Tales from Stool 17; Dark Days of Judgment: The Nigel Logan Stories (3)

by Kirk Jockell

  “I see that. Good crowd. Things look like they’re hopping.”

  “You’re here?”

  “Yep.”

  “Then why the hell are you calling me on the phone?”

  “I need for you to come out front. It’s important.”

  Nigel hung up, reached across, took the keys out of the ignition, and grabbed the box of tokens. As he was getting out of the wagon he looked at Parrot Boy and said, “Don’t go anywhere, Wilma.”

  Matt walked out drying his hands with a bar towel, then slung it over his shoulder. He found Nigel leaning against the fenders. As he approached, he leaned his head over to the side to look through the windshield. When he recognized who was behind the wheel, he pointed his finger and said, “What the hell is he doing here?”

  Nigel raised a hand and said, “It’s okay. I brought him.” Then he paused a beat and said, “Well, it’s actually not okay, but I’ll get to that in a minute.” Nigel turned and looked at Parrot Boy to deliver a silent message. Don’t even think about it. They moved to the hood of the wagon and Nigel placed the box on the hood.

  The parrot boy sat behind the wheel and watched and listened best he could. He saw Nigel open the box to let Matt reach in for a sample. All the while Nigel was explaining everything he knew. Parrot Boy sat up straighter and pressed his back against the seat to add distance when Matt looked at him with a furious gaze. Matt was pacing now, back and forth in front of the wagon, talking with his hands, but he wasn’t loud. Parrot Boy could hear bits and pieces, but he didn’t have to hear anything. Actions speak louder than words.

  When Jessie saw Matt grab his cell phone, he got nervous. He turned his head and started to eye the door handle. He contemplated his chances. If I’m quick about it... Then he almost pissed his pants when he was startled by a slap on the hood. He looked up to find Logan staring at him, shaking his head, and wagging a finger. “Don’t even think about it, Jessie.”

  Nigel talked Matt into putting the cell phone away. They talked a bit more, then they walked around the back of the wagon and confiscated the other two boxes out of the back. When the back was open, Matt spoke to the back of Parrot Boy’s head, “Jessie ... you’re a slimier bastard than I imagined.”

  The slimy bastard said nothing.

  As Matt carried the two boxes back into the bar, Nigel walked along the driver’s side of the wagon and opened the door. In a calm voice said, “Get out, Jess. Get the parrot and come with me.”

  Parrot Boy hesitated so Logan reached in and grabbed a handful of dreadlocks and started to pull. “I said, ‘Get out,’ dammit.”

  Parrot Boy began to yell, “Okay! Okay, goddammit. Let go!”

  All the hollering upset the parrot. It was back to its hell-raising mode, but calmed down some after Jessie got it out of its cage. And while those that were outside already had a casual interest in what was going on, now their full attention was squarely on the wagon and the commotion. They stopped their drinking and conversations as Logan dragged Parrot Boy out of the vehicle.

  When he was out of the wagon, Logan let go of his hair. He grabbed the back of his shirt. “Get moving, Jessie,” Logan demanded. “Inside.”

  As they passed the hood of the wagon, Nigel reached over and grabbed the open box and carried it inside. Everyone that was outside now fell in line to follow them in. Nigel marched Parrot Boy straight to the stage where the microphone stand stood hot, always at the ready for some impromptu open mic performance.

  Matt went back behind the bar with Lisa. She asked, “What’s going on?”

  Matt put his finger to his lips and said, “Just listen.”

  Nigel tapped on the mic a few times with his finger and made a crisp popping noise through PA speakers. People winced. He leaned over and said, “Is this thing on?”

  Everybody in the room said in unison, “YES!”

  “Oh, good,” Nigel paused for a beat then continued. “Well, it is Sunday after all. And if any of you are like me, you probably missed your church service this morning. So, I was thinking we could have ourselves a little service this afternoon.”

  Moans and groans and lack of interest filled the room. Nigel said, “Now don’t be so down on me. We are going to have communion too. So, grab a fresh beer and some peanuts.” That brought a little life back into the group.

  “Now, I’m not a very religious man, so humor me a bit here. Are there any good Catholics in the room?”

