by Kirk Jockell
“Louisiana,” replied Bucky.
“Nothing from Apalach?”
Bucky shook his head, went back to shucking and said, “We haven’t been able to get anything out of Apalach in weeks.”
The estuarial waters of Apalachicola bay produce the World’s finest, most coveted oysters. The largest natural oyster fishery in the nation. The fresh water from the Apalachicola River coupled with the rich, salty waters from the Gulf of Mexico that are held hostage by the bay’s barrier islands, creates the ideal balance of salinity for oysters to thrive. The oyster industry in Apalach is so prolific, it supplies ten percent of the nation’s entire oyster harvest. Or at least, it used to.
Many factors have changed the face of the industry over the past several years. Lack of fresh water coming in due to extended drought and over-usage upstream raises salinity levels allowing natural predators easy access to the beds. The opposite extreme with excessive flooding lowers salinity and drowns the beds. Then, of course, there was the tragedy with the Deep Horizon oil spill of 2010.
The ambiguities of how the oil would affect the fragile waters of the bay caused the Florida Wildlife Commission to relax the harvest restrictions. The oystermen were told to harvest what they could; the oil was coming. They did, and the oil never came. The beds were decimated and the bay’s recovery has been slow and painful ever since.
Red leaned over and stuffed a five-dollar bill in the tip jar, “It is what it is, Bucky. Two dozen raw, please.”
A few stools down, Red recognized one of the turtle patrol volunteers. She was having a bit of lunch with a friend after a busy morning of marking and documenting new nests. Red didn’t know her name, but had seen her around the volunteer network.
Nigel was sitting back down with the beers when one of the gals said, “The FWC told Jennifer that the van was loaded.” Jennifer was a name Red did know. Jennifer Hilton works closely with the conservancy and heads up the turtle patrol effort. Nigel and Red sipped their beer and listened. “They counted almost five hundred eggs and they had slaughtered several turtles and put their meat on ice.”
Bucky interrupted the gals and said, “Oh. You talking about the poachers they caught? That’s just crazy.”
The volunteer put both her hands on the bar leaned forward and said, “Yes. They say it was the weirdest thing. Just bizarre.”
Bucky slid the tray of oysters in front of Red and Nigel and said, “I heard they found them naked.”
That was Red’s cue. “Nakedness! I love me some nakedness. What are you talking about, Buck?”
The volunteer beat Bucky to the punch, “Oh, you haven’t heard? They caught three poachers morning before last. They had been raiding fresh turtle nests. Very sad.”
“Really?”
“Yes. It is all so mysterious. They have no idea what actually happened, but it appears somebody caught them in the act and called 911.”
Bucky was chomping at the bit to jump in and said, “But, Red, the crazy thing is what the cops found when they got there. The poachers were naked and duct-taped around pine trees.”
The volunteer gals said, “Oh, my. I heard they found them tied up, but not naked.”
Red was drinking his beer with a smile as he listened to Bucky, “Yup. Somebody caught them, beat the shit out of them, stripped them down, and taped them up. One of them had been busted up so bad, they had to call an ambulance. I think he died later at the hospital. The other two are sitting in the pokey.”
Sounding shocked and concerned, the volunteer gave out a slight gasp and said, “Died? Oh, dear.” Then she reminded herself of what the poachers had done. She straightened up on her bar stool and exclaimed, “I guess the bastards got what they deserved.”
Nigel said, “Naked and dead, huh? Where’d you hear all this Buck?”
Bucky said, “Sammy.”
Sammy is one of Bucky’s best friends from high school. Bucky and Sammy are just two points of a harmless trouble-making triangle. The third is Blair. The three of them are thick as thieves and run together almost all the time. Their ambitions don’t stretch too far beyond their high school graduation and beer drinking on the beach. Youth, beer, and idle time often breed trouble as they scheme to find ways to entertain themselves. Boys will be boys.
“Sammy, huh?”
“Uh huh. His mom’s sister has a friend whose daughter works in the cafeteria at the jail. She says one of the inmates told her all about it.”
Red said, “Well, I guess you’d be hard pressed to find a more reliable source.”
