The Complete Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Collection

by David F. Berens

  All that nonsense will be a thing of the past when I get down to the Keys again, he thought. It felt oddly melancholic to leave Martha’s Vineyard behind, away from the kid who might have been his son in another life, and the man who might have been his father in the same. But they weren’t real family. Troy hadn’t connected with any of his family for … a whole lot of years. He felt his blood calling him to repair at least one relationship and the only one he had left was his brother, Ryan—or R.B. as most people called him.

  He was a good kid, or by now, a good man, Troy supposed. Not the sharpest tool in the shed and unfortunately, he seemed to share the wandering gene that infected Troy. Last time he’d seen him, he’d been off to find some lost plane that supposedly would be worth millions. That hadn’t exactly panned out, but it hadn’t been a total loss. He’d started a legit salvage company with Megan Simons. Just thinking her name brought back so many memories Troy had buried, some painful, but most pretty dang good.

  It had been hard to swallow his pride and call R.B., but leaving the Vineyard, he was lost. He had nowhere to go, nowhere to work, and nowhere to call home.

  “Big brother,” R.B. had said, “just get down here as fast as you can. Me and Megan are onto something that could be a game changer and I could sure use your help.”

  That call had ended just before Troy had stepped onto the bus at the Woods Hole station in Massachusetts. He hadn’t heard from him since and his subsequent calls all went straight to voicemail, but when it came to R.B., that wasn’t all that unusual. It didn’t matter much to Troy. He was headed south to Key West for good, away from what his life had become. He guessed all the liquor-soaked, gray-bearded Conchs were right; all the people who end up in Cayo Hueso are running away from something. He just hoped this time he could stop.

  “You okay, mister?”

  Troy turned away from the window. A young girl with jet black hair pulled into a messy ponytail held her knees tight to her chest. He hadn’t remembered her getting on the bus. He figured she must have gotten on after he fell asleep. She rocked slightly and chewed on her bottom lip. Her oversized Lyme Academy College of Fine Arts sweatshirt swallowed her. Troy wondered how big the young man was that she had “borrowed” it from. Her red-rimmed eyes and puffy eyelids were a sure sign of crying, or drinking, or maybe both.

  “I’m doin’ alright, darlin’,” Troy said, tipping his hat. “How ’bout you?”

  She jumped up and leaped across the aisle barely touching the geometrically decorated, blacklight optimized carpet. And once again, trouble had found Troy Bodean.

  Dangit.

  2

  Like the Park?

  The girl jabbed her hand forward at Troy so hard he flinched expecting her to Judo chop his ribs. However, the shocking pink nails flashing at the ends of her fingers stopped short and waited. He took her hand and shook it. Her grip was firm and didn’t match the visual. He’d expected a more delicate touch. She leaned close and he could smell an intoxicating blend of peppermint liqueur and strawberry chewing gum.

  “What do you think is going on out there?” she whispered, her breath hot against his cheek.

  “Not too sure about that, darlin’” he said, craning his neck to look above the high-back seat in front of him.

  Through a plume of gray smoke billowing out from under the open hood, he could see the driver yelling into a cell phone. Then the man mouthed the words, “Hello? Hello?” After which he slammed his phone on the ground sending more than a few pieces flying in different directions.

  “Hope he’s got insurance,” Troy muttered.

  “Huh?”

  “Oh, nothin’,” he said, sinking back into his chair. “Looks like we ain’t going anywhere for a long while.”

  “Crap,” the girl said, crossing her arms and huffing. “I’m gonna miss my audition.”

  Troy perked up. “Audition? You an actress?”

  “Not exactly.”

  Her left eyebrow and the left corner of her mouth rose simultaneously. Troy had the distinct sense that he was staring at a predator seducing its prey.

  “I’m gonna be a dancer,” she said, her teeth showing in a wider grin.

  Show tilted her head down and looked at him through rapidly batting eyelashes. There was a flush to her cheeks as well and Troy was struck by the girl’s new bashfulness.

  “Where is your audition? I mean to say, where abouts are you headed?” Troy stumbled.

  This wasn’t his first flirtatious rodeo, so why was this girl affecting him like this.

