Black Point

by Sam Cade

  The first call on her truck, she thought.

  Smiled. Jake from Georgetown.

  67

  Saturday, June 15, 2019

  JAKE STEPPED OUT OF THE TAHOE wearing body armor from the Black Point PD with his FBI badge on his belt. His .45 was holstered on his left hip. He opened the rear passenger door in case he needed quick access to his shotgun lying across the seat.

  The sun just hit the sky. It was 6:07 and sticky. A dead still summer morning.

  Pike’s fist pounded the front door three times as he hollered, “Johnny Earl Shedd. Black Point police. We have a...”

  The door popped open before Pike could finish speaking. Pike jumped back. There was no one there, just an open door. Black Point’s version of a SWAT team was behind Pike. Two guys with full-auto M4s, two guys with scatter guns, four guys with pistols drawn.

  Jake had his back up against the wall, just to the left side of the door, facing the officers. His right hand held his Glock at his right shoulder, ready to swing around and open fire.

  It was five seconds of terror. A door creaking open. Complete silence from inside. Not a hint of movement. Jake was ready to run. His brain screamed explosives. He pictured something rolling across the threshold ready to blow some limbs off people.

  “Don’t shoot, hot-dammit! I’m unarmed, in my pajamas,” said Johnny Earl.

  “Johnny Earl Shedd, we have a search warrant. Put your hands behind your head, let us see you.”

  Shedd slowly stepped into view. He wore a white tee over green plaid pajama bottoms, bare feet, sleep matter in his eyes, looking buck wild with his long hair out of the ponytail.

  “Step on the porch, Johnny Earl. Keep your hands up,” said Pike. “Pat him down, Mike.” A baby-faced cop ran his hands over Shedd’s trunk, front and back. Lifted his shirt. Ran his hands up and down each leg, ankle to groin. “Clear.”

  Pike handed the warrant to Shedd. “We’re checking out the house first, then every building on the property. And all vehicles.”

  AT 6:40 A.M. JAKE WAS CHECKING OUT AN EQUIPMENT SHED at the far end of the property. He pulled out his phone. Knew he shouldn’t but dialed anyway. Voicemail.

  “Hi, this is Hope. Please leave your name and number.” Dang.

  “Umm, good morning, Hope, this is Jake, we spoke last night. Still interested. Extremely interested. Please don’t sell the Land Cruiser out from under me. Oh, hey. I’m in Point Clear right now. Could I run by? I can make it super quick.” Hung up.

  Three minutes later his phone chirped a text.

  WHAT!?!? NOT EVEN 7! On Saturday morning!! YOU WOKE ME!! I said 12 NOON!! At Lakewood!

  Why did I call? Why?

  At midmorning Jake was standing around with the boys in Shedd’s basement looking at ten AR-15s and $250k in cash hidden behind a concealed panel when his phone shivered an incoming text.

  Time Change. Make it 1:00. Lot’s of nice-looking men playing. And, sorry...kind of having cold feet about the sale...I’m iffy. Stop by, though. Take it for a spin.

  Jake made his way over to Pike. “I think you guys have this squared away. I’m going to hit it. I’ve got an errand to run.”

  JAKE CHANGED AT HIS MOTHER’S COTTAGE and was now pedaling his beach cruiser down Great Bay Road. His phone rang as he passed Two Sisters Bakery. Pike.

  Jake pulled the phone to his ear and pedaled sitting upright with no hands on the handlebars. “Tell me you got something.”

  “Well,” Pike chuckled, “A colorful Fruit Loops box happens to have a nice quarter-pound cake of putty stashed at the bottom with a clear wrapper that says Semtex-H. We found it in the bedroom with a kitchenette above the kennels, kind of like an extended stay hotel room. That’s where Landry Parnell lives.”

  “Good work,” said Jake. “I’ll put in a call to quality control at Kellogg’s as soon as we get off the phone. That might not be safe for kids.” He heard Pike laughing.

  “Got another little bonus, too. After three hours of diligent search by six guys we found DVDs holding footage from the night the dogs were killed.”

  “That a boy. Where’d Johnny Earl stash it?”

  “Sitting right on top of his DVD player hooked to his 60-inch Samsung.”

  Jake laughed. “Shedd say anything about it?”

