MICHAEL LISTER'S FIRST THREE SERIES NOVELS: POWER IN THE BLOOD, THE BIG GOODBYE, THUNDER BEACH

by Michael Lister

  —You try the number? I ask, pulling out my phone and programming it in.

  —Answering machine. Didn’t leave a message.

  Immediately inside the door of Sweet Dreams is the DJ booth. It sits on the left wall across from the ATM, is raised, and has an opening so the DJ can check IDs and take Karaoke requests.

  I whip out my license, but with Rashard in uniform, he nods us on through.

  —Seen this guy? Rashard asks, holding up the picture of Vic.

  —He’s in here earlier.

  The DJ is a forty-something, skinny white dude with an acne-scarred face and a blond-gray ponytail.

  —He left?

  —Yeah.

  —Get in his van? I ask.

  The DJ looks through the glass door at Vic’s van and shrugs.

  —Don’t know. It’s still here. Probably walked down to the Red Door. Think he’s got a thing for bikes.

  —You know him?

  He shakes his head.

  —Just saw him checkin’ ’em out. Looked like it gave him wood.

  —Keep an eye on the van, Rashard says. Holla at me if he comes back.

  —Sure, man. Okay.

  We step through high tables with black chairs, all of which are empty except for two, and over to the bar running down the right side of the room. Above us, beer banners hang from the black ceiling next to PA speakers and Karaoke monitors. Around us, the black and blue walls have large mirrors of varying shapes surrounded by white rope lights.

  On the small stage along the back wall, a squat, rotund white guy in shin-length shorts, bright new tennis shoes, and an enormous T-shirt with some sort of sports equipment logo on it sings a country song I’ve never heard before. He has a black mullet, a Vandyke, and a large gold earring, and it’s obvious he thinks he sounds better than he does. From a table near the stage, two girls and a guy cheer for him and snap pics.

  The bar is mostly empty, too, save three thirty-something bleach blonde ladies sitting at the far end, laughing loudly with each other and whoever’s on their cell phones.

  —What’s occurring? the large lady bartender asks Rashard in a surprisingly thick British accent.

  Dressed in black, she has very pale skin and dyed black hair.

  —How you doing? he asks.

  She frowns and shrugs.

  —Ain’t gonna lie to you, copper. Could use some more business, I could.

  —This guy been in tonight? he asks, placing the picture on the bar.

  She studies it, then shakes her head.

  —Can’t say as he has, she says, no.

  —So your DJ’s lying? I say.

  —Huh?

  —Look again, Rashard says. His van’s parked out front.

  She lifts the picture and angles it toward the light from the cooler on the wall behind her.

  —Didn’t get a proper look at it before, did I?

  As the country song ends, rotund stumbles down from the stage and is replaced by one of the girls from his table. The DJ announces her as Gwen just before Hit Me With Your Best Shot begins to play.

  The bartender studies it for a moment longer, then shakes her head.

  —Can’t say for sure, she says. Could be the sad bloke what sang the crackin’ song from Rocky Horror Picture Show. But just as likely not.

  —If it’s him, I say, know his name?

  She shakes her head.

  —He come in a lot?

  —I ain’t been here long, have I?

  —In the country? Rashard asks.

  —At this pub, she says.

  She hands the picture back to Rashard who hands it to me. Pulling out a card, he tells her to call if Vic comes back in.

  She nods.

  —All right then. You lot can count on me. She turns and places the card beside the phone. Put it right by the phone, she says. He comes in, I see him, I call you, and Bob’s your uncle, you’ll nick your man.

  Back outside, we stand beneath the faded blue Sweet Dreams sign on the face of the building and discuss our options.

  —Can’t you jimmy your way in? I say.

  He laughs and shakes his head.

  —Sure. I can just shoot him when I see him, too. We don’t even know if he’s done anything.

  —Oh, he’s done plenty. Not easy gettin’ banned from strip clubs.

  Rashard gets a call on his radio and steps a few feet away to take it.

