T. Lynn Ocean - Jersey Barnes 02 - Southern Poison

by T. Lynn Ocean

  Ox came back into the living room to find me petting Cracker and Lindsey immersed in a magazine. We looked up.

  “I’m not saying one way or the other, but if your mother agrees to let you move here, we’ll have to enroll you in school right away. Summer is almost over, and classes at New Hanover High School start the last week in August. That’s only a few weeks away. Are you prepared to leave all your friends behind?”

  “Absolutely. I mean, they can come and visit, right? And it’s not like I haven’t changed schools before. I am, after all, a military brat.” Lindsey jumped off the sofa to give her father a kiss. “Can we go get a pizza?”

  “Sure,” Ox and I both said at the same time Spud ambled in.

  “Lindsey! Get over here, doodlebug, and give me a hug!”

  She ran to my father, swiped the beret from his head to put in on her own, and threw her long arms around him. He was a good head shorter than Lindsey and she had to bend her knees. My father and Ox’s daughter had hit it off the very first time they met. I imagine that, if I had a son or daughter, Spud would be a fabulous grandfather. Odd, since he’d been a complete loser as a father when I was a kid.

  “Did I hear the word pizza?” Spud snatched his cap back from Lindsey. “Let’s go. Anybody ’round here got a car that ain’t wrecked?”

  “Dad will drive,” Lindsey announced, prior crisis forgotten.

  Ox mouthed a thank-you to me and we headed for A Slice of Life Pizzeria in Ox’s four-door Ford truck.

  SIX

  “I hear you’ve got a few good armored cars to peddle,” I said to Floyd, the man who handles vehicle and boat auctions for SWEET and several other low-profile agencies. Feeling domestic, I’d put a meat loaf in the oven and phoned him while I waited. “Ashton says he authorized me as a bidder.”

  “Jersey? Is that you? Where have you been hiding?”

  “I’m not in hiding, Floyd. It’s called retiring young.” I peered through the oven door at the meat loaf. It didn’t appear to be doing anything. “Well, at least I was retired.”

  He chuckled. “Yeah, you’re on the authorized bidder list. I’ve got a nice Volvo XC70, color is lunar gold. Papers say the steel was done by Alpine Armoring, an outfit in Virginia. Level A9.”

  “Excellent. That’ll stop a high-powered rifle, right?” Not that I planned on getting caught between a sniper’s crosshairs, but A9 was a pretty good armor job. And lunar gold sounded pretty, in a New Age sort of way. I punched the speakerphone button to be hands-free, so I could go online to find a photograph of the Volvo.

  “Stop pretty much anything, except armor-piercing ammo from a high-powered weapon. And maybe a shotgun slug fired at close range.”

  I found the Volvo Web site and waited for the photo I wanted. A tan station wagon appeared on the computer screen. “You did say XC70, right?”

  “Yup. It’s an all-wheel drive. Take you anywhere, on most any terrain.”

  “Sorry, I can’t bring myself to drive a station wagon, even if the marketing folks at Volvo call it something else. And AARP beige just isn’t my color, even if I am trying to retire.”

  He shuffled through some papers and told me the Volvo was the only armored vehicle up for auction.

  “Well, crap.”

  “I thought you retired. Why do you need an armored set of wheels?”

  “I am retired. But SWEET coerced me back to drive a mobile food truck and whip up bacon and egg biscuits on the side of the road.”

  He let out a laugh that climaxed with a cough. “Never mind. I don’t want to know.”

  Exiting the Volvo site, I decided he was right. I did retire, from both the government, and more recently, from my own agency. I didn’t need armor. And tooling around in a regular car would cut my fuel bill by half. “Forget about the Volvo. What else have you got?”

  He rambled off several vehicles, paused, let out a low whistle, and mentioned an unavailable BMW X5. It was a beauty of a crossover vehicle—sedan bred with SUV—but it wouldn’t be for sale until next month, he said.

  “That’s perfect, Floyd. I’ll take it.”

  He blew out an emphatic sigh that ended in another cough. “What do you think I am? An eBay Buy It Now icon?”

  “Of course not. And you really should quit smoking.”

  “I’m going on the patch next week,” he said.

  I waited to hear more about the X5.

