I bit my lip as we waited in silence for a reply, seesawing between the desire to burst out laughing and the urge to ditch everything and run for my life.
A voice came over the speaker, deciding my fate.
“Proceed.”
The gate clicked open and swung slowly across the dirt driveway with a long, painful creak. It came to a stop as it hit the side of a rusted-out refrigerator.
Grayson maneuvered the RV into what I could only describe as the abandoned set of Sanford and Son—The Final Years. Our dilapidated RV fit right in.
Grayson cut the ignition.
I nodded toward the junk. “I’m curious, Fred. Does this make me Lamont?”
Grayson groaned. “That joke belongs on the pile with the rest of this garbage. Just keep your head low and follow my lead.”
We climbed out of the RV and picked our way through the maze of discarded rubbish clogging the yard. After tripping twice over the same rusted bicycle carcass, I managed to make it with Grayson to the steps of a wooden deck. Attached to it was the yellowed, algae-covered husk of a doublewide trailer.
A poorly hand-painted sign hung on the front door. It read: “The Tooth is Out There.”
It was my turn to groan.
Grayson rang the doorbell with the elbow of his jacket.
I shot him a look. “What are you doing?”
He leaned in and whispered, “These people can be a bit obsessive when it comes to fingerprints and DNA.”
As my mind ticked off the walking distance between here and the highway, the door cracked open.
Standing in the doorframe was a thin, pasty guy, probably in his late twenties. He sported a long, blond mullet and the kind of muscle tone that only gets chicks at Comic Con conventions.
I smiled to myself. The guy reminded me of Garth on Wayne's World. Except this dude was nerdier. His hair was frizzier. And, like the sign on his door foretold, his front teeth were “out there.” I’d never seen such a pair of buck teeth.
I’d bet good money he could floss those beauties with his lips closed.
The guy smiled, making me want to double down on my bet.
“It’s the mysterious Mister Gray! Welcome!” the Garth lookalike said. He turned to me. “And his beautiful protégé, I presume?” He bowed slightly and made a sweeping gesture with his arm. “Please, come in!”
Grayson handed over a business card as we entered mullet-man’s secret lair. One glance around the interior and my mind wrote “bleach” on an imaginary shopping list. Then I scratched that through and wrote “dynamite.”
“Thank you for your call,” Grayson said.
The young man squinted at Grayson’s card through the thick lenses of his black-framed glasses. “Gray Hotline,” he read aloud. “Like gray aliens, right?” He winked at Grayson.
Grayson gave him a quick nod. “As far as you know.”
The man extended a hand. Grayson shook it. “Well, pleased to meet you, Mr. Gray. I’m—”
“No real names,” Grayson said, cutting him off. “Pandora, assign this new operative a name.”
I looked around for a moment for Pandora, then blanched, cleared my throat, and said, “Uh ... Garth Waynesworld.”
“First names only,” Grayson corrected.
I saluted. “Yes, Commander Beetlejuice.”
Grayson winced, but otherwise didn’t skip a beat. “Operative Garth,” he said, clearing his throat, “for our casework, we’ll need to record your entire statement. We will, of course, use a voice-scrambling device to protect your identity.”
Garth nodded solemnly. “No prob. That’ll be a hundred bucks.”
I stifled a smirk. Grayson reached into his jacket and pulled out a crisp C-note. “I heard you have pictures, too.”
“Yeah. You can look, but no touch. You want copies, that’s extra.”
Garth might not have fashion sense, but he’s got merchandising down pat.
“Fair enough,” Grayson said. “Let’s get started.”
While Grayson set up to record Garth’s statement, I looked around for a place to sit. Given the options, I decided to stand. The two men settled into a pair of old recliners I wouldn’t have let a pet rat use for an outhouse.
I leaned against the doorframe between the living room and kitchen and tried to keep disgust—as well as mold and mildew—from congregating on my face.
Suddenly, I heard heavy breathing behind me. My back bowed into a prickly arch. Against all my willing myself not to, I turned and traced the source of the noise.
It was coming from the corner of Garth’s kitchen.
I craned my neck, then took a step backward for a peek.