  “Said he was sorry it wasn’t in color. As for the ARs and cash it all looks legit with bank straps and registrations for each gun.”

  “Good work, Pike.”

  68

  JAKE TWISTED HIS FAT-TIRED BEACH CRUISER into the Lakewood Club after passing a collection of distinctive southern cottage homes carefully nestled under a grove of live oaks. It was 12:35 in the afternoon. Early.

  The club was pristine with a money look about the place. A bolt of concern hit him immediately. No Land Cruiser in the parking areas.

  He hopped off the bike in the parking lot and walked it to the tennis shop. He passed an older Porsche 911, probably late 80s, a classic. It was a glossy black cabriolet, top down with Carrera written in scroll on the rear engine hood. Vanity plate said RESQ. Had to be a doctor.

  He leaned the bike against the tennis shop wall and walked through an alcove to glance down over the courts. A manicured green clay stadium court was just below him. A small crowd, snacking from a table holding munchies, was watching a mixed doubles match. Three games and it was over. The players milled around, talking.

  Jake walked in the shop and was greeted by a fellow stringing gut through a racket frame. He flicked his chin and kept stringing. “I’m Butch. What’s up?”

  “Looking for a lady named Hope.”

  Butch, five-eleven, lean, tan, with a thatch of blond hair that said surfer or tennis pro or both, glanced backwards, and caught the eye of an attractive trim honey-blond pro behind the counter. He smiled. She smiled. “Jennifer, could you help this gentleman?”

  Jennifer walked Jake to the window. She looked out and pointed. “There she is. In the white top.”

  “Thanks, Jennifer.”

  “Are you the guy that called her about the Land Cruiser at midnight?” she asked.

  “Well, it was more like 10:30.”

  “Right. But called again at 6:00 this morning?”

  “You know, it was easily 6:45. Why, what did she say?”

  Butch and Jennifer glanced at each other, laughed.

  Butch held up the palms of his hands to Jake. “No comment. Heading to the beach in thirty minutes and grilling Mahi and shrimp on my Big Jake tonight. I don’t need any drama monkeying with my weekend mojo.”

  Jake’s mind focused on reversing the phone damage he’d created. Had to think. He walked outside and stood next to his bike. Hope was walking up the steps from the stadium court carrying two rackets.

  The first thing he noticed were long legs carved with feminine muscle. Had to be five-eight, easy. Short dark hair just below her ears. Dark Ray Ban Aviators.

  “Are you Hope?”

  “Yes. And you must be the night stalker.”

  He laughed off the comment and put on his best chipper personality. He watched her glance towards to the bicycle. “Yeah, sorry about the calls. I got a little excited.”

  Hope slipped off her sunglasses. “Boys and trucks, I get it. Let me stash these rackets.” Aquiline nose, deep brown eyes. Her skin-tight white racer-back top hugged her compact breasts and looked at home against her tennis tan.

  As she came out of the shop, Jake thought fit. Her arms and shoulders proved she knew her way around light weight training, defined but not overly sculpted.

  She looked at the bike again. “Okay, wait a moment. Are you sure you’re not one of those tire-kicker guys? I mean you’re here on a bicycle, right?” She shook her head. “Nothing about this makes me confident you have the means to purchase a like-new vintage vehicle.”

  “Definitely not a tire kicker.”

  He followed her to the parking lot, pushing his bike. She stopped next to the 911. “As you can see, the Land Cruiser isn’t here, it’s at my
house.”

  Jake pointed at the 911. “This yours?”

  “Yep. Pull up maps on your phone and put in my address. I bike it all the time, a smidge over two miles.” She gave him the address and he was off.

  His brain was going swirly. He expected a plump, matronly lady in a brown Taurus wearing a bulky tennis dress cut by tent makers. Certainly not one of the sportiest women he’d ever seen, in a black 911 no less. And fit. He was into athletic women.

  Hope watched Jake pedal away and cut down Battles road. She put on her shades, fired up the 911, and shook her head. A bicycle?

  Jake was a quarter mile down the road when he heard the deep growl of the flat-six Porsche engine building steam like it was eating asphalt. He was cruising down the far-right edge of the pavement. Hope blew by him at sixty in second, about to hit third. Adam Levine’s voice blasted out of the car singing “She Will Be Loved.” Hope downshifted at the next curve, then opened it up heading towards Great Bay Road.