Not catching Red’s sarcasm, Bucky said, “Exactly.”
Nigel ignored Bucky and looked down at the two women and asked, “Do they have any idea who did all this?”
“My friend Jennifer said they’re clueless. And who really cares, right? Whoever caught these guys did us all a huge favor. They were heaven sent.”
Red was drinking his beer and thinking hard. In an aha! moment, he slammed his cup down and announced, “The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. That’s who did it.”
Everybody had a good laugh. Red got up, recharged the beers, and sat back down. He extended his hand toward the two gals, “My name’s Red. And this ugly mug behind me is Nigel.”
Nigel offered an awkward smile and a little finger wiggling as a friendly wave.
The turtle girl took Red’s hand and said, “I’ve seen you around some of our meetings. My name is Sally. This is my friend Tina. She’s from the mountains of North Carolina. This is her first time visiting.”
Red looked past Sally and spoke to Tina. “You thought you were going to come down here and relax, didn’t you? I’ll bet the turtle Nazi has been working you to death.”
Both ladies laughed and Tina said, “It’s been great. This morning I got to watch as one female was depositing her eggs. It was magical. We don’t have this sort of thing in Asheville, where I’m from.”
He already knew the answer, but Red asked Sally anyway, “Any improvement from the tourists? Are you seeing any impact from the “Leave No Trace” ordinance?”
“Not really,” said Sally. “Many just aren’t aware of the new law, others just don’t care. We had two false crawls this morning due to stuff left on the beach. It’s sad. I mean, it’s great they passed the ordinance, but what good is it, if it isn’t enforced.”
Red wanted to say something about the false crawl he and Nigel encountered while on their little operation, but didn’t want to put them in the vicinity of the scene. Instead he said, “Somebody just needs to drive through each night and collect all the shit. They’ll learn fast that way.”
Bucky stopped shucking to listen.
Sally asked, “Wouldn’t that be like stealing?”
Nigel chimed in, “I don’t see how it could be. By leaving the stuff out there each night, they’re in violation of the law, right? Essentially, the stuff is being abandoned, so it’s available for picking and profitable repurposing.”
“You know what they say,” interjected Red. “Possession is ninety-nine percent of the law.”
Red looked up and saw Bucky staring off into the distance and said, “Damn, Buck! Stop your daydreaming, boy. You have orders to fill!”
Startled, Buck said, “Yeah … Thanks, Red.” And went back to shucking.
Nigel’s phone vibrated and buzzed across the bar followed by a, Bong! It was a text message.
As Red continued his conversation with the ladies about the early failures of the “Leave No Trace” ordinance, Nigel looked at his phone. The message was from Candice. I am home for lunch...
Nigel was typing her a message to explain that he was at the raw bar with Red when ... Bong! ... a second text came through. And I’m horny.
Before he got through reading the second message ... Bong! ... he got a third. It would be a terrible thing to waste. YOU NEED TO HURRY!
It was a comical combination of excitement and hyperventilation. Nigel worked the back-button fast to deleted the message he had already started. As his thumb wo
rked the keyboard, he said, “Red! I got to go!”
“What! I thought we were going to throw the nets?”
Nigel always feels a little foolish when he does this, but he replaced all the worthless words with a single emoji, the big smiling face showing all the teeth. He hit send and said, “Nice meeting you ladies. Sorry, brother. I got to run.”
Red said, “Where’s the fire, dammit?”
Nigel winked and said, “Now you’re getting personal.”
Red took a sip of his beer and mumbled, “Oh, shit. I can’t compete with that.”
Nigel got up and flipped a ten-spot on the bar and said, “Adios, Buck.”
As Nigel headed toward the door, Red yelled, “In the morning. First light, dammit. Pick me up. We got mullet to slay.”
“First light. Got it.” And Nigel Logan was out the door.
She stood at the window and watched for his truck. All the lamps were off. The only light filtered in through the blinds that were left half open. She watched the old Ford F-150 turn on to her street, and, when it pulled into the drive, she walked over to the stereo and started a song she had already selected. The she stood in the middle of the room and faced the door.