  I step out, past the van to stand near Front Beach. Between the myriad motorcycles roaring by, carloads of teenagers creep along, windows down, heads hanging out, yelling, screaming, whistling.

  The slow-moving traffic stretches as far as I can see in both directions, disappearing into the night. Behind the condos and houses and hotels, the rolling tide of the unseen Gulf, shrouded in darkness, can’t be heard above the din of engines and horns and radios.

  I turn back to look at Rashard. He’s involved in an intense conversation on his cell phone. Behind him, rows and rows of liquor bottles can be seen above the white lattice inside the plate glass, neon logo signs making the well-lit package store look like the possibility of a party in paradise.

  When he gets off the phone, I walk back over to him.

  —Gotta go, he says. Being dispatched to a bar fight further down the beach. Tried to get out of it. Hell, even tried to take the rest of the night off, but with Thunder Beach, just can’t do it.

  —No problem. I appreciate your help.

  —Whatcha you gonna do?

  —Think I’ll hang around here for a while, see if he comes back.

  —Call me if does, okay? Don’t talk to him without me.

  I nod.

  —Sure, I say, as if I really mean it.

  As I move my car from the Plaza Motel to the Paradise Palms and park directly across the street from Vic’s van, I try Casey again. Since having to give her number to John Milton, I had been trying her periodically. When I get her voicemail, I leave another message.

  My phone beeps to let me know the battery is nearly empty, and I search around for my charger. Once the cigarette lighter is providing the needed juice, I call Regan.

  It’s eight-fifteen — usually the time she’s driving to work and can take my call, but she doesn’t answer.

  It frustrates me, and I realize it’s not my inability to reach her this evening, but what this has meant in the past — her pattern of intimate connection followed by withdrawal.

  Why can’t I just let go?

  Is it that her pattern of cutting me off after having given me some of the connection I so long for has me addicted? Is the unhealthy dynamic actually feeding the flame of desire? Or does the deepest part of me — my what? Soul? Essence? — know something beyond thought, beyond reason? Of course, I want to think it’s the latter, but can’t help but worry it’s the former.

  I sit for a while longer, then remember the DJ saying Vic may have walked down to The Red Door Saloon. Leaving my car, I cross over Front Beach, winding my way between the slow moving bikes, and head west.

  The night is alive and loud — idling bikes, yells, whistles, horns. There’s movement everywhere — people walking up and down the sandy shoulders of the road, popping up through sunroofs, hanging out car windows, leaning over hotel balconies.

  I walk down 98, passing the Plaza, crossing over Laurel Street, in front of Noah’s Ark — the Christian concert and rec center with a facade of the famous biblical boat, and to The Red Door.

  The place is packed, the lot lined with bikes, the porch and bar standing room only. Smoke rises, drifts, hovers. Music blasts. Cups and bottles are raised. People talk and yell and touch — hand clasps, knuckle bumps, bro hugs, dry humps.

  It takes a while to search the crowd, but eventually I leave fairly sure Vic’s not among the throng. I become certain when I get back to Sweet Dreams to find his van gone.

  Angry at myself for leaving, I pull out of the Paradise Palms heading west, scanning for Vic’s van as I creep along in the playtime processional.

&nbs
p; In addition to straining to see if the van is in the traffic, I glance through the parking lots of the bars, bike shops, tattoo parlors, Moped rental places, T-shirt tourist traps, pizza and seafood places.

  Just past Black Cat, I turn and head back east, figuring he’s most likely returning to town.

  The crawling traffic is filled with more motorcycles than cars, and it takes a long time just to make it a mile or so.

  When I reach the site where Miracle Strip used to be, I take a left, deciding to cut over to Back Beach in order to get back into town faster.

  And that’s when I see it.

  As I turn by Alvin’s Island, I spot Vic’s van in the very back of the parking lot between Alvin’s Arcade and the mini golf course near Shipwreck Island Water Park.

  I whip into the parking lot, and pull into a spot not far from a giant Jaws-like cement shark coming up out of one of the holes at Shipwreck Golf.

  Getting out of my car, I look across the street and, not for the first time, mourn the passing of Miracle Strip. I’m surprised to see how many buildings remain behind the overgrown lot and fence.

