Bait: A Novel

by Messum, J. Kent

  “Best shit ever.”

  Nine

  NOW.

  “Good shit is harder than ever to get,” Kenny said. “But I still score some prime now and then.”

  “Yeah, I heard Overtown rolls out some good grade,” said Felix. “In Liberty City you’re lucky if you don’t get jacked with a score of baking soda. I’ve blown B.S. up my arm more than a few times.”

  “Buying off a corner is a fucking fool’s game,” Ginger said. “You got to get in with a dealer you can trust.”

  Felix thrust his hips forward. “Or let a dealer get in you, right?”

  Ginger thought of Curtis. “Bite me.”

  Felix laughed. “Hell no, honey, you’d bite back.”

  A wry smile curled the corners of Ginger’s mouth. Felix warmed to it.

  “Who am I to judge anyway?” he continued. “You wouldn’t believe the shit I done for tar in my day.”

  “Fuck, can we stop talking about dope for a minute?” Nash said, clutching his pained stomach. “You guys are making me hungry.”

  “Shit, man, what else is there to do?” Felix said, looking around at the sea and sand. “You wanna go for a dip? Work on your tan?”

  “I want to get some answers.”

  “And how do you plan to do that?”

  “Well, it appears there’s someone else on this island we ain’t met yet.” Nash stood carefully, so as not to strain the ache in his gut. He pointed toward the footprints leading from the beach to the grass and trees. “I say we follow the trail.”

  Felix shrugged. No one seemed to have a better suggestion. Nash took the lead, the others falling in behind. Only Ginger held back, reluctant to be led by the likes of a man she was at odds with. Kenny glanced back repeatedly, his worried eyes insistent that she follow.

  “C’mon, Ginger.”

  She ran to catch up, knowing the boy wouldn’t fare well without her. They hiked single file through the brush, tramping down tall grass and swatting aside branches, following the trail as best they could. Once they passed the tree line they were engulfed by leaves and bark. Hot, muggy air stuck to their skin inside the thicket. Insects buzzed in the vegetation and scuttled out of their way. Within minutes they’d transgressed the small forest center to the opposite side of what was indeed an island, no more than several hundred yards in width. Another beach came into view, looking identical to the one they had just come from, except for the solitary human being sitting on the sand a hundred yards up the shoreline.

  Nash turned to Felix. “How about we go introduce ourselves to Robinson fucking Crusoe over there?”

  Felix gave Nash a sly smile. “Try calling me your man Friday at some point, see what happens.”

  Felix chuckled at Nash’s wide-eyed look of surprise and took the lead, making his way toward the new player on the beach. The stranger did not appear to notice. As they neared they saw he was seated next to a metal trunk, lid flipped open. Felix called out, but the man didn’t react. He only watched from the corner of his eye. Felix broke into a jog, arriving on the man’s scene ahead of the others.

  “Who you?” Felix said with a jab of his chin.

  The mulatto’s eyes were dull, his smirk even more so. No doubt he was one of their kind, track marks and all. He looked the oldest and most abused out of everyone. Erratic nappy hair, clothes in shit state, scratches and scars peppering every exposed piece of beige skin. In the center of his gray, nicotine-stained beard was a trace of a smile that simply said I am incapable of giving a shit about anything anymore. Ginger and Kenny both took a curious step toward the open trunk, but the man stopped them with a glance. Felix stepped closer to the man so as to tower over him.

  “Hey, I asked you a question.”

  No answer. With a grunt Felix balled his hands into fists. Nash jumped in, knowing that Felix was aching for an excuse to beat on someone.

  “Nash, Felix, Ginger, Kenny, Maria, that’s us,” Nash said, waving a hand toward each person to match him or her with a name. “C’mon, let’s start off on the right foot. What’s your name, pal?”

  “Tallahassee Jones,” replied the man lazily. “Call me Tal, if you must.”

  Felix sucked air through his teeth, but his hands relaxed. Nash breathed a sigh of relief. He wanted no violence today, black on black or otherwise.

