by Ang Pompano
I spotted the parking attendant’s florescent vest. He was by the bicycle rack, discreetly watching to see if I was going to go into one of the shops or if I was going to leave the plaza.
“Mr. Weeks?”
A glimmer of recognition crossed his face for a second. Then he set his jaw. “I know. The note; it’s my job.”
“Forget it. It’s good to see someone who takes their job seriously.”
He visibly relaxed his shoulders as he allowed a faint smile to appear.
“Forget the Mr. Weeks business. It’s Demarco all the way.”
“Al. Blue Palmetto Detective Agency,” I said. “I’m trying to find someone. I’m hoping you can help.”
He actually looked impressed. Most people don’t realize what a boring job being a PI is.
“If I can.”
“I’m looking for a cyclist.”
Demarco gave a little laugh and waved his hand in an arc around the village.
“Take your pick. With the limited parking situation in the village, a lot of the tourists rent bicycles.”
“I’m pretty sure this guy is a local.” I gestured toward the bike rack. “So I think the chances are pretty good he’s come here to go to the Post Office or whatever. He’s a young white guy. He’s inked on his leg with a bullet hole and exit wound. And if you got a close look at him, he has one eye that’s brown and the other that’s blue. Sound familiar?”
“Yeah, I’ve seen someone like that. But he doesn’t ride a bike. At least not a regular one. He drives a pedicab.”
A pedicab. Why didn’t I think of that?
“The bike cab company is a few blocks down from the plaza,” Demarco said. “Why don’t you go ask them?”
I looked from the parking lot to Ocean Boulevard, the main street through the village was jammed. Driving through the village can be an exercise in patience with the number of cars, scooters, and bicycles on the streets. I turned back to my new-found friend Demarco.
“Do you suppose I could leave my truck here for a few minutes while I run down to check out the cab company?”
Demarco smiled. “No can do. As it is, you parked without going into one of the shops.”
“Right.” I wasn’t happy, but good for him, I thought. You don’t find too many people who are serious about their jobs like that.
32
THE OFFICE FOR THE SUNRISE BIKE CAB and Scooter Rental company was located a block down from the Village Shopping center between a pizza restaurant and a souvenir store.
Besides offering rides in peddled vehicles that looked like the front end of a bicycle attached to a hansom cab, they rented the three wheeled cars that I had often seen tourists use to troll around the town. Made of fiberglass and painted jellybean colors, those vehicles had two wheels in front but only one in the back.
A pretty mechanic looked up from one of the vehicles she was working on and wiped her hands on a rag.
“Interested?”
I smiled my answer back to her.
She pointed toward a guy up by the office. “My father will take care of you.” She bent back over the machine. The guy was already headed my way.
“They’re disguised scooters, but they’re a lot of fun. I can get you into a rental with just your license and a credit card,” he said.
“Not today. What I’m here for is information,” I said.
“Sure. Besides these bad boys, we have bike cab rides, and island tours. You like history? We have a history tour that takes you over to Fort Pulaski National Monument.”
I shook my head no.
“Then there are the sailboard and kayak rentals. We even have a surf and turf combo that combines the kayak and bike cab tours. What are you interested in?” He took a step between me and his daughter’s backside.
“A guy with a tattoo.”
He gave me a perplexed look. “Hey, that’s cool. Whatever fills your sails. But maybe you should try one of the bars.”
I handed him one of the business cards Greenleaf had made for me. He looked at it. “Blue Palmetto, huh? I know the old guy. Same name. He your father?”
I nodded. “I’m looking for a specific guy. He’s got a tattoo that looks like he was shot in the leg and he has one eye that is blue. Word is he peddles a cab. Does he work for you?”
“I’ve got ten drivers and none of them fit that description.”
“You’re the only bike cab company on the island, aren’t you?”
“We were for five years. But lately a couple of independents have cropped up. One-man operations.”
The mechanic stood up from the three-wheeled car she was working on.
“I’m the owner,” she said. “The guy you’re looking for sounds like Tanner. Dave’s the worst. He’ll offer our customers a better price and steal them right out of our cab.”
“Sounds like a nice guy.”
“It’s fine with me. We’ve got more than enough business. But it’s the idea. You know?”
“Where can I find him?”
“Try down by the pavilion at the beach. The indies usually hang out there.”
I decided then and there that one of these days when I had some time, I was going to come by and rent one of those little cars.
*****
It was late, so I finally gave up and went home to do a computer search on David Tanner. I was surprised to find how many David Tanners were out there; over two hundred David Tanners on Facebook alone.
None of them were the one I was looking for. I wasn’t surprised. I don’t use Facebook myself. Most guys my age don’t. I had to open an account to do the search and I hoped none of my friends got wind that I was on it. Too uncool.
I tried Instagram and Twitter. There were almost as many David Tanners on those sites, too, but none of them were the dude I was looking for.