  Suddenly, I’m a teenager again, back at the amusement park on a hot summer night, the sweet smell of cotton candy and caramel apples drifting through the thick, humid air. Screams of excitement come from every direction — the Starliner as it rockets down the first hill, the swings spinning around so fast they change from vertical to horizontal, the Music Express slinging riders to the inside of their seats — all to the soundtrack of rock and roll, screeching metal, hydraulics, carnival games, organ music, whistles, yells, and honking horns coming from 98.

  Fronted by planted palms, Alvin’s Island Tropical Department Store is housed in what looks to be a giant reddish clay rock formation.

  Known as Alvin’s Magic Mountain Mall, the retail outlet, which has been on the beach for nearly sixty years, is a cave-like labyrinth of beach towels, bathing suits, toys, T-shirts, caps, hats, purses, stuffed animals, gator heads, and every conceivable glass and ceramic and plastic souvenir — all branded with Panama City Beach.

  I wander around the rows and rows of trinkets and treasures, the shelves and shelves and shelves of T-shirts and towels looking for Vic. Upstairs and down, in and among shark tanks and live alligator photo opps, between and around sunburned tourists, white strap marks on their shoulders, pale sunglasses stencils on their red faces.

  I search for nearly an hour — popping out to the parking lot often to ensure his van’s still there — but no joy. No Vic.

  When my phone vibrates in my pocket, I step outside to take the call, not wanting to attract any attention to myself in case I missed him and Vic really is in the store.

  The dark night is lit by neon and halogen, and though it’s not raining like last night, the approach of a storm can still be felt in the atmosphere.

  —Hello.

  —Merrick?

  —Yeah?

  —It’s Dan.

  Dan Alton is a reporter for a daily over in Destin. We’d worked a few stories together and had become friends.

  —Hey, man. How are you?

  —I’m okay, he says. You?

  —Not bad.

  —Heard you got the boot.

  —You heard right, I say.

  I think about how many journalists are losing their jobs. Every week brings news of another daily shutting its doors, of the end of an era, as advertisers pull their dollars from printed news, where journalism in America is dying a not-so-slow death. It’s a true tragedy, one that threatens our democracy as much as anything else. And it’s not just that professional journalism is in ICU, but more so that people are getting their news from crackpot partisan blowhards meant to bolster what they already believe and comedians who go for a laugh above all else, including the truth, but that We The People have stopped reading.

  It makes me sad and angry. It also causes me great concern for our future. People don’t seem to realize what’s at stake. Studies have shown that in cities where newspapers close, less people vote in elections, incumbents stay in office longer, and members of congress don’t work as hard for their constituents, don’t funnel as much money back home, and more often vote along party lines.

  —I did, too, he says.

  —You got fired? Shit, man. Sorry to hear that. Why?

  —They found a kid who’d do it for half the money.

  —If they only knew the real price they’re paying, I say. Sorry.

  —No, it’s all good. It’s why I’m callin’ you.

  —Yeah?

  —Yeah. A group of us former print journalists are starting an online publication.

  As more and more dead tree editions of papers are dying (filing bankruptcy or disappearing) — some, like the Rocky Mountain News in Denver, after 150 years — online editions are springing up to fill the void. Something similar happened in the publishing industry — independent presses springing up all over the country to publish books the conglomerate-owned New York houses no longer had room for among all their celebrity titles.

  —Really? I say.

  —Yeah. It’ll cover most of the Panhandle — especially the Emerald and Forgotten Coasts. We’ll pick up the slack from the dailies and weeklies closing or laying off their most experienced reporters.

  —Very cool. That’s exciting, man. I’m happy for you.

  Thomas Jefferson once said something like if it was left to him to decide whether we had a government without newspapers or newspapers without a government, he wouldn’t hesitate to choose the latter. Smart man. Of course, he was probably running a newspaper at the time, and changed his tune later when he was in government, but most people don’t get it. There’s a huge disconnect between the role of newspapers in civic life and what citizens perceive them to be. A recent poll found that only 43 percent of Americans said losing their local newspapers would hurt civic life; 33 percent said they would miss reading their local paper. If they knew the differences in the way judges judge, the way businesses do business, those numbers would be 100 percent.