Moments later Nigel’s signature three knocks played on the old wooden door. Two quick knuckles ... followed by a pause ... then the harder third. He opened the door and stepped inside. They weren’t alone. Singer-songwriter Jessica Rand was singing her new country hit, The Whiskey on your Breath, as Candace stood waiting. He eased the door closed behind him.
They stood facing each other and Nigel gazed up and down her gorgeous body. She wasn’t naked, but getting that way would only take slipping the unbuttoned, long-sleeve oxford off the back of her shoulders. She was having fun with her hair this week. Now a blond with streaks of blue highlights here and there. She wore it well, and it matched her smile that was full of naughty mischief.
Her long, tanned legs walked toward him in time with the music. Nigel swallowed hard as she moved in close and took his hands. She moved closer and reached behind her, placing his wide palms on the cheeks of her tight ass. She helped him pull her in tighter. Then she pinned him against the door and kissed him. She let him come up for air, and they both stared at each other. Their minds and lungs raced with serious anticipation.
Nigel asked, “What’s for lunch?”
She tilted her head and formed a small smile accentuated with a little pout. She moved closer and whispered into his ear, “You.” Then she took a gentle bite of his earlobe.
Candice backed away a bit and let her blouse fall to the floor. She closed in tight and took her knee and ran it up and down Nigel’s leg as she sang the last few lines of the song. “Love me, baby ... Love me to death … Take me baby, with fresh whiskey on your breath.”
Nigel smiled and said, “Thank you, sweet Jesus. I love country music.”
She kissed him again. He slid his hand down the back of her thigh and grabbed behind the knee of her lifted leg. He pulled her in tight, pivoted around, and pinned her to the door.
The rising sun was just beginning to paint the morning horizon when Nigel parked outside the house. He looked up toward the windows. Everything was dark and quiet looking. He smiled. It wouldn’t be for long.
Nigel cracked the front door open. He stuck his head in, shook it a couple of times and said to himself, “Figures as much.” He put the key back under the old, weathered ceramic pelican and went inside, being careful that the screen door didn’t slam shut.
Now that he was inside, he started moving around like it was in the middle of the day, no longer trying to be quiet. He found the light switches and lit up the kitchen. He went to making a pot of coffee. He turned the water on in the sink and rinsed out the pot and filled it with water. He emptied the filter basket banging it extra hard against the inside wall of the trashcan.
Red never uses paper coffee filters; the metal screen that came with the coffee maker works fine for him. To Red’s credit, paper filters are an unnecessary form of the pollution that fills our landfills. He’d say, “It doesn’t sound like much, but if everybody did their part...”
Nigel opened the cupboard and found the whole bean coffee. He filled the grinder up with beans. He was about to make it sing when a grin flashed across his face. He stopped and unplugged the grinder.
He moved with great stealth. He eased into the hallway and found an electrical plug right outside Red and Trixie’s bedroom door. He moved the grinder as close as he could to the door. With a half-smile and teeth clenched, he let it rip.
The screeching, high-pitched sound of the motor coupled with the racket of the beans being reduced to powder is loud enough in the kitchen. But in the close confines of a hallway, the racket is amplified as the noise bounces off and around the walls. Now laughing internally, Nigel stood there and shook the grinder as it did its work. He could hear nothing but the grinder. Once the grounds were made, he stopped and listened.
As soon as the blades stopped turning he heard Trixie completing a thought. “...ucker. Son of a bitch!”
Through the door, Nigel could hear the commotion of a moving mattress, bed sheets being flung around, and feet moving across the floor. He reached down and unplugged the coffee grinder anticipating the need to run. Seconds later the door flung open and revealed a bright and early, naked version of Red. He stood, not saying anything.
Nigel winced at the sight and moved his head around Red to look into the room. Trixie was on her back, still under the covers but with a pillow pressed tight to her ears. He turned his attention back to an aggravated and unhappy Red. Nigel smiled back and said, “First light, right?”
Red turned around to look out the window. Then he turned around and said, “Bitch. You’re late!”
Nigel drove his truck out on the beach using the Lee Street access and turned right toward the cape. He wanted to check the waters off Money Bayou first. It’s often a hot bed of mullet activity. He pulled down by the water and eased the truck along the coast as he watched for jumpers or swirls between the breaking waves.
