Acoustic Shadows

by Patrick Kendrick

  Thiery liked places with local colour, even if they were, at times, less than aseptic. It was getting late but he had to see what might lure Erica Weisz to a place that would, in all likelihood house bikers and local rednecks. Maybe she liked that type? Who the hell knew? What chafed at him more, at the moment, was why had Conroy called him back to give him this information?

  Thiery had been yearning for a drink ever since he’d turned down that lonely woman’s offer for a beer earlier so why not? He was frustrated about the missing teacher. Without her, there was no way he was going to close this investigation. He could be living at the Sun Beam Motel for weeks, if not months. Stepping up to the bar, he ordered a Crown on the rocks with a lemon twist, and got a plastic cup, the booze with a little ice, and a chunk of brown-rimmed lime. Close enough, he thought, trying not to show his disdain. He hated plastic cups and old fruit served in dingy bars.

  ‘You don’t have glasses?’ he enquired.

  The bartender, a thirty-something, bottle-blonde with smoky eyes and a world-weary look offered him an answer. ‘No, sir,’ she said. ‘They get broke in here.’

  ‘But you serve beer in bottles?’

  She smiled and shrugged. ‘What can I say? It’s corporate.’

  You drink Kool-Aid out of plastic cups at a kid’s birthday party, he thought. But, hey, it’s just a nightcap, right? Ask around, see if anything turns up. A quick drink and move on. It’s not exactly the preferred dark wood bar with good company and some good jazz or blues.

  He tried not to be self-conscious about people staring at him. It was obviously a neighbourhood place, he was the new face, and his massive size didn’t help. He tried not to listen to the alcohol-fuelled opinions of the citrus pickers, farmers, truckers, and bikers holed up in the bar like bats in a cave, most since happy hour. A football game was on, and he allowed himself a moment to get caught up in the action. He couldn’t watch a game without thinking of his past on the gridiron. The memories came with a melancholy pang of self-doubt and the ever present question, what if? Still, he allowed the self-torture.

  ‘You gonna nurse that drink all night, or you want another?’ asked the bartender as she held up his near-empty cup. The plastic name tag on her tight, tank top read ‘Gabby.’ The side of her mouth turned into a crooked smile. She wore pale, pink, pearlescent lipstick and leaned over, her elbows on the bar top, her breasts brushing the caps of the chilled booze bottles.

  Thiery smiled pleasantly while he pulled his phone out and thumbed through documents until he found the school board picture of Erica Weisz. ‘I’m just nursing tonight, Gabby,’ he answered. ‘But, I was wondering if maybe you remember seeing my friend.’ He held up the picture so she could see it.

  Gabby squinted, then nodded. ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘On the news the past couple days, Sherlock. You a reporter?’

  ‘No. Just nosey.’

  Gabby shook her head but smiled. She leaned forward with the bottle of Crown and refilled his glass anyway.

  Thiery smiled back and nodded his gratitude. ‘You’ve seen her here?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  Thiery looked around the smoky, blue-collar bar. He figured a bartender might make about forty dollars on a good night serving the clientele. None appeared to be big tippers. Not enough to keep the lights on at the trailer, he supposed. He pulled a crisp fifty out of his wallet and slid it across the bar to her.

  She looked up, pursing her mouth and widening her eyes. ‘Drinks are only four bucks, and it’s two-for-one night.’

  ‘’S’okay,’ said Thiery. ‘I’m rich.’

  Gabby grinned at him and the fifty vanished. There was a customary bell behind the bar. She turned and rang it a few times, signifying she had received an ample tip. She spun around back to him, grinning ear to ear. ‘I don’t get to ring that bell much.’

  ‘I’m glad I could help,’ said Thiery, knowing it sounded corny.

  She loved it. Leaning forward conspiratorially, she said, ‘She came in here, that girl. Once. I was working. I remember, ’cause she had beautiful black hair, all glossy and nice, nice clothes, too, but she was wearing running shoes instead of nice flats or heels. I remember the poor thing don’t know how to dress right.’

  ‘You talk to her?’

  ‘No, other than to get her a beer she ordered. It was one of those ultra-light beers. They taste like water, you know.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  Gabby shook her head. ‘No. She just danced.’