  Several hands went up.

  “Good. You guys will have to forgive me now, because I’m sure to go off script.”

  Nigel reached over and put his hand on the parrot boy’s shoulder and said, “How many of you know Wilma here?”

  Parrot Boy gave a frustrating look to Nigel and said, “Jessie, dammit. My name is Jessie.”

  Several hands went up.

  Nigel looked at Parrot Boy and said, “Sorry about that. So, tell me, do you see any familiar faces out there, Jess?”

  Parrot Boy slowly nodded.

  “Good,” Nigel said. “That means this will be all the more meaningful for some, because we are going to start this little service off with a real confessional.”

  The parrot boy looked at Nigel and with a surprised crack in this voice asked, “What?”

  Nigel ignored him. “That’s right folks. Master Jessie here is going to share his deepest secrets, transgressions, and sins, many of which are crimes against society.”

  The room began to play along. Gasping sounds, as well as ooohs and ahhhhs filled the room. One guy in the back hollered, “Say it isn’t so.”

  “Yes, I know. It is shocking,” said Nigel. “So ... how many of you in the house want to hear a confessional?”

  The room cheered with excitement.

  “All right then. Let’s get to it.”

  For Nigel, the fun and games were over. The fun-loving, gregarious attitude was over. In a stern, more serious, business-like tone, Nigel looked at Parrot Boy and said, “Jessie, the floor is yours.”

  As Nigel stepped away and offered up the mic, Parrot Boy could see the seriousness in Nigel’s eyes. He made his way to the microphone and looked out at the crowd. They were smiling, anticipating whatever came next. He looked behind the bar. The look on the faces of Matt and Lisa were of anger and frustration. He looked at Nigel who offered one word, “Now!”

  He stepped closer to the mic and said, “Ahhh. Hey y’all. I’m not sure where to start...”

  He got quiet, thinking of what to say next and a woman from the bar yelled, “Just tell it, young man. The truth will set you free.”

  That was followed by a few Hallelujahs and an amen or two. He was about to say something when somebody with a rough voice said, “Hey! Look, Bubba. It’s the bird guy.”

  Everyone turned around to look. A group of bikers, not of the Huffy or Schwinn variety, had entered the bar. Parrot Boy looked at Nigel and said, “Oh shit.”

  “Friends of yours?” asked Nigel. “I don’t care. Stop stalling. Get on with it.”

  Parrot Boy replied with a slow shake of his head.

  Nigel pushed him out of the way and took the microphone. “Okay folks, enough with the kidding around.” Pointing toward Parrot Boy, he said, “Jessie, standing here, is a shithead.”

  Nigel told the crowd what Jessie had done. How he’d counterfeited the Bowery Station happy hour tokens and sold them as bootleg copies to tourists, essentially indirectly stealing from the B.S. coffers.

  A few in the crowd took a sneak peek at the tokens they had in their pockets. Most slipped them back into their pockets and said nothing. Regardless of the circumstances, they didn’t want it known that they had been active participants in the conspiracy.

  That was how most reacted. The biker gang, on the other hand, wasn’t worried with what others might think or say. Guilt by association didn’t weigh heavy on their minds. The biker called Bubba said, “So ... what you are saying is,” and he held up three quart-freezer bags of tokens, “these are worthless?”

&nbs
p; “Did you buy them from little Rasta boy here?” asked Nigel.

  “Yeah. Exactly.”

  “Well,” Nigel said, “I’m sure they will make great poker chips, but that’s about it. They won’t get you beers around here.”

  The bikers started to grumble. Their anger grew and they started to ease their way through the crowd and toward the stage. Nigel watched the advance and spoke to Parrot Boy, “Jess, if you were ever thinking of running, you’re behind by about five seconds. Just remember what I said in the car, I meant every word.”

  “Got it ... here … hold Ruby for me.” He put the parrot on Nigel’s shoulder and dashed off the stage and exited out through the beer garden, a courtyard which empties out on a side street. It was his only option as an escape route. The biker gang was in full pursuit. Nigel stopped the one called Bubba and said, “Do me a favor. Hand over the bags. They’re no good here.”

