A young man wearing a brown and cream striped bowling shirt over a yellowed wife-beater undershirt sat behind the counter. His feet, and the heavy black military boots that covered them, were propped up on the counter. He chewed a toothpick between teeth that had clearly seen better days and probably not many dentists. His hair was thick and black and trailed down to his chin where a black, wispy, chin beard lived. All of the kid’s exposed skin was covered with a sheen of sweat. He made eye contact with Troy and must have seen something he didn’t like.
“Air’s out,” he said, momentarily pulling the toothpick from his teeth. “Register too. But I can take cash.” He thumped his boot against the old machine.
Troy nodded, wondering why the kid would need air conditioning or why he was sweating so much. It couldn’t be more than sixty degrees outside—dang cold for July. He shrugged it off when Olga shuffled past him. She darted down the next aisle quicker than Troy would’ve guessed was possible. He smiled when he saw the hand-written signs on the end of the shelves. VODKA and RUM.
“Oh, yes, my beautiful babies,” Troy heard her say, her accent sounding thicker—if that was even possible.
He walked toward the aisle and saw the Ukrainian woman cradling a bottle of Stolichnaya. She rocked it back and forth like an infant and Troy was sure he saw tears in her eyes.
“You like your vodka do ya, Olga?” he asked.
Her brow furrowed. “No, no, no. I hate it. Never drink it. Too much with the headaches.”
Troy was confused, but the old woman continued and it all became clear.
“My wonderful muzh. He would come home from the tualetnaya bumaga factory—um, let me see, how do you say … the toilet tissue plant—every night with a new bottle from the corner. It was not this brand. We could not afford such luxury. He was such a hard worker and…”
She stared off into the distance, swaying with the clear bottle in her arms as she spoke of her husband. Troy missed most of it when the bubble shaped mirror above them caught his attention. The kid at the counter was glaring at them.
“...and that was when he left me.”
“I hate to hear that, Olga.” Troy touched her shoulder. “When did he die?”
She slid the bottle back onto the shelf and shrugged her shoulders.
“Oh, no. He didn’t die. He ran off with the sixteen-year-old pustyshka that sold him the Vodka. I hope she will pay for her infidelity in the flames of preispodnyaya.”
Troy wasn’t certain what the old woman was saying, but he got enough of her tone to know she didn’t mean the poor Vodka girl any good will. As Olga waddled down the aisle and disappeared, Troy heard a loud groan from the opposite end of the row. He walked toward the sound and saw Denny rifling through a metal bin under a display with various trucker hats, bandanas, wristbands, keychains, and koozies. The big man’s hands were stuffed full with koozies.
“No, no, no!” he yelled and shook his hands toward Troy.
“What’s wrong, Denny?”
“What’s wrong? Don’t you see?”
He jabbed his right hand up near Troy’s face. Troy gently took the man’s wrist and lowered it.
“Yeah,” he said. “Looks like some liquor store junk. What’s the big deal?”
“This,” Denny said, picking out a koozie and displaying the front of it to Troy. “This tall-boy koozie is the problem.”
“Oh,” Troy said, realizing that Denny’s big get-rich-quick scheme had just been shattered.
“This is terrible. Just awful,” Denny said. “They even have farcical sayings screen printed on them like I was planning on using too.”
He flipped the koozie over and read the front. “Tasty cherries.” He tossed that one aside and picked another red one out of the bunch. “With any luck, a buck in the truck.”
Troy almost laughed when Denny’s face contorted in pain as he whined the inscription on the chocolate brown one. “Who farted?”
He dumped the offending beer cooling sleeves back into the wire bin with a hunter-orange, star-shaped sign taped to it announcing that all the contents were on sale for half off.
Troy put his hand on the man’s shoulder. “It’s gonna be alright, Denny. Hey, look at it this way, there’s gotta be more than one distributor for this stuff. You just need to find an untapped market for the, uh … what’d you call it again?”
“The doozie koozie,” Denny moaned.
“Yeah, that’s it,” Troy smiled. “You just gotta find someplace that hasn’t been introduced to this modern miracle yet. I’m sure there’s someplace out there.”
