by Kirk Jockell
Nigel cradled her face with his hands and took her in for a long kiss. She held him tight as the crowd cheered and the flames began to recede to a normal burn.
Brian stepped up next to Red and said, “Happy New Year, brother.”
“Happy New Year, Brian.”
“So ... I gather you knew about this, huh?”
Red smiled but didn’t say anything.
“Look at ‘em go at each other ... damn ... they might get freaky and all, right here.”
Red said, “Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”
“Right on! Right on!”
Nigel and Candice came up for air. They realized they were the center of attention, but didn’t care. As far as they were concerned, they were the only two people on the beach. She said, “I’ve missed you so.” She paused then said, “I can’t believe this. That you are here.”
“Me either. It’s a long story that can wait.” And he kissed her again.
This time she pulled away and shook her head.
“What?” asked Nigel.
She reached up and grabbed his whiskers. “What the hell is this?”
“My new beard. Do you like it?”
“No!”
“Doesn’t it make me look ... sexy?”
“Oh, Hell no!”
Nigel smiled. He was home. He looked at the love of his life. He looked at the fire. And he gazed around at all the people. He turned to Candice and said, “I’m the luckiest guy on Earth right now.”
“Not with that beard you’re not,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone.
“So, you really don’t like it?”
“I hate it! Why would you grow such a hideous thing? Whatever gave you the idea?”
Nigel smiled and said, “Poor judgement, I guess. I hate it too.”
She bit at her bottom lip and said, “We can fix it. I have a razor at the house.”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
Epilogue
Nigel and Candice were locked away in her house. They were holed up with no intention of coming out until they had to. All the shades had been pulled down tight to keep it dark. Their only glimpses of daylight came when one or the other cracked the front door to pay for the pizzas they had delivered every day.
On the third day, it came time for the noon feeding. Candice walked into the bathroom. Nigel was stretched out in her huge claw-foot tub. An empty box of Mr. Bubbles rested on its side where it had been thrown. He held a large piece of pizza in each hand. She was holding two cold beers. She wiggled her upper body until her robe slipped off the back of her shoulders. His eyes were locked on her body. He spread his legs and draped his feet over each side of the tub to make room. He raised the slices high as she slipped in. Water and bubbles washed over the side. Neither noticed or cared. More water sloshed over as she leaned forward. She kissed him and said, “Bad news.”
He kissed her back, then said, “Impossible. There’s no such thing anymore.” He fed her a bite of pizza.
As she chewed, she nodded her head, smiled, and made a noise that resembled, “Yes ... possible.” She washed down her pizza with a sip of beer, then held both bottles high in the air. “These are it.”
“These are what?”
“The last two beers.”
“Oh shit. That’s horrible.”
“Told you.”
Tracy, Candice’s part-time barkeep, was more than happy to take all of Candice’s shifts at the bar. “Take your time, baby,” laughed Tracy. “Get it out of your system. Don’t come back until you’ve had enough.”
When Candice came into the bar, Tracy watched as she walked over and climbed up on a bar stool. They exchanged looks and Tracy said, “Why … don’t you have a particular glow about you? Couldn’t take it anymore, huh?”
Candice’s eyes grew wide; she bit her bottom lip and said, “I don’t know. I’m not sure I would put it that way. It was good that we both came out into the daylight, for our own sake.”
“Too much of a good thing?” asked Tracy.
Candice nodded her head and said, “Can be a dangerous thing.”
Everyone around the marina parking lot stopped to watch the big Ford roll in. A full-size Bronco is already an attention-getter, but add glasspacks and you create your own arrival announcement system. Even at idle speed, there was no ignoring the deep, throaty rumble.
He saw her the second he put the Bronco into park. He looked at her through the windshield and shut down the Bronco. The parking lot went back to its quiet existence. He got out and stood by his vehicle to admire her from afar. She looked as good out of the water as she did in.