Glaring at me from inside a heavy wire cage was a monstrous black hound. As I locked onto its yellow eyes, the dog erupted into a snarling fit. Then it then let out a long, low, continuous growl that turned my Pop-Tarts and coffee into bubbling sludge.
“I see you’ve met Tooth.”
Garth’s voice sounded mere inches to my right, startling me so badly I nearly screamed. I swallowed hard, and plastered on a smile while my heart played a drum solo in my chest.
“Yeah. Nice puppy,” I managed.
Garth laughed. “I put him in his cage whenever I’m expecting company. As you can see, he doesn’t care for people all that much. But look. I think he likes you.”
I stared at the gleaming, inch-long incisors on Cujo Jr. and was thankful for the metal bars between us. I envisioned the dog patrolling Garth’s junkyard and the joke finally hit home.
The Tooth is Out There.
Hilarious.
Chapter Four
“AND THAT’S WHEN I HEARD Jenkins hollering, ‘They’re here! They’re here!’” Operative Garth said, and took another swig from a half-gallon plastic bottle of Mountain Dew.
“Just to be clear, we’re talking about Lester Jenkins,” I said. “The guy who was found dead?”
“The dude himself, yeah. Then T-Rex got on the horn and yelled, ‘Jenkins! I told you to I.D. yourself!’ Haha! He’s totally retrograde, man!”
“T-Rex?” Grayson asked.
“Oh. Theodore Rexel. Old army vet. He’s got the closest repeater to Jenkins’ cabin.”
“Repeater?” I asked.
Garth’s face suddenly collapsed. He stared at me as if I’d zapped him with a stun gun, then he shifted his flabbergasted gaze to Grayson.
Grayson shrugged apologetically. “She’s new.”
Garth eyed me up and down, as if I might be a spy, while Grayson explained the terminology. “A repeater’s a tower, Pandora. It’s like an amplifier for ham radio operators. You can bounce your signal off it to gain distance and volume.”
“Oh. Right,” I said, and laughed. “I forgot.”
Garth appeared bored with the tedium of having to deal with a newbie. He let out a huge sigh and addressed Grayson as if he were the only worthy audience member in the room.
“Anyway, like I was saying, Mr. Gray, old man Rexel was ragging on Jenkins to follow protocol and give out his call sign. Rexel’s a real stickler for the rules. Throwback from his crew cuts and shiny shoes military days, I guess.”
Garth turned to me and spoke slowly, as if addressing a toddler with unpromising potential. “So, Pandora, you’re supposed to give your call sign when you ping somebody’s repeater. It’s common courtesy. But Lester Jenkins never did. And that pissed Rexel off big time.”
“Right, thanks.” I thought about asking Garth what a call sign was, but I didn’t want to piss him off big time, either.
Garth gave me a curt nod, pushed his glasses up on his pug nose, and continued his story with Grayson.
“So while Rexel was bitching at Jenkins, I got off the channel and called my brother, Jimmy. He’s on the force. He hightailed it out there to Jenkins’ cabin. Took photos before any other donut slugs showed up.”
Garth turned to me. “A donut slug is—”
I gave him a sharp nod. “I think I got it.”
Grayson clap
ped his hands together. “Excellent, Operative Garth. Now, how about a look at those photos?”
Garth grinned. “You’re in for a treat, Mr. Gray.” He fired up his laptop, clicked a few buttons on his keypad, and a full-screen view of Lester Jenkins’ remains flashed on the display.
I blanched.
Dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt, Lester Jenkins’ body was lying face-up in a bed of pine straw. His hair and face were wet with a gooey-looking substance. And something was off with his body. It was too ... narrow. And too flat. It was as if he’d somehow melted inside his clothes. My nose crinkled in disgust.
“This is interesting,” Grayson said, pointing at Jenkins’ neck and face. Both were peppered with small, narrow gashes. “Strange pattern for teeth marks. Short. Needle-like. Definitely not a predator with large canines.”
Garth nodded, eyes narrowed in contemplation. “I see your point. And what about that slime? My brother said Jenkins’ head and neck were covered in it. What kind of being could do that?”
I smirked. “A Chihuahua with a bad cold?”