Denny took a deep breath, his head hung low. “Yeah. Maybe. I just need a snack to calm me down. I’m gonna see if they sell Bonkers here. Or maybe some Space Dust. I could use a lift.”
Troy watched the dispirited salesman walk away and elected not to tell him that his candies of choice hadn’t been on the market for many years.
And that’s when he heard the distinctive click behind him.
5
If It’s Yellow, Let it Mellow
Troy whirled around expecting to see the barrel of some sort of gun pointed at him. Instead, he was face to face with Holly. The click had been the sound of one of her backpack clasps. She winked at him conspiratorially and reached up on the shelf opposite Olga’s prized vodka. She took a bottle of Castillo Silver Rum—a decent choice, Troy thought—and slipped it into the top pocket of her pack.
“Not a wise choice, little lady,” Troy said, pointing from her backpack to the shelf.
She folded her arms across her chest and shook her head. Troy grabbed the strap of her bag, lifted the flap, and pulled the bottle of clear liquor out. He shoved it into her hand and waited. She rolled her eyes and sat the bottle back on the shelf with a huff.
“You’ll be glad you did that.”
She shouldered her way past him and said, “Whatever. I gotta pee.”
Troy realized that he hadn’t gone since before he fell asleep on the bus and the call of nature hit him like a rushing’ racehorse. He turned and caught up to her. Holly stood at the end of the aisle scanning the store, apparently looking for the restrooms.
The kid behind the counter peered over the cover of a Guns and Ammo magazine. He was still working the toothpick between his teeth and staring at Holly, who seemed oblivious to the clerk’s leering gaze. She walked up to the counter and tapped on his boot.
“Where’s your toilet, bro?” she asked.
For a second, he didn’t answer, just kept chewing. Troy walked up beside her and with one swift motion, grabbed the heels of the kid’s boots, raised them up high until he nearly lost his balance and tumbled off his stool.
“Hey, what the hell, cowboy?”
Troy leaned over the counter and flicked his fingers on the clerk’s name tag: Earl Heskett. Odd name for a deadbeat millennial, Troy thought.
“Listen, um, Earl. Does this dump of a store have a can? Me and the lady here need to use the facilities, however filthy they might be.”
The clerk jumped up, his cheeks blazing red, and for a second, he looked like he might take a swing at Troy.
“Not a wise choice, dude,” Holly said, a wry smirk on her face.
“Out back,” he finally said, jerking his thumb in that direction.
He bent down, picking up a rusted bicycle wheel with a chain attached. A silver key dangled at the end of the chain.
“Really?” Troy asked.
“Yeah, really,” the kid slumped back down on his stool. “Oh, and we’re on a water ration. If it’s yellow, let it mellow. If it’s brown, flush it down.”
“Eww,” Holly said.
Troy grabbed the key, took Holly by the arm, and led her toward the front door.
The unseasonable chill outside quickened their steps to the rear of the building. As they rounded the corner, the smell of urine and mold washed over them like a tidal wave of drunken nights. The scraggly landscape behind the downtrodden liquor store was littered with broken bottles, empty beer cans
, cigarette butts, cigar remnants, and various fast food papers. A rat scampered away with something between its teeth.
Holly stopped in her tracks. “God. Gross.”
There were two doors, both equipped with padlocks. Troy hurried to the first and tried the key. It worked. He pulled on the rusty metal door and nearly fell backward. The restroom inside was dark and the whoosh of a new smell mingled with the already pungent odor outside.
Holly backed up a few steps. “Is that … vomit?”
Troy’s eyes watered as he peered inside. “Smells like it.” He flipped a switch, but nothing happened. “Something else, too. I think a rat or somethin’ must’ve gotten stuck in here and—”
“Oh, hell no,” Holly said. “I am not peeing in there. I’d rather piss on a bush out here.”
She shrugged her shoulders and stomped away from the building toward a scrubby patch of trees. Troy took a deep breath of the fresher air outside the bathroom and took a step inside.
“Yeah, I think you might be right,” he said.
