When It's Time for Leaving

by Ang Pompano

45

  OF COURSE, THE PERSON who was taking my father out of the nursing facility could have been just about anyone, and maybe their reason for doing so was not as sinister as it appeared. But on the other hand, if it was Tanner, he could have been trying to set Big Al up for Keller’s murder. That could explain how the Lynches thought they saw my father on the boat with Keller. Then there was the possibility of Batshit. His beef was with me. He probably blamed me for his brother’s death and for wrecking his Mustang. It was getting late, but I decided I had to find Batshit and see if either of my theories was true.

  The Mustang Batshit was driving when he almost ran me over had Georgia plates with no frame. Most privately-owned vehicles have a vanity frame or at least a frame with the car dealer’s name. Even more telling was the barcode sticker I noticed when I almost spilled my brains on the bumper. The car was a rental but it wasn’t the usual Chrysler 200 or Camry. You didn’t get a car like that at an airport counter. Batshit obviously went to great lengths to find a Mustang exactly like the muscle car I destroyed on him. It didn’t take me long to find the only place in the area that would rent a car like that—Fantasy Car Rental in Savannah. I gave them a call, hoping they were open late. They were.

  “Hi, this is Poindexter Cockburn.” I had to choke back a laugh at the thought of his name. No wonder he and Psycho became criminals. They must have been in a schoolyard fight every day of their childhoods. “The ’stang I rented won’t start.”

  The female on the other end gushed sympathy, as she had been trained to do.

  “I’m so sorry for your inconvenience, Mr. Cockburn. We’ll get someone right out there. Are you still at the Surfside Motel on Tybee Island?”

  Okay. Just what I had hoped for.

  “Hey, wait a minute. I got it started. No need to come out.”

  I was still hanging up the phone as I ran out to the truck. Then I remembered my truck was a pile of burned out metal at the Givens place out in Waycross. I certainly was not going to take their hybrid. I ran back inside to get the keys to my father’s Mercedes.

  With the top down and the wind whipping at my hair, I decided that I had been a dumbass to refuse my father’s wheels. Sweet.

  If Batshit wasn’t at the Surfside Motel when I got there, I’d wait all night if need be. He started this harassment but I was going to end it, and if he had anything to do with my father’s disappearance, he was going to wish he had stayed in Connecticut.

  When I got to the motel, I didn’t see his car until I drove around to the back of the building. It was parked by a lawn reserved for guests who needed to walk their dogs.

  I got out and inspected the Mustang. It was almost identical to the ride that got Twizzlefied on the bridge back home, except this one had a built in GPS. Good choice in upgrades, in my opinion.

  “Well, if it isn’t the PI. I have to take back my words. Maybe you are some kind of detective.”

  Batshit was standing at the back entrance of the motel.

  “The lady from the car rental called and said she thought something was afoot,” he said.

  He started to walk across the driveway to the car.

  “The notes are going to stop, Poindexter.”

  “I think you are correct.”

  I thought I saw a small knife in his hand as he lurched forward. I grabbed his arm while kicking out my leg and hooking it around his. He went flying and landed on his side, his cheek resting in a pile of crap that must have come from a great Dane.

  “Damn!” I said. I couldn’t have done that if I tried.

  Batshit sat up and pulled a bandana from his pocket. He rubbed his face so hard I thought he would bleed.

  “Man, what is the matter with you? I was going to open the door to show you the leather.”

  I realized then that what I thought was a knife was a key fob. My mistake.

  “You’ve been leaving threatening notes on my truck.”

  “Can’t take a joke? That was nothing compared to what you and my asshole brother did to my wheels.”

  Was that any way for him to talk about his dead brother?

  “Murder isn’t a joke. Not even in Georgia,” I said.

  “Murder? It was a note. Or two.”

  “Three to be exact.”

  “Still. They didn’t harm anyone. What are you talking about murder?”

  “You’ve been following me. You were even in Hilton Head.”

  “So what? I was only trying to find a way for us to come face to face so I could tell you thanks, and not to worry about the car.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The car. My Mustang. It was a small price to pay to get away from my brother. It was because of him that I ended up in the state college system.”