  HOPE WAS LEANING ON THE 911 SIPPING A WATER as Jake pulled in the drive. Two Golden Retrievers were lying at her feet, grinning like they do. The scene looked like a photo shoot for Garden and Gun magazine.

  Jake spotted the Land Cruiser backed into the garage, facing out. He dropped his bike to the ground.

  “How ‘bout some water, cowboy?” She handed him a bottle then pointed at the dogs. “Jeep and Arlo, my two rescued children. What’s your name again?”

  “Jake.” Just told her ten minutes ago. And last night. Not good.

  “Kids, this is Jake. Well, it’s right there in the garage, key in the ignition. Leave the bike as collateral because I might have to get the cops to dust your fingerprints.”

  “I’ll drive it down to the VFW and back if that’s all right?”

  “Sure. But don’t wreck it. I don’t want to have to call the next batch of guys who are coming later today and disappoint them with the news.”

  Jake took a quick lap around the Cruiser in the garage. Gorgeous. He hopped in, pulled the choke and hit the key. It fired up instantly. He eased it out of the garage onto the highway. The clutch and transmission were as smooth as butter.

  Ramped it up to fifty-five on Great Bay Road, windows down and his left elbow resting on the door. Another day in paradise.

  Three miles down he pulled into the VFW, killed the engine, jumped out, walked around the truck, and got on his knees to peek at the undercarriage. No rust, not even a hint of a mud stain. About to lift the hood when a hot-rodded 396 El Camino rumbled up alongside him.

  Two guys, early seventies, thinning gray hair, and white scruff on their cheeks in the car. Viet Nam era dudes here for a drink. They hopped out and walked around the Land Cruiser. “Nice machine, fellow. How much you want for it? I’ll buy it off you today.”

  “Not for sale, but thanks for asking.”

  “Well, hell. I think I’ll go in and have one or two or maybe a dozen beers to ease my disappointment.”

  The El Camino passenger, with a deep voice rising straight through his beer gut, says, “You know, that thing looks almost naked without an old Boston Whaler hooked on the ass end.”

  Stole the thought right out of Jake’s head.

  JAKE HONKED AS he pulled into Hope’s driveway. He hopped out of the truck and tried to maintain a neutral look. Hope came out of the house with Jeep and Arlo on her heels. Her eyes locked on his face with a big smile on her face.

  He knew that she knew that he sure as shit loved the truck. Jeep and Arlo came up and bumped his hands with their muzzles. They knew he sure as shit loved the truck.

  Had to play it cool here because it was about to get real, the negotiation. Disarm her for a moment. “So, you from Virginia?”

  Hope let out a little giggle. “Dana Point, California, originally. Played tennis for the University of Virginia. Got married to a successful guy who died early with a hefty Northwestern Mutual policy. A friend of mine thought I was depressed. She suggested I move to Black Point, Alabama and teach tennis and enjoy paradise. And here I am.”

  “Well, are you?”

  “Am I what?

  “Depressed.”

  “I just got rid of a dead-weight cheating pig and picked up $3.5 million in life insurance. Would you be depressed?”

  She slipped off the glasses. Her smile eased all the way into her eyes with a few smile lines. Jake noticed a barely canted central incisor which made her real. She doesn’t need money. Very, very bad.

  “Oh, hey. Before I go all Warren Buffett on you, what’s that sign mean on your mailbox? Refuge of Hope?”

  “I’m starting a nonprofit to care for displaced animals. Jeep and Arlo are the first ones in, but they’re keepers. I made them both co-vice presidents.”

  How bad can the witch be? Animal lover.

  “I’ve got two acres here, but I’ll need some more land soon. And I’ll be raising funds.”

  “It just so happens my landlady in Washington is a contributor to animal-related organizations. And, I mean contributor with a capital C.” He raised his eyebrows.

  “Landlady? So, ahh, Jake. You don’t own a home?”

  “Well, no, not currently.” He saw her smirk of concern and started talking fast, like a seven-year-old lying to his mother. “Hope, okay, look, I’ve been searching for three years for a decent Land Cruiser. I have found nothing, all rusted junk, and I don’t have the time, energy, or skills to restore some heap. You know you can’t even buy a one new anymore. So, I can’t play games here, I love this truck. The sooner you tell me a price, the faster I can write the check...and heal from this mental trauma.”