The letter Nigel wrote to Red contained several requests and a general Power of Attorney in the event he would not be able to return. There would be several affairs that would need attention. Red would need money, so Nigel provided instructions on finding his safe, and the combination needed to get into his little private bank. Red’s jaw dropped when he opened the safe and saw all the neat stacks of wrapped hundred-dollar bills.
The laundry list of things that needed to be done wasn’t short. His landlord would need to be notified and all his photography gear, computers, and other stuff removed from the premises. Something would need to happen to Chumbucket, his center console Key West 1700. His pickup truck would need to be retrieved. It had been left at the airport. Nigel would later learn that Red gave it to Luke McKenzie, which was fine. Luke’s old truck was on life support anyway. And, of course, there was MisChief, his 32-foot Pearson Vanguard sailboat. Nigel’s instructions were simple. She’s family. Take care of her.
She was in the marina boatyard sitting high and dry in a cradle. He entered the yard and approached her. He walked along her side and let his palm rub her belly. He inspected and scrutinized her bottom with great attention to detail. It isn’t very often that Nigel gets to study his boat out of the water, so he took full advantage of the opportunity. He made a few mental notes, but was satisfied with her condition. A fresh coat of bottom paint and a couple other maintenance details and she would be ready to splash.
He looked around the yard until he found an extension ladder. He took it and set it up against the starboard side of the boat. As he was clearing the last rung and stepping onto the deck, a voice called out. “Hey, mister! What do you think you are doing?”
It was a young guy. Nigel didn’t know him. He was wearing a clean, marina staff polo-style shirt, white shorts, and boat shoes. The sight of the guy sent Nigel a subliminal message. It’s January and warm enough to wear shorts. Welcome home.
Nigel ignored him and started to flip the dials on the combination lock. As he set it to 0017, he jerked the lock open.
“Did you hear me mister? Stop what you’re doing and come down from there.”
“What’s your name, son?”
“Trey. Now get off there.”
“I won’t be long, Trey. Promise. I just want to take a peek down below.”
“You can’t do that! You’re on private property!”
Nigel smiled at the guy, stepped down into the companionway saying, “I’ll just be a few minutes.”
Nigel heard the guy yell, “I’m going to call the police.” Then thought Yeah, yeah, yeah ... do what you feel you need to do.
Nigel inspected all the spaces down below. Aside from the air smelling a little musty, everything was as he expected: Perfect. He crawled up into the V-berth and opened the forward hatch to help circulate some air. Then he flopped on his back so he could lie there and see the sky. As he was just closing his eyes, he heard and felt a hard knock on the hull, then a familiar voice, “Okay fella. Outta the boat! Pronto!”
Nigel emerged from the companionway and said, “John, you could at least open the old girl up every now and then and let her breathe.”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” said John Martin, friend and marina Harbor Master. “So the rumors are true?”
As Nigel climbed down the ladder, Trey said, “I’m confused. Who is that, John?”
“That’s Nigel Logan. The boat’s skipper.”
“But I heard he was in prison. Shit ... for murder.”
Before John could say anything, Nigel hopped off the last couple rungs and said, “And who would have said such a thing?”
As Nigel approached them, Trey sized up Logan’s large, 230-pound frame and took a couple small, nervous steps backward. Nigel extended his hand to John and they shook. “Hello, John.”
John said, “It’s good to see you.” And it was true. He was happy to see his friend, but, like everyone else, he had so many questions he wanted to ask. Questions he figured would remain unanswered.
Nigel extended a hand towards Trey and said, “Hello, Trey. I’m Nigel Logan.”
Trey hesitated, but took his hand nervously.
“Come on now,” said Nigel. “Tighten that grip. Let me know you’re there.”
Trey said nothing, but he squeezed harder and Nigel did the same. “That’s better. Always shake a man’s hand like that. That soft, limp-wristed grip shit has no meaning.”
