Tampa Bay Noir

by Colette Bancroft

  After breaking into his truck, he retrieved his set of keys from the glove compartment and headed back to the station to return the slim jim. He drove to a nearby McDonald’s and, over a Big Mac, hatched a plan.

  * * *

  The house at 1489 Sea Breeze Lane was on a canal street two blocks off Gulf Boulevard in the north end of Indian Rocks Beach. The Kimballs lived across the street from the waterfront properties. Chimes from an ice cream truck and the grinding pitch of a wood saw broke the silence. The truck’s tune was somewhat familiar, but Abel couldn’t quite place it.

  Garbage canisters lined the streets. Collection day was either today or tomorrow. The Kimballs had a derelict lawn. Shrubs, but no gate or fence, separated the front and back yards.

  His best hunches of where to find the dresses were either the garbage or the garage. He’d brought along some plastic shopping bags to put the prom wear in and the swim gloves he used when boogie-boarding. There was no telling what he might run into.

  He walked to the garbage can in front of the house and opened the lid. Except for a rancid smell, there was nothing inside. He hoped one of the Kimballs might come out and ask what he was doing. He’d gladly welcome this jumping-off point as an opportunity to voice his suspicions about Cody swiping his backpack. In fact, he decided, he’d go to their door right now to have that conversation.

  He knocked. His pulse raced as he listened for the scraping of a chair or footsteps from inside. He waited and knocked again. No one answered. All indications were that no one was home. He walked over to the side entrance of the garage. If the dresses weren’t in the garbage, maybe they were inside there along with his backpack, and he’d tell whoever questioned him about opening this door that he was here to get it back. With gloved hands he twisted the knob, but found it locked.

  He readied a story and walked around back. Should a neighbor happen upon him, he would say that he was a snowbird relative, down from Michigan, and was stopping by unannounced. The Kimballs had told him to let himself in and make himself at home.

  He sidled past a hydrangea bush and into the backyard. Vinyl privacy fencing cordoned off the rear of the property. Grapefruit rotted on a dying tree near an attached lanai. Through mesh screening he saw that the Kimballs had left their sliding glass door open. He tried the flimsy screen door on the patio. It was poorly hung and gave a little, but it didn’t open. An eye screw and hook secured it. Tugging again, he found there was enough room to wedge the blade of a pocket knife between the door and frame.

  Above the power lines a turkey vulture rode the thermals. Abel took out his knife, pulled on the door, put the blade to the hook, and nudged it free. He placed the shopping bags over his shoes and entered the Kimballs’ house.

  Morning breakfast odors lingered. His plastic-wrapped footfalls crinkled on the terrazzo as he treaded through a rear living room area. The dining nook led to the kitchen. Through that was the garage.

  He froze when he heard a bell peal. His eyes darted, looking for a place to hide. Near what looked like a family portrait in the dining room, he saw a grandfather clock and realized it was only the timepiece striking one.

  He studied the portrait. In between two weathered-looking adults was a soft-featured Cody. Hair parted on the side, he looked to be about Emma’s age.

  Abel looked at the gloves on his hands, the bags on his feet. As if the luau wasn’t bad enough, try explaining this? He nodded to the Kimballs. Going through the kitchen and out the garage seemed the safest route.

  A strong whiff of gas and dead grass hit him as he stepped inside the garage. He flicked on the lights. Huge breasts strained a pinup’s bikini bra on a poster above a workbench. He took in the rest of the garage. His eyes traveled from the door panels to an oil pan and stopped on a surfboard bag with the word Dakine on it.

  Next to the board in the Dakine bag was a tri-fin Volcom short board. The one Cody had at the beach was different from these two. How many sticks does one kid need?

  A low rumble trumpeted something heroic inside his head, like the opening music of the old Hawaii Five-0 show. He followed images of a banquet procession. Burly Tongans in grass skirts and Hawaiian shirts hoisted a roasted pig, apple in mouth, on a surfboard that doubled as a serving tray. Sequined prom wear blurred. Hell, who’s to say those dresses weren’t already on their way to the landfill, or were never here in the first place? Why waste a gift, especially one provided by a kid who ripped off his stuff and almost did the same to his head. And Tori and Emma didn’t need to know anything about it.