  Bubba was reluctant, but surrendered the tokens anyway saying, “The little bastard.” Then he took off to join the chase.

  Once the parrot boy and the bikers left the building, it only took about ten seconds for the place to return to normal. Matt turned the music back up and people went back to their beer drinking and peanut eating.

  Nigel put the parrot on the tip jar that said Stop Playing and walked over to the bar and dropped the bags of bootleg tokens on the bar. Lisa said, “I wonder how many more are out there?”

  Matt joined them and Nigel said, it doesn’t really matter. You’ll both just need to be careful for a while when folks turn them in. He opened one of the bags and dumped the tokens out on the bar. He picked one up and said, “They look pretty damn good, huh? But lookie here, he spelt Bowery wrong. The ‘e’ is missing.”

  Matt reached over into the box that supposedly contained the authentic tokens. The third one he looked at was a forgery. “I guess we’ll have to go through and check all of these.”

  They all said nothing for a bit, then Nigel said, “Where’s the entertainment? They should be here by now, shouldn’t they?”

  Lisa said, “They can’t make it. Their van broke down in Sopchoppy.”

  “Well, that sucks.”

  “Not so bad actually. Matt got in touch with Brian. He should be here any minute. He is heading straight over from Parrothead’s.”

  “Parrothead’s ... shit! That reminds me. I need a ride. I left my truck over there.”

  Matt said, “Let me get my keys. It’s the least I can do.”

  “Thanks,” said Nigel. “While you do that, I need to put Jessie’s car keys back in the wagon. I’m guessing he will be coming ...”

  Then somebody at the door yelled, “What the hell is this, some kind of sick joke?”

  It was Brian Bowen, looking flabbergasted.

  Matt said, “What is it, buddy?”

  Brian pointed, and through gritted teeth said, “What is that fucking parrot doing on my stage?”

  Nigel mumbled, “Uh Oh. Not good.”

  And, as soon as the parrot saw Brian, it walked around the lip of the tip jar, weaving its head back and forth screaming, “Stop Playing! Stop Playing!”

  Nigel, Matt, and Lisa busted out in laughter. Brian not so much.

  El Diablo Rojo

  The melodic high-pitch shrill of the boatswain’s whistle moved up and down the notes and filled the entire room. After a few cycles, it quit altogether. Within a few seconds, it was back. He did his best to ignore it, but he couldn’t. That was the whole idea. It was a command, a call to action, an audible specifically designed to get your attention. It worked every time, whether you wanted it to or not.

  Nigel raised his head and looked at the clock on the nightstand. He shook his head and thought Son of a bitch. You have to be shitting me. In that moment, Nigel realized that downloading a boatswain’s whistle call as a ringtone was one stupid idea. As much as he loved naval nostalgia, the idea of it being forced down his throat at 0115 wasn’t something he had thought about.

  He reached for the phone, squinted to read the caller ID and found the button to answer. “Damn,” he grumbled. Then he sandwiched the phone between his pillow and ear. He answered with a clearing of his throat, but said nothing.

  The voice on the other end of the line asked, “Nigel. Are you there?”

  Nigel said nothing. As a matter of fact, he never even heard the voice on the other end of the line. He was back to sleep. The caller recognized the subtle snore and breathing pattern.

  “Nigel. Wake up, dammit. This is important.”

  Moments later, after never getting a response, the call was ended. The phone went dead and all was quiet again. Until ... the caller dialed Nigel’s number again.

  Now, with the phone right next to his ear, the boatswain’s whistle pierced right through one side of the brain and exited out the other. Startled was an understatement. The adrenaline rush caused his heart to stop, then race and sent his body into convulsions as he attempted to lift himself off the pillow. His eyes were wide open, but they had not adjusted to the darkness. He couldn’t see anything. When the phone cycled through another whistle, he swatted the phone off the pillow and against the wall. He half-hoped the phone was broken, but no luck. The Otter Box case did its job and protected it from certain destruction. The phone, now on the floor with the screen up, continued to whistle.

  Nigel swung his feet out of bed and onto the floor. He was panting, breathing hard from the sudden excitement. He looked down at the phone and the Caller ID. He reached down and picked up the phone to answer it. He rubbed his head with his free hand and cleared his throat before growling a single question, “Have you been drinking?”