  “Key West.” She winked and added, “The Red Garter.”

  Troy had been around the block a few times in Key West and was quite familiar with the establishment. The bar was the end of the world for strippers—literally. The girls were a mix of Miami and Russian supermodels and part-time moms trying to make ends meet. Some of the girls rolled up in C-Class Mercedes Benzes and others barely clunked up in Toyotas or Kias. Almost all had tattoos and body jewelry or maybe a drug habit earned from taking more than monetary tips from their regulars. Sammy Sideways—the midweek bouncer—used to joke that Tuesday was visible scar night.

  “Ohhh,” Troy drawled. “You mean like a dancer, dancer.”

  “Yeah,” she rolled her eyes, making him feel like old man river. “A dancer, dancer. I’m gonna shake my lily-white, bare-cheeked, moneymaker for all the tourists to see. I hear they pay well down there.”

  Troy shrugged, “I wouldn’t know.”

  Her eyes flicked up at the top of his head. “I like your hat. Can I—?”

  She reached up as if to grab his cowboy hat.

  “Nope,” he interrupted her and leaned back out of reach. “I don’t much care for people touchin’ it. Nothin’ personal. It’s just that me and this hat have been together for a long, long time and I don’t want that to change anytime soon.”

  What might have been disbelief, or maybe anger, flashed across her face. But it was gone so quickly, Troy didn’t give it a second thought. She slouched in back in her seat and crossed her arms across her sweatshirt.

  Troy pointed at the logo on her chest. “So, what happened to the...,” he leaned toward her and squinted to read the faded blue and gold letters, “Lyme Academy College of Fine Arts?”

  She looked down and shrugged, “They lost their accreditation. Closed it for anything other than remedial coursework.”

  “So, you decided to go be a stripper?”

  She tilted her head and the barest hint of melancholy crept into her smile. “Something like that. It’s not like I want to be a … dancer ... but my mom needs a transplant and I’m the only one in the family who gives a rip. My brother doesn’t care. He’s busy with his five stupid foster kids. And my dad, well, let’s just say he spent a few years in an orange jumpsuit for something he says he didn’t do. ”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” Troy said, trying to work out if this was all part of a con. “What kind of transplant?”

  “Large intestine,” she said, lifting her shirt as if to point out her gastrointestinal tract. “She got a chicken wing bone lodged in there and it got all kinked up. She had the squirts for a month and couldn’t keep nothin’ down. On the bright side, she did lose twenty pounds.”

  It was Troy’s turn to blush, the girl had a dancer’s rock hard abs buried under the super-sized sweatshirt. He was sure he could’ve played a mean washboard accompaniment on them. In The Summertime by Mungo Jerry perhaps. He was certain she’d be top billing at The Red Garter.

  “Well, uh,” he paused, realizing he didn’t know her name. “Miss um ...?”

  “Fenway,” she stretched out her hand again. “Tess Fenway.”

  “Like, Fenway, Fenway?” Troy asked, taking her hand. “The baseball park? The green monster and all that?”

  She held onto his hand for a long moment, her grip decidedly more feminine this time. “Yes, like the baseball park. You like it?”

  “Sure, I guess.”

  “Good,” she grinned, c
learly proud of herself. “’Cause that’s what I’m thinking of using as a stage name.”

  “So, that’s not your real name?”

  “Heck no. Nobody’s named after Fenway park,” she huffed. “Nah, my real name is Holly Hill Harleyville.”

  Troy was sure this was a con, but he had nothing to lose. “Pleased to meet you Holly. My name’s Troy. Troy Clint Bodean.”

  Her dimpled smile was infectious. “Are you sure that’s not your stage name?”

  Troy had a sudden flashback to the time he’d been coerced onto the stage at a drag club in Savannah. Thinking back to the huge pile of cash that he’d earned that night for flashing his skivvies he reckoned maybe Holly—or whatever her name really was—might have a point. Maybe she’d get her mama that new large intestine after all—one folded dollar bill at a time.

  An awkward silence dropped into their conversation. Troy’s stomach growled loudly. He realized he hadn’t eaten since early that morning. He looked out the window across from Holly. Looked like they’d broken down near a convenience store … conveniently.

