The Complete Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Collection

by David F. Berens

  At that exact moment, two loud, extremely tan, platinum blonde girls and their gaggle of groupie fishermen all stood up from their table and began a torturous stumble to the door. Other patrons nearby watched in shock as one man fell flat on his face, to the delight of his friends.

  They all began to taunt the drunk guy, and they circled around him like sharks to chum. A bouncer shoved through to them and lifted the man on the floor to his feet. With his left hand hooked under the man’s arm, he put his right hand up and waved toward the front door.

  “Out,” he boomed. “You guys gotta go.”

  The men began laughing and shuffling toward the door, taking their friend from the bouncer. The two women who were hanging on the arms of the last two men in the group kept looking back at the bar. Troy’s memory flashed of the Gallop sisters, but that couldn’t possibly be them. They were younger—by a little—and had most likely headed back to Vegas. Besides that, they were too low-brow for Martha’s Vineyard.

  A waitress came running around him from the bar shouting, “Joey, stop those two women. They’ve got a tab that hasn’t been paid.”

  Without warning, the women started running toward the door, hauling their new beaus with them. Troy couldn’t help but laugh. They were headed right toward the cop sitting outside. He thought it best to avoid the scene entirely. He saw a side door that led out to the dock. He took his hat off and walked a wide path around the police car, then crouched down between the rows of cars and slid into the driver’s seat of Prosperity’s Volkswagen.

  He could see the cop staring over the melee of fishermen, bouncers, waitresses, and twin check jumpers at the front door. He’s definitely waiting for someone besides that crew, probably me, Troy thought. He started the car and pulled out of the parking lot. The cop paid no attention. He was still dealing with the scrum at the door when Troy eased onto the road and headed back to the Airbnb. He had to dodge two roadblocks on the way and take a long, circuitous route to get there. What should have only taken him ten minutes took more than an hour.

  On the long drive, he’d worked out a plan to do a thorough search of the house, but when he pulled into the circular drive, he saw a police car … with a set of pink dice hanging from the mirror.

  “Dangit,” Troy muttered and put the car into reverse.

  He hoped he could find a place to crash tonight. He’d have to figure this whole deal out tomorrow. Sweat broke out on his forehead, and he pushed his hat back to wipe it away with the back of his hand.

  9

  Country Roads

  Santee “Country” Cooper sat in a wooden chair three feet away from Prosperity Spartanburg. He had a pocket knife open scraping the point under his fingernails, cleaning away some sort of black gunk. He didn’t know what it was, but it wouldn’t do to have bad hygiene.

  “I s’pose you think I’m gonna do somethin’ awful to ya,” he said, wiping away some of the loose fingernail debris. “Well, I ain’t. Not as long as we can have a civil conversation.”

  The girl, whose mouth he had covered with duct tape, nodded. He didn’t really care if she agreed or not. They were going to talk about this situation whether she wanted to or not. He wiped the knife blade on his tongue, trying his best to look menacing. He instantly regretted the decision as it bit into the tip and a sharp pain shot through his mouth.

  “Ow. Shit.” He stuffed the knife into his pocket and pulled out a used handkerchief.

  The girl chuckled behind her gag and her eyes looked up in an obvious smile. He squeezed the cut end of his tongue and lunged forward at her, jabbing her nose with his finger. It must have been painful because tears welled up in her eyes.

  “Or maybe I will do somethin’ awful if’n you don’t shut up. You get me?”

  His speech was muffled by the cloth on his tongue, but he was pretty sure she got the point. He stood and dabbed at his wound which insisted on bleeding continuously. Tastes like pennies, he thought.

  He paced back and forth motioning to the stacks of guns and drugs that surrounded them.

  “I reckon you wanna know what this is all about?”

  The girl’s eyes flitted back and forth from shelf to shelf and landed on the woman’s feet sticking out from under the blanket.

  “Yeah. She was pokin’ around where she shouldn’t have been, too.”

