—Name’s Dyson. He’s —
—Vic the prick, Teddy Bear says.
—Yeah, I say. He been in lately?
—No and he won’t be. Threw his bitch ass out a month or so ago and told him I’d break his fuckin’ neck he ever come back. Why y’all need him?
—He’s messin’ with a friend of mine, I say. She used to work here.
—Who?
—Don’t know what name she danced under. Real name’s Casey.
—I remember Casey. She was cool as hell. No drama, no bullshit, no drugs. Felt like fuck for what he did to her.
—What’d he do? I ask.
—Typical bullshit. Trying to touch her, get special treatment, waitin’ out by her car when she get off, followin’ her. I woulda fucked him up for her, but she just left, never told anybody. Word got back through another dancer after she left. Part of the reason I fucked him up a little bit when I tossed him.
—Any idea where we might find him? Rashard asks. Any girls he may’ve given his number to?
—They wouldn’t’ve kept it, so... I’d try Tan Fannies. It the only place he ain’t been kicked out of.
Back in my car, I call John Milton.
Rashard is heading to work, and I’m heading to Tan Fannies.
—Hey, it’s Merrick.
—You think of something?
—Just wanted to see if you found out who reported Casey missing yet.
I pull out of The Nugget, take a right on 98, heading east, then turn right onto Beck, toward St. Andrews.
—Oh, he says, you want information from me. I thought you were callin’ to give me information — you know, since I’m charged with protecting and serving.
—I do have something for you.
—You do?
—Yeah, I say. What about the report? Who filed it?
—Don’t know yet. Meet with Frank in a few minutes.
—What about where she lives?
—Who Casey? No one seems to know.
—How can no one —
—If she’s living with someone else and everything’s in the person’s... So, whatta you got for me?
—Victor Dyson, I say.
—Yeah?
—I hear he was harassing her.
—Casey?
—Yeah.
—How’d you —
—Not important, but it’s from a very reliable source.
—He a boyfriend?
—No.
—That’s it? Not gonna elaborate?
—Don’t know a lot.
I hope I won’t regret it, but I just can’t bring myself to tell him she’s a stripper. If I have to eventually, I will, but for now, I think Rashard knowing is enough. Besides, it’s not like John Milton will be very involved in the investigation anyway. So far, I’m the only Gulf County connection, and I don’t think that’s likely to change.
—You know more than you’re telling me, he says. Been a reporter too damn long.
—Probably.
—Definitely.
—Or maybe you’ve been a cop too damn long. Got a suspicious mind. Think everybody lies.
—Everybody does. Okay, he adds with a sigh. I’ll pass it along.
I’m about to turn onto Beck when I get a call.
It’s Rashard.
—Got a lead on stalker boy, he says.
—Yeah?
—His mom’s address.
—Great.
—Well, really she’s his grandma, but she raised him. Don’t know if he lives with her, but he might, and if he doesn’t, she can probably tell us where he is.
—If she will.
—You kiddin’ me? I can be very persuasive.
—I don’t know, I say. You show up there in uniform and she’s gonna shut down immediately. Let me go alone. If I don’t get anything, you can always go back and try your persuasion.
—I don’t know. What if he’s there?
—All the better.
—You might not be as tough as you think you are.
—I’m Wewa tough.
—But —
—You know what Hank says. A country boy can survive. We can skin a buck and run a trotline. A country boy can survive.
—You might be a little country tough, but your ass can’t skin no buck or run a trotline.
—Maybe, I can handle an old lady and a harasser of women. And can always call you if I can’t.
He gives me the address.
—If he’s there, he says, you call me. Fuck. I’m Wewa and ghetto tough.
I’m heading down 11th Street toward Vic’s grandma’s place at the Circle J when John Milton calls.
—There a reason Casey’d be using a different name? he asks.
—Don’t know, I say, thinking she has a stripper name and is probably living under an alias.
—Bay County Sheriff’s department can’t find any evidence that she lives in town, and the name of the missing girl is different from —
—Probably trying to keep her identity a secret. Especially if this guy Vic’s harassing her. What’s the name?
—Amber. Amber Nicole Miles.
That didn’t sound like a dancer name to me, but I’d find out from Regan what she uses.
—Probably just did it for security, I say. You find out who reported her missing.
—Yeah. An Ian King. Ring any bells?
—None.
—This thing’s gettin’ weirder by the minute.
As soon as we end the call, I punch in Regan’s number, hoping to catch her before she gets home.
—Hey, she says.
—Hey.
—This is the most interaction we’ve ever had in a single day, she says.
—It’s nice.
—It is.
—What name does Casey dance under?
—Tiffany. Why?
—Ever heard her use Amber or Nicole?
—No. Just Tiffany at the Dollhouse, but she could’ve used those others at The Nugget. What’s going on?
—That’s what I’m trying to figure out.
When I end the call, I begin to think about the approach I’ll take with Mrs. Frankie Dean Chambliss, the woman who raised Vic “the Prick” Dyson.
Right after Ageless Book Shoppe and the Lunchbox and just before The News Herald, Circle J Trailer Court is across from Jinks Middle School on 11th Street.