  I hadn’t heard that euphemism for jail in a while.

  “When the lawyer from Yale got me sprung, I got a new chance on life and that would not be possible if my dear departed brother were still walking this earth.”

  “You serious, Batshit?”

  “Did I shoot you when I had the chance?”

  “You didn’t have a gun.”

  “Well, there you go. I’m a reformed man. And do not call me Batshit from this day on. My name is Poindexter.”

  With a name like Poindexter Cockburn, it wasn’t going to be easy for the guy to go straight, but I believed he meant to try. I helped him up.

  “Tell me one more thing,” I said. “How long have you been down here in Georgia?”

  “A little over a week. You know. When the notes started.”

  “Of all of the places in Georgia, you happened to pick Savannah?”

  “No. I knew you were here. It’s all over the street back home. Hey, I hear you threw your badge at your chief. Well. Done. Sir!”

  Like I needed Batshit’s approval. Someone had been helping my father leave the nursing facility for quite a while. It couldn’t have been Batshit if he just arrived a week ago. I asked anyway.

  “Have you ever been to The Palms?”

  “A restaurant?”

  “A rest home.”

  “Like with smelly old people? No way.” He looked at the Mercedes. “You came in that sweet machine? Where’s your truck?”

  “Probably in the scrapyard by now.”

  “You wrecked another vehicle? Dude! Where did you get your license, at McDonalds?”

  46

  SO BATSHIT ADMITTED RESPONSIBILITY for the notes but apparently, he was not the one who was helping my father sneak out of the nursing facility. The only thing I could do was turn my attention back to finding Tanner.

  The drag queen had said I’d find Tanner down at the fishing tournament at an ungodly hour. There is no hour more ungodly than 4:00 in the morning, so I set the alarm on my smartphone to go off at 3:30. A quick shower and a cup of black coffee shot some life into me and I drove down to the pier.

  Ava Island Fishing Pier sits beneath the black and white iron lighthouse on the island’s southernmost point. According to the sign on the beach, the deep channel that runs in front of the pier is a pathway from the Atlantic for spotted trout, striper, tarpon, and the sharks that follow them into the mouth of the Savannah.

  The sky was still dark but already fifty or so people had claimed their fishing spots. They stood in silence toying with their rods amid the smell of bait, beer, and tobacco smoke. The light of several Coleman lanterns cast a faint glow over the whole scene while every fifteen seconds the sky above brightened with the flash from the lighthouse.

  Down at the end, a chubby guy in a tropical shirt with matching shorts got a hit.

  “It’s a nice size tarpon,” someone next to him said. “There ya go. Keep pressure. Rod down. Down.”

  “Hammerhead!” Someone yelled.

  The fisherman started to panic and tugged at the pole in a useless effort
to pull the tarpon away from the shark.

  Someone dropped a lantern tied to a rope down close to the water. The attacking shark was a good ten feet long and I could clearly see its eyes set at the ends of its mallet shaped head. Several people gathered around.

  “Keep it low,” someone from the crowd said.

  “I need some help,” the fisherman said as the shark almost made him lose his rod over the side.

  A young guy grabbed the rod just in time. The light from the lighthouse flashed as if to remind me that I wasn’t there for the fishing. I took a good look at the guy. It was Tanner.

  “You take over,” the chubby guy said to him. “I’m too out of shape.”

  The hammerhead kept hitting at the tarpon until the injured fish swam under the pier in an effort to escape. The rod bent as Tanner fought to bring in the fish.

  I maneuvered next to him. “We’re going to talk sooner or later,” I said to Tanner.

  The tarpon swam from under the pier and the line screamed out.

  “What’s this about?”

  The giant hammerhead hit the tarpon again. The injured fish leapt from the water.

  “Andy Keller,” I said.

  “I’m a little busy here. The Cottage Restaurant... 7:30 tonight... I’ll be across the street.”

  Only a jerk would ruin someone’s fishing experience of a lifetime. “Sure. And give that line some slack,” I said and walked off the pier.