  “This thing is practically new, less than fifteen thousand miles. Seized from a stock broker who was selling confidential tidbits to a group of revolutionaries. It will land in the driveway of a higher-up before it ever hits the auction block.”

  “What color is it?”

  “Black.”

  A shiver of excitement made my shoulders do the wave. I love black vehicles. Especially luxury ones.

  I smiled. “I’d look way better driving that X5 than some old blowhard in a pinstripe.”

  He didn’t respond. Maybe I was wearing him down.

  I looked at the meat loaf again, willing it to cook. “I really do need a new car, Floyd. The Benz is toast and I can’t afford the repair bill. I’ve been driving borrowed cars for a month. Can you hook me up?”

  I heard the click of a lighter and his toke on a cigarette, which meant he’d made a decision. “Ten grand and I’ll have it delivered to that bar of yours in a week or so.”

  “Can you do seven—”

  “On paper, I’m going have to say the vehicle needs an engine and a transmission just to make ten fly. Seriously.”

  I waited.

  “Jersey, this thing is in pristine condition.”

  “You still drinking Maker’s Mark?”

  “Mmm huh.”

  “Well, I’m sure the car has a few door dings. Seven thousand seems reasonable to me.”

  “Christ.” He disconnected. I’d have to remember to send him a case of bourbon.

  Victorious, I replaced the handset and checked the meat loaf again. It still wasn’t doing anything. Consulting the recipe, I set the oven timer for one hour and headed downstairs to see if the Block’s kitchen had any vegetables to go with my meat loaf.

  Hanging behind the bar, Ox chummed with Pete, a local boat captain and one of the Block’s regulars. Ox threw his head back to laugh at something Pete said and a rush of arousal fired through me at the glimpse of his squarish jaw and near-perfect teeth. I mentally scolded myself. I had to quit thinking of him that way. Or maybe not. It wasn’t hurting anything. Fantasies of getting frisky with Ox were a harmless distraction.

  “Got any mashed potatoes?” I said, walking up.

  “Nope. Baked potatoes. Steamed broccoli.”

  “Can I have some of both? In fact, why don’t you and Lindsey join me and Spud for dinner? I’m cooking meat loaf.”

  His dimple deepened when he smiled. “You do remember what happened last time you attempted to cook meat loaf?”

  “Yeah, but this time I used a recipe.”

  Pete’s hands gestured outward. “Hello? What am I, invisible?”

  “I’m still mad at you for letting Soup have his way with Incognito. She was violated.”

  “To the contrary. Your boat has been pampered.” He rolled his head to stretch the neck muscles. “Anyway, the voice feature on the depth finder is very hip.”

  “Okay, I’m over it.” I gave him a greeting hug. “Want to join us for dinner?”

  “Be much obliged,” he agreed. “The wife has taken the girls back-to-school-clothes shopping, so I’m on my own tonight.”

  Lindsey scooted up to us, clutching a handful of dollar bills. “Can I get some more quarters, Dad?”

  “You still losing?” Ox asked his daughter and opened the register to make change. A curious question, since there aren’t arcade games in the Block. She took the coins with an outstretched hand. A colorful bracelet was tattooed around her wrist. I’d never noticed any tattoos during all her previous visits, and couldn’t believe that Louise would have let her get one.

  “Nope,
I’m winning now that I’ve learned how to bluff. Fierce!” She skipped off to join Spud and Bobby at a corner booth, where playing cards and coins were spread among the used napkins and half-full glasses.

  “She is her own person, isn’t she?” Ox mused. “Growing up so fast it’s almost scary.”

  “Growing up is a good thing,” I said. “But aren’t you upset that my father is teaching her to play poker? Or that she has a tattoo?”

  “Some good life lessons to be learned in the strategy of gambling, Barnes. And the bracelet isn’t a real tattoo. It’s called Derma-Zing, which comes off. All the rage among the teen crowd. What rock have you been hiding under?”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Lindsey just explain the Derma-Zing thing to you?”

  Ox grinned.

  “Hey, I’m out of touch with what’s hip, too, and I’ve got three teenagers,” Pete said. “I’d still be listening to the Doobie Brothers and wearing knee-high tube socks if it weren’t for them.”