  Making a note to relatch the eye hook and take those damn bags off his feet, he allowed himself to venture that getting up on a surfboard probably felt a lot like this.

  Should anyone ask what he was doing walking out of the Kimballs’ garage with a surfboard tucked under his arm, he’d simply say, Cody let me borrow it and told me to come by and get it. Hell, Saturday night, should his punk ass somehow happen to be at the luau and start asking questions, Abel would welcome the turnabout. It’s not like there was only one Volcom tri-fin in the world. This time he’d be the one dishing the hard look that said, Prove it.

  Tree limbs swayed in the cold front’s last gasp as he strolled down Sea Breeze Lane. Then it came to him, the tune from the ice cream truck. Slightly off-key and at a faster tempo, but he recognized it as the theme to Love Story.

  * * *

  He drove to St. Cyprian’s, parked beneath a twisting live oak near the auditorium, and phoned the front office.

  “Do you still have front-row tables available for the luau if I drop off a surfboard as a door prize?”

  “Sure, how thoughtful,” came the response. “The surfboard goes so well with the theme. I bet it’ll be one of the best raffle items of the night.”

  “I’m actually here at school. Would now be a good time to drop it off?” he asked.

  The woman replied yes, and after taking down his name, she told him that the custodian would unlock the hall so he could put the board near the stage.

  Inside the parish center, decorating had just begun for Saturday’s dinner and floor show. Student posters hung near the stage were the first items in place. He found the one Emma’s class had drawn.

  He kneeled to set the board down and gave it a long last look, as if aiming everything he hated about himself onto it. What he felt instead were the eyes of the angry island god. Behind its evil smile he heard his daughter’s voice.

  Daddy, what are you doing here?

  PART III

  Grifters’ Paradise

  TALL, DARK, AND HANDSOME

  by Ace Atkins

  Westshore

  Except for being really, really old, he was exactly what she’d wanted.

  He was well dressed, navy suit with pressed white shirt, good teeth (that she hoped were real), and seemingly most of his own hair. They met, as had been arranged over e-mail, at the Hyatt on the Courtney Campbell Causeway. The restaurant was called Armani’s, and she knew it was nice because they expressly stated that they didn’t allow cutoff shorts and flip-flops. He ordered oysters Rockefeller. She ordered butternut squash soup. Her mother always told her not to eat too much on the first date or men might think you owe them something.

  The view was amazing. Top floor of the hotel looking out at Tampa Bay, the sun going down across the water, streaks of black and gray against the orange sky. Real postcard stuff. The very reason she’d left Detroit, her third husband Frank, and a worthless job as a teller at Citizen’s Bank in Bloomfield Village. Only yesterday, she’d mailed a postcard to her friend Judy reading: You throw snowballs for me while I pick oranges for you. With love and kisses from Debbie Lyn.

  “Really something, isn’t it?” he said. “Takes your breath away.”

  “When I lived in Michigan, my tootsies would get so cold,” she responded. “I had to wear snow boots to work and then slip into my high heels. Every time I left the office, I had to change out my footwear. Ankle-deep in slush. That’s really no way to live.”r />
  He smiled at her, all dark tan and silver hair, holding the gaze. “My God. You are simply the loveliest creature I’ve ever seen in my life.”

  “Oh, quit it.”

  “No,” he said. “I mean it, Debbie Lyn. I think I mentioned to you that I used to work in the film business, and you have what they call a perfect face. Completely symmetrical. Wonderful blue eyes and the most interesting nose. They used to measure that stuff with rulers. Measure how far apart your eyes were. That’s why the old stars looked so grand.”

  “I think my nose is too big.”

  “Hogwash,” he said. “That’s what they said about Barbra Streisand and she’s done pretty well for herself with the Yentl and the Oscars and all that. I knew her in my other life.”