  “Seriously? You can’t buy new ones, now?” she asked. “That’s gotta make this one quite a bit more valuable than I first thought.”

  He didn’t smile. He wished she didn’t have such white teeth and that stupid outdoorsy glow. Make it easy not to like her.

  Somehow, Hope thought, something’s off in the real story. He didn’t act like a guy who rented beach umbrellas for a living. As nice as his legs were, though, Hope was intrigued by his arms. No balloony weightlifter bulk. They were lithe with ropey muscle. There was no space between the cotton and his skin.

  He reminded her of some of the European Spaniards she’d met playing tennis, only Jake was physically taller and stronger. Dark eyes under long eyelashes. Hair silky soft and dark, a little long, skin light olive, and chiseled facial bones.

  “One question, completely off the subject of a rapidly-appreciating vintage Land Cruiser. What’s your heritage?”

  “Mixed bag, I’m told. Spanish Mediterranean, Italian, maybe a hint of Cuban.”

  “That’s interesting.” She was sure about one thing, though. Getting a date wasn’t one of his problems.

  Jake fought his nerves and asked. “So, what’ll you take for it?”

  “Still struggling with a number.”

  “What about this?” Said Jake. “The Magnolia Hotel has a nice little steakhouse in it. I’m thinking that over grilled angus, a couple of crab cakes, maybe a few oysters, and a nice bottle of wine, we could put our heads together and hash out a reasonable win-win for everybody, like business moguls do.”

  There it goes, she thought. The nice dinner invitation. But, boy, it didn’t sound too bad. “I hadn’t thought about that.”

  He watched her think.

  “Well, sometimes I get a little old fashioned on myself, but every once and again I like to know a guy’s last name. Your first name is Jack. What’s your last name?”

  Jack?

  “First name Jake. Last name Montoya.”

  She glanced at the sky for a moment. “Jake Montoya. Why does that sound so familiar?”

  “Well. You ever eaten barbecue at Dreamland in Tuscaloosa?”

  “Never.”

  Jake sighed. “Well, you should. Ever been arrested by the FBI?”

  “Not yet.”

  “You ever watch a Redskins game earlier than ten years ago when you were in Virginia?”

 
“YES!” Hope jabbed her right pointer finger straight at him coming to a stop two inches from his face.

  “Bingo, buddy! I knew I knew it. Saw you on the Sports Illustrated cover in that great pic where you slammed dunked the football over the goalpost after an interception. I still get that magazine”

  “That’s another lifetime. So, what about hammering out the fine print on this thing?”

  “Hold it, hold it.” She waggled her hands at him, shook her head. “Wait a minute on the truck. That was the flippin’ Super Bowl!”

  Jake stuck his tongue in his cheek, looked at the ground. “Um, yeah, think it was, you’re right.”

  Hope thought, in the right light even her mother would think he’s attractive.

  “May I make a suggestion?” she said.

  “Sure.”

  “In the summer I’m not really a black dress, high heels kind of girl. I’m more tank top, short pants and flip flops. There’s a cool spot in Orange Beach made of old shipping containers called the Gulf, right at Perdido pass. Great water views. I’m kinda thinking fish tacos, oysters on the half-shell, cold beers, a sea breeze and a setting sun. We can zip down in the 911, you drive. Whatcha think?”

  He bit his lower lip, nodded slowly. “Think that might work.”

  69

  Monday, June 17, 2019

  Black Point Animal Clinic

  Jake strolled Rowdy back to Kimbo Gage’s office, tapped on the doorframe. Kimbo and his dad, Dr. John David Gage were looking down at a set of plans on a drafting table. Around them was a mish mash of world maps, surf magazines, acoustic guitars, cookbooks, carpentry tools, and tennis rackets. A place like your drunk uncle’s old garage.

  Ray Wylie Hubbard was singing whiskey-soaked outlaw country off an iPhone playlist. Jake felt that was too much hard truth for seven-whatever in the morning.

  Both men looked up. John David, looking like a 6’4” white god with a shock of thick white hair and a tan, shuffled quickly around the table. Jake held a hand outstretched for a shake. “Forget that, son, I’ll take a hug.” After the hug, he clasped Jake’s shoulders. “You’re looking fine, Jake, just fine.”