  “Being out of touch with what’s cool is one thing. But I think I’m missing way too much of my daughter’s life,” Ox said. “She’s like a different person in such a short amount of time.”

  Nobody had any feel-good words to say about that, so we set a time for dinner, Pete joined Spud’s poker game, Ox left to make a bank deposit, and I walked upstairs to check on the meat loaf.

  Ox and Lindsey arrived with a basket of bread, baked potatoes, and a container of steamed broccoli. Spud followed, carrying a deck of cards. Pete brought up the tail, grumbling about all the money that Lindsey swindled from him.

  “How much did you win?” I asked her.

  “Eight dollars and fifty cents. It would have been closer to twelve, but Spud cheated on the last hand.”

  “Girl can play some poker, I’m telling you,” Spud said. “She’s a natural.”

  I smeared some tomato paste across the top of the meat loaf and set the platter in the center of the table with a flourish. “Your gourmet meal is served.”

  Spud said grace, throwing in a gratitude for not only the food we were about to eat, but also the daughter who’d prepared it. I felt a sense of pride, something that almost bordered on maternal. Had my career and family path taken a different course, I’d be a whiz in the kitchen by now. Everyone passed the food and quickly dug in.

  Spud abruptly stopped chewing and clutched his throat in the universal symbol for choking. He coughed up a half-swallowed mess of meat loaf and spit it into his napkin.

  “You okay, Spud?”

  He sucked down gulps of tea and gargled with the last swallow. “No I’m not okay! This meat loaf would gag a hog, for crying out loud.”

  I surveyed the faces around my table. They collectively wore a tortured expression.

  “Thought you used a recipe this time,” Ox said.

  “I did, but I had to substitute for a few things I’m out of. Soy sauce for worcestershire. Regular sugar instead of brown sugar. Pepperoncinis instead of green peppers. Nothing major.”

  Everybody stared at me as though I’d just served them rabbit droppings.

  “Oh, come on. It can’t be that bad. Lindsey?”

  “Maybe you have some tuna or something we can make sandwiches with?” she offered.

  I cut an oversized piece of meat loaf, shoved it into my mouth, and chewed. “It tastes fine to me. Just a little salty, maybe, and a little spicy.” I ate some more. “Bit of a vinegar aftertaste. But it’s not that bad. And for your information, Spud, a hog can eat anything without gagging.”

  Ox excused himself from the table and returned minutes later with a plate-load of barbecued chicken breasts. Everyone dug in for the second time and the world was righted on its axis.

  “So, have you decided whether or not I can live with you?” Lindsey asked her father without preamble. Accustomed to teenage crises, Pete smiled and helped himself to a second piece of chicken.

  “I will talk to your mother and see if we can work something out.”

  “Is that a yes or a no?” Lindsey persisted.

  “If she’s agreeable, then yes, of course.”

  I changed the subject before the mood turned heavy. “You’ve got another tattoo thing, like the bracelet on your other arm.”

  “It’s a Derma-Zing design. Tattoos are so, like, out,” she said around a bite of bread, in a tone that silently added “you moron.”

  I examined the girl’s forearm and ran my fingers over a bright purple rose with a green, thorny stem. The lines were slightly raised, almost like the text on an embossed business card, but thicker. “Nice detail on the rose. Did you do it?”

  “I guess you could do your own designs but it’s a lot more fun if you do each other’s. Like, my best friend Maria did this one. Last month, all the girls on my tennis team had a pizza party and everybody got the same design on their left shoulder so it would show through our T-back uniform tops. And, like, if you’re tight with a guy, then he would do a design on you. But you wouldn’t do one on him, unless it was hidden, cuz guys don’t get Derma-Zing designs. It would be like wearing mascara or something, you know?”

  “Sure,” I said, not really knowing, but intrigued nonetheless. “And these tattoos—”

  “They’re designs, Jerz,” Lindsey cut in with an eye roll.

  “The designs. How long do they last?”

  She shrugged. “Maybe two weeks. After that, they peel off like a sunburn.” She scooted her chair back and produced a bare foot. “See my ankle? That one just came off and you can’t tell anything was there.”

  To prove a point to my ungrateful guests, I made a show of eating a second helping of meat loaf and tried to ignore the gag reflex. “Cool. So maybe I could do another design there for you.”

