The Complete Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Collection

by David F. Berens

  “Beg pardon, sir.” Troy held up his hands. “I’m just here to see what I can do to help the honorable Mister McCorker get elected.”

  Country rolled an imaginary toothpick around between his front teeth considering this.

  “You live around here?” he finally asked.

  “Not far at all.” Troy replied.

  “Gimme yer number. I might need some help with a big ... um ... a big ... situation ... comin’ up soon. Can you handle heavy weight, say a hundred pounds or so?”

  Troy ignored the ache in his bad knee from sleeping in a strange bed and clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth.

  “Within reason.”

  He grabbed a yellow pad and pen from the nearest desk and scratched out his phone number.

  “Come back here tomorrow around lunch,” Country said, stuffing the note into Troy’s shirt pocket and brushing past him. “We’ll talk about what you might be able to do to help.”

  “Much obliged.” Troy tipped his hat.

  Something in the back of his mind urged him to the coincidental point that Prosperity—petite thing she was—probably weighed about a hundred pounds. He tried not to jump to conclusions, but his danger sense was pegged on high alert.

  11

  Dance With The Devil

  The opening riff of AC/DC’s song “Shook Me All Night Long” rang through the club to the cheers of the late night patrons of the Tail Spinner strip club. Daisy Mae always started her set with this one, and it usually made her a few bucks from the baby boomer businessmen holding onto the fact that they used to have really long hair. They loved it when she lip-synced the lines and pouted her lips. Tonight, she was wearing a lipstick color she loved to call whore red.

  She watched all of them fidget around, trying to make up their minds whether or not she was worth a buck, but when the boobies came out, so did the dollars. A table full of loose neckties started whooping and hollering and throwing folded ones at her. They were passing around a bottle in a brown bag they’d brought in with them. With the club’s “package fee,” it must have cost them fifty bucks to bring that in. She’d be hitting them up when the song was over. Most times, those were the kinds of tables that would pass her around, paying for each other’s private dances.

  As she air-guitared the last fading chords, she had the whole place standing at attention in more ways than one. Gonna be a hell of a good night, she thought as she pranced to the back of the stage.

  Ellie Mae was up next and greeted her with a scowl as she saw the wads of money coming out of Daisy Mae’s garter.

  “What the hell? What’d you do? Find a table full of nearsighted dimwits?” she demanded.

  “I don’t care if they’re blind,” Daisy Mae said with a snicker. “They’re blind guys with a whole bunch of money, and I aim to git it all.”

  The D.J. was announcing that Ellie Mae—who used the stage name Cinnamon because it’s sweet but has a kick to it—was up next. Bon Jovi singing their seminal “Shot Through The Heart” blared out as Ellie Mae burst through the curtain. Some of the men at the table must have thought it was still Daisy Mae, because they immediately started the shower of ones again. She circled the pole and winked at Ellie Mae.

  “Git down there and keep ’em warm,” she whispered. “I’ll be over in a jiffy. These boys are ready to party.”

  Before the next girl took the stage, the Gallop sisters each had a man on the couches at the back of the room, grinding away his morals. Apparently, there was an insurance convention down the street and these boys were here to butter each other up for business.

  “Now, if you boys want a real good time,” Ellie Mae said, sliding up and down her mark’s legs, “you should go for the shower dance.”

  The man almost looked like a golden retriever. His tongue wagged and he nodded his head so hard, his toupee fell into his lap.

  Strangely, this was not the first time a man had lost his hair to a stripper at the Tail Spinner club. Ellie Mae hid her smile, reached down, and picked up the hairpiece. She pressed it down on the man’s head and combed it with her fingers.

  “Don’t worry, darlin’,” she said. “Your secret’s safe with me. Now, where were we?”

  “Shower dance,” the man said. “You said something about a shower dance.”

