The Complete Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Collection

by David F. Berens

  “You guys, just stop,” the white girl said. “We’re all hurting, and we don’t know how to deal with it. It never gets any easier.”

  “Oh, geez, Becky,” Alain said, “do we really have to hear about Darryl again?”

  Troy heard the sound of a stinging smack and turned to see the boy, Alain, holding his hand against his cheek. Apparently, Becky had just slapped him.

  “Friends, please,” RayRay said, holding up his hands. “This is neither the time, nor the place. Show some respect to Tayler’s family.”

  “And just what are you lookin’ at?”

  Troy realized that the black girl, Samantha, was staring right at him, one eyebrow arched. He looked from person to person… they were all watching him now… except the Asian kid, who must’ve been blind behind his dark glasses.

  “Oh, um, me?” Troy sniffed. “Look, I’m sorry. I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation.”

  The girl named Becky fluttered her doe eyes at him. He struggled not to look at her.

  “Name’s Troy,” he said. “I’m Tayler’s… well, I was Tayler’s roommate.”

  “I’m Becky,” Becky said, and held out her hand.

  None of the others said anything. Troy didn’t take her hand, pretending he hadn’t seen her extend it toward him.

  “Look, I’m the one who found Tayler,” he said, “and I’ve been talkin’ to the police about all this. It’s pretty clear it was a suicide. Forensic evidence, and what not.”

  Samantha lowered her head.

  “I’m sorry,” Troy said. “I don’t know why he did it. Seemed like a pretty happy kid most of the time. It’s just hard to tell what people are thinkin’, I guess.”

  “It is true, Troy-san,” RayRay said, “and thank you for saying so.”

  “I’m really sorry for your loss, you guys,” Troy said, “but it seems pretty clear to me that, for one reason or another, Tayler just didn’t want to go on livin’.”

  They were all quiet now.

  “Okay, well, I’m gonna go,” Troy said. “Gotta get down to the museum.”

  “That’s where I recognized you from!” Becky suddenly looked up at him. “You work at Jepson, don’t you?”

  “Yeah,” Troy replied, and rubbed the back of his neck, uncomfortable talking to the girl again. “I’m just a helpin’ hand unloadin’ and sometimes sweepin’ up.”

  “Maybe we’ll see you around?” She batted her eyelashes again.

  The dark looks were back, mostly from Samantha, and now from the boy they called Alain.

  “Maybe so.” Troy held up a hand and turned away.

  “Hey, what’s your name?” Becky called.

  Dangit, Troy thought.

  “Troy,” he said over his shoulder, “Troy Bodean.”

  “I like your hat, Troy,” he heard her say as he walked out the door. “If you’re ever out by the Mariner Grove apartments…”

  He didn’t hear the rest.

  10

  Pay To Play

  Eddie Vargo tilted his black slick-backed hair covered head and laughed heartily. He looked at the screen of his cell phone and shook his head. Showing the blocked number notification to his associate, he shrugged his shoulders.

  “Do youse believe dis, T.D.?” he asked the giant Samoan man standing next to him.

  The man, T.D., looked up from polishing a silver urn and also shook his head no. His belly stuck out from under his shirt and he tugged on it to cover the protruding gut.

  “Don’ believe it, boss,” he replied and looked back to the urn.

  Eddie put his mouth back to the receiver and spoke calmly but firmly.

  “Ain’t happnin’,” he said. “Even if I wanted to give youse that ridiculous sum of money fa that paintin’, there sure as shit ain’t no way I could get it by nine tonight.”

  He paused, listening, as the person on the line responded.

  “Cause on account of there ain’t no banks open this time of night,” – Eddie clicked his tongue – “and I don’ know about youse, but my bank don’t let me get two-hundred grand a time out the ATM.”

  He clicked shut the phone and tossed it on the metal worktable in front of him. “I dunno what dis world is comin’ to, T.D.,” Eddie said, “when people think they can jus’ ask any price for anything. I ain’t even heard of dis piece they’s sellin’.”

  “Me neither,” T.D. said, putting down his urn. “What’s it called again?”