  That was a dumb question. He realized it the second it came out of his mouth, but he wasn’t thinking clearly. It was either too early, or too late ... however one-fifteen in the morning should be described, so he followed up with a more logical question, “What is it, Red?”

  “I need your help. Trouble’s brewing.”

  “Trouble is something I’m trying to stay away from. You should know that better than anybody.”

  “Yeah, but that still doesn’t take away from the fact that I need your help.”

  Red was being serious. Nigel could hear it in his voice. He wasn’t being his usual casual and carefree self. Nigel could also hear wind noise and Black Sabbath playing in the background, an Oyster Radio classic, especially after dark.

  “Where are you?” asked Nigel.

  “About a mile from your house. Get dressed. I’ll be there in one hundred and eleven seconds.”

  Red ended the call.

  Nigel remained on the side of the bed. He was bent over holding his head shaking it in disbelief. Then he reached down and grabbed a pair of drab olive cargo shorts off the floor and slipped into them. He stood, stretched and headed to the coffee maker.

  After dumping out the old grounds from the filter, he poured the old coffee out of the pot and started to rinse it out. That’s when he noticed the headlights of Red’s Explorer turn into the drive. Nigel turned on the machine and was pouring fresh water into his Mr. Coffee when Red walked in the back door to the kitchen.

  “What are you doing?” asked Red.

  Nigel turned his head as he continued to pour, and with cutting sarcasm said, “What the hell does it look like I’m doing?”

  “But we don’t have time for that.”

  “You must have a rat in your pocket, because I’m not sure which ‘we’ you are referring to. But there’s one thing for sure, I’m not doing shit until I get some coffee and you tell me what this is all about.”

  “Can you make it a cup to go? We may already be too late.”

  With slight aggravation, Nigel said, “No. I can’t. Now what’s this all about?”

  Red said one word that got Nigel’s immediate attention, “Poachers.”

  In the time it took for the coffee maker to gurgle, spit, and drip a fresh pot, Red explained enough to satisfy Nigel’s needs. Red was still providing details when Nigel interrup
ted, “So why did you wait until one o’clock in the morning to call?”

  “I hadn’t planned to call at all, but I was up late watching old reruns on the television. That’s when I saw some activity down by the beach.”

  Red and Trixie’s place is on Cape San Blas. It’s beach front on the Gulf of Mexico side, a beautiful location with a great view of the beach and surf.

  “Red,” Nigel said. “It’s tourist season. People are on the beach at all hours.”

  “I know, but...”

  Nigel saw the concern and worry in Red’s eyes. He is a true lover of nature, but he isn’t a tree-hugging wacko by any stretch of the imagination. For example, Red often wears a t-shirt that says, I Love PETA on the front, but the back says People Eating Tasty Animals. For Red, it’s all about balance.

  Aside from all of Red’s crazy and silly antics, Nigel has come to understand him as one of the wisest and most rational men he has ever known. Red understands man’s position as Earth’s dominate species, and for man to survive, it will come at the expense of others. But he also believes there are times when man has an incredible responsibility to preserve its resources from abuse, so his interests in protecting what should be left alone runs deep. Nigel could see this was one of those times, so, if Red was concerned, so was he.

  As the coffee was finishing up, Nigel said, “To your right, first door under the counter. Get my Thermos and fill it. I’ll go throw on a shirt and grab a few things. You can tell me the rest in the car.”

  When Nigel got back to the kitchen, he was dressed. He had slipped into a black t-shirt and was carrying a large, heavy-duty canvas bag. Red had a cup of coffee waiting for him on the counter. Nigel grabbed the cup and took a quick sip and looked at Red and said, “Thanks, man.” That’s when he saw Red standing at the door. In one hand, he held Nigel’s Thermos bottle, in the other his handle of seven-year-old Jim Beam. Nigel’s eyes shifted several times back and forth between the bottle and Red’s face. Then he said, “Really?”

  “What? It could come in handy.”

  Nigel brushed by his partner shaking his head and said, “Come on, dammit. Let’s go.”