  “Tal it is,” said Nash. “You have any idea what’s going on? Or are you as much in the dark as we are?”

  “I got a bit of light to shed,” he replied. “It ain’t much, though.”

  Tal dipped his lined forehead toward the open trunk beside him. Maria hung back, afraid, but the other four stationed themselves at the corners and looked inside. Neatly placed in the confines were six sandwiches wrapped in plastic, an armful of apples, a box of energy bars, and a dozen bottles of water.

  “What’s this, a frigging picnic?” Ginger seethed.

  The others were speechless. Wedged between the bottles and the side of the trunk was a plain white envelope torn open at one end.

  “Okay, can someone please explain this to me?” Kenny whined. “Like, right fucking now?”

  No one said anything. Kenny looked back and forth between Nash and Felix, wanting someone to say something that made a shred of sense. Every passing second of silence added another dent in his worried expression. Maria inched her way to the box and leaned in for a look, braced as if she expected something to spring out and attack her. Felix reached inside and picked up one of the sandwiches. He turned it over in his hands, wondering if it might be poisoned.

  “Ham and cheese, anyone?” he said.

  “You first,” Ginger said. “Age before beauty.”

  Felix snorted. “No one beautiful around here as far as I can tell.”

  “Read what’s in the envelope,” Tal advised.

  Ginger reached for the envelope, but Nash beat her to it. He slid the folded letter out, a paragraph of black type on white unfolding before his eyes. The others held their breath. Nash read the message aloud, slowly, carefully.

  “Dear civilians,

  “Please know that no one will be coming to your aid. Much effort has been made to ensure this. Enjoy what has been provided, but also know that it is all the sustenance you shall receive here. Food and water will only get you so far, as there is something else you desire, and will continue to more and more as time passes. If you want your next hit, you will have to earn it. Your target is the island across the channel to the north, where another box of supplies awaits. This one also contains an allotment of the purest, highest-quality heroin you will ever experience, guaranteed. Further instructions are in the next box. Begin whenever you wish.”

  There was one additional line that Nash failed to mention to the others. He read it silently to himself as he folded the note.

  You are being observed at all times.

  Dumbstruck silence followed. The letter’s contents were too much for everyone to digest at once. Nash held on to the note. No one seemed to want to read it for themselves. Tal eyed Nash with a raised eyebrow, fully aware that the last line had been left out.

  “Who the hell left this for us?” squawked Kenny.

  “My bet is on them,” Tal said and stood.

  He outstretched his arm and pointed a crooked finger at the sea. Beyond was the target island referred to in the letter, roughly a mile out from where they stood. Anchored in the water between them and the island was a large motor yacht.

  “A boat?” asked Maria, eyes alight with hope.

  Nash was shocked that none of them except Tal had noticed until now. As soon as Kenny saw it he ran to the edge of the water, arms flailing.

  “Hey!” he yelled. “Hey! Over here!”

  Ginger and Felix were quick to join in the frantic flagging. Tal chuckled at the furor of the three and turned a wry smile on Nash. Nash didn’t like it. It was an extension of
Tal’s I can’t give a shit anymore expression that suggested something more sinister.

  I think I preferred being in the dark, Nash thought.

  He and Maria peered at the stationary boat. The distance didn’t allow for much detail, but Nash could make out the dark shapes of two figures standing on the bow of the white vessel. The commotion on the shore was not stirring a reaction from them, yet it was clear they were looking in the right direction. Soon a third figure emerged and joined the other silhouettes. The three stood motionless, observing the six stranded souls on the distant beach.

  “C’mon, we’re not that far away,” Felix said, dreadlocks shaking in disbelief.

  He waved his arms once more and stopped. Ginger had already quit. The lack of participation from Nash, Maria, and Tal told her all she needed to know. Kenny kept up his antics, unhampered by the others’ refusal to continue.

  “Are they goddamn blind?” shrieked Kenny. “We’re right fucking here!”

  “They can see us,” said Nash. “They know we’re here, because they’re the ones that put us here.”