They released their grip and Trey stood a little taller with a snicker as Nigel addressed John. “She looks good, doesn’t she?” They all three turned to better look at MisChief.
“She’s gorgeous,” John said.
“Do you have a slip for me?”
“Your old slip is still vacant.”
“Not anymore. Her bottom isn’t bad, but we might as well give her a light sanding and some fresh bottom paint.”
“Trinidad SR? Same color?” asked John.
“Exactly, and have the guys replace the cutlass bearing and zincs.”
“You got it. Come to the office. We’ll start the paperwork.”
As Nigel was leaving the marina office, a text message came through. Bong! He read it as he walked to his Bronco: Hey Romeo. Is it still too soon to disturb you?
Nigel laughed and called, instead of replying. “Hey, Red. I think Candice will carve some time into our busy schedule.”
“Good,” said Red. “Meet me at the raw bar. Beers and oysters on me.”
“Ha!” Nigel laughed. “What strange force of nature has compelled you to want to pick up the tab?”
Red chuckled and said, “I’m still spending your money.”
“Oh, shit.”
When Nigel got to the raw bar, there were plenty of handshaking, hugs, and good-to-see-ya comments exchanged as he made his way to the bar. He slapped Red on his back and said, “Hey, buddy,” as he went straight to the draft station to pull a pint of Coors Light and to grab a slice of lime. When he climbed up on the stool next to Red, Bucky slid a baker’s dozen of oysters in front of him. Nigel gazed at them with a grin. There was a time, just a few months ago, when Nigel wondered if he’d ever see such a beautiful sight again. “Thanks, Buck.”
Red stuck his hand out and said, “I’m sure glad you came home. Maybe things can get back to normal around here.”
“How many people know why I was gone?”
“Everybody. At first there were tons of questions, then Gloria at the salon figured it out, and that was that.”
“Hmm ... figures.”
Gloria owns a beauty parlor and it’s the local hot-bed of gossip and rumor. However, Gloria prides herself on truth and accuracy. Once she heard the whisperings of Nigel being a serial killer, wanted and captured by the FBI, she ran her own investigation and gathered the truth. She was still shocked by what she learned, but it was better than thinking he was some psycho maniac. She made it a priority to dispel all the untruths.
“Now,” said Red, “that people are hearing that you’re back, the rumors and questions have started all over again.”
Nigel smiled, “Small-town America. It doesn’t get any better.”
Red lowered his voice, and behind a smile said, “Nigel, there is one rumor that you were released because you’re a CIA operative. That’s one of the reasons why you always pay in cash. The jail time was just a front.” Red tilted his head towards the shucking station and shifted his eyes at Bucky.
Nigel gave his favorite shucker a look and caught Bucky staring at him. Bucky quickly moved his head and eyes back to his box of oysters waiting to be shucked. Nigel called out, “Hey, Buck!”
Bucky heard Nigel, but pretended not to, so Nigel called out again, “Buck! I want to ask you something.”
Bucky turned to look with an Oh, you-talk’n-to-me look. Nigel continued, “Have you seen any guys snooping around lately? Black suit and tie types? Probably wearing dark sunglasses and black wingtips with white socks?”
Bucky put on a worried face and replied, “No, sir. Not around here.”
Nigel said, “Good.” He scratched his chin for a bit and continued, “Well, if any guys like that come around asking about me, will you give them a special message for me?”
“Sure, Nigel. Whatever you need.”
“Tell them ... and you have to use these exact words ... say, ‘The white raven is missing his nest.’ Can you remember that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Repeat it back to me.”
Bucky did and Nigel said, “Perfect! Now when you get a chance, Red and I will take another couple dozen.”
Red got up and recharged their beers. When he sat back down Nigel said, “Speaking of somebody that always pays in cash, where is my damn safe?”
Red reached down and pulled up a big canvas bag off the floor. He reached in and pulled out the safe and slid it in front of Nigel. As Nigel was unlocking it, Red said, “Now, there’s something I should probably tell you before you...”