  ‘Who did she dance with?’

  ‘That’s the thing. She didn’t dance with anybody. She just danced. Coupl’a guys hit on her, but she blew ’em off. She’s here maybe half-hour, forty-five minutes, then left with a guy that came to meet her. Pretty girl.’ She began to fill Thiery’s cup again, but he capped it with his hand.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I’m good. Do you remember what the man looked like?’

  Gabby smiled coyly. ‘Like you, a cop,’ she answered, ‘but a lot older.’

  ‘What makes you think I’m a cop?’

  ‘You all look alike. Cops have sad eyes, like maybe they regret something they’ve done. He looked sadder than you, though; kind of a basset hound face. Hair was silver streaked, slicked back. Not as tall as you, but a good six feet. Suit and tie, maybe like a Fed?’

  From a nearby corner of the room, a hawk-nosed man, long and lean, and red faced from the sun, was on a soapbox, his voice booming in spite of his emaciated look. As his voice rose, Thiery and the bartender couldn’t help but glance in his direction. His creased leathery neck undulated as he spoke; his hands still greasy from whatever mechanical work he was doing, the scent of oil and baked-on sweat wafting off him. His long, grey-streaked hair pulled back in a ponytail. There was a long knife in a scabbard attached to his tooled leather belt. He wore Army fatigues, though it was obvious to Thiery he wasn’t a soldier.

  Beware of civilians wearing camouflage, thought Thiery. No good can come from them.

  The recipient of the thin man’s wisdom was a big man, as wide as he was tall, his pudgy face so fat it looked as if it might explode, his eyes bugging out like a bufo toad, his head pinched up into a cap that looked as if it might belong to a child, that was, if it didn’t say: Be Kind To Animals, Kiss A Pussy. He ate up every word from the thin man as if he were listening to the governor himself, a bulge in the back of his lower shirt telling Thiery he was packing, too.

  ‘Tha’s right,’ said the thin man, ‘we don’t know wha’ happened inside that school an’ who was shootin’ who, but I cain’t see no reason for that teacher to run off. Maybe one of those shooters was her boyfriend, an’ she was fuckin’ around, an’ he came to make it right. Who knows?’

  ‘Uh, huh,’ said the fat one. ‘See the picture of her on the news? I’d take a run at that. She’s got that “come hither” look and I’d cum hither all over that.’ He snorted and, hooking his heels into the rung on the barstool, managed to stand and grab his crotch, then perform a masturbatory gesture.

  Gabby shrugged, turned away, and busied herself with wiping off the sticky bar.

  The thin man tried to copy his buddy, and, in an attempt to situate his heels on his own stool while grabbing his crotch, lost his balance and fell backward. Some of his drink splashed on Thiery and a few other patrons at the crowded bar. Seemingly unhurt, the man sat up, still holding what was left of his beer. Noticing he’d made a mess on Thiery’s jacket, the thin man pulled the wet bar rag out of Gabby’s hand and headed for the detective’s coat sleeve.

  ‘Cool it, Mr Clean,’ Thiery announced, pulling the rag out of the man’s hands and passing it back to the bartender, while shooting the drunk a levelling a stare that would turn antifreeze to ice.

  ‘Well, excuuuuuse me, sir,’ he said moving into Thiery’s space. ‘It’s not like you’re at the opera tonight, right. You’re in our bar, and sometimes it gets a little messy in here.’

  ‘It’s going to get a lot messier if you don’t back away,’ said Thiery.
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  He knew he should leave, but his frustration had grown and, with the two drinks in his system, his patience had diminished. He felt hot blood begin to well up from some place below his collar, rise up the thermometer that was his neck, and push against the back of his eyes. He turned back to the television, tried to cool down, but football was on and that sure as hell wasn’t going to help.

  The bottle stung for a second as it broke against the back of his head. He felt something warm and liquid ooze down his scalp and onto his neck. His vision began to pulsate, not from the injury, but from the unfettered anger that instantly swelled. Thiery stood up and turned, trembling from rage.

  ‘Eeeyooou,’ said the thin man. ‘We got us a scrapper here, Jerry.’

  Jerry, the fat one, squinted his eyes and approached the bar. Thiery couldn’t tell if he was trying to look mean or just couldn’t see well.