  Kenny whirled around, shocked eyes tearing up, baby face twisted into a pulsating pink knot. The look of defeat on all their faces angered and terrified him at once, prompting him to kick at the sand.

  “This is bullshit.”

  A breeze ruffled the paper in Nash’s hand, attracting the attention of Felix. He signaled for the note and Nash passed it to him. Felix read it over silently. He too failed to make mention of the last line to the others.

  “It’s from those guys,” said Felix. “It has to be. That boat and this letter are one and the same.”

  “What do they want from us?” asked Maria.

  “They want us to make our move.”

  “Our move?” whined Kenny. “What is it we’re supposed to do?”

  It was obvious from the letter what they were supposed to do, but no one spoke, no one wanted to admit as much. Their gazes drifted from the boat to the channel that separated them from the other island. It looked relatively calm, shades of blue darkening with the depths away from shore. Despite its serenity, the idea of traversing it churned their guts. A mile was a hell of a distance to swim, and Christ knew what was lurking in those waters.

  “We’d never make it anyway,” Felix said finally.

  “We might,” said Nash.

  From the corner of his eye Nash saw Tal scratch his ear like a dog with fleas. In front of him Ginger raked her nails feverishly over the skin on the back of her neck. Another cramp twisted Nash’s intestines. Kenny kicked sand in the direction of the next island, showering grains into the water.

  “Fuck that,” spat Kenny. “No frigging way. Not doing it. Never gonna happen.”

  There was silent agreement. It was suicide. The six of them stood defiantly on the shore and did not move for quite some time. Neither did the three figures on the boat.

  “This could go on all damn day,” Tal finally said and walked away.

  Ten

  YESTERDAY.

  “This could go on all damn day,” Tal muttered.

  Slim pickings was an understatement. The ball cap at his feet still didn’t have a single bill in it. Tallahassee Jones looked up and down the boardwalk again. There were people about, not as many as he’d hoped, but enough to warrant an evening of musical offerings, in his opinion. The cap suggested otherwise.

  “C’mon, people, pay a little and I’ll play a lot.”

  Tal mopped his brow with a bandana. The sun was too hot, despite the lateness of the day. The sky was almost cloudless. Not a single breeze from the ocean. He’d spent the better part of the week strumming his mangy acoustic on the boardwalk and asking folks for spare change in the sweltering heat. Change was all that was being tossed his way, sparse and of the nickel and dime variety. Between songs he swigged from a paper bag containing tall boys of Budweiser. The beer being sucked through his lips was warm and sour, but he didn’t care. He got the numbing he needed out of it.

  “Christ, folks, throw a dog a bone,” he grumbled.

  Tal drained his second tall boy of the evening, letting a thimbleful of foamy amber trickle from the corner of his mouth. He let out a loud belch and crushed the can inside the bag, much to the distaste of an old white woman walking her Yorkshire terrier nearby.

  “Disgusting,” she said.

  “Take your bitch elsewhere, bitch,” he muttered.

  But she was already walking away, pulling her yappy dog along by the neck. The beer buzz chased away his inhibitions and Tal decided to let loose. He tuned his D string, cleared his throat, and broke into a fervent version of Bob Marley’s “Waiting in Vain,” guitar strumming solid, voice a smoky tenor. He performed with eyes shut, opening them only to thank a passerby when he heard the clink of coins hitting coins in the hat. Whenever Tal played “Waiting in Vain” these days, he didn’t think of an elusive love. In fact, a woman was the last thing to come to mind. Now he only equated the lyrics with heroin.

  “It’s been three years since I’m knockin’ on your door . . .”

  Three years since heroin completely took over Tal’s life. Before that he’d claimed recreational use for a long time, a baby habit, if such a thing could ever be said of junk. Recreational was an almost impossible adjective for the opiate that could never be kept at arm’s length, and about as laughable as the term high-functioning addict. With heroin you were only delaying the inevitable. Baby habits were quick to turn into belly habits, wringing your guts in an iron grip if you failed to feed them on time.

