by Sam Cade
A whiff of salt tang from wet, low tide beach sand hit his nostrils as he scampered up the front steps. He made it to the great room and tossed the envelope on a table. “Need help, Andie! Somebody’s trying to bankrupt me!”
Andie Chen, Vic’s third and the most unlikely of his wives, was sitting with her legs pulled under her in a plush leather armchair speaking on her phone to Rayon Weatherall, her diminutive dandy of an architect in Miami. The recent issue of Bloomberg Businessweek was folded open upside-down on her lap. Her eyes were fixed through the French doors on the flat, ruler-sharp horizon on the Gulf. Nothing but pale blue sky for a million miles.
Rayon was tasked with recreating Vic’s seventy-five-year old beach house into a cottage that could tip-toe onto Martha’s Vineyard without raising any eyebrows.
“Gotta run, Rayon, Vic’s having a meltdown.” Her voice resonated with genetic calmness. Andie had dark thoughtful eyes and wore a pair of studious smart girl glasses that somehow made her wildly sexy. “Is something off, Vic?”
“Damn right it is.” Vic pointed to the envelope. “Eileen says somebody’s siphoning oil out of my well in Black Point. Anyway, could you take a quick look-see?”
Andie held a fashion degree from New York’s top fashion institute as well as an MBA from the University of Miami. She was also the CEO of the $750 million grossing Andie Chen Lifestyles, a fashion company bearing her name.
“Sure, for a grilled snapper dinner plus some West Indies salad.”
“Deal.”
10
VIC HUSTLED INTO THE KITCHEN with a recyclable grocery bag in each hand. His eyes caught a cocktail glass with amber liquid over ice sitting on a napkin. The violin and acoustic piano of Secret Garden imparted the ambiance of a Ritz Carlton spa. Andie sat with a grim face on the couch watching him. Ahhh, hell.
“Grab the bourbon, come over here.”
“So, Eileen’s right?”
“She told you ninety. Sorry. Maybe one-thirty if I had another year of quarterlies. And your chances of getting a dime back are zero.”
Vic slugged down two quick mouthfuls of bourbon after hearing that. He wobbled his jowls, a little water coming to his eyes after the hot blast of alcohol.
“I know who it is, Andie. Pretty boy Bobby Carl Codger.” Vic ran the back of his hand across his mouth. “That shifty motherfucker.”
VIC SIPPED ON A LARGE GIN AND TONIC while the fish cooked. Had to regroup and think about things. He took another slug, moving fast through the gin. It was 6:10 and evening was coming hard. Forty-five minutes ago the western horizon looked like something was on fire a thousand miles away.
He flipped the fish at three minutes, and it was done in six. He took a final blast of gin and glanced toward the water. Violet clouds were transfixed to deep purple. The pinks blazed out. The dusty haze layer disappeared. Temps were dropping. A curtain of inky black hid Mexico.
His cell phone rang. “Vic here.”
“It’ll cost you $10,000 dollars. Problem solved. I’ll handle it this weekend.” The phone went dead. Eileen.
Vic smiled as pinpoint specks of light began to fizzle in the black heavens.
11
WEDNESDAY. 7:00 A.M. VIC KILLED JERRY JEFF WALKER in mid-sentence as he switched off the pickup. With a little unexpected joy in his heart he was singing along. “Up against the wall... redneck mother”. Thought to himself, I got something for you, Bobby Carl Codger, sure do.
He rapped on Eileen’s door like a jackhammer. Ernie cracked it open four inches, suspicious. “What the hell, Vic? My shop don’t open til eight.”
“Here to see my numbers team, Ernie. Where’s Eileen?”
“Right here, Vic,” said Eileen. She sat at the small dining table with juice, coffee, and buttered toast with jelly. She wore pajamas that looked like bullet-proof Kevlar with a net on her head, dark bags under her eyes. “Presume you spoke to Andie.”
Vic pushed past Ernie, went to the table, pulled out a chair for himself. “Yeah. She thinks it’s worse than you said.”
“Not surprised.” Eileen took a leisurely bite of toast, chewed it, chased it down with juice. “Got my money?”