  “I might see if we can mosey in and get a taquito or hot dog or something,” he said, tilting his head toward the store.

  “Ew,” Holly crinkled her freckled nose. Even her grimaces looked cute. “You can’t eat that stuff. It’ll kill you.”

  “Nah, it’s good for you to test your intestinal fortitude every once in a while. You’re not a food snob are you?”

  She arched an eyebrow and he mentally smacked his hand to his forehead for making the joke. But she shook it off and rolled her eyes.

  “Actually, I’m thinking about enrolling at FKCC. They’ve got a culinary arts program. I think I’d be good at that. I make a mean Brioche French toast, best French toast you’ve ever had, guaranteed.”

  “Not even close,” a harsh, heavily accented Ukrainian voice said from behind them.

  Troy turned to see a woman he might have thought was a scarf-wrapped gargoyle, if she hadn’t been breathing, was staring down at a blur of knitting needles. She looked up at them, her hands pausing for a second. She sighed heavily with a nostalgic smile.

  “Grenki. Oh, how I miss the Grenki.”

  3

  Cabbage and Koozies

  The old woman was the picture of Ukrainian Gypsy with a brightly colored, but well worn shawl pulled up tight around her shoulders. The scarf covering her head was a kaleidoscope of mismatched cloth pieces and Troy wondered if they were actual remnants sewn together. She had broad features and burnished skin. And she smelled. Strongly.

  Holly coughed and pinched her nose with no attempt at disguising it. Troy managed to stifle the urge to do the same, but since the girl had already broken away with social niceties, he wasn’t sure it mattered. Either way, the woman was oblivious. She sighed, folded her knitting needles across her lap, and looked up at them. Rubbing a wisp of a white beard, she licked her lips as if she was tasting something delicious.

  “It is so good,” she said, her accent thick and clipped, “you can make it with the stalest of bread and even kings will eat it.”

  “Mmm,” Holly said sarcastically through her nose, “stale bread French toast. Sounds amazing.”

  Troy elbowed her and she grunted.

  “Howdy, ma’am.” He tipped the brim of his hat down with a finger. “Pleased to meet you. My name’s Troy and this here is Holl—”

  “Tess,” Holly interrupted. “Tess Fenway.”

  “Ahh, Tess,” the Gypsy grandmother hummed. “I knew a woman named Tess back before I left my country. She married a Lithuanian nobleman, bore him three sons—two of which were twins and never made it past five, the flu you know is tough in the Ukraine—and was found dead. It was a suicide, so they say. She had three bullets in her head. I don’t know how you do such a thing to yourself, but I leave that to the authorities to work out. Call me Olga.”

  “Much obliged, Olga.”

  Holly gave the woman a tight-lipped smile and turned back around. She pulled Troy back down to sit again, still holding her nose.

  “How did we not smell that before?” she asked.

  Troy pointed up to a couple of small vents above their heads. “Good ventilation I guess.”

  Suddenly, like a toaster strudel, a man’s head popped up over the seats in front of them. “I actually know the guy who invented those.”

  Holly was so startled she squealed and smacked the man’s cheek. His mouth dropped open and his giant, brown puppy eyes watered. Troy thought he might have seen the guy’s bottom lip quiver a little, too. If ever there was a jolly looking fellow, this guy was it. He didn’t look a day over forty, but he had prematurely silver hair and wore a pair of tiny square glasses on the end of his nose.

  Thankfully, Holly recovered quickly. “Oh my gosh, I’m so so so sorry.”

  She rubbed her hand on the man’s reddening jowls and he seemed legitimately soothed. He pulled himself up further and hooked both elbows over the top of the seat-back. He pointed up at the circular vents above their heads.

  “Like I was saying,” he continued his story, “Stevie Moorecroft came up with that design while sitting on the can at the Piggly Wiggly up on ninety-five. Said the idea hit him after he watched a man wash his hands and dry them with the blow-dryer thingy on the wall. Good thing the stall door was missing, or else old Stevie wouldn’t have had that gem of an idea.”