Turning by the old rusting sign with the black J inside the blue circle and the red letters that read Trailer Court, I follow the narrow road between rows of extremely close mobile homes, over numerous speed bumps to the backside of the park and the small singlewide she calls home.
When I see the Jesus fish on her rusting Oldsmobile and the Ten Commandments sign in her tiny yard, I have my approach.
Standing on the cement steps, I pull open the flimsy aluminum screen and knock on the sun-faded door.
It takes a while for her to open, and when she finally does, I know why. Much older than I expect — even for Vic’s grandmother — the stooped, shriveled woman doesn’t walk so much as shuffle.
—Yes? she asks, squinting at me behind her grimy glasses.
—Hi, I’m Pastor Merrick McKnight, I say, using my real name in case she asks for identification. I’m the singles minister at Cross Bridge Baptist Church. I’m looking for Victor.
—He’s not here right now. Whatcha need him for?
—He filled out a card for our singles program and I wanted to talk to him about getting involved. May I come in for a moment? It’s heating up out here.
She nods and shuffles back.
Her chair is just a few feet from the door, and I wonder how long it would’ve taken her to answer if she’d have been in the back of the trailer.
When she finally reaches her chair, she doesn’t sit so much as drop into it.
I come in and close the door.
The musty house is dim and in disarray, stacks of magazines and newspapers fill the floor while ceramic figurines and homemade knitted dolls fil
l all other surfaces.
Soiled seat covers creep off the old furniture — all of which is angled toward the small TV sitting atop the wooden cabinet of its predecessor.
With a shaky hand, she lifts the remote and pushes a few buttons until one finally turns off the TV.
—I’ve been telling Victor he needs to turn his life over to the Lord. I’m so glad he wants to be around other Christian singles. Maybe he could find a good Christian girl. That’s what he needs. He’s not a bad boy, but all young men need a good girl to keep ’em straight.
I had only guessed that Vic was single, but it was a pretty safe bet.
—I’d love to talk to him about it, I say. Where can I find him?
—I think he’s out looking for a job. Usually doesn’t get in ’til real late.
I nod.
—I worry about him so much. Pray for him all the time. If he would get in church and turn his life around... Don’t get me wrong, he’s not a bad boy, he’s not. He’s just... lost.
—We all were once, weren’t we? I say. I once was lost, but now I’m found, was blind but now I see.
—Amen, she says, nodding her agreement and raising her hands in a worshipful pose.
—Don’t you worry, I say, I won’t stop until I find him.
—Thank you, preacher.
—No idea where he might be now? I ask. Where would he hang out when he’s not looking for work? There a place he goes? A friend’s house?
She shakes her head.
—I honestly have no idea, dear she says. He’s so secretive about what he does with himself.
—Okay. Well, I’ll keep trying back. What kind of car does he drive?
—A van, she says. He’s a painter.
I nod.
—May I use your bathroom before I go?
—Well, of course, dear. Down the hallway on the left.
I walk down the narrow hallway that has no right, past the tiny bathroom and into what I had hoped was Vic’s bedroom, but discover it’s Mrs. Chambliss’s.
Glancing around, I see that all the pictures are of her and a boy, then a teenager, then eventually a young man. I search until I find the most recent one — a dime store type portrait with a cheap background — take it out of the frame, fold it, and stick it into my pocket.
—You mind if I leave some literature in Vic’s room? I ask, as I walk back into the small living room.
—He keeps it locked up so tight it’d take a SWAT team to get in, she says.
I nod.
—There’s someone else I’m supposed to visit, I say. Thought he might be a friend of Vic’s.
—Don’t think he has any friends, she says. Stays to himself mostly. What’s his name?
—Ian King. Have you heard him use that name?
Her lidded eyes widen a bit.
—Can’t say for sure, but seems I have heard that name somewhere.
Tan Fannies is a topless club in the heart of St. Andrews. In recent years, the small downtown area had undergone a renewal, but as condos and specialty shops sprang up, some of old St. Andrews remained — pawn shops, oyster bars, and Tan Fannies among them. Next to the newly rebuilt, opulent Shrimp Boat, a block from the bright, sunny Uncle Earnie’s, and just down from Oaks by the Bay, Tan Fannies looks more and more out of place every day — which only increases my fondness for it.
Driving back down 11th toward it, I had tried Casey again, but again got her voicemail and left another message.
When I pull open the door and step inside, I see right away that of the five people in the place, Vic’s not one of them.
To my right, a female bartender stands behind the small bar, a grizzled gray patron in a dirty ball cap nurses a bottle of Bud at the far end.
To my left the pool tables are quiet, lonely.
Though there’s a stripper pole and a small dancing area at floor level with a raised tip rail around it, the three strippers in various stages of undress are line dancing with an enormous boy with a huge belly in a two sizes too small T-shirt. The country song they’re drunkenly dancing to pours from an internet jukebox on the wall behind them.
Everyone stops to look at me when I walk in.
—See your ID hon? the bartender says from behind the cash register at the end of the bar.