  “Somethin’ about Stolen Savannah or somethin’ like that. I dunno, I ain’t never heard of dis Tayler Evan dude, neither.”

  “Yeah.” T.D. stood up and tugged his shirt down over his belly again.

  T.D. was not the big fella’s real name. His real name was the very Polynesian sounding Tausa’afia, which Eddie’s New Jersian accent just couldn’t handle, so he’d shortened it to something more manageable.

  At six-foot-eight, the Samoan towered over Eddie. He was built like a defensive lineman and had actually played a couple of downs of football in college. Thus, his new nickname, T.D. – shorthand for touchdown.

  But Eddie had thrown some serious cash at the big guy, and apparently that was enough to get him to drop out of school and become his full-time muscle. Eddie was tough, but he was more average in size… like five-foot-eight or so. Didn’t matter. His gun was huge, and it never hurt to have a giant come with you on a deal.

  “Anyways, what we got goin’ out today?” he asked T.D.

  The massive hulk of a man lumbered over to a stack of crates. He picked up a clipboard lying on top of one of them and scanned it.

  “We got the Wyeth and the Picasso.” He looked up at Eddie.

  Vargo grinned widely. “Yeah, that Picasso was a good find, eh?”

  “You bet, boss,” T.D. agreed, and nodded.

  Eddie knew T.D. had absolutely no clue what he was talking about and he liked it that way. He didn’t need to put ideas of running off with something into his associate’s head. To the Samoan, the art they transacted through their warehouse was pretty… but so were the posters down at the Walmart.

  “Cool,” Eddie said, “get those on the truck and we’ll head down to that new donut shop. Everyone says it’s frickin’ amazin’.”

  T.D. grinned and flashed a double thumbs-up. The big guy began carrying the paintings out the door and Eddie’s phone rang again. Blocked number. He answered it with a sniff.

  “Yeah?”

  “Turn on your TV,” the voice on the line said.

  “Yeah?” Eddie asked. “Whadda I wanna do that for?”

  “You might want to see the breaking news about an important piece I have for sale.”

  Eddie recognized the caller from earlier. The same one who was trying to sell him a painting from a virtually unknown artist for a couple hundred grand.

  “Who da fuck is this?”

  “Just turn on your TV. You’ll thank me, I promise.”

  Eddie walked into his office and clicked the remote. A flashing red graphic that said Breaking News pulsed across the screen. Police cars with blinking red and blue lights surrounded an apartment building in downtown Savannah. Eddie wouldn’t have known it was Savannah; the bottom ticker had told him that. A young local news anchor was reading the story.

  “The body of highly regarded artist, Tayler Evan, was found hanging in his apartment this morning, dead from an apparent suicide. He is best known for the current piece at the Jepson Center called Savannah Smiling. The painting was originally estimated to have been worth around ten-thousand-dollars, but upon hearing of Evan’s death, collectors have been offering hundreds of thousands of dollars to buy the piece.”

  A camera shot of the painting hanging in the museum appeared on the screen and a reporter at the scene began giving details about Tayler’s life and work.

  But Eddie wasn’t listening anymore. He licked his lips, knowing what the death of an artist could do to the value of his or her work. He turned away from the TV.

  “Okay,” he said into the phone
, “so, dis guy is dead and his painting is worth a bunch. What’s that gotta do with you and me?”

  “I can get you that painting.”

  “Okay, so it’s a heist?”

  “Not exactly,” the caller said, “but that’s not your concern.”

  “Right.” Eddie shook his head.

  These guys were all the same. They thought they could just sell him a stolen piece, collect the dough, and disappear. He knew better. With this painting being so hot on the news right now, the cops – and maybe even the feds – would be all over it for at least a year. Eddie might have to hang onto it for a while before he could make a sale.

  Behind him the TV seemed to get louder as the reporter held her earpiece.

  “Wait, my producer is telling me we have more breaking news. What’s that?” The reporter’s mouth dropped open. “Bill Gates wants to buy it? Oh, my God.”

  Eddie whistled across his teeth. He knew he could never sell it to Bill Gates, but the ante just got bumped up… way up.

  “Mmkay,” he said. “I’ll bite. What’s the deal?”