  “Mmhmm.” Ellie Mae traced her finger down the side of the man’s face. “That’s where me and my sister jump into that shower up there beside the stage—buck nekkid of course—and there’s lots of soap and bubbles and oil and rubbin’ and—”

  “Yeah yeah,” the man interrupted her eagerly. “Let’s do that! How much? And do I get a towel?”

  Daisy Mae, who was counting her money on the next couch over, having sent her man back to the table, blurted out a laugh.

  “And you thought I got all the stupid ones!”

  “Shut it, Daisy Mae,” Ellie Mae hissed and then turned back to the man. “You ain’t in there with us, sugar. It’s just me and my sister. But donchu worry none, it’ll be the best fifty bucks you ever spent.”

  She leaned down and pecked the man on the nose.

  “Fifty bucks?” He reached for his wallet. “That’s it?”

  “Each,” Daisy Mae added. “Fifty bucks each.”

  “Done.” The man handed a crisp hundred dollar bill to the twin sisters and clapped his hands together. “What now?”

  “You go get yer fellers and bring ’em on up to the table in front of that shower up there,” Ellie Mae said as she took Daisy Mae by the hand and led her away. “We’ll do the rest.”

  The table behind the two-way mirror was a rickety card table with three men sitting in folding chairs. Frank McCorker, Winchester Boonesborough, and Country Cooper. The Sharks. They each had a glass with ice and yellow liquor. They spoke in hushed voices, even though the music made it tough to hear each other.

  Winchester Boonesborough took a sip of his whiskey and scowled. “What the hell is this swill you’re making me drink.”

  “It’s called scotch, Winnie,” Frank McCorker said. “A taste for a more refined palate.”

  “Tastes like gasoline if you ask me.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Get that new waitress to bring me something easier to drink,” Winchester said, sliding his glass over toward the third man. “Maybe a mojito or something like that.”

  “A goddamn mojito?” Frank asked. “Why don’t you grow up and drink your scotch like a real man? Besides, I don’t think Johnny knows how to make one of those.”

  “It tastes pretty dang good to me,” Country said, throwing the liquor back in one gulp. “Reckon I could git another one?”

  He smiled and a trickle of blood came from his mouth.

  “Christ in a handbasket,” Frank sighed. “What the fuck is wrong with your tongue?”

  “I cut it shavin’.”

  Frank opened his mouth, but closed it without asking his next question. He didn’t really want to know anyway.

  “Where the hell is the waitress?” Winchester peered through the mirror. “Can’t hire good help these days.”

  “We could if this jackass,” he said, pointing at Country, “would stop kidnapping them.”

  “She seen too much,” Country complained. “What was I s’posed to do? Just let her waltz out and tell everybody about our stash?”

  “He’s right,” Winchester said. “If she tells the police what she saw, the house will be traced to me.”

  “And that leads ’em to you,” Country added, grinning at Frank.

  The candidate for Governor of Massachusetts took a deep breath and swallowed the last of his drink. “We can’t have that. What do you propose we do?”

  “Same thing as last time,” Country said. He pointed his finger at his temple and made a pew sound.

  “Shut your pie hole, Country.” Frank stood and paced around the room. “Let’s not do any more of that. We need a situation to get her away from the house and make her disappear. And for God’s sake, get that other woman
out of there too.”

  “I just got me a real good idear,” Country said as he scratched his mutton chop sideburns. “I know this feller from up Point Judith way. A retired cop.”

  “You can’t be serious,” Winchester said.

  “Hear me out,” Country said. “Banksy is a good friend. We go way back to one of my junior arrests. I was out shopliftin’ for some new Van Halen tapes, and—”

  “Get to the point,” Frank said.

  “Right. So, Banksy is retired, but due to a bad break, he was let go without his pension. Some girl said he roughed her up or somethin’ like that. Anyhow, I reckon he’s a little hard up for cash, cause he plays Santa Claus every year for the kids down at the hospital. Says it’s how he gits his spendin’ money.”

  “A retired cop who plays Santa Claus is who you’re trusting to help you get rid of these two girls?” Winchester slapped his hand to his forehead. “God, I really do need a drink now.”