Red was more interested in the number of people that were already out on the beach. There was more than usual, but they weren’t there for the spectacular sunrise. They were turtle patrol volunteers. Red looked out the passenger-side window; a team of volunteers surrounded a nest. He turned back to Nigel and said, “I guess the news of those poachers has the patrol a little paranoid. Looks like they are out in full force, checking every nest.”
Nigel said, “Speaking of the news.”
He reached behind the seat and pulled out a fresh edition of The Star. The print hadn’t been dry long. Nigel gave the front page a quick look, dropped the paper into Red’s lap, and said, “Really?”
Red picked up the paper and looked at the front-page picture and headline. He chuckled as he read it to himself. New Super Hero Captures Poachers for Authorities. Underneath the headline was a big picture of the captured van showcasing, not the iced-down meat and eggs, or the shells, but the secret message scribbled on the side. The caption for the picture read, Who is this Red Devil? And where did he come from?
Red chuckled. Nigel didn’t.
There was no sign of mullet at Money Bayou, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there. They could be bottom-crawling the trough just beyond the first sandbar. Nigel stopped and put the truck in park. “Let’s try a few blind throws.”
Red said, “You go ahead. I prefer not to waste my time. Ain’t nothing out there.”
“Suit yourself.”
Nigel shuffled his feet through the sand and surf as he made his way to the first sandbar. Unbeknownst to him, two stingrays and a large flounder gave him a wide berth. He made up his net and was ready to throw at a moment’s notice. Still and patient, he watched the surface of the water. Nothing.
After a few minutes, he looked back toward the truck to see if Red was going to join him. He wasn’t. A golf cart had stopped at the truck and Red was playing Chatty Kathy from the front seat. Th
en something caught Nigel’s eye. Movement. He turned to pay attention. His head and eyes moved from side to side. It surfaced again. Another predator had joined the hunt. A large dorsal fin sliced the surface of the water about fifteen yards away. Nigel smiled. A bull shark had moved in for a little breakfast. He was confident he wasn’t on the menu, but he kept one eye on the shark and the other out for mullet.
To his left, the surface of the water boiled with swirls. It was what he was waiting for. He made a quick check for the position of the shark, but the fin was gone. He twisted his body to the right, the windup. Then he swung and uncoiled the weights of the net around back to the left. He released the net and launched it in the direction of the swirls. It was a pancake throw hitting the water directly over his target. He let the weights sink to the bottom. Nigel spoke to himself in a whisper as he started to bring in the net, “Mullet. Mullet. Mullet. Mullet. Mullet.”
The second the retrieval line went taunt, he felt his catch’s futile efforts to escape the net. As he brought the net closer, the fight within the net grew. Then Nigel remembered he wasn’t alone. The shark. As hungry as Nigel was to land these fish, the shark was probably hungrier, and nothing rings a shark’s dinner-bell like struggling fish.
Getting himself and his catch to the beach was priority one, so he began to high-step toward the shore. He never looked back, and the beach seemed a mile away. The net lagged behind. The fight of the catch and the weight of the net dragging on the seafloor made progress seem slow. The second he was on the sand he turned toward the water and started to bring in the net hand over hand.
He thought to himself Damn. What a catch. The dorsal fin then appeared in the surf about two breakers beyond his net. It was heading toward shore and the net. If he were to make it to the net, it wouldn’t be pretty. Backing up the beach and pulling harder, he said, “Oh, shit!”
The horn of the ten-foot net was just exiting the surf and the shark was now only one breaker away and accelerating. He yanked and yanked, and with the net now a few feet up on the beach, the shark drove itself up on the bottom of the shallow surf. It thrashed back and forth until it could back out and turn for deeper water. Nigel watched the impressive beast head back to sea. It was much larger than his previous estimate, maybe five-and-a-half or six feet long. He was out of breath with excitement, his hands were on his knees, and his skin vibrated from the adrenaline. As Nigel watched the impressive beast head out to sea he provided some parting words, “My mullet, bitch. Mine.”