  “You kind of look like her husband,” Debbie Lyn said. “James Brolin? The one who used to be on Hotel. And his son is that purple bad guy in those comic-book movies. My son just loves that stuff. All he does, reads comics and plays online games with his friends. Star Wars: Battlefront. Call of Duty.”

  “How old is your son?”

  “Twenty-five,” she said. “I really wish he’d meet a nice girl.”

  “You never know when you’ll meet the right girl.”

  “Stop it,” she said. “You are a charmer, aren’t you? Tell me what films you worked on.”

  “Oh,” he replied with a flick of his wrist. “I was just a producer. Major League. Tremors 2. A little film called Tango & Cash. Remember Stallone and Kurt Russell driving that big monster truck? Spent most of my time arguing with the studio about the budget. You’ll never imagine what it costs to have a rat wrangler on set. One little nibble on Jack Palance’s pinky and you’re shut down for two whole days. For a tough guy, he could be so precious.”

  He lifted his Rob Roy in a toast and she met him with her glass of rosé just as the sun hit the water, turning the darkness all gold and electric. Outside the windows, as he smiled at her, a slight wind kicked off the bay and rattled the palm trees. Debbie Lyn felt a little shiver at the base of her spine. This was it. This was actually happening. Tall, dark, handsome. Rich. All of it.

  The waiter returned to bring another round. For the main course, she ordered the mushroom risotto, thinking, My God, what a wonder to be on an actual date. He had the bone-in veal chop with the cauliflower hash. The sun was gone now, and it had grown dark and calm across the water, a few pleasure boats heading back to the marina. Small white lights flickering across the countless piers. He kept on staring at her with a twinkle in his eye. She couldn’t help but notice the thick gold chain around his neck and some kind of old coin hanging from it. He fingered at it.

  “A good luck charm,” he said.

  “For what?”

  “Finding the rest one day,” he said. “We were so incredibly close before the storm.”

  She tilted her head, playing with the stemware. “What exactly is it that you do? I mean, now.”

  “Oh,” he said, looking away, grinning. “A little of this. A little of that. I’m mainly retired. But certain interests and passions can draw me out. That’s what happened to my last relationship. I was told that I didn’t know how to relax, when to quit. Who wants to get old? Who wants to stop chasing their passions?”

  Debbie Lyn beamed, wondering what scent he wore—sandalwood, bourbon, citrus, old suede. Over Christmas, she’d taken a job at the Art of Shaving at the International Plaza. She taught men how to apply the perfect mix of scent, rubbing it on their necks, chests, and even a dab behind their knees. Never overpowering. Find your signature scent, she’d told them. She looked across the white linen table as he continued to stare and smile, enjoying being with her, in her presence.

  “Would it be too much, before our main courses have even arrived, to say I think I’m falling in love?”

  He was playing with her. He had to be. Thirty minutes in and he was already in love? Either he was completely nuts or a hopeless romantic.

  “Let’s see how you feel after the veal.”

  “I’m even more in love on a full stomach.”

  They’d just met and already she could see how that new life might work out. Out of that crummy apartment on Gandy Boulevard and away from living out of boxes, eating Jenny Craig frozen dinners while watching taped episodes of Days of Our Lives, telling her empty living room that dumb Eric better get his life together and realize that Jennifer was the best thing that ever walked into his young life. Her ex-husband calling over and over. Debbie Lyn, where the fuck did you put my chain saw and safety helmet? Talking to those teenage boys at the shave shop about making the proper strokes, them laughing as she walked away.

  He reached for her hand and squeezed her fingers. “This is only the beginning. Today starts our adventure.”

  Looking back at it, at that very moment, that man across from her looking so sharp and contrasted, white on navy linen, silver hair and gold coin, smelling of goddamn sandalwood, yep, in that moment, he would’ve been the very last person in the world she thought she’d shoot right dead center in the head.

  But damn, thinking back on it now on her bunk at the Orient Road Jail, she was still sure of it. The son of a bitch had it coming.

  * * *

  “Why me?” Debbie Lyn had asked, lying there as uninhibited as a twenty-year-old and as naked as a newborn, except for a gold ankle bracelet, playing with his thick gray chest hair. “What was it about me? Surely you had plenty of women who responded to your profile?”