I pull it out and show it to her.
—What can I getcha? she asks as she hands it back to me.
I order a beer, step around the dancers and take a seat at the bar.
I nod at the gray man smoking and drinking his Bud, but he just stares at me.
The bartender is a middle-aged woman with below the shoulder wiry redish hair, overly tanned, sun-damaged skin, and enormous breasts bouncing beneath a scoop neck cotton shirt.
She places the beer before me and I overtip her.
—Thanks.
I nod.
She moves away to the register, and I turn to watch the dancing.
The roughest, most street-looking of the girls is leading the line dance, yelling out instructions between drags on her cigarette, pulls on her beer, and profanity-laced criticisms of her students’ ineptitude.
The boyish-looking young man is panting hard, his barrel-like belly bouncing above his belted blue jeans.
—Wanna join us? the young blonde with a fishnet bodysuit asks.
—Haven’t been drinking nearly long enough.
—Well, get busy, the tall middle-aged stripper with a mommy tummy, sagging breasts, big nipples, and a blue wig says.
I bring up my bottle and pretend to drink more than I do.
—Getcha another? the bartender asks.
I turn to face her.
—Not yet. Still working on this one.
This time she lingers.
—You seen Vic? I ask.
—Vic?
—Dyson. I was just talking to his grandmother, Mrs. Chambliss, and she’s worried about him.
—You a cop?
Though the music is loud, it’s not so loud that everyone in the building didn’t hear the word cop and turn toward us.
I shake my head emphatically.
—No. Just a friend of the family.
—Vic ain’t got no friends, Grizzled growls from the end of the bar.
—Of the family. His mom — well grandmother.
—Well which is it?
—Grandmother, but she raised him.
—We ain’t seen Vic, he says.
—And we don’t give out information about our customers, the bartender adds.
I nod.
—No problem. Just asking for Frankie.
—The fuck is Frankie? Grizzled asks.
—Frankie Dean Chambliss. Vic’s grandmother.
I take a long pull on my beer, order another, and overtip again.
Eventually, the middle-aged mom with the blue wig goes over to the pole and begins her routine. Grateful for an excuse to move away from the tense situation I find myself in, I get some singles from the bartender and take my drink over to the tip rail.
With no DJ and no PA, the only source of music to strip to is the jukebox over between the restrooms and the lattice-enclosed VIP area. Often the dancers have to buy their own songs, which seems sort of sad to me.
I sit along the left side of the dance floor, so I can see the others and the door.
—I’m Mona. What’s your name?
—Merrick.
—Cool name.
—Thanks.
I hand over a few ones.
She turns so her head is facing away from the others and speaks very quietly.
—Guy you’re lookin’ for’s a creep.
I nod.
—You a cop?
—No. I’m really not.
—But you’re not looking for him for his grandmother, right?
I shrug.
—He’ll be in later tonight. Is most every night.
—Thanks, I say, then pull out a twenty, add it to the rest of my singles, and hand them to her.
—You find
him, just fuck ’im up for me.
As I back away from Tan Fannies, I try Casey again.
While I’m in the process of leaving her another message, I receive a call from her phone.
—Casey? Are you okay?
—Yeah. Why? What’s with all the calls?
Relief washes over me, and I can actually feel the physiological changes taking place. I pull into a parking space in front of the marina. Bobbing boats on black water, backlit by late afternoon sun.
—I’m so glad you’re okay. I can’t tell you how relieved I am.
I let out a long sigh, and can feel the tension leaving my body.
—Well, I am, she says, so you can stop calling every five minutes.
Her voice is tight, frustrated, angry.
—Where are you? What’s going on? I ask.
—Whatta you mean?
—I want to help you. I told you I’m so sorry about what happened before, but —
—Merrick, I told you. I don’t blame you for what happened.
—Well, I am to blame, but things are different now — and I want to help you.
—I know that.
—So let me.
—I will — when I need something. I don’t right now.
—Case, the cops are looking for you.
—What? Why?
—They think you’re missing.
—Missing? Why? From what? Why would they think that?
—Are you hiding from... someone? Something?
She doesn’t say anything, her only response the quickening of her breath.
—What is it? I ask.
—Who reported me missing? she says.
—Why?
—There was a guy... you know... harassing me. I wonder if he reported me missing to get the cops to help him find me.
—Vic Dyson?
—Yeah. How the hell do you know that?
—I’ve been trying to find you. It’s not him. He doesn’t know where you live, does he?
—No one does. I’m a ghost.
—How can that —
—I use a PO box for everything. Got no utilities or anything in my name.
—Whose?
She is quiet a long moment.
—It’s not that I mind you knowing. I just don’t tell anyone. And with what’s happening, you can see why it’s a good thing no one knows.
I want to press her on it, but don’t. I’m just easing back into her life. Don’t want to push her away, scare her off. She obviously needs her privacy.
—Are you married? I ask.
MICHAEL LISTER'S FIRST THREE SERIES NOVELS: POWER IN THE BLOOD, THE BIG GOODBYE, THUNDER BEACH Page 36