by Kirk Jockell
It hurt to speak clearly, but Manchester grunted with his eyes closed, “Call my doctor and get me a drink, goddammit. Then get me something to eat and a phone.”
The bartender took off, and Big Man remained sitting up, resting with his head back against the boxes. When he opened his eyes, the waitress was still standing there staring at him with a hand over her mouth. He shifted his eyes toward her and asked her through his gritted teeth, “What the fuck are you looking at?”
She answered by shaking her head. Nothing. I’m not looking at anything.
“Get me a mirror.”
She hesitated, and he did his best to yell. “Now, dammit. Get me a damn mirror.”
She left him sitting there.
His walk and hitchhike back from the Outer Banks gave him a lot of time to think. Who had done this to him? He replayed every moment of the evening in his brain. He tried to remember every word his attacker said, and nothing helped. The only clue he had were the calls from Jimbo’s phone. Where had they come from?
There could only be one explanation, but how could that be? The last time he received a call from that phone was after he had sent Jimbo Waters and Willie Bee to Florida to handle Nigel Logan. Something, though, had obviously gone wrong. Terribly wrong. The two have never been heard from again, and when Big Man tried to call Jimbo for a status, the answering voice said, “They’re dead. They’re all dead. And you’re next.”
And now, here it is, several months later and he is getting calls from Jimbo’s phone. It could only mean one thing.
When she got back with the mirror, Big Man was already sipping his cognac and speaking into the phone. She heard him say, “I don’t care if it sounds crazy. Just call someone and find out.” After he ended the call and dropped the phone, she handed him the mirror with shaking hands. He snatched it from her and took a long look at himself. Now his own hand was shaking. His right cheek was badly burnt, bruised, and mutilated. The three exit wounds were distinct, the hollow point bullets had done a job on him. He dropped the mirror on the floor and growled as he rubbed his head. He looked up to see the bartender and waitress looking at him. He sent them both a clear message with his eyes and they both vacated the premises.
Big Man was hungry. He tried to eat the sandwich that was brought to him, but it was slow going. It was exhausting to try and eat. Moments later the phone rang.
Soon after, a man carrying a fishing tackle box approached the bar. It was Big Man’s doctor. He walked up to the bartender and asked, “Where is he?”
The bartender was about to answer when they both heard a crash and loud bellowing from the back room. They both ran and found Big Man. He had pulled an entire shelf of booze and boxes onto the floor. He was now kicking and slinging boxes and bottles in a rage. The doctor hollered, “Manchester! What is it?”
Big Man turned to face them. Fire and fury shot from his eyes. He was panting and pacing the floor. He picked up an unbroken bottle of cheap brandy and threw it against the wall and yelled, “NIGEL LOGAN!”
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Thank You!
I would like to thank you for purchasing and reading the Tales from Stool 17 series. If someone shared the book with you, please … thank that person for me. Without a reader, a book is nothing more than a waste of good paper, ink, and effort. You have saved this work from a meaningless existence, and, to that end, I hope you enjoyed it. If so, I would be honored if you would revisit your favorite online retailer and leave an honest review. Honest reviews are so important and serve not only the book, but the development of the author as well.
The next best thing you could do is tell a friend about the Tales from Stool 17 series. There is nothing better than sharing a story and word-of-mouth endorsements. If you think of someone that might enjoy Nigel’s journey, please, spread the word.
And finally, I would love to hear from you. Tell me what you thought about the book. What did you like, or what didn’t you like? I’m pretty thick skinned, so don’t worry too much about hurting my feelings. Plus, reader comments help me to be a better writer.
Email: [email protected]
Facebook: www.facebook.com/kirk.jockell
www.KirkJockell.com
About the Author
Kirk Jockell claims Port St. Joe as home, but he sleeps most nights in Flowery Branch, Georgia. He keeps a regular job in downtown Atlanta, but is ready to trade it all in for a simpler life on The Forgotten Coast. He is a sailor, avid photographer of boats, and a lover of bourbon, from Jim Beam to any small batch. He loves to fish, throw his cast net for mullet in the surf, and drive his Bronco on the beach. He has recently picked up learning the guitar, but is having a hard time getting past that one John Prine song he has learned.
Kirk lives with his lovely wife Joy, a black cat named Stormy, and a head full of dreams and craziness.
Other works by Kirk Jockell
Tales from Stool 17; Finding Port St. Joe (book 1)
Tales from Stool 17; Trouble in Tate’s Hell (book 2)