  I’m not the most trusting guy in the world, but I had a gut feeling that Tanner would show up as promised at the Cottage restaurant. And if he didn’t, I’d find him again, but the next time I wouldn’t be as easy on him.

  *****

  You won’t see a Netflix detective spending hours poring over real estate documents at the Hall of Records. But in order to prove a local businessman was investing in land with money that he skimmed from his partner, that’s what I was doing. There were no lights, no cameras, and definitely no action to keep my mind on the task. My mind kept drifting to Max. I had no reason to think that things were ever going to be the same for us, but I decided that I should ask her to dinner anyway. It was my way of showing her that I still wanted to be friends even if she had hooked up with the guy from the drum circle. I sent a text to Max.

  Me: Dinner at the Cottage tonight?

  It took a while for her to get back to me. I was thinking either she didn’t want to bother or she had something going with Jeff.

  Max: Okay. 8:30.

  That wouldn’t work with the window Tanner had given me.

  Me: 7:15 would be better.

  Again, a delay.

  Max: Fine.

  I could almost hear the huff through the text message.

  *****

  The restaurant was one of the more upscale on the island, decked out as if it had been a fisherman’s cottage, with a huge blue marlin on the sign over the entrance. Fake pilings that ran along the sidewalk and up the steps were strung with heavy rope.

  Max seemed to be in a good mood. “Let’s sit out back in the open air by the band. I love it back there.”

  Yeah, it was nice, even kind of romantic, back there. But it was too secluded. I wouldn’t have been able to see when Tanner arrived for our meeting across the street.

  The hostess greeted us and asked where we preferred to sit.

  “Hey, out here on the front porch would be great,” I said.

  She led us to a table by the railing with a splendid view of the street. When we sat, Max had a disappointed look on her face.

  “What?”

  “I asked to sit out on the patio.”

  “You did? I’m sorry. I guess I’m a little nervous. I’m so excited to be here with you. I’ll get the hostess.”

  “It’s fine. There’s a nice breeze out here.”

  Crisis averted. I passed on the basil mojito that Max ordered and took a craft beer instead. We both agreed on the Cottage’s famous lobster sushi roll.

  While we waited for our food, I kept an eye across the street as I drank my beer. I was trying my best to make small talk, but Max could tell I had something on my mind.

  “You seem a little distracted.”

  If I told her that I was actually working, she would not have understood. This was supposed to be a nice dinner between friends, not a stake out.

  “No. Not at all.”

  She took another sip of her drink. I could smell the basil from across the table. I much preferred my malty IPA and ordered another when a waiter went by.

  “You polished that off pretty fast. What’s bothering you?”

  “Nothing. You like that drink?”

  “It’s good.”

  “I hate the smell of basil. It smells like cheap aftershave.”

  She raised her eyebrows. I should have left it at that.

  “Speaking of aftershave. When I got my phone from your beach bag, I noticed you had my shampoo on your vanity, along with deodorant and a bunch of other stuff.”

  Maybe I should have gone for subtleness but they didn’t teach subtle at the police academy.

  Max pulled back a bit as if she thought I was going to bite.

  “Your?”

  “Well, I don’t mean mine. I mean stuff like I have. You know, men’s stuff.”

  “Your point?”

  “I’m not sure if there is one anymore.” After I blurted it out, I wished I had told her I was distracted because I was waiting for Tanner to show up.

  Max started to giggle which is not the reaction I had expected.

  “So, you think those products belong to another guy?”

  “I don’t care who they belong to.”

  “Maybe someone who stays over. Jeff maybe?” Max was truly trying to set me up. I felt like a skunk in a catch and release trap, but she had no intention of releasing me. At least not until I squirmed and begged for a while.

  “Not my business.” And it wasn’t.

  Her giggles turned into a full-blown laugh. I looked around to see if people were looking at us. I downed a gulp of beer.

  “You never heard of the Pink Tax. Have you?”

  I shook my head.