Vic pulled ten thousand in twenties out of his jacket pocket and fanned them out like a deck of cards on the kitchen table. Eileen’s eyes darted around the cash like a greedy weasel, counting in her head. “How’re you gonna handle it?”
“Best you not know, Vic. Now see ya.” She waved him off.
Vic got in his pickup thinking money well spent. But if he had to wake up to that woman every day he’d cut his own throat with a rusty hacksaw.
God only knows what awaits a man under those pajamas.
12
Wednesday, February 8, 2017
Black Point
7:40 P.M. THE NIGHT WAS BLUSTERY WITH LOWS EXPECTED TO DROP to thirty degrees.
“I’m gonna damn sure miss this food, I can tell you that,” said the tall, rangy fellow sitting at the bar with a mostly eaten hamburger in his hand. He was Broyle William, a whipcord thin man, easily six feet, with sun beaten skin that stretched tight across his face like a pale tarp.
Two Mexican men flanked Broyle’s sides, both eating the fried shrimp and fish platter. On their second beer. Both looked like they came out of the womb with a bad attitude.
Broyle William, the two stern-faced Mexican men, and the rest of Broyle’s crew have been coming to the Anchor three to four times a week for the last month. And it had been some good business for the joint in a typically slow winter.
Tonight, sitting behind Broyle and his two lieutenants were three tables of men, a mixture of white, black, and Hispanic, and one table of two attractive Hispanic women who could have been sisters or mother and daughter, Dude couldn’t tell. Joining them was a white woman and a black woman who both looked like they’d be perfectly comfortable in a knife fight in an alley. The crew wore white painter’s pants and sweatshirts, all of which showed years of wear from the job.
Dude had his back turned jerking a pitcher of Miller Lite from the tap when he heard Broyle speak.
He turned around slowly to look at them. A huge smile crossed his face. He put the pitcher down and wiped his hands on the red towel tucked into his pants and put his hands on his hips.
Broyle took a last bite of burger, chewed it slowly like a man in love, and shook his head, said, “The finest restaurants in Dallas can’t turn out a burger like this. Sure can’t.”
“I appreciate you saying that, Broyle. My boss has a saying. Keep it simple-Make it perfect.”
Broyle nodded, thought about that a moment...then mumbled the axiom out loud. “I like that, could apply to anything...I’ll be saying that next week. Sure will.” Broyle chuckled. “How ‘bout putting a tally on the chow, Dude, and I’ll need a to-go box as usual.”
THREE AND ONE HALF WEEKS AGO, Broyle asked Dude if they could speak in private, said he was looking for reliable advice. Dude walked around the bar with the easy, confident swagger of a guy that could have been a high school second baseman or a point guard on the basketball team, if not a touch too pretty.
Broyle’s crew had a month long painting job at a new beachfront condominium. His company, like all companies in construction, found it difficult to hire drug free, hardworking employees. So Broyle had to add Lortabs and Percocets to the company benefit package.
“Any ideas where I might be able to find some?” said Broyle.
It turned out Dude did have an idea.
DUDE WAS BACK WITH THE TAB AND A STYROFOAM to-go box. Broyle glanced at the number. $274.49 for food and beverage. $2345.00 for the pharmaceuticals in the box.
Broyle counted $3000.00 in hundreds from a wad in his pocket and placed it under a clean napkin on the bar. “Great service, Dude, keep the change.” He stretched his right hand across to Dude for a shake. “Been a pleasure. Me, Javy, and Luis,” Broyle poked his thumbs at the men sitting on either side of him, “are heading to Destin and Panama City for a few days to bid a few jobs. We�
��ll all be back in Texas this weekend. Think we’ll be back in the area in about six weeks.”
Broyle stood, put on a brown leather bomber jacket and a Dallas Cowboys ball cap on his head. He turned and walked to the front door leaving a two-finger trailing wave over his shoulder. He held the door for an attractive woman coming in.
Gina Swims walked straight to the bar and sat in the seat Broyle just vacated. She was eight years older than Dude and taught him English in the twelfth grade. He bedded her for the first time three days before graduation night.
Without a word, Dude poured a glass of white and placed it on the bar in front of her.