  He kicked the woman’s feet and one of her shoes went flying. Shit, he thought as he scrambled to retrieve it and put it back on the bare foot. Can’t have that thing lying around.

  He turned back to the girl and grinned. When he did, he felt blood trickle down on his chin and dabbed it with his now blood-stained handkerchief.

  “I know it looks bad,” he started, “but it’s all for the good of the people of Massachusetts.”

  The girl’s eyes took on a look of confusion.

  “Yup. That’s what I thought too. How could the devices of evil be brought to bear in the war against such things in our fair state?”

  She shrugged.

  “I’ll tell you. Frank McCorker. That’s how.”

  More confusion. In fact, she even raised an eyebrow.

  “Don’t know who that is? He’s the savior of this here commonwealth. When I first met the man, I knew. Oh, you can be sure I knew. He was the one to bring light to the darkness of this God forsaken place.”

  Her eyes were wide.

  “Exactly. Do you even know the motto of Massachusetts?”

  He was in fine form now. His voice rattled around in the dark cellar with the gusto he imagined must sound like Mark Twain to his singular audience. The girl shook her head.

  “Course you don’t.” He threw up his hands. “Hell, nobody does no more.”

  He put his left hand on his heart and raised his right to a salute. He stood tall and stuck out his chest.

  “By the sword, we seek peace, but peace only under liberty,” he said, his voice shaking with emotion.

  He felt the blood pooling in his mouth and running down over his chin. He wiped it again, but his handkerchief was soaked. No matter, he thought. I’m on a roll and I ain’t stoppin’ now.

  He flung the dark cloth away and stomped toward the girl. She leaned back so suddenly that she fell backward, chair and all. She whimpered as her head hit the concrete floor, but that didn’t stop him.

  He leaned over her, his nose inches from hers. Blood droplets flew from his mouth and splattered on her cheeks. She jerked her head back and forth trying to avoid the spray.

  “You see,” his voice got louder with every word. “Frank McCorker is that sword and he will deliver liberty. He may have to sell a few guns and maybe some blow to get there, but he will be the next governor of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. And when he does, he will be the man we so desperately need to set us free from the filth and scum that is so prevalent in our fair state. Don’t you see it?”

  The girl nodded her head vigorously. She didn’t damn get it, but that’s okay, he’d have plenty more time to convince her.

  He reached down and grabbed her shoulders. She winced and let out a muffled yelp. He jerked her upright on her chair and scooted her against the wall.

  “Quit yer dang cryin’, woman.” He stomped away from her. “I ain’t gonna hurt you.”

  He reached down and pulled the blanket back from the dead woman. He grabbed the hem of her skirt and tore a strip away from it with one jerk. He rolled it up and wiped his chin with it and then stuffed it into his mouth. He dragged the blanket back over the woman and turned to glare at Prosperity.

  “Unless you give me reason to.”

  She shook her head.

  “Good. Now, like I was sayin’, if it weren’t for the likes of Senator Boonesborough and Governor-elect McCorker, I don’t know if we’d last much longer. Thank God the election is just a couple of weeks away.”

  He pulled his keys out of his pocket and touched his lucky finger keychain that his mama had given him before she died. It was all that he had to remember her by, except for the virtues she
had instilled in him. He was thankful that she had kept it after the doctor removed it from his right hand when he was just a toddler. When they had discovered that his puny sixth digit wasn’t going to be active and would likely cause him trouble just dangling there, they took it off. There wasn’t much more than a flap of skin holding it on, so removing it was a simple cut and a few stitches.

  God bless his mama, she had the foresight to have it preserved by a local taxidermist. She had it put on a keychain like some people had with a rabbit’s foot attached. Ever since she’d given it to him on his sixteenth birthday, he’d had the best luck. He got good grades in high school before dropping out, his second choice for junior prom had said yes and drank Budweiser with him all night, and he’d gotten the good job working for Winchester Boonesborough down at the Tail Spinner.