  “I bring you the painting,” the thief said, “and you give me four-hundred grand.”

  “Four hundred?” Eddie sputtered. “I thought you said two.”

  “Yes, well, you can see things have changed a bit now.”

  Eddie tried to slow his breathing. From the corner of his eye, he could still see the news. This thing was going viral in a way that could mean millions. Besides that, he only planned to put two hundred grand in the bags anyway.

  “Deal,” Eddie finally said as T.D. lumbered back into the office. “When and where?”

  “Put the money in a trunk,” the caller said, “and I’ll do the same with the painting. We’ll do a double drop out at the airport.”

  Eddie threw his head back and laughed. T.D. looked confused, but he started laughing too.

  “Yeah, dat’s rich,” he said. “And how the hell you gonna deal with security?”

  “We’ll drop them at the E.V. charging stations,” the thief said. “They’re outside the perimeter due to safety concerns, and not monitored by the airport.”

  Eddie opened his mouth to answer and then closed it. That was true. He hadn’t considered that, but it was absolutely right. Vehicles were often left plugged into the charging stations for days at a time while their owners flew. This could work.

  “Okay, I’m intrigued,” Eddie said. “When?”

  “Tuesday, noon.”

  “Noon?” he asked. “Are you freakin’ kidding me? Broad daylight?”

  “Half the staff will be on lunch and no one will be watching for two cars to be plugged in and left out there.”

  “Cameras?”

  “There aren’t any,” the thief said. “I already checked that.”

  It seemed too simple. Eddie mulled it over in his head as T.D. stared at him. Could it really be that easy? Drop off a car and pick up the money?

  “Okay, you got a deal,” Eddie said, then inhaled. “But here’s what’s gonna happen. There’ll be a transmitter in a locked case with the money. When I verify the painting is on board, I send you the code to open the case and you can ditch the transmitter. Capiche?”

  “Excellent,” the thief said. “I will have similar measures in place and will let you know how to secure the painting when I’ve seen the money.”

  “See you Tuesday,” Eddie said.

  “Tuesday.”

  He hung up the phone and looked at T.D. The big man was looking back at him expectantly.

  “So?” the giant asked.

  “I dunno,” Eddie said, rubbing his chin. “It just might work.”

  “What might work, boss?”

  “Never mind, T.D.” Eddie slapped him on the back. “Let’s just go get those donuts and make our deliveries. Tell ya ‘bout it later.”

  “Roger that, boss.”

  Eddie Vargo wondered if this might be the score that did it. The one to retire on. Could be… if he walked away with the painting… and the money.

  A plan started to form in his head.

  11

  Bobo Skee Otten Dotten

  Troy Clint Bodean sat on the loading dock out back of the Jepson Center Museum. A truck was due any minute with a few pieces for the Ruben exhibit, on loan from a private collector. They weren’t original Rubens, but statues based on the paintings of the artist. Meaning, not-so-thin, naked people… in other words, heavy. So, Troy was mentally preparing himself for some grueling lifting and the placing of eleven hefty works around the exhibit. And it was likely that the designer, who would show up in dark sunglasses sipping a latte, would want them moved here and there according to her whim. Try it over here, now try it over there. Ugh. Troy thought a better idea was just to put the pieces in a circle in the middle of the exhibit hall… but that was never going to happen. Or it might happen, but not until they’d moved the bulky statues around ten times first.

  “Truck comin’ in, eh?” said a voice from behind, startling Troy.

  He turned to see Bobo Gladmore leaning on a wide broom.

  “Somethin’ like that,” Troy said as he pulled himself up to greet the janitor.

  “Hey, I’m sorry ‘bout the other day.” Bobo stuck his hand out. “My sister had ta go in to her doctor. Yup, she’s pregnant again.”

  Bobo was older than Troy, but not by much. Troy guessed maybe sixty. He looked much older though, with wiry, silver hair, a scruffy beard, wrinkled splotchy skin, and a hunchback-like physique.

  Bobo’s sister, Maisy, had to be at least forty… and this was her fifth child. As far as Troy knew, they lived farther inland, near Brunswick, on a pig farm. Troy pictured a bunch of dirty, naked kids rolling around in the mud.