  “Well, I have to admit it was your sense of humor.”

  “My sense of humor? That’s funny. My last husband said I couldn’t be funny. That I’d never been funny a day in my life. He called me Debbie Downer all the time. Debbie Lyn Downer.”

  “He was wrong. What was it you said to me? About being a sucker for a man and his boat, setting off on the seven seas?”

  “I said I’ve always had a crush on Popeye,” she answered. “Which is true. Those big forearm muscles, the way he always looked out for Olive Oyl and Sweet Pea. It was cute. Real cute.”

  “I can’t wait to show you my boat,” he said. “You will love it. Don’t bring a thing except for a bottle of champagne and your skimpiest bikini.”

  “Bikini? How old do you think I am?”

  “How old do you think I am?” he responded, setting his feet on the floor of his home on Bayshore Boulevard. Big Mediterranean Revival number, all stucco and barrel-tile roof. He said they’d used it as a set for some TV show back in the eighties about a nice family running a zoo. “Age is but a number.”

  “I would never say.”

  He winked at her, pulling a prescription bottle from his suit jacket and shaking loose a little blue pill. “Hold that thought. Let me grab a cool glass of water.”

  He wandered off in the dark, tall, nearly six foot five, wiry and skinny with not much of an ass to speak of, sloped shoulders and randy as a sixteen-year-old. Debbie Lyn leaned back and stared at the ceiling and then all around the room.

  There was only the bed and a folding chair, the kind you’d find in the basement of a church. Come to think about it, she didn’t recall seeing much at all as they’d gone inside last night, all kissing and hugging and dirty promises. There was a Jacuzzi, that much she was sure of, and a lot of laughter about the wild parrots in the trees and how one might come down to roost when he stood up—naked again—to refill their champagne. He’d played an old CD from her car in his little boom box—she had not seen one of those for a long, long time. “Red Red Wine.” UB40 from nearly forty years ago.

  He walked back in, clapping his hands together, erect as a starter pistol. “Ready, freddy.”

  “I can see that.”

  “Let’s change up positions a bit,” he said. “We’ve already done one and two. But I sure like four and five. Maybe work our way up to a six if my back holds out.”

  She looked up at him as she pulled open the sheet and again exposed herself, all the wrinkles, freckles, and sun damage, three children and twenty
hard winters in Detroit. An ill-conceived rainbow tattoo on her hip bone from a girl’s weekend in Vegas. She was exposed. “I hate to ask,” she said. “Just what book are you following?”

  “Does it matter?” he said, getting on his bony knees. “Just follow my lead.”

  In the daylight, sun streaming into the big master bedroom, she started to wonder how a man so successful could’ve lost his wallet. The meal cost her $382 without tip. If this didn’t work out, she’d have to be dipping into her savings account.

  “Ever watch a Western?” he asked. “Roy Rogers. Gene Autry. It’s just like that.”

  “Who’s the cowboy and who’s the horse?”

  “Giddyap,” he said, falling onto his back and reaching his long skinny arms up to her.

  * * *

  So it was now a week—or was it ten days? Either way they’d been together day and night, every damn day, since that first meal on the causeway. By now, the not-paying thing was starting to niggle at her. Now, she was looking down at the check at a Ruby Tuesdays on Dale Mabry Highway, not too far from the Best Buy and Home Depot. He’d had two margaritas and a fruit salad, talking about a meeting he had later in the day with investors for the sunken-treasure deal that he just knew was about to come in. He said he already had a house on standby in Key West, two boats and a helicopter. Just like that, talking about old days in the Keys with Tom McGuane and Jimmy Buffet, some kind of wife-swapping action with the woman who played Lois Lane.

  “Isn’t she dead?” Debbie Lyn asked.

  “Is she? I don’t know. We quit speaking some time ago.”

  “Are you finished?”

  “Yes.”

  “And no word on the wallet?”

  “Ah,” he said. “It won’t be long. I’m having new credit cards issued that should arrive today. This whole thing has been a misunderstanding. So embarrassing.”