He placed his forearms on the bar and leaned forward into her space. “You know, Gina, you almost have the glow of a woman looking for a warm man on a cold night.” He flashed her a smile whiter than new snow. Gina’s husband worked on the road one week a month. And this was the week
Gina picked up her glass and lightly tapped it on Dude’s nose. “Cheer’s. You read my mind.”
DUDE HAD ALWAYS BEEN MIGHTY IMPRESSED WITH HIMSELF. He was a flat-bellied five-foot-eleven and weighed 175 pounds. Blessedly, he received his looks from his mother’s side of the family, Greek features. Olive skin and soft, dark hair with a hint of a curl.
At 31, Dude had a three-income stream life. A weekly check from Vic Stapleton. His daily cash skim. And his micro dope operation.
He also had a huge funnel known as the Rusty Anchor that poured some of the neediest women in town into his bed.
Dude also had an understanding wife.
Or so he thought.
13
Friday, February 10, 2017
Black Point, Alabama
EILEEN STOOD AS STILL as a statue in front of the rear office door of the Rusty Anchor bar in Black Point, Alabama as Bobby Carl Codger’s Camry crunched over the crushed shell parking lot easing to a stop at the back of the building. It was 1:35 in the afternoon. He parked next to her plain black mid-size Hertz rental, a car that whispered United States Government. He eyed her warily through the glass as he turned off his car.
Eileen wore a flat-black women’s business suit she picked up at J.C. Penney over a starkly white blouse. No makeup. No jewelry. Black horned rimmed glasses. Her hands were clasped together below her waist holding a thin black laptop carrying case. Her lanyard ID said Kathy Mulligan.
Bobby Carl hopped out of the car, approached her slowly, wondering.
“Are you Bobby Carl Codger?”
“Yes, but people call me Dude. What’s going on?”
“I’m Kathy Mulligan. Southwest Alabama District Superintendent, Internal Revenue Service, Department of the Treasury. Can you please present your ID?” Tone formal, intense, creeping towards irritation. She clipped two fingers to her plastic ID, pushed it towards his face.
Eileen finagled her ID with Photoshop from a picture of herself and a downloaded insignia from an IRS web site. Ran it down to Staples to get laminated.
She took Dude’s driver’s license. Studied it. Looked at him. Studied it some more. Looked at him. Held it up to the light. Looked at him. Her drab face was as harsh as a North Dakota winter. “If my mother named me Bobby Carl Codger I’d go by Dude, too.” She didn’t smile.
“Here’s what’s going on, Mr. Codger. Federal investigation into the holdings of Mr. Victor Stapleton, residence Grayton Beach, Florida, for financial improprieties. One call to Mr. Stapleton about my presence here would incriminate you as an accomplice in this scheme. Am I crystal clear on that point?”
Dude’s mouth dried like parched cotton. “What scheme? What improprieties?”
Eileen made a clucking sound with her cheek, stepped into Dude’s personal space, cocked her head. “Well, money laundering and tax evasion for starters.”
“Well, why are you talking to me?”
“Because I needed to know exactly what Bobby Carl Codger looks like.”
“Why do you need to know that?”
“You’ll see.”
14
Friday Evening
February 10, 2017
COLD DAY, COLDER NIGHT. DUDE’S GUT SAID IT’D BE SLOW. He fed about thirty-five people, eight of them in couples. A few stragglers popped in for a drink or two. He was right, slow night.
Dude had been on edge all day after that IRS woman spooked him. He was thinking about how he would handle her when two Hispanic women walked in. They looked like the ones with Broyle’s crew. They made straight for the bar even though there were plenty of open tables. The sound was down on the eight HD televisions airing vividly colorful sports programming. An old-fashioned jukebox was pumping out the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band singing “Mr. Bojangles.”
By 8:40, the ladies had their order in for dinner plus a couple Corona’s. They dressed like ranch workers, not girly. Blue jeans, cowboy boots, flannel shirts. But tonight, very clean. Shiny hair, lovely brown skin, white teeth. No paint speckles on dismal gray sweatshirts.
Dude saw they’d finished their first beer by the time the dinner was served. He brought two more, spouts corked with lime.