The two men shot me dirty looks. I shriveled and backtracked. “Sorry. It’s just that ... the pictures are so gruesome. I was ... comic relief, anyone?”
I shut my babbling mouth. Grayson turned his attention back to Operative Garth. “Like I said, she’s new. So what did your brother think was the cause of death?”
Garth shrugged. “Gettin’ his guts squashed out.”
Again, Grayson didn’t miss a beat. “I mean, what did the squashing? Have there been any unusual phenomena noted in the area recently?”
“He could’ve been stomped by Bigfoot,” Garth offered hopefully. “Does that count?”
“Absolutely. So, Operative Garth, do you know if Jenkins was into Ufology?”
“Well, yeah. He was always trying to contact aliens with his ham radio. But he couldn’t even pull off an EME. Can you believe it? What a doofin’ putz.”
I opened my mouth to say something, but Grayson’s face read, “Can it.” So I did.
Grayson shot Garth an insider’s smile. “Couldn’t do an EME? What a newb.”
Garth’s face relaxed, as if Grayson had earned another level of trust. He leaned in closer to Grayson. “When I use EMEs to signal to aliens, I’m careful. Discrete, you know? I use a signal deflector. That way, if I make contact, they can’t find me directly. Jenkins wasn’t much for following protocol. If that’s what he was doing, he could’ve led them right to him.”
“So you actually knew Jenkins?” I asked.
Garth looked up at me as if he’d forgotten I was there. “I’ve talked to him a couple of times. At Blarney’s Bar.”
I nodded. “You sure the body in these pics is Lester Jenkins?”
Garth shrugged. “Pretty good likeness, if you ask me. Especially after he’d had a couple shots of Mr. Jack D.”
“Who do you think he was referring to when he said, ‘they’re here,’” I asked.
Garth pushed his glasses up. “Like I said. It could’ve been animals. Or aliens. Or even trespassers on his property. Jenkins was a hothead. I’m pretty sure he’d shoot at any of them.”
“So, how much for copies of the pics?” Grayson asked.
Garth shot him a buck-toothed grin. “Depends, Mr. Gray. How much you willing to pay?”
Chapter Five
“NICE DOING BUSINESS with you, Mr. Gray.”
Garth folded the greenbacks, then tucked them safely among the pens stashed in the plastic pocket protector safeguarding his flannel shirt from ink stains. He patted the front of Grayson’s RV, then hit a switch on a remote-control device.
The gate on the chain link fence slowly creaked open.
“Contact me any time,” Grayson said out the rolled-down window. “You do excellent work, Operative Garth.”
Garth’s wimpy shoulders straightened. The lenses of his glasses flashed yellow-white in the midday sun, as did his bucktooth grin. He stood at attention and stayed that way until we’d backed down the drive and were pulling away.
I waved at him one last time, then shot Grayson a sideways glance. “You really seemed to make an impression on him. What are you, some kind of nerd superstar?”
Grayson shrugged. “I’m known in certain circles.”
“Really? What kind? Crop circles?”
“Among others.”
I rolled my eyes. “No offense, Grayson, but that guy got my spidey senses tingling.”
Grayson’s left eyebrow hitched up a notch. “Huh. I didn’t picture him as your type.”
“Argh!” I whacked Grayson on the bicep with the back of my hand. “That’s not what I meant!”
His lip curled. “You hungry?”
I winced. “After that? Geez, Grayson! We just saw pictures of a guy smooshed to pudding!”
Grayson licked his lips. “Mmm. Pudding.”
I snorted. “Okay. To tell you the truth, I’m starving.”
“What say we find us a nice taco stand, Pandora? Then go check out what’s swinging with T-Rex?”
I grinned and shook my head. “Oddly enough, that’s the best offer I’ve heard all day, CB.”
“CB?”
“Commander Beetlejuice.”
GRAYSON PICKED CONSUELO’S from among the half-dozen greasy-looking mom-n-pop cooking trailers we passed along a three-mile stretch of US 92.
“Who knew Plant City was a taco-lover’s paradise?” Grayson said after we placed our order through the screened window of the rusty white food truck. He waved away a fly. “No wonder people retire to Florida.”