Nigel opened the safe and peeked in. His eyes opened wide and he slammed it shut. He turned to deliver a shocked look at Red.
Red said, “That’s what I was going to tell you...”
Nigel interrupted, “Where’s all my money, Red?”
Nigel opened the safe again and fumbled through what was left of the strapped hundred-dollar bills. He was shaking his head, trying to do the math in his head, but he was having trouble with his mental count.
He looked back at Red and said, “What the hell?”
Red reached into his pocket and handed Nigel an envelope.
“What’s this?”
“Just open it,” replied Red.
He did and looked over the document. Quick Claim Deed was written in a fancy font across the top. He shook the paper in the air and said, “Red ... I’d really appreciate it if you would stop fucking around and just tell me what this is all about.”
“It’s the old cottage. The Blown Inn. It’s yours now. I bought it ... with your money.”
Nigel didn’t know if he was happy or mad. “What?”
Red explained, “When I called your landlord in Georgia to break the news to them that you were moving out, they said, ‘Oh well,’ and that they were planning to put the house on the market when you left anyway.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, which was bad timing on their part. I told them the market was still in the shitter, but they didn’t believe me. They learned quickly, though, after talking to a few agents. About a month later I called with a low-ball offer of seventy-seven thousand, cash money. They took it.”
“Really? Seventy-seven thou?”
“Yeah, but here’s the best part. The place didn’t appraise, it came in at seventy-one. And that was that.”
“You could have told me.”
“I did. I wrote you plenty, but until you called me a few days ago, I couldn’t understand why my letters were being returned undeliverable.”
Nigel said nothing, letting it all sink in.
“Anyway,” said Red, “you’re a Gulf County taxpayer now. And...”
“And what?” asked Nigel.
“A landlord. You have tenants renting.”
Nigel gave Red a look.
“Hell,” Red said, “I couldn’t let the place just sit there empty. I didn’t know you were getting out.”
“What kind of tenants are they?”
�
��So far, so good. A young couple. They both work at the hospital. But...”
“Oh, crap. But what, Red?”
“They’re not really happy with your cat, Tom.”
Nigel started to laugh. “Tom?”
“Yeah ... I told them the cat was part of the package. It’s in the lease, and that it was actually his house, and they should consider themselves as his roommate.”
Nigel started to laugh some more.
“It wasn’t easy at first. Tom wasn’t very happy with them being there, so he shit in their laundry basket a few times the first week or so.”
Nigel now had tears in his eyes to match the laughter, but said nothing.
“And the week before Christmas, he brought one of his girlfriends in the house for a little rough sex. It was after midnight, and obviously, the two frisky felines really had a good go of it. The tenants said it sounded like babies being murdered.”
Now, Nigel was laughing so hard he could hardly catch his breath. He gasped a couple of times and asked, “And they’re staying?”
“Yup. They called to complain. The guy said, ‘We can’t take it anymore,’ but I pointed out that the lease was ironclad, so they better work it out with Tom. I haven’t heard from them lately, so I guess they have learned to tolerate each other.” Red started to laugh himself and added, “Do you want me to let them out of the lease? Do you want to move back in?”
“Naw. Let them stay. I can stay on the boat or at Candice’s.”
It was late in the evening on the day after Christmas. The barkeep and his waitresses were working a near-full room. People were drinking away their after-Christmas blues. They were busy, and the carrying on of the customers, coupled with the loud music, made it impossible to hear the backdoor open and the body fall across the boxes then onto the floor. It wasn’t until one of the waitresses went to the back storeroom and screamed that the bartender knew there was a problem.
He rushed to the back to find Manchester Lundsford face down on the floor. He turned him over and helped sit him up against the boxes. That’s when the bartender and waitress got their first good look at Big Man’s face. She let out a short scream and he grimaced as he asked, “Big Man, what happened?”