  “Well, like so many other things, it’s a rip off for women. We spend 50% more for products aimed at us that sometimes have exactly the same ingredients as those made for men. So, I tried the men’s products.”

  “They were in the guest bathroom.”

  “Because I decided I didn’t want to smell like a man, so I put them there.”

  I tried to make a joke of my stupid assumptions. “I’m glad you didn’t like them. The price of men’s products would probably go up.”

  The waiter came with the food in time to save me from putting my foot further into my mouth. He served Max a rectangular plate with a huge lobster tail shell filled with lobster and rice rolled in seaweed. I snatched some wasabi from her plate with a fork. As he put my plate in front of me, I spotted Tanner’s bike cab with the flags on the fiberglass rods pull up across the street by the Double Yoke Breakfast Bar.

  I hopped up. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Again?” Max sounded as if she had almost expected me to abandon her once more.

  “This won’t take long. I promise.”

  47

  I DASHED DOWN THE PORCH STAIRS and ran across the street toward Tanner.

  He looked as if he were about to say something when the expression changed on his face. I heard a car roaring down the street from the direction of the water. It seemed like the car was aiming for the bike cab. A second later, there was a loud crash and the bike cab rolled sideways, pinning me against the trunk of a parked car, which absorbed most of the impact. Tanner was thrown from the cab, scrambled to his feet and ran down Main Street.

  I was stunned but lucid enough to realize that the car took off spee
ding through the traffic circle and passed the gazebo on the opposite corner. I recognized it as the 1960 Pontiac that I had admired in Demarco’s parking lot. In my mind, that pretty much confirmed that it was the same car that forced me into the canal.

  Some people pulled the bike cab away, freeing me, and I took off after Tanner. He was about 200 feet ahead when I saw him force a tourist off a motor scooter and take off with it. I stopped running when I got to the bike cab company, and watched as he turned down a side street. He’d shaken me off before; I wasn’t going to let it happen again. The owner of the pedi-cab place was sitting at an umbrella table up by the office door.

  “I need one of your cars.” I pointed to the weird little vehicles with three wheels that I had seen her working on a few days before.

  “I need a copy of your license and credit card info,” she said.

  I ran up and threw my license and AmEx card on the table.

  “Hold these. I’ll be back to settle up.”

  “How do I know the card isn’t stolen?”

  She had to pick now to get technical. I held my license next to my face to show her my picture. “Look, it’s me. Look at the card. Same name. You know me from the other day, for crying out loud.” I reached in my pocket and pulled out $75. I put it on the table. “It’s all the cash I have on me. Trust me.”

  “I need paper work.”

  “This is an emergency. You can find me at the Blue Palmetto Detective Agency, if I don’t bring back the vehicle.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

  “Please. Your father knows my father.”

  Funny I should play that card. Even I wouldn’t trust someone who used my father as a reference.

  She threw me a set of keys.

  “You’ll have to take the pink one. I shouldn’t do this.”

  “Trust me,” I said as I jumped into the tiny scooter car that looked like an egg on three wheels.

  “Wait.” She ran down to hand me my license. “You’ll need this. And I’m keeping the credit card until you bring it back.”

  I peeled off down the street, zipping around cars until I took the same street that I had seen Tanner turn down. I followed the street until I got to the end where I had to make a right turn on a one-way road that headed west along the Savannah River. As I putt-putted past the last high rise to one of the few undeveloped areas on the island, I realized he was headed toward Little Beach, the same beach that Max and I had walked to. Just ahead, I spotted Tanner. He took a left and I followed. The road ended abruptly at the beach. He ditched the stolen bike and ran along the sand. I jumped out of my three-wheeler and followed. We passed the pilings that marked the long-gone dock. I chased him along the small beach until he got to a point where the beach was no longer passable. He tried to scramble over the rocks that formed the jetty out into the water. As he struggled to climb over the rocks, I tackled him, dragging him down to the sand. As I pinned him, he grabbed a piece of driftwood and whacked me on the side of the head. Stunned for a minute, I let up on my hold and he scrambled from under me. I rubbed my head with my hand to ease the pain.