  The portly man beamed with pride as he finished his story. Suddenly, he looked over his right shoulder, then his left. He brought a finger up to his lips and then whispered.

  “But I’ve got something better coming down the pipe that’s going to take the world by storm.”

  “Is that right, friend?” Troy asked, genuinely curious.

  “You look like a man who enjoys an ice-cold beverage, perhaps after mowing the lawn, or blowing out the gutters. Am I right?”

  “Never had a lawn, or gutters for that matter, but I do like a Corona every now and—”

  “And on a day like tod—okay, well, not like today, but like a summer day with all the heat and such—I’m betting you like a tall cold one. Am I right?”

  Troy just nodded, thinking if he offered more, he’d just be interrupted again.

  “Uh huh, I knew it,” the man said, reaching inside his sport coat pocket. He pulled out what looked like a piece of foam tubing with a seam dividing it into an upper and a lower portion. The two pieces were held together with a wrinkled strip of silver duct tape. Around the top of the thing, in squiggly cursive script, it read: Doozie Koozie.

  “Tada!” he exclaimed so loudly that Holly squealed again. He reflexively lifted his hand to block the expected blow to his cheek, but she didn’t slap him this time.

  “Well, sir,” Troy said. “That is a fine, uh, a very nice, um … thing.”

  “It sure is, isn’t it?” the man asked, turning it around so they could see all around it.

  “What is it?” Holly asked bluntly.

  “It’s the Doozie Koozie, of course. A double-sized koozie for your tall-boy beers. Never will you have to drink a warm sixteen ounce beer again. You’ll want to remember the name Denzel Tumlinhacker as the man who invented it.”

  “Denzel, um…”

  “Call me Denny.”

  “Okay, Denny,” Troy scratched his stubbled chin. “See the thing is…”

  The big man was practically panting like an excited puppy with a new toy. Troy decided to let the man have his dream.

  “...I need to know where to get me one of those things. Like today!”

  “Uh, you can get one right over there inside that—” Holly was pointing at the store through the bus window when Troy elbowed her in the ribs. He was struck by how hard her abs felt under the sweatshirt.

  Denny’s smile exploded across his face. He tossed the duct-taped foam tube into Troy’s lap. “Here ya go, partner. That one is all yours. I’ve got a dozen of them in my bag.”

  “That’s mighty kind of you, Denny.”

  “Remem
ber, Denzel Tumlinhacker. That’ll be a household name soon as I get production going a few thousand of these things. Just need to nail down a quote to see how many I can get for twenty-five grand.”

  Troy whistled at the steep investment. He thought about offering that there were a quite a few better ways to spend that much cash, but chose not to mention them.

  “Right. Got it.” Troy was all he said, giving the rosy-cheeked man a thumbs up.

  The bus door screeched open and the driver stepped on. “Alright, folks. As you can see, we’ve got ourselves a little overheating going on. I’m thinking the radiator has a crack and, wouldn’t you know it, the nearest mechanic is up in Ellis about three hours away. For now, I suggest you get off the bus for a bit, stretch your legs, take a pee break, or whatever else you need to do. I’ll let you know when we can get going again.”

  “Dangit,” Troy muttered.

  4

  Benny’s World of Liquor

  From the bus, it had looked like a convenience store, but it turned out to be a liquor store … a run-down, rusted-out, hole-in-the-wall dive of a liquor store. Above the door an ancient, half-lit neon sign proclaimed that it was Benny’s World of Liquor. Under that, displaying marketing brilliance rarely seen in modern advertising, the store’s slogan proudly announced: IF WE DON’T GOT IT, YOU DON’T GET IT. Troy thought it looked like the kind of place that vampires and lost boys might gather for ritual sacrifices or feedings.

  He shook the image off in the name of hunger and pushed open the glass door. The squeal of the hinges and the tinkle of an old bell rang out into the stale air inside the store. Above them, a furry ceiling fan whisked lazily through the cloud of dust motes and a steel guitar whined from a jukebox just inside the door. To the left of the old record-playing relic sat a pinball machine displaying a playboy logo with a cartoon playmate on the scoreboard. Someone had taped over the woman’s offensive bits with black, peeling electrical tape.