Catching Water in a Net

by J. L. Abramo

  “Here’s to swimmin’ behind bow-legged women.”

  Ruzzo froze, the drink midway between his lips and the bar.

  “What the hell kind of pervert toast is that?”

  “No idea. Something my dad used to say.”

  “Sounds like dumbass runs in your family.”

  Mikey clenched his teeth into a smile, but let it go. They each knocked their drinks back in a single gulp. Mikey immediately filled their glasses again.

  “Any news from Sgt. Badeaux about Jesse Lee?”

  Ruzzo tensed. His free hand travelled down to the scar on his gut. The doctors said it was a miracle that the bullet only grazed him. The jury was still out as far as he was concerned.

  “Sgt. Badeaux’s a rat bastard. Let’s talk about something else for a change.”

  Mikey’s eyes shifted to the front window. A line of cars crawled along the highway out front. The grey skies overhead pulsated with the flash of distant lightning.

  “Looks like the storm’s moving on.”

  Ruzzo grunted in response. Mikey picked a towel up and started polishing a murky pint glass.

  “Any word from Shayna?”

  Ruzzo finished off his second shot, slamming the glass down on the bar. It hit the wood with a loud crack.

  “You’re killing me!”

  “Sorry. There ain’t much happening in Seatown these days.”

  Ruzzo’s shoulders slumped.

  “No shit. I’ll drink to that.”

  Mikey topped his shot off again.

  “That’s what I like about you, Ruzzo. You’ll drink to just about anything.”

  TREASURE MAP

  Shayna stood behind the bar at Keely’s three weeks later. Her hands shook uncontrollably thanks to a sustained drunken blackout. From what she could piece together, she, Ida and Georgia had been living on a steady diet of beignets, rum and cocaine.

  Blurry memories sailed across her psyche like ghost ships. Maybe they’d worn beads and danced on tables, shot pool and skinny-dipped in the Mississippi River. Or maybe they hadn’t. There might have been fireworks at some point, or was it gunshots? Whatever the truth was, it seemed like exactly the kind of debaucherous escape that she had always enjoyed—until things fell apart. Why do things always fall apart?

  Some memories were clearer than others. Her skin crawled when she remembered how Georgia and Ida dragged her from bar to bar like a prize cow, telling everybody that she was their “hot new piece of ass.” Shayna played along; happily slurping down free drinks while every lecherous boozehound in town hit on her. Her new bosses loved all the free promotion for Keely’s, but got more and more jealous as the week wore on. Shayna barely noticed until their scowls and insults turned violent.

  The flashbacks got worse as the hours dragged on. She caught glimpses of eager men in strange beds, topless carriage rides, and an endless line of blow that extended the length of Bourbon Street. She imagined herself crawling along the cobblestones with a straw in her nose, her heart almost beating through her chest. But at least I’m not thinking about Tommy Ruzzo.

  And then, just like that, she was thinking about him. Again.

  Shayna was desperate for someone to talk to. Anybody who could help her escape the dark thoughts that crept into her mind the minute she was sober and alone. A little hair of the dog might do the trick, but the thought of alcohol made her want to puke. She was seriously starting to question her hard and fast rule about never buying cocaine for personal use.

  She searched the bar in desperation, but Lafitte was the only customer there. He’d been nursing the same flat beer for an hour, staring off into space. Shayna wandered over to the small sink directly under the bar in front of him. Nothing got her two best assets jiggling quite like the automatic glass washers submerged there.

  Lafitte’s bloodshot eyes shifted downward, but his expression didn’t change.

  “Nice knockers.”

  His voice was soft and gravelly, as if he’d recently swallowed broken glass. Shayna tittered like a schoolgirl in response, but kept cleaning glasses. She had him right where she wanted him.

  “The rest of you still work as well as your eyes, old man?”

  “Not really, but at least all of my parts are real. Those things hurt when they sewed them on?”

  He nodded at her chest and winked. She did a terrible job of acting offended by his question.