  Working as a bouncer at the strip club, he’d made more cash and seen more boobies than any man could hope for by the time he was twenty-one. After that, when the Sharks decided he was trustworthy, he was brought in to be a mule. And he’d been so good at that, they brought him even closer and let him run some deals of his own.

  Winchester had worked this latest deal because it was so big, but Country thought maybe the next one would come to him. He rolled the finger around in his hand and stared at Prosperity. She was a looker for sure. Auburn hair, green eyes, slim figure. Quite the woman indeed. She worked at the club as a waitress, and though she wore revealing outfits, he had never seen her naked—a fact that made him want her even more.

  She blinked her eyes and he realized he’d been staring at her for a long while. There were lots of emotions there, but none of them was recognition. She didn’t seem to recognize him even though he’d watched her work many times.

  “Don’t know me, do ya?” he asked.

  She shook her head.

  “That’s just as well. I’m s’posed to be invisible.”

  Her head tilted slightly to the side.

  “I work at the club, or at least I used to.” He sniffed and stood taller. “Course now I’ve moved up on the ladder. I’m one of The Sharks now.”

  He leaned over toward her again. He could smell her perfume through her sweat and fear. He inhaled deeply. Intoxicating.

  “You’re probably thinking you could use a man like me in your life.”

  She shook her head quickly, her loose ponytail flapping behind her. He cackled and waved his arm around the room.

  “Well, ya better get used to me, cause from now on, I’m all you got.”

  He grabbed the back of her neck and smashed his lips on the duct tape over her mouth. Pain lanced into his tongue again and he jerked back. He raised his hand to find a fresh spout of blood pouring out of his mouth.

  “Dammit,” he said, stomping toward the door. “We’ll finish this when I get this to stop bleedin’. I ain’t through with you by a long shot.”

  10

  Campaign Central

  Troy woke to find the sun streaming in through the window of the small room he’d rented late last night. It was an apartment above an office, and for a hundred bucks the night janitor had let him in on the condition that he’d be gone before daybreak. Oops.

  He put on his clothes—the same ones he’d had on yesterday—and gently opened the door. The stairway leading down from the tiny apartment echoed with the voices of an office that sounded crowded. Dangit. He crept out the door and decided to play it cool. Just walk right through like I belong there, he thought. It’s all in the purposeful walk.

  When he poked his head through the door at the bottom of the stairs, he was surprised he hadn’t noticed it was what appeared to be a campaign office. Red, white, and blue banners, signs, and flyers covered every available square inch of everything. Each one proclaimed the virtue of a man named Frank McCorker.

  MCCORKER FOR GOVERNOR

  BANK ON FRANK FOR GOVERNOR OF MASSACHUSETTS

  LET ME BE FRANK

  FRANK THE TANK

  MCCORKER LOVES MASS

  And many others.

  Fresh, excited faces of most likely unpaid interns and volunteers scurried to and fro, making copies, handing out coffee cups, and answering phones. Everyone in the room had to be under thirty. Hell, they might all be under twenty.

  Most of the millennials on the phone were saying how important it was that Frank could count on their support and they knew how tight money was, but every dollar counted.

  “Can I put you down for a thousand? The future governor of Massachusetts thanks you,” he heard one teenage girl say.

  She hung up the phone and held a slip of paper up in the air. “Add a thousand to the board!”

  Everyone else in the office stopped what they were doing, applauded, and cheered.

  “Great job, Susie!” a voice that was clearly older called above the din.

  Troy followed the sound to find a man standing at the back of the room, watching it all unfold. He wore a crisp white dress shirt—sleeves rolled up past his elbows—and a bright blue tie. His face was slightly red and carried a light sheen of sweat. His hair was Robert Redford circa 1990. His chest stuck out over a slight paunch and his back was ramrod straight. Troy was surprised to find that he almost wanted to salute the man. Must have a military background.

  The thought swirled around in his head, and he suddenly had the impression that he knew this guy. But try as he might, he couldn’t place where he knew him from. He certainly didn’t recognize the name.

  “Sir?” A voice nearby interrupted his thoughts. “Are you here to make a donation?”