An Internet Phone search gave me a listing for David Tanner Photography in Savannah. No. Then there was a David Tanner electrician. Nope. David Tanner waste management, and David Tanner blacksmith. No and no.
I was surprised that I couldn’t find anything on the David Tanner I was looking for. How could someone not have an Internet footprint? Unless he was a ghost.
33
SUNDAY MORNING WAS OVERCAST, but the local news channels made a big deal out of promising that it would clear by noon. I think the weather people work hand in hand with the Chamber of Commerce to reassure the tourists that their Georgia vacation will be the best ever. At any rate, it was no morning for visitors to be taking rides in a pedicab, so I didn’t bother to go out and look for Tanner.
I spent the time going over other cases that had to be wrapped up. Every once in a while, I’d take a break to hop on the Internet to look at rentals in the L.A. area that were in close proximity to the ocean.
A one bedroom in Venice Beach ranged from 1,950 bucks a month for a closet sized 300 square feet to $3,300 for 800 square feet. In Santa Monica, 59 hundred big ones got you all of 900 square. Still not a huge place.
It may not have been the most productive use of my time considering how much work had to be done, not only on the cases my father left open but also getting to the truth behind the Andy Keller and Roscoe Hicks murders. But keeping the California dream alive was the only thing that stopped me from throwing up my hands and walking away. That and the fact that having a viable agency to sell, plus the money I would get from the prime location of my father’s house, was the only way I could afford to make my move to L.A.
As the morning wore on, I started to think about how I hadn’t been nice to Maxine. I know she thought I resented she was my boss. But I’ve had woman bosses before. I think my real problem was that I was out of my comfort zone finding myself in the situation of taking care of my parent. Not exactly a traditional role for a guy. And as much as I prided myself on being enlightened, I think I was t
aking it out on her. I decided that I should make amends. I sent her a text.
Me: Dinner?
I waited fifteen minutes and didn’t get a reply. This wasn’t a good sign. Finally, I decided to do it the old fashioned way. I punched her number into my phone.
I hate actually talking on the phone, probably because I don’t always filter what I say in a direct conversation. It rang several times and I was almost ready to hang up when she answered
“What do you need?” Her voice sounded less than warm.
“Is that any way to talk to someone who is going to make you dinner?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name. Is this Bobby Flay or Todd English?”
“Very Funny. No, this is some jerk who made a mistake and wants to make it up to you by making you my special balsamic chicken.”
“I don’t usually eat with jerks.”
“But you’ll make an exception this time?”
“Only because I want to see if you can cook.”
Max was making me work for this. Couldn’t she see it was my way of apologizing to her?
“Good. What time can I come over?”
There was a pause on the other end of the line. “I thought you were making dinner for me.”
“I will. But I thought it would be better if I made it at your place. I know you’ve got that nice kitchen and the oven doesn’t work over here.”
There was an audible sigh. “All right! Be here at four. But I’m not lifting a finger. And you’re bringing over all of the food.”
The lady drives a hard bargain.
I spent another couple of hours or so working on paperwork with the periodic Internet apartment hunting breaks. Then I went over to Max’s place carrying a bag full of groceries and two bottles of wine. It was only 3 o’clock.
“You’re early,” she said.
“I thought we’d have a drink before I started.” I made us each a rum and ginger beer using the liquor at her pool bar. I handed one to her.
“You didn’t even ask if I like ginger,” she said.
“Do you?” I sniffed my drink and took in the spicy sharp smell of the ginger beer.
“Yes.”
“We’re good then.” I clinked her glass.
We chilled for a while and she never mentioned Hilton Head. Better yet, she didn’t mention wanting to help me.
“Don’t you think you should start dinner?”
“I like being out here by the water with you,” I said.
“Are you reneging on your promise?”
“No. No, no, no, no. I never break a promise. You know that.”
I went inside and tried to figure out her induction stove while she sat out on the lawn by the water reading a food mystery set in Key West.
The plan was to have a nice dinner, some good wine, and then go down to Ava Island Beach to attend the drum circle. Following that we would go up to the village to have some ice cream at the Creamery, followed by whatever felt right. I was hoping that after all that attention, her idea of “right” would be the same as mine.
I put the chicken in the oven, set her table with some dishes and silverware that she had left out expecting me to use. They seemed a little fancy and more suited for the northern lifestyle, but if that’s what made the lady happy, who was I to question?
Then I went outside, stopping at the bar to make two more drinks, threw in some limes, and brought them down by the water. We spent a good fifteen minutes talking and watching a Great White Heron strut over the lawn.
The drum circle started about 5 o’clock and ended after the sun went down, which at that time of year would be about 8 o’clock. Sound carries easily on the island and we could already hear the drumming from down at the beach as we were finishing our drinks.
“If we eat now, we should still have an hour or so at the celebration,” I said.
When we went in the house, she seemed happy that the kitchen was totally clean and I had set a perfect table right down to candles.
“Maybe I underestimated you,” she said.