We’d barely placed our bottoms on the bench of a picnic table when a woman stuck her sweaty face out the window of the traveling taco stand.
“Beezelshoes!” she hollered.
I smirked. “Looks like you’re up, boss.”
Grayson shot me a look, then got up to retrieve our food. He returned with two greasy cardboard plates heaped with tacos, beans, and yellow rice.
My mouth watered despite the images still buzzing around in my head. “Those pictures of Jenkins were really gross,” I said, then picked up a fish taco and crammed half of it into my mouth. “Poor guy.”
“Should’ve kept up his gym membership,” Grayson said, eyeing me for my reaction. “The slob really let himself get soft.”
I nearly choked on a mixture of disgust and chopped cabbage. I rolled my eyes, but I had to admit, Grayson’s gallows humor was growing on me. So were his looks.
Except for the cheesy moustache.
Given his lean build, his intense, indecipherable eyes, and his rakishly angled fedora, half a century ago, Grayson would’ve been typecast as the bad guy in any black-and-white movie. Lucky for him, the line between the good guys and the bad guys had long since blurred into a million shades of gray.
I chewed my mouthful of taco. “So, what’s your goal?”
Grayson focused his green eyes on mine. “Goal?”
“Yeah. What do you want to try and accomplish here?”
Grayson’s brow furrowed. “Collect hard evidence on whatever alien or cryptid is involved in this. I thought you knew that when you climbed aboard the good ship lollipop. Or, in your case, Tootsie Pop.”
Grayson stared at me and rubbed the small, blue bruise just below his right eye. I’d given him the mark a few days back when I’d beaned him in the face with a slightly used sucker. In my defense, at the time I’d thought he was a psycho killer. In hindsight, I knew he was no killer. The psycho part, however, was still up for debate.
I shook my head. “You’re the one collecting evidence of aliens or whatever. I’m just here for the P.I. training.”
His eyes narrowed. “No, Drex. As my new partner, you signed up for both.”
“Geez.” I chewed my lip. “Seriously, Grayson. Do you think chasing monsters is a job for sensible adults?”
Grayson’s back stiffened. “We don’t chase monsters. We chase the truth. And in case you haven’t noticed, Drex, being a so-called sensible
adult isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. In fact, it’s nothing but a trap.”
I stopped sucking down my soda. “What are you talking about?”
Grayson studied me for a moment. “Unless you absolutely love it, a job is a gilded cage designed to keep you just comfortable enough so it can suck the life out of you, like you’re doing to that bottle of pop.”
I grimaced. “Geez. That’s pretty dark.”
Grayson’s left eyebrow arched. “Is it? I think it’s pretty enlightened. Think about it. Whether you’re counting gold bricks or pushing a broom, no amount of cash can buy back the time you waste doing something you hate.”
I crinkled my nose. “It’s not that bad out there.”
Grayson’s green eyes locked on mine. “Don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts, Drex. Do you really want to go back to ordering mufflers for busted Buicks and wiping strangers’ dipsticks? If so, I’ll take you back to Point Paradise right now.”
He stood.
I grabbed his arm. “No! That’s not what I meant!”
I bit my lip. “I guess ... I’m just wondering ....” I stared at the table.
“What?” Grayson said. “Just say it, already.”
I cautiously looked up into Grayson’s eyes. “Why me?”
He stared at me for a moment. “What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. Why did you pick me to be your partner? Be honest. If I didn’t have this thing going on with my brain—the twin—would you have even considered me for the job?”
Grayson sat back down and sighed. “You’re broken, Drex.”
I winced. “What?”
“I chose you because you’re broken.”
My eyes narrowed. “What are you saying? That you felt sorry for me?”
Grayson laughed. “No. That’s not what I meant at all. Just the opposite, in fact.”
Grayson leaned across the table toward me. “You’ve been broken by the world, Drex. You played their game and lost. And now, if I’m right about you, you’re ready to tell them all to go shove it where granny hides her gin-spiked Geritol.”
Moth Busters, Dr. Prepper, Oral Robbers: Freaky Florida Mystery Adventures 1, 2 & 3 Page 25