  “As I was sayin’, he’d be perfect, cause he knows what all the cops do to solve crimes and such. He’d know how to eliminate all the traces of them and us before the C.S.I. gets on the scene.”

  Winchester arched an eyebrow and let out a grunt. “It’s not a half bad idea.”

  “And, he can help me get ’em on the boat and make ’em fish food before the week is through.”

  “You can’t seriously think this is a good idea, Winnie.” Frank said. “A cop. We’re going to get a cop to help dump two bodies into the ocean.”

  “If the man needs cash, he just might do it.”

  Frank thought for a moment. There were too many holes in this plot, but he wasn’t sure they had any other choice. But then again, he was retired military and here he was running dope and selling guns. Who would’ve thought.

  “I still don’t like it,” he said. “But do what you have to do. Get someone else to help, though. And if any of this shit comes back on me, I will burn you. You will beg to be sent to prison to get away from me.”

  “Boss, don’t you worry. I got another idear about a helper. You’ll see. When I git through,” Country arched his back, cracking it as he got up from the table, “won’t nobody find them girls.”

  He thumped his index finger on the card table and one of the legs gave way. The whole thing fell over, and with his weight leaning over it, Country fell forward. He stumbled, trying to catch himself, but only made it worse. Frank managed to slide out of the way and the flailing man went flying past him. At the last second, he threw his arms up and they both crashed through the two-way mirror.

  As if on cue, the music paused and every head sitting in the main lounge turned to see what had happened. Country raised his hand, a steady stream of blood trickling down from his elbow, and pointed at the front of the room.

  “Holy shit, y’all,” he exclaimed. “We’re gonna git a shower dance.”

  12

  Help Wanted

  Troy waited at the end of the driveway for the cop to leave the Boonesborough house and eased the car up to the front. Then he thought better of leaving it out in the open and pulled it around the side of the house in the grass. Without coming around the corner, it would be hard to see from the driveway.

  He rushed into the house and charged through the hallways shouting for Prosperity. When the echoes died down, he bent his neck sideways raising his better ear and strained to listen. Nothing. The house creaked a little, and once he thought he heard a voice, but he couldn’t locate it.

  He found a door he hadn’t opened before at the end of the first floor hallway and discovered stairs behind it. He rushed down into the cellar, but there was nothing there. The room smelled like death, but all it had in it were plastic shelves full of cleaning supplies, travel size toiletries, and bedding.

  He walked back up the steps slowly and wondered if it was time to call the police. Then again, there had been that suspicious cop that had come here looking for him. He wasn’t entirely sure the whole department wasn’t on the Boonesborough payroll. Maybe tomorrow he’d call his buddy Chris with the CIA. If he even still had his number.

  “Dangit,” Troy muttered as he walked into the kitchen.

  Thankfully, he’d made a pit stop to Fat Ronnie’s Burger Bar on the way home and picked up a massive burger called the Fat Ronnie. A second stop at the Stop and Shop grocery yielded a fresh twelve pack of Corona and a couple of oranges. He devoured the burger and flipped the cap off a beer. He sucked half of it down in one sip without even putting an orange in it.

  “Where the hell are you, Prosperity?” he asked the empty house.

  A few beers later he was asleep in the hammock on the back porch. The waves were just loud enough to muffle the screams.

  The dawn sun woke him and he realized he’d slept all night. He untangled himself from the hammock and knocked over a couple of empty bottles running into the house. He picked up his phone, intending to scroll through and find Chris Collins’ number, but stopped short. He had seven calls from the same number. He didn’t recognize it, but it was a local area code.

  He punched the number to dial it and waited. It only rang once.

  “It’s about damn time, Bill,” the man said. “What the hell, fella? You sleepin’ the day away?”

  Though he was thrown off by the wrong name, Troy recognized the accent and voice from his run-in with the man at the McCorker campaign office. And then he remembered telling the intern girl his name was Bill Clinton and it all made sense.