As he backed out, his foot came down on something slick and he fell down. His palms sank an inch deep into a slippery muck. The odor of vomit grew stronger and he was afraid he was going to faint and face-plant into it. He pulled himself up like a newborn calf slipping and sliding in the grossness. His thoughts of running from the room dissipated when he looked down at his hands. They were covered with something dark, sticky, and … red. Blood?
He stepped in and found the sink to the left. He turned both knobs on full blast and rinsed his hands in dirty water. Better dirty than bloody, he thought. On the wall next to the sink the busted out screw holes in the concrete that might have once held a paper towel holder stared at him as if to say, “you’re on your own, buddy.”
Next to that was an ancient condom machine that displayed promises to thrill, chill, shake, bake, and extend everything from top to bottom and all points in between. Troy shook his hands and knelt down to examine the deep, red slime he’d fallen in. It was beginning to congeal, but it was definitely still wet. If it was blood, it was fresh blood.
He followed the obvious path of the liquid and saw that it led under the door of the nearby stall. Without thinking, he pushed open the door. When the light streamed past him, he saw the source of the blood and almost fell in it again.
6
Right Down Santa Claus Lane
The poor, unfortunate soul lying face down in a pool of his own blood was a big man, all stomach on stocky legs. Troy leaned down and put two fingers on the man’s neck under his snowy white beard. Nothing. But the man’s skin was still mildly warm to the touch. He hadn’t been dead long. As Troy pulled his hand back, the man’s head lolled to the side, Troy jumped back thinking maybe he might be the first witness to the zombie apocalypse, but the man, now staring at him through stone dead eyes, simply hadn’t been dead long enough for rigor mortis to set in. Troy’s touch had just nudged his head enough to help it roll slightly.
For a moment, Troy was sure he knew this man. But then he realized that every person in the civilized world knew this man. Santa Claus was staring up at him. Well, the man sure fit the profile anyway. White hair, white beard, chubby cheeks all aglow—actually, the cheeks were pretty blue, but he still looked like the jolly old elf.
“What kind of monster kills Santa Claus,” Troy muttered.
He patted the guy’s back pockets, but didn’t find a wallet there. Instead, he found it lying next to the man, its contents strewn about. Still among the rifled contents, Troy found a driver’s license. He half expected it to say Kris Kringle, but instead, it proclaimed that the dead man was Earl Heskett. That sounded oddly familiar, too. He stuck the ID in his pocket and checked the wallet for more information.
There was a voter registration card, a library card, a Blockbuster card—does that place even exist anymore, Troy thought—and a tiny slip of paper from a fortune cookie. Your future is one day away.
“Ain’t that the truth, Earl,” Troy said, stuffing the contents back in the wallet and sticking in the man’s pocket.
Earl. Fancy meetin’ two fellas named Earl in the same—Troy froze. His mind played back the scene with the clerk sitting inside. Earl Heskett. That was the name on the kid’s name tag. The pieces of the puzzle clicked into place. Troy jumped up, nearly slipping in the puddle of blood again. He slammed open the lazily swaying stall door and took two steps and a hop over the congealing fluid and was met with bright, cold sunshine … and the muzzle of a shotgun.
He held his hands up, hoping his eyes would adjust to the searing light soon. When they did, he saw it was, indeed, the kid from inside. He was still wearing the red vest with the name tag attached and now Troy realized it was about three sizes too big for the clerk.
The would-be Earl had his right hand on the stock and trigger of a sawed-off twelve gauge and his left hand held a fistful of Holly’s hair. Her eyes were red and puffy. She started to speak, but the kid jerked her head back so hard that she yelped in pain.
“Easy, Earl,” Troy said. “There’s no need to do this. Why don’t you just head on out and we’ll all forget we ever saw you.”
“Shut up, hayseed,” the kid said, jabbing Troy in the stomach with the shotgun. “And my name ain’t Earl, it’s…”
He stopped short and grinned exposing some teeth that were not long for this world. He shook his head slowly.
“Nice try, cowboy. But you’ll never know my name.”
Troy shrugged, his hands still in the air. “Fair enough. Had to try, though.”