  “What makes you think they’re fake?”

  “Nothing in nature moves like that, sweetheart.”

  He lifted his beer to take sip. She grabbed a towel, wiping the bar beneath it.

  “Ready for another?”

  Lafitte studied the mug in his hand, as if discovering it was there. His nod was almost imperceptible when he set it back down. Shayna pulled the tap to draw him a fresh draft. The golden liquid caught the soft light as she slid it his way.

  “This one’s on me.”

  “As long as you’re feeling generous, can you give me a light?”

  He produced a bent cigarette from his shirt pocket. Shayna set a glass ashtray down in front of him. The image of a gold doubloon on the bottom was smudged black from use and abuse. She pulled out a Keely’s matchbook, quickly producing a flame. He took a long drag, smoke escaping from his nostrils without any obvious effort.

  “You remind me of my daughter.”

  Shayna’s shoulders relaxed a little now that she had something else to focus on.

  “Really? What’s her name?”

  “No idea. I just made her up. Seemed like you were looking for somebody to tell you a fairy tale.”

  “Well, that’s messed up.”

  “You wouldn’t want to hear any stories about my family, anyway. Trust me.”

  Shayna tried to act mad, but knew she had no right. That didn’t mean she was willing to let him off the hook. He owed her now.

  “Then tell me about this dump. What’s with all the pirate crap?”

  The cigarette danced on his lip as he laughed. He sounded like a stuttering bullfrog with emphysema.

  “You want to hear a really crazy story? Go grab that map off the wall over there.”

  Lafitte spun around on his stool, raising his arm like a slow-moving compass. She was up on her tippy toes, trying to see where his finger would eventually land. It stopped on a large, boxy frame near the men’s room door.

  What the hell, she thought. My shift’s almost over anyway.

  Shayna stepped from behind the bar and went to grab the strange artifact. She nearly ran straight into Ida walking across the room. Her boss didn’t seem happy to see her.

  “Why aren’t you working?”

  Shayna motioned to the empty room, but Ida’s angry expression didn’t change. Georgia emerged from the women’s bathroom right then, shaking water off of her hands. She took one look at Shayna and sneered.

  “Fill up the paper towels in there before you clock out.”

  Shayna watched them walk away together. She waited until they were behind the bar before she went over to the old frame, pulling it from the wall. Something rattled as she walked. She studied the small piece of parchment trapped inside when she set it down in front of Lafitte. It was about the size and shape of a jagged saw blade with faded black markings spread across it. His eyes danced from her face to the map.

  “Know anything about pirates?”

  “Only what I’ve seen in movies.”

  Lafitte rolled his eyes.

  “This map belonged to a bona fide pirate, not some Hollywood wannabe. His name was Captain Edward Aurora.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “Hardly anybody has, outside of North Carolina. You know about Blackbeard?”

  “Of course.”

  “Captain Aurora was a lot bigger, and twice as mean. He and a few other English sailors got shipwrecked on a Caribbean island when he was about eighteen. It took the Royal Navy a couple of years to find them, but he was the only one still alive when they did. His front teeth were filed into sh
arp points by then, and his blond beard was stained red with blood. They say he’d developed a taste for human flesh.”

  “Holy shit. That’s amazing.”

  “I know, and this was before Novocain. He joined a pirate crew a few months after he got back, and became captain during a bloody mutiny. They say he captured fifteen ships before he was hanged for treason three years later. This map supposedly leads to his buried treasure.”

  “Really? Where?”

  “Somewhere on Corcoran Island, in the Outer Banks of North Carolina.”

  They sat at the bar together for the next couple of hours. He spun the whole incredible tale while she eagerly nodded along. He said that small piece of parchment was part of a much bigger map, pointing out that it was the most important piece because of that letter X in the center.

  “Look closely. It’s a tiny skull with crossed bones. Somebody finds the rest of that map and they’ll find the treasure.”

  “Where’s the other half?”

  “I’d start by looking in Stonehaven, if I was a younger man.”