“Don’t worry about it, everyone does. But I’m full of surprises. Wait until I serve you my special chicken.”
She sniffed the air. “Funny. I don’t seem to smell it.”
I pulled out her chair for her. “You will. Sit here and I’ll be right back.”
I was back at the table in a flash. “Heh.”
“Where’s the chicken?”
“I kind of was rushing around setting the table and making the drinks and all.”
“And?”
“I forgot to turn on the oven.”
Max lowered her eyes to look at her empty plate. I couldn’t read if she was trying to stifle a laugh or if she was trying not to explode.
“I’m not hungry yet anyway,” she said. “Let’s leave the chicken to cook and go to the circle. A friend is going to be down there. It’s time you met some new people.”
I must have done something right in a past life to meet a woman as understanding as Max.
34
THE HOLLOW SOUNDS of the drum circle in the distance seemed to be drawing people out of their hotels and condos as if they were under a spell. Max and I walked the two blocks up to the beach along with most of the others.
As the parade of ramblers approached the crosswalk on Beach Street, I knew walking was the right decision. Ava Island Beach claims to be the #1 Beach in the U.S.A. From my previous visit there with Max, I’d say that could very well be true. There was certainly lots of white powdered sand that stretched in each direction. Still, a better claim would be Busiest Parking Lot in the U.S.A.—especially for the Sunday night drum circle.
If we had driven, we would have been in one of the hundreds of cars that were inching along bumper to bumper on the road, trying to get in the parking lot as the rhythm of the drums called to them. I was glad I had listened to Max.
A sign on the side of the road marked the street as an evacuation route. If traffic was this bad for a drum circle, it would be impossible to get off the island in an emergency. With only two bridges to the mainland, if a hurricane struck, my advice would be to stay put, get drunk, and kiss your ass goodbye.
“I’ve never seen it this bad,” Max said. “I should warn my friend. Can I borrow your phone?”
I handed her my cell and I could hear her telling someone about the traffic.
“When you get here, call back at this number and I’ll tell you where to meet us,” she said. When she hung up, she tried to give the phone back to me.
“Hold on to it until you get your call,” I told her as we navigated around cars illegally blocking the crosswalk.
We finally made it to the picnic benches on the other side of the street and started walking toward the music.
Far ahead, I noticed a bike cab with two flags bobbing on fiberglass rods behind it, one American and the other black, red, and gold. I’m not that up on current events, but I’m pretty sure those were the colors of the German flag.
The cabbie had managed to enter the lot by riding up on the grass to cut around the log jam of cars. It stopped near the pavilion. The passengers got out and headed up the steep sidewalk to the modern concrete structure built on stilts.
Instead of driving away, the cabbie pulled his rig under the building. I could only guess that he was told to wait for his passengers. When he got out, I could see that he was a tall guy, but from that distance I couldn’t see his eyes or if he had a tattoo. He headed toward the beach.
I grabbed Max’s hand to hurry her along, but I didn’t tell her about my hunch that Tanner was going to be at the drum circle.
“Let’s go this way,” I said.
We marched along one of the beach accesses that kept people from trampling the sea grass on the dunes. Once on the beach, we could see a crowd of frenzied dancers
on the beach side of the pavilion. We trudged on unable to resist the beat of drums.
Unlike drum circles I had seen on visits to L.A. where there might be a hundred or more players pounding on every type of drum imaginable, this circle had no more than a dozen players mostly on goblet shaped djembes, barrel congas, with a few Native American hand drums thrown in. As expected, the sound was deafening but more amazing were the hundreds of people of every age doing their thing. Some danced and others chanted. Still others sat in chairs and drank wine as they picnicked. Many took video with their phones. Every once in a while, a whiff of pot attested to the mellowness of the party.
The guy I suspected to be Tanner was standing near the drummers and talking to a young woman with a long red scarf. Suddenly, she started to dance as she wound the scarf in a suggestive way around her body. She grabbed his hand and pulled him into the dance on the sand. I had to get closer to the couple.
“Let’s dance,” I yelled to Maxine.
“Seriously?” she said.
“Definitely. We have to get in touch with our inner hippie.”
I’m not sure if she understood what I said, but we got into the merry crowd. At one point, Max held the phone to her ear as we danced. How she heard it ring, with all of that noise, I don’t know.
I tried to move closer to the couple, but a large woman wearing gossamer wings got between us. She grabbed my hand and Max took the other and before I knew it, we were in a circle of people dancing around the girl with the red scarf and Tall Guy. I couldn’t see if his left eye was blue but the infamous bullet hole tat on his leg was clear. It was even uglier than I had imagined. I had found Tanner at last.
A muscular guy with a toothy smile broke in and grabbed Max’s other hand. Max mouthed something in the way of an introduction, but I didn’t catch it. My concentration was on Tanner who seemed embarrassed by being the center of attention. I broke away from Max and her friend and stood next him. I tapped him on the shoulder.