australian dollars?”

  Taz was startled. Just like that, Mr. Smith was going to pay him.

  “Of course,” —he stood and took a step toward Taz— “I’ll need to see the papers you have. All of them. Copies you might have made, everything.”

  “Ah dint make no copies,” Taz said, “it’s just your originals.”

  “Perfect.” Mr. Smith stuck out his hand. “Then I suppose once I know the details of your payment, we have a deal.”

  Taz took his hand and shook it. “Thanks, Mr. Smith.”

  “Call me Remington,” the man said.

  “Yes sir, Mr. Remington.” Taz didn’t care that he was grinning from ear to ear. “Pleasure doin’ business wif ya.”

  “Oh, by the way,” Remington said, “I’m going to need to know where the girl’s body is… you know, to make sure it doesn’t show up unexpectedly.”

  Taz opened his mouth to tell him it was in the lighthouse, then shut it quickly. Shit! He’d forgotten Mindy was there too… and still alive.

  “No worries, mate,” Taz said and smiled, “It ain’t gonna show up. Ah’ve taken good care of that.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “Good.”

  He couldn’t help but wonder how Remington hadn’t found out about Mindy being kidnapped too… but he’d take care of her soon enough.

  No worries.

  17

  Good Old Boys

  Gil Dickerson rolled the cigar around in his mouth to moisten the end. The peppery taste burned his lips in a good way, like a hot curry, or a chili pepper. He enjoyed spicy things, not unlike he’d enjoyed his time with Jackie Ranchero-Doral. But he’d always paid the price with indigestion that couldn’t be helped with any over-the-counter medication. With food, he’d learned to be more discerning with his choices. He wondered if he’d ever get that way with his choice in women.

  “Good afternoon, Gil,” came a lilting Boston accent through the door.

  James Hardy, senator from Vermont, walked in with his hand outstretched. “To what do I owe the pleasure of ya company this fine day?”

  Gil stood, took his hand, and shook it. One pump. Let’s get this thing started.

  “Something’s up, James,” he said quietly. “I had a meeting with a little shit who apparently has some information on me, and—”

  “That’ll be enough, Governor Dickerson,” James interrupted. He took a couple of glasses from a bookcase bar, clinked three ice cubes into each, and poured a dark liquor into them. He sat one of the glasses next to Gil. “Light?” he asked pulling a zippo lighter from his pocket.

  “No thanks, Sandy can’t stand the smell of them.”

  “Suit yaself,” James shrugged, “but she’s probably gonna smell mine on you anyway. Might as well enjoy it.”

  He took another cigar from the box on the table next to Gil. He sucked the end for a second and then clicked it off with a cutter. He pulled his thumb across the zippo and puffed four or five times until a thick, curling smoke came out of his mouth. He passed the cutter to Gil, along with the lighter.

  “What the hell.” Gil lit his cigar and took a sip of the whiskey. He puffed the cigar once and let the smoke ease out of his mouth. “Damn, that’s good,” he said, and rolled the cigar between his thumb and forefinger. “What is it?”

  “Don’t ask, don’t tell,” James said, and winked, “but there’s more where that came from.”

  Gil shrugged and took another puff.

  “Now, tell me about this meeting of yours with this little piss ant.”

  Gil took a piece of paper from the pocket of his suit jacket. It was folded in thirds and printed on a stationary that indicated it came from the Governor of Florida’s office. James Hardy laid his cigar down to smolder on a marble ashtray and stuck his hand out.

  He unfolded the paper and read it, his lips moving slightly with each word. He looked up at Gil without moving his head. “And what, pray tell, is this?” James asked, holding the paper between his thumb and forefinger as if it were hot. “Some kind of joke?”

  “I wish it were, James,” Gil said, and shook his head.

  “You’re naming,” —James looked at the paper— “whoever this Reginald character is, as your Chief of Staff??”

  Gil nodded.

  “Gil,” James said incredulously, “what the hell is the meaning of this?”

  The future governor of Florida leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees. He rolled his lit cigar between his fingers and inhaled.

  Gil proceeded to describe to James the meeting he’d had with Remington Hoyt Reginald at the Pollo Tropical. “He’s got photographs of the two of us together on the boat.”

  “That boat doesn’t exist anymore, Gil.”

  “Teeth, for Christ sakes, James,” —Gil threw his hands up— “he’s got frickin’ teeth that I knocked out of her stupid head.”

  James Hardy’s face grew dark. A glint appeared in his eye that Gil had only seen glimpses of before… and it scared him a little.

  “Now, you listen to me, Guvna,” —James’s Bostonian accent was heavier now— “this piss ant ain’t g
onna get in the way of the office you were born to fill. And he sure as shit ain’t gonna get in my way either.”

  “It’s not a big deal,” Gil protested weakly, “he’ll just be my chief of staff for two years, then he’s gone.”

  “Dammit, Gil!” James jumped up out of his chair. “That ain’t the way it works up here. Once you’re in, you’re in for life. Everybody knows that.”

  Gil knew he was right. Power corrupted with deep roots in politics. Once a man had a taste, he could never go without. “Then, what do you propose we do about this?” Gil asked. “If he releases what he has on me, I’m finished. Caput. No Governor’s mansion in Florida. No White House. No nothing!”

  James Hardy put his cigar in his mouth and drew a long puff into his mouth. He let the smoke ease out and sat back down. “He has her teeth?”

  Gil nodded. “And blood.”

  “How in the fu—” James started, but then stopped. “No, you know what? I don’t want to know.”

  Gil raised his hands to retort, but James stopped him.

  “Doesn’t matter,” James said quickly. “What matters is this isn’t the kind of thing that a little discrediting won’t fix, like it did with Anna Martinez.”

  He pulled his phone out of his pocket and clicked a number. Gil heard it ringing into his ear.

  “What’d you say this guy’s name is?”

  “Remington Hoyt Reginald.”

  “Good.” James held up a finger to his lips to indicate Gil should keep quiet. Someone had apparently picked up on the other end of the phone.

  “Get me the snake.” James listened for a few seconds, then clicked his phone off without a word. “It’s taken care of,” he told Gil, “now, clear your mind of it.” He picked up the piece of paper and crumpled it into a ball.

  “What’s going to happen to him?” Gil asked, leaning back in his cushy, leather chair.

  “The snake is what’s going to happen to him,” James said, and clicked open his zippo.