  His finger was still planted firmly on the map when Shayna finally looked up. She was surprised to see that Keely’s was filling up with a rowdy crowd. Georgia and Ida both looked like they were sleepwalking as they filled orders and drank themselves awake. Neither of them made eye contact with Shayna.

  She turned back to speak with Lafitte, but he was already across the room hanging the map back on the wall. The bouncer was sitting on his stool instead. He looked her up and down, practically licking his lips.

  “Hey, Shayna. I’ve got something for you.”

  She craned her neck to look for the old man, but he was nowhere to be seen.

  “Seat’s taken, Adam.”

  “Was Lafitte telling you his pirate stories?”

  “Be nice, asshole. He’s sweet.”

  “Hey, now. You’re sexy when you’re mean.”

  The bouncer reached into his leather jacket, producing an official-looking envelope. Part of Shayna wished it was another map, until she saw it was addressed to her. She reached for it, but he pulled it back at the last second.

  “I thought that might get your attention, but I’ve got something even better.”

  He reached into his other pocket, pulling out a tightly folded piece of paper. It was about the size of a matchbook and practically bursting with cocaine. She watched for a moment as he flipped it between his fingers like a magician would a coin—before fumbling it to the floor.

  The bouncer leapt from his chair to recover the coke. Shayna took the opportunity to snatch the envelope from his outstretched hand. She spun on her barstool and sliced it open with her fingernail. The life insurance check inside was made out to her in the amount of three hundred thousand dollars.

  She felt the bouncer’s hot breath on the back of her neck. He leaned in to put his arm around her shoulder.

  “Damn, girl! You hit the lottery. Let’s celebrate.”

  He waved the bindle under her nose. She tried to ignore him, but there was no doubt he’d gotten her attention.

  Shayna looked over to where Georgia and Ida were mixing up cocktails and flirting with the pathetic regulars. She could clearly picture them doing the same thing, night after night, for the next twenty years. Then she imagined herself right there beside them, weathered, wrinkled and washed out. The thought of it made her skin crawl.

  That’s when she made up her mind. It was definitely time to leave New Orleans, but not without a little going away party for two. Shayna grabbed the bouncer’s wrist and led him upstairs.

  ***

  Her dreams teemed with pirates that night. She imagined wooden boats filled with swashbuckling men who swung from ropes with swords in their teeth. Buried treasure chests dotted the white sandy beaches of a thousand tiny islands, where palm trees swayed in the violent tropical breezes. Powder flashed from the flared muzzle of a blunderbuss as she wandered through the bloody battle in her tattered wench’s dress. Cannons erupted all around her, spitting out fire and filling the air with acrid smoke.

  Smoke.

  Shayna’s eyes shot open. The bouncer was passed out cold in the bed beside her. Strange voices were screaming downstairs. It felt too late for the bar to be open, but she was too disoriented to know for sure. The familiar scent of burning wood filled her nostrils. She tiptoed over to the bedroom door, cracking it open an inch or two.

  A policeman was frantically waving his flashlight at the top of the stairs. The yellow beam danced across the tendrils of gray smoke that curled around his boots. He was yelling for everybody to get out of the building before it burned to the ground. She slammed the door shut, gathering her scattered clothes from the floor. It’s nearly impossible to put a thong on backwards, but Shayna almost managed to do so in her rush to get dressed.

  She tossed the rest of her possessions into a bag and went over to the bed. Two chalky white lines were still laid out on the nightstand. She grabbed a rolled up dollar bill and polished them off. The bouncer’s pistol was there too, along with his keys and wallet. She fished a couple of hundred-dollar bills out, tucking them into her bra. She definitely didn’t need the money now, but that didn’t stop her from taking it.

  She reached down, pinching his nostrils shut. It seemed like an eternity before he sprang up in a panic.

  “What the hell’s going on?”

  “There’s some kind of fire. Cops are all over place.”

  He rubbed his eyes and jumped out of bed.