  “Uh, hello? Totally not cool.” She shook her head and returned her attention to the grilled chicken breast on her plate.

  Ox caught my eyes and we instantly knew what the other thought. He would have his hands full, for sure. Not only was Lindsey a hormonal teenager, but she’d virtually grown up on the West Coast. Now that the girl had sprouted breasts and curves, it was like she’d dropped in to visit from another planet.

  Pete offered to take Lindsey out on my boat, Spud agreed to give her poker lessons, everyone thanked Ox for dinner, and Ox delivered a standing toast to me and my new job on the roach coach.

  Before my dinner party disbanded, Lindsey reminded her father to settle things with her mother. He agreed to call Louise the next day.

  “I love you, Dad.”

  He smiled. “Love you, too.”

  Ox stayed to help me with the dishes and we harmoniously worked side by side, enjoying the blues music I’d put on the CD player, mentally recapping the evening’s events. When we finished, he slipped a leash on Cracker and we headed outside. Strolling along the sidewalks without a destination, we found ourselves in downtown’s old residential area in front of the Camellia Cottage bed and breakfast. Its bloom-laden veranda caught our attention, as did the laughing couple stretched on their backs in a giant rope hammock. Arms extended, the young man held a giggling toddler up in the air above them.

  “It’s a little scary,” Ox said, “the prospect of being solely responsible for a vibrant, opinionated, self-sufficient girl. You always hear people say how fast they grow up, but the sentiment never hits home until you’re suddenly looking into the face of your own sixteen-year-old daughter, wondering when she stopped playing with matchbox cars and started wearing eyeliner.”

  I found his hand. “I’m here to help.”

  His fingers tightened around mine. “Thanks. That means a lot.”

  SEVEN

  A thermos of spicy Bloody Marys would have been excellent liquid courage for my foray into the mobile food cart business but I resolved to drink bottled water instead. Sobriety might come in handy. I’d familiarized myself with the compact grill, lunchbox-sized steamer, cash register, and more important, the electronic toys Ashton had installed, including hidden video cams and a nifty miniature
fluoroscope imaging system mounted inconspicuously beneath the fold-down serving counter on the passenger side of the truck. With the push of a button, it would give me a flash outline of a customer’s body on a small notebook computer, which of course would reveal any metal objects—translation: weaponry. It is the same technology that has some airline passengers complaining about a lack of privacy, since fluoroscope images can reveal surprising detail of private body parts. I could learn, for example, whether a walk-up male customer tucked it to the left or the right as I served his coffee with extra sugar. Not that I would use an expensive antiterrorism contraption for such petty purposes. Unless I got really bored. Or the man was particularly hunky.

  The drive to Sunny Point carried me through Southport and the passing scenery could have been any small beach town with a hodgepodge of shops and lots of signage: directional road signs for the ferry that cruised between Southport and Fort Fisher, colorful advertisements hawking sunset cruises, kayak rentals, and deep-sea fishing excursions, and an array of real estate billboards. I cruised past a few groceries, the all-important high-pressure car wash to remove sand and salt, and a liquor store, which most certainly had all the fixings for a good Bloody Mary. I ignored the impulse to turn in. A mix of older, modest homes with crushed oyster shell drives and newer, much bigger homes with elaborate entrances occupied the land bordering the Cape Fear River. A touch of early post-dawn chill blew from an awakening sky and, other than the fact that it was six thirty in the morning, it was a pretty decent day to sell food on the side of the road.

  I reached my destination and swung in, just off the intersection of Highway 133 and Sunny Point Road. A large brown sign on elevated posts declared: UNITED STATES ARMY MILITARY OCEAN TERMINAL SUNNY POINT MAIN GATE. Just for kicks, I continued east toward the bowels of the ammo dump. It was another mile to the two real main gates: one for general admission and the other for truck deliveries. The general gate was closed up tight so I forked right to the other gate, which was guarded by several square badges from AJAT Security. They weren’t soldiers, but they weren’t your average contract security workers, either. There were five of them and these well-paid men were armed with everything from holstered semiautomatic pistols to a Mossberg shotgun, and that’s just what was visible. During the Clinton administration when military bases across the country closed, a large number of military positions were eliminated. In many cases, they were simply replaced by civilians.