  “Tears in my eyes burn, tears in my eyes burn . . .”

  Tal had cried for heroin. He’d begged for it, crawled for it, fought for it, stole for it, and once almost killed for it.

  “Sounds awesome, dude,” said a kid passing by on a skateboard.

  Tal nodded appreciatively, but the kid donated nothing. Busking outside the marina was usually lucrative, more profitable than mere panhandling. People with the money and the means liked to see the less fortunate work for a handout. They wanted entertainment for their dollar, whether it be singing on a sidewalk or dancing on a bed of hot coals. Those who moored their boats at the marina all had serious dough. Some of them recognized Tal and tossed him a little extra, though it still made him feel like a minstrel most days. Once in a while some specimens of white wealth would walk by and regard him as such, a sneer on their lips or a chuckle in their throat. Tal had half a mind to bash their heads in with his guitar. Give him enough tall boys in one afternoon and he just might.

  Tal looked at the expensive yachts on the water, wishing he had the kind of bank account that paid for them. He took in their names: Odyssey Two, North Star, Esmeralda, Pelican Briefs, The Naughty Nemo. Some were sailing toward the Florida Keys, toward the place Tal dreamed of escaping on a pricey pleasure craft with a few hot bitches at his disposal and a mountain of coke in the cabin. He knew more about the Keys than the average Joe. His years working as a janitor at the marina had given him the knowledge, back before he got fired for trespassing on people’s docked vessels.

  “Shit job anyway,” Tal mumbled, tuning his E string.

  During his employment he’d overheard much at the marina. Scores of Jimmy Buffetts with one too many margaritas down the hatch had given Tal insight into high-class life on the water. Tal took notes, a habit that had eventually led him to board boats in search of things to boost. He knew how much these vessels sold for, how much fuel they consumed, how much their insurance cost, how much they depreciated over time. He knew what parts could be stolen and sold for a pretty penny too. A fish finder could go for hundreds of dollars, marine radar for thousands.

  The Keys themselves, though, they were a thing of interest. Over seventeen hundred islands of various shapes and sizes made up the archipelago, a network of dotted land and separating sea covering more than three hundred and fifty square miles. Tal
knew just how lost you could get in those parts. Every year a number of boats failed to return to the marina.

  Some vanish without a trace, Tal thought.

  The Keys could be cruel. Unbearable heat, freak weather, rocks and reef hiding just below the surface primed to puncture hulls. Plenty of ways a person could fuck up their boat trip too: miscalculate fuel, run out of supplies, or simply suck at navigation. If your boat ran into trouble, that was one thing; but if it went down, you were toast. Adrift in a dinghy or floating in a life jacket gave you a snowball’s chance in hell of surviving. Even with a radio or phone to call for help, you would be waiting ages for rescue if you didn’t have exact coordinates. You’d be the proverbial needle in a haystack, a human speck on a vast canvas of blue. Whether people were searching or not didn’t really change how long it might take for someone to come across you out there.

  There were far worse places to die in the world, Tal conceded that. The Keys were sensually beautiful, the epitome of paradise. The tropical sun, sand, and sea might make you think you’d died and gone to heaven. But Tal knew the allure was part of the deception. The postcard scenes were silken veils drawn across untrustworthy faces. The things out there that could cut you, sting you, paralyze you, devour you—too many to remember.

  When missing boat owners reappeared they were usually in corpse form. Hurricane season was a death sentence for anyone caught out in the Keys. The lucky ones drowned. The less fortunate died of hunger or thirst. The poorest souls succumbed to the stuff of nightmares. Nature had a habit of mixing beauty with beast. The Keys were no exception. Its beasts were bloodthirsty.

  Tal remembered a fishing trip he’d taken long ago with some friends he hadn’t seen now in years. There had been warnings from the outset, and cautionary tales told during lunch on an island. Their skipper, reeking of whiskey and cigarettes, made sure everyone understood that to be taken in by the Keys’ charms was foolish, citing the case of his own brash brother who had gone scuba diving one morning and never returned.