  “Just gettin’ up actually,” Troy said. “Why you askin’?

  “Thought you might like to get a little work in today. Pays good as long as you can keep yer mouth shut.”

  “How good?”

  “Five hundred.”

  “Done. I’ll meet you at the McCorker office.”

  “No. Shit no,” the man said, a tinge of anger in his voice. “We don’t want to be seen around there. Why don’t I come pick you up? Where do you live?”

  Troy almost told him it was the big gray house with blue shutters, but he caught himself, remembering this guy was connected to Boonesborough.

  “Tell you what,” he said. “I’ll meet you up at the Phillips station. Cool?”

  “Good enough. Be there in ten.”

  Troy disconnected the call and scrolled through his contacts. He couldn’t find Chris’s number and wondered if he had deleted it after that incident down in the Keys. He put his phone away and walked out to the car. The drive to the Phillips 66 gas station was short, and he saw the man sitting in an old pickup truck.

  Ten minutes later, the man who called himself Country pulled the truck up to the dock behind the Black Dog Tavern.

  “What’s this job all about?” Troy asked.

  Country turned off the ignition. “See them boxes back there?” He pointed through the rear window.

  Troy saw two wooden crates, about four feet long and a foot and a half wide. He recognized them immediately as the type of crates rifles were commonly shipped in. He nodded, understanding exactly what they were going to do.

  “You and me’s gonna carry ’em out to a boat,” Country said, opening his door. Troy did the same and walked to the back of the truck.

  Country lowered the tailgate and grabbed the end of one of the crates. “Then, we’re gonna deliver ’em to a fella out on Muskeget.”

  Troy slid the other end of the crate toward him, so he could help Country set it onto the ground.

  “What’s in ’em?” he asked.

  “That ain’t for you to know.” Country slid the next crate back. “And if you ask again, yer off the job.”

  “Roger that.”

  Troy helped him lower the crate onto the other one, and the men heaved them up together. They walked down the row of boats and stopped at a big one with “Fake It Till You Make It” painted across the back. They set the boxes down and Country stepped onto the boat. He dabbed his moist forehead with a purple bandana and shoved it into his back pocket.

  “She’s nice. Is she yours?”
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  “Dammit, dude. You ask a lot of questions. You writin’ a book?”

  “My bad. Just makin’ conversation.”

  “We ain’t here to conversate. Now help me load these.”

  They muscled the crates onto the boat and slid them back under a bench. Country dug a tarp out of a nearby storage bin and laid it over them. Neither of them spoke for the rest of the trip out to sea. As it turned out, they never got to the island. Instead, once they were far enough out that they couldn’t see land, Troy spotted a seaplane sitting in the water. The pilot did not look like a resident of Martha’s Vineyard or Nantucket. He looked more like a member of the Tijuana cartel.

  Country idled the boat up to the plane, and the man inside stepped down onto the pontoon to pull the boat close and tie it off. Troy helped Country get the crates up and over to the man on the pontoon. He was big but not that fit, and to Troy’s surprise, he took the crate by himself.

  “Get that other’n ready, dude.” Country waved him back into the boat and stepped over to the plane.

  He and the cartel man disappeared into the cockpit, likely to check the box and trade a big wad of cash for it. Troy looked down at the crate slid back up under the lip of the boat. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe it wasn’t guns. He knew they were, but wanted to be sure. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure the two men were still inside the plane. Seeing no sign of them, he bent down and unlatched the two black clasps holding the lid on. He knew he was going to find AK’s inside. The lid creaked as it opened, but the waves were loud enough that he felt sure the men wouldn’t hear it.

  The contents in the box were covered with a layer of foam padding, and Troy took a corner and lifted it up. To his surprise, he did not find guns. And he didn’t find drugs. Hell, there weren’t even any stacks of cash. Signs. He found two big stacks of signs declaring in some way that Frank McCorker was running for governor, along with the wire struts that would be used to stake them into street corners and along the highways of Massachusetts.