  —We want you to join us, he says.

  —What?

  —You can be a full partner in the venture, own part of the company, help us launch it, or you can be one of our top guns for hire. Either way, we want to put your experience to work for us, for this area.

  I look over at the large ENTRANCE sign and the few remaining buildings of Miracle Strip — overgrown, boarded up, remnants of an earlier era — and think it’s not unlike American print journalism.

  When I don’t say anything, he clears his throat.

  —Whatta you think? he asks.

  —Sounds very interesting, I say.

  But it’s hard for me to think about much of anything right now. Maybe when I know for sure Casey’s safe I can really consider it. I’ve got to do something soon. I’m running out of the little money I had fast.

  —It’s the real deal, he says. The future — and it’s here now. Look, we have investors. We can pay you. Probably won’t be as much as you were making before —

  —Be a hell of lot more than I’m making now, I say. No matter how much it is.

  —And if you join us now, you stand to make a windfall later on.

  —It sounds great. Really does.

  —I want to set up a meeting. Let you see who all’s involved, our plans, all the details. Just don’t rule it out until then. Okay?

  —I won’t.

  —Okay. Great. That’s great. I’ll set something up and be in touch.

  —Thanks, Dan. And thanks for thinking of me.

  I climb in my car, recline the seat, and settle in to watch Vic’s Van until he returns.

  I think about what Dan said and feel a certain excitement about the possibility of chasing down stories again, of being part of something new and cutting edge.

  As if an obsessive-compulsive’s ritual, I call Casey and Regan again. Neither answer, and I don’t leave messages. They’re probably both working. When they check their phones on a break
or, if they’re really busy, when their shifts end, they’ll see I called. Doesn’t mean I’ll hear back from either of them. Probably won’t.

  Eventually, I drift off, and soon I am dreaming.

  Images of an earlier time.

  Endless summer night. Shimmering heat. Sweat-tinged skin.

  Miracle Strip. Flashing lights. Spinning rides. Swelling music. Pulsating. Pounding.

  Monica. Happy. Nauseous. Pregnant.

  Teenage Casey. Faded jeans. Boyfriend’s Bay High Wrestling Team T-shirt.

  Eight year-old Kevin. Wild-eyed. Over-stimulated. Manic.

  —Let’s do the rollercoaster again, Casey says.

  —You know, you know, you know what I want to do? Kevin stammers. Merrick McKnight. Hey Merrick. Do you know what I want to do?

  —What’s that buddy?

  —I want to ride the cars. Can we do that? Can we? Let’s ride the cars, okay?

  —Sure, Casey says. That’s fine.

  Because of Kevin’s autism, Casey had spent her life acquiescing, deferring, accommodating, and never complaining, so I had always attempted to take care of her, make sure she got to have some semblance of a childhood, too. With Monica pregnant, it meant I was the lone chaperone for rides.

  —You sit here with Mom, I say to Kevin, while Casey and I ride the rollercoaster, then I’ll take you over to the cars.

  —But I would like to go now.

  —It’s fine, Casey says. Really.

  —Thank you, I say, but we’re going to ride the rollercoaster first, then the cars. Kevin, sit here with Mom and we’ll be right back.

  —But, but, but, I don’t want to sit here. I want to ride the cars. I want to ride the cars right now.

  —It’s Casey’s turn, then yours. We just rode the biplanes for you. I’m going to ride the rollercoaster with her, then I’ll ride the cars with you. That’s the way we’re going to do it. If you get upset you’ll have to go, so sit here with Mom. Okay?

  I can see by his agitation that this can go either way. Will he meltdown or sit down? There’s no way to predict.

  —I really like the cars, he says. Like them a lot. A lot. Want to ride them now. Right now.

  He continues saying how much he likes the cars and wants to ride them even as he sits down on the gliding swing besides Monica.