  He looked down to see a young man looking through dark, fifties-style glasses. His hair was thick and brown with a touch of red. He looked like John Kennedy, but younger and with pimples.

  “Who, me?” Troy pointed at his chest. “Oh, well, sure. Uh, put me down for five.”

  “Wow! Really? Five thousand?” The kid was practically drooling as he scribbled the number on a slip of paper on his desk.

  Troy opened his mouth to correct the intern, but then decided to have a little fun with him.

  “That’s right. Five large. Five big ones.”

  “Thank you so much, Mister ... ?” He paused with his pen hovering over the name blank on his form.

  “Bill,” Troy said. “Bill Clinton.”

  The pimple-faced kid was scribbling eagerly but then stopped as he realized that he recognized the name.

  “Hey, wait a minute. Bill Clinton?”

  “Yup. Mama was a big fan.”

  Troy was pretty sure the kid wouldn’t be able to do the math and figure out that he would be too old for his mother to name him after the forty-second president of the United States.

  “We all love him around here, too.” He said gleefully.

  The front door of the office jangled open, interrupting the transaction. Troy watched a man with a chin full of facial hair that didn’t quite meet in the middle saunter in like he owned the place. The man had a big bandage wrapped around his tongue but seemed oblivious to the odd look it gave him.

  He walked up to the desk where the girl named Susie was sitting and slapped his hand down. She jumped, and he choked out a laugh around the bandage.

  “Where’s the big man, chickee dee?” he asked.

  The only problem was, with the bandage, it came out more like, “Wheyahzbithmehn thickydee?”

  She stared blankly at him and shrugged her shoulders. “I’m sorry, Mister Cooper. I can’t understand you.”

  “Thrank,” he said, exasperation already tinting his tone. “Wheyaz Thrank?”

  The girl shook her head. “I don’t know what you’re asking me. I can’t—”

  He slammed his hand down again on the desk and she jumped in her chair.

  “Thrank, dannit. I thneed to thee Thrank.”

  She chirped, but couldn’t form any complete words. Fear had paralyzed her. Troy took two steps toward her to come to her defense, but before he could get there, a booming voice rang out behind him.

  “Dammit
, Country, get your ass into my office. Pronto.”

  The man with the sideburns, who Troy gathered must be named Country, sniffed at Susie over a curled, mustachioed lip.

  “Sthcrew you.” He jabbed his finger at her as he walked away.

  Troy turned to see where the voice had come from. It was the same man that had recognized Susie for her big donation get a few minutes ago. The man oozed authority. He was standing outside his office door with his hands on his hips in an obviously militaristic stance. Frank McCorker had obviously served his country in some way. Again, Troy felt the need to salute. The dude named Country walked toward Frank as if he were an equal—head high and proud. But as soon as he got within range, the man with the rolled-up shirt sleeves and blue power tie reached out and grabbed him by the ear. He pulled Country into his office, and Troy was stunned by how familiar the action looked. He had seen this before. But that didn’t make any sense.

  He tried to put the puzzle together in his mind as to why he felt like he knew Frank, but it never came into focus. Maybe it was just a déjà vu thing. He wandered toward the office careful not to linger near any of the money-hungry volunteers manning the phones. The door to McCorker’s office had a large glass window with the residue of lettering long gone still clinging to it.

  Inside, Troy could see that Country was getting a dressing-down about something. He looked like a little puppy getting scolded for peeing on the carpet. The two men’s voices carried through the glass, but was muffled enough that Troy couldn’t make out what they were talking about. Suddenly, Country turned toward the door. Troy ducked down and waited a few seconds. Before he could waddle away from the door, it opened and Country came out in an anxious flurry.

  Troy’s shoulder bumped Country’s chest on the right side causing him to spin around.

  “Buddy, I don’t know what yer deal is.” Country glared at him as he said it. “But right now ain’t the time to be picking a fight.”

  The bandages were gone from the man’s mouth, and blood stained his front teeth. When he bared them, he looked like a vampire from a bad B movie.