  Bobo held out a crumpled pack of Morven Gold cigarettes, offering one to Troy. After a brief flashback to Afghanistan, Troy decided he might have one after all. It’d been a few dozen years since he’d smoked and he figured one wouldn’t throw him off the wagon. With more moans and groans than a Peppermint Hippo girl turning tricks out back, Bobo settled down on the dock beside Troy. He flicked a gas station Bic and lit the two cigarettes. As he handed one to Troy, he fell into a hacking cough.

  “Reckon I oughta quit one a’ these days,” he said, “damn things gave my Bessie the cancer all up in her lungs. Still payin’ for that damn bidness.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Bobo.”

  “Don’t be. Woman was a certified witch, she was.”

  Boba laughed a wet, hacking laugh. He leaned over the loading dock and spat a disgusting ball of mucus. Troy tried to look away, but couldn’t.

  “Yeah, I figure the only way to get outta them bills is ta kill mahself the same damn way.”

  Troy shrugged his shoulders. “No insurance money?”

  “Nah, ran out a long time ago. Eh, it ain’t so bad. They did put me on a real nice payment plan.”

  Troy took a long drag on his cigarette as a large white truck pulled into the parking lot. The driver navigated the lot until he could reverse into the bay, his truck beeping as he slowly backed in. Troy flicked the butt of his cigarette down and stood up. He hooked a hand under Bobo’s arm and helped him do the same. Bobo groaned, and what could only be described as a deep, bubbly, juicy, moist sound rumbled in his pants.

  “Aw, hell,” he said, finding his balance, “I’m gon’ have to change that one, ain’t I?”

  As the smell hit Troy’s nose, he realized Bobo had soiled himself. But, not one to miss an opportunity for a great joke, Troy smiled.

  “Depends.”

  Bobo began to chuckle, and just as his laugh escalated, a new sound – one that reminded Troy of a nearly empty squeeze bottle of ketchup being emptied – emanated from Bobo’s nether regions.

  “Yup,” the old janitor said as he flicked the one-inch butt of his smoke on the ground, “might have to change my pants, too. I’ll catch up to you in a bit, T-Roy.”

  “No rush, Bobo.” Troy waved politely as the old man shuffled awa
y, his trousers sagging under the weight of all that…

  “Yo, bro,” the driver of the truck called out, interrupting Troy’s thought. “What’s shakin’, bacon?”

  “Ain’t much shakin’ around here.” Troy reached down a hand to pull the man up on the loading dock. “Whatcha got for me?”

  “Eh, not much,” the driver said, “buncha naked ladies and a few naked dudes. Every one of them’s had too many donuts though.”

  Troy laughed as he slid the back door of the truck up and open. “Sounds like a party.”

  “Yeah, man,” the driver said. “Hey, I’m gonna hit the loo.”

  Troy waved him off as he pulled on his gloves. Then a thought struck him, remembering Bobo’s excrement predicament.

  “Hey, man,” he called to the driver, “you might want to use the ladies’ room. The men’s might be occupied.”

  The driver shrugged. “Aight, cool. Don’t matter to me.”

  Troy walked into the back of the truck and counted five human-sized crates tucked against the walls of the cabin, strapped in tight to the sides. Not too bad, he thought, I’ll have these folks unloaded in no time.

  Though it would’ve been nice to have help, the driver was prohibited, for insurance reasons, to lay a finger on anything loaded in the back of the truck. Thus, the damages or losses would all be on the museum… and Troy… should anything un-fortuitous happen. Troy wheeled the dolly in and unstrapped crate number one. He slid the dolly underneath, tipped back the boxed statue, and rolled it off the truck.

  “Piece of cake,” he said, offloading the first box.

  He rolled it into the exhibit hall where they would eventually be placed – and re-placed and re-placed again – at the designer’s direction. The heavy moving would all be done with the pieces still in the crates to avoid any serious damage. Then, once they were near their final destination, they would be unboxed and moved slightly one last time. Troy figured he had about two hours of work ahead of him.

  Wheeling in the last box, a fresh sheen of sweat on his forehead, he saw a fresh, clean Bobo tapping on one of the crates.