He’d just turned his back to the women when he felt a draft of cool air from the front door closing. He glanced over his shoulder for a quick look...and felt the blood leave his face.
The IRS Agent.
Eileen Smisson sat at a distant table, away from the door. Dude approached her with a forced smile on his face, fighting an uneasy demeanor.
“Agent Mulligan. Thanks for dropping by on a chilly night. Our beer’s colder than the arctic ice and our cocktails are branded. No cheap stuff. What can I start you with?”
A look of disgust crossed her face. “Alcohol never touches my lips. It’s nothing but fuel for promiscuity, loss of self-control, and poor life decisions. The devil’s spending money. I’ll have a burger, medium, everything on the side, French fries, and cold water.”
“Yes, ma’am, coming right up. Oh, and it’s on the house tonight.”
“Mr. Codger.” Eileen’s face twisted into a look like she just ate a persimmon. “Do we really want to go down the path of bribing a federal agent at this point?”
The burger was up fast and Eileen was finished with her meal by 9:30. She scanned the dining room. She committed to memory three men at a table, two Spanish women at the bar, and a rummy at the end of the bar that looked like he was installed when they put in the light fixtures. She dropped thirteen bucks on the table and slipped out into the darkness.
By ten minutes past ten the Hispanic women had finished three Corona’s each. The last guys at a table cut out. Waddell stared into space uttering some nonsense to himself about Burt Reynolds and Loni Anderson. Dude wiped the bar with a moist towel near the heavier woman.
“What’s your names?”
The younger woman tapped her bottle on the counter. Held up two fingers. Dude grabbed two bottles out of the ice, wiped them with a towel, popped the caps, stuck a lime wedge in the spout, placed one in front of each. He glanced towards Agent Mulligan’s table. Empty. Thank God.
“Isabel,” said the older lady.
“Maribel,” said the younger.
“Isabel and Maribel. Beautiful names. Enjoy.”
Dude, while performing a quick inventory in the kitchen, heard a car leave and knew it wasn’t Waddell. Leaving, and the women didn’t pay the check. 10:30 on the clock. Dude peeked back at the bar. Maribel was still there. Huh. Little bit lonely?
“Hey, where’s Isabel?”
“She went home. Sleepy.”
“So how are you getting home?”
“Taxi.” She stuck the bottle in the air, empty.
“Sure, coming right up. Maribel, are you paying for both of you?”
She shook her head. “No money. We’ll let you pay, Mister Dude.” Maribel looked him right in the eye as she said it. Smug.
“How’d you know my name?”
“Senor Broyle. He said you’d take care of us.”
Well, fuck that, thought Dude. This ain’t the Salvation Army
. Give and take is how the universe works.
He grabbed a Corona from the ice, popped the top, carried it to his office, looked around for those pills Norman brought from his trip to Key West a while back. Three tablets in a micro baggy sitting next to an old cigar box holding bar payables. He removed one, wrapped it in a piece of scrap paper, took a screwdriver and pulverized it into powder and tapped the powder into the bottle and stirred it with the blade end of the screwdriver. He put the bottle up to the light. He didn’t notice a thing. Smiled.
Dude figured he’d give Maribel’s little taco a taxi ride. That ass all tight in those jeans. Melt your heart brown eyes. Making all these demands. Okay, sure, he’d cover dinner.
Dude carried the beer out to Maribel, placed it on the counter. She looked at it. Then twisted her head side to side, inspecting it. Suspicious. Oh, hell. She knows.
“Everything okay, Maribel?”
Shook her head. “Problem. A very big problem,” she said, eyebrows raised.
“Yeah?”
Maribel pointed to the spout, tapped the glass with a finger. “Problem.”
Dude leaned down, looked at the bottle. He didn’t see jack. How does she know?
“No problem,” he said.
“Problem,” she said. She pointed again at the spout. She shot Dude a serious look. A look that said there were consequences for this kind of shit. Maribel waggled a finger at Dude to come closer. Her eyes were fixed on his. Dude leaned in. Her mouth was four inches from his.
“I need a fat, juicy, tangy lime,” she said slowly. “Right in this little teensy hole.” She slid her index finger in the spout, pumped it a couple of times. “Sounds good, no?” Her eyebrows arched.