“Besides,” the kid said, “this story ain’t over till I get something for my trouble. Came here to get the old man’s money, but he’s got it locked up tighter than a tighter than a flea's ass over a rain barrel.”
Troy started to ask what the kid was talking about, but before he could, the shotgun poked him again.
“Inside. Now.”
“Yes, sir.”
Good old fashioned hostage situation, Troy thought, wishing he’d actually read his training manuals for Afghanistan.
The burglar, or rather, murderer, herded them back into the store and Troy wondered how in the world no one had stopped in or driven by to witness this situation. But all he saw up and down this stretch of highway was tumbleweeds and blacktop.
As they pushed through the door, Troy heard a whimpering sound echo from behind the counter. He immediately recognized Olga’s voice. Shotgun or no, he rushed over to see the woman lying on her face with her hands tied behind her back with an extension cord. Denny was in a similar position, except he was bound with a belt. From the looks of it—judging by the unfortunate exposure of the man’s underpants—it was his own belt. Wouldn’t have guessed the dude would be a bikini guy, Troy thought, kneeling down beside Olga. He shrugged away the thought as he saw the large purple and blue splotch on the right side of her face. He looked over his shoulder at the kid holding the gun. He was grinning like a cheshire cat, the yellow and gray of his teeth peeking out from behind his lips.
“Is this really necessary, kid?”
The smile disappeared and their host jabbed the barrel of the gun so close to Troy’s head that he had to jerk his head backward to keep it from smashing his nose.
“I told you. I ain’t no kid. And I’ll decide what’s necessary and what isn’t.”
Troy held one hand up in surrender and pointed at Olga and Denny with his other. “You really reckon these two need to be hog-tied? I mean, if you can’t handle them, you may have seriously underestimated your abilities as a hostage-taker.”
“One more word, cowboy,” he said, lunging at Troy. “And I will show you my abilities with a slug to your face.”
“It wouldn’t be a slug, kid. It would be a shell.”
The kid’s face went red. His grin was now a gritted-teeth grimace. He racked the slide. “I swear to God, I’m gonna just do you and be done with it.”
“Now, now, now. Let’s not be hasty.” Troy kept his voice as calm as he could
. “Right now, you’re just a murderer. If you keep goin’, you’re gonna be a serial killer. Two entirely different things. I’m not sure that’s the road you’re wantin’ to go down, is it?”
The kid’s grimace faltered. “I didn’t mean to kill the dude. I was just trying to get the money and he wouldn’t tell me the frickin’ combination.”
And there it was, the real reason for the whole thing. He was after the money in the safe. Troy opened his mouth to tell the kid it was a little late to change the situation now, but the wannabe gangster raised his gun.
“But since that ain’t going to happen, I’ll be taking whatever you all got on you and then be on my way.”
He kicked Denny in the stomach causing the man to yelp in pain and then vomit. Tears started streaming out of his eyes and he rolled over into a fetal position.
“Tess, get over here and empty granny’s purse.”
It took a second before Troy realized the kid was talking to Holly. He was using her “stage name,” which Troy thought was a bit odd.
“And you.” He shoved Troy toward the prone hostages. “Get on the ground. And gimme that hat. It’ll look better on me than you anyway.”
“Son, I didn’t know you before today,” Troy said. “But I’m feeling like I know you now. And there’s not a chance in hell you’ll be takin’ this hat off my head. If you want it, you’ll have to shoot me first and take it off my cold, dead body.”
“Works for me.” He raised the shotgun, but before he could pull the trigger, Holly stepped in front of him. She turned to Troy. “Just give him the hat. It doesn’t help us if you get shot, too.”
She raised her eyebrows and Troy got the message. Don’t get killed and we might have a chance to get out of here. She reached up and lifted the hat off Troy’s head and tossed it to the kid. He put it on and pulled it down toward his nose.
“Yeehaw, cowboy!”
Troy started to tackle the kid, shotgun or not, but Holly stopped him with a hand on his stomach. She shook her head no. One single shake, subtle, secretive.
The Complete Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Collection Page 131