  “This has Ida written all over it.”

  Shayna opened the door, heading downstairs without looking back. Shadows dashed through the orange glow in the barroom. She hung a right at the bottom, hugging the wall until she reached the men’s bathroom. The boxy frame was still hanging right where Lafitte had left it. She pulled it from the hook, shoving it into her bag.

  Fire trucks wailed down the street outside. Georgia and Ida were seated on the curb when Shayna finally emerged. Several policemen hovered around them, barking orders into their radios. The women’s faces twisted into horrible, forced smiles when they caught sight of her.

  Georgia waved her over. Ida leaned forward when Shayna walked up; her voice was a scratchy hiss.

  “See what you get when you sleep with my man?”

  It was all too familiar for Shayna. She needed to get out of there before the panic took over. There was no way she could be associated with another fire without somebody putting two and two together. Shayna might not have started this one with a match, but they could still trace the spark back to her.

  She slipped by, making a beeline for her red convertible. It was parked across the street and down the block—far enough away from the commotion that it wouldn’t be blocked in by any emergency vehicles. She climbed behind the wheel, started the engine and stomped on the gas. There was nowhere for her to go, no place she had to be. Her head spun with the lonely possibilities, but the tank was full enough to get her out of town.

  She looked down at her bag in the passenger seat. A corner of the frame was poking out like a tiny wooden arrow. She reached over and snatched it up, Lafitte’s final words running through her mind.

  I’d start by looking in Stonehaven…

  Shayna took the first on-ramp. She didn’t slow down until she crossed the North Carolina state line thirteen hours later. From there she only had to follow the road signs leading the way to “The Home of Captain Aurora.”

  Click here to learn more about Crossed Bones by S.W. Lauden.

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  Here is a preview from Danny Gardner’s debut crime novel, A Negro and an Ofay…

  CHAPTER 1

  As he came to, with blurred vision, he detected light. It didn’t shine so much as claw at the brick walls, like the slender fingers of angry ghosts. An endless flight of concrete stairs coiled away from him. He was headed downward, though not by his own volition. He remembered drinking in a roadhouse joint. “Black Night” was playing on the juke. He understood h
ow Charles Brown hated to be alone. A shot of corn. A friendly chippie. More corn. An offered dance. By the time Brown’s brother was in Korea, he heard hard words behind him. “Get your hands off my woman, red nigger.” The absolute wrong thing to say to him when he had been drinking. “Fuck you” this and that. A shove. The juke stopped. A fist for that fat, greasy, chicken-eatin’ mouth. He heard something behind him.

  Then black.

  His head hurt. He heard ringing. Assumed blood in his ears. A moment later, it sounded like jangling. He figured chains or keys. His hands were bound. His wrists were cold. He thought he was cuffed.

  Hoped he was cuffed.

  He had accommodated himself to incessant disorientation while in Europe, where he would climb out of his tank and find himself immersed in bullets and bombs and shouts and screams. In the din of war, he learned to disregard the senses that failed him and focus on his singular survival. That’s how Elliot Caprice returned from the Battle of the Bulge with all his limbs. And most of his wits.

  He shifted his feet.

  “Take it easy, boy.”

  Boy.

  “Shit, I’m in the bing.”

  “Shut your hole,” the fat jailer holding his feet said. He hadn’t seen the skinny jailer holding him by his arms until he rolled over after they dropped him on his face.

  “If you can talk, you can walk,” Skinny said.

  “Easy to see which one of y’all picks up the donuts in the mornin’,” said Elliot.

  “You are in the custody of the St. Louis County Sheriff. You’ll be detained until you can appear before a judge. Got it, smart guy?” Fatty said, just before he kicked Elliot in the ribs.

  Elliot rose to his feet. Skinny pushed him down the stairs.

  “Why am I here when I vaguely remember bein’ dry-gulched in Belleville?”

  “You had a police issue thirty-two on your person,” Skinny said. He produced a key ring. “Get comfortable. Make friends.”