  ‘Hey, man,’ the fat guy started, ‘I’m sorry about my friend here smashin’ you in the head. You okay? Can I get you a towel or something? Oh, man, wait, are you …’ The man paused to search for a name, then turned to his friend. ‘Ben,’ he grabbed the thin man by the arm and pointed at Thiery, ‘don’t you know who this is? It’s Justin Thiery, the Magic Man from UF’s Gators from, what, about twenty-five years ago? Where the hell you been man?’ He was talking to Thiery again. ‘Let me buy you a drink.’

  Thiery said nothing. He finished the last of his drink, letting the ice clink against his teeth, the blood trickle down his neck. Try to cool off, man, he said to himself. You might be off the clock, but you’re never off the job.

  ‘You don’t say,’ said Ben, his baritone voice dripping sarcasm. ‘I didn’t know we had a rich celebrity right here!’

  ‘Yeah, he was that quarterback, doncha ’member? He won The Heisman and the college pennant that year, but, when he went to the NFL, he couldn’t cut it.’

  ‘Yeah, I ’member now,’ said Ben. ‘They traded him off to the Jets, where he sucked like all those fuckers from New York do. Then after that it was … ’

  ‘The Patriots!’ the fat man interrupted with excitement. ‘But, he never got past the preseason. Didn’t have what it takes. Just couldn’t cut it.’

  He took a swallow of beer, and his tongue worked its way out of his mouth, across his tarter encrusted teeth and over his purple lips.

  Thiery put down the plastic cup and turned his full attention toward the two drunks. It dawned on him that he’d been set up, possibly by the man who suggested he come in the first place: Conroy. Thiery didn’t care. He’d grown weary of the local redneck mentality, including the one shared by Conroy and his minions. Their dumb-ass philosophies and backwoods way of doing business, none of which was helping the investigation, but hampering it. He’d grown up around people like this, who liked to think of themselves as simple country folk, but in truth, were ignorant opportunists whose only allegiance was to whoever bought their last beer.

  ‘You’ve got a good memory, Jerry,’ said Thiery. ‘For a fat ass with a tiny head full of booze, you got most of it right. Guess you didn’t remember the shoulder injury, but what the hell, at least you haven’t forgotten your way to the trough.’

  Ben’s eyes went wide in surprise, his mouth a perfect ‘O.’ He acted as if he might turn away even as his hand dropped to his side and onto the handle of his knife.

  Thiery did not hesitate. He reached forward and grabbed Ben’s hand, his own grip like the jaws of an alligator. He squeezed until he felt something crunch, then angled the wrist up until the man went to his knees.

  The fat one wiggled to a standing position, his porcine arms darting around his back. But, he was not quick or flexible enough. Thiery pushed Ben forward and let him fall face first to the floor, then grabbed a barstool by the seat and swung the legs into the unguarded face of the man’s friend. The blow tore Jerry’s cheek and snapped his head around, but he remained standing and, now, Ben was trying to rise from the floor and get back into the fray.

  Thiery stepped forward, kicking Ben in the ribs, eliciting a scream that was high pitched compared to his booming speaking voice. Then, without missing a stride, Thiery continued his forward movement and spun, jutting his elbow up and into the face of Jerry, feeling the nose break like a cracker. Thiery spun him around and took the weapon from his belt. As suspected, it was a revolver. He opened it, took the bullets out, dumping them into his hand and putting them in his pocket. He walked around the end of the bar and tossed the gun into a sink filled with grey dish-water.

  Gabby stood, staring at him, her mouth hanging open.

  Thiery showed her his badge and said, ‘I’m leaving, but you might want to call the police. These guys are apt to be a little pissed.’

  ‘But you’re a cop,’ she said.

  At that, he shrugged, straightened his jacket, and started to leave. He stopped, noticing Ben’s attempts to regain his footing.

  ‘Don’t get up until I’m gone,’ Thiery warned and walked out of the bar, past tables of people who had grown as silent as children in Sunday School.

  He was just getting into his car when his phone rang. It was Chief Dunham again.

  ‘Agent Thiery,’ he greeted, ‘something popped up on my radio before I could get home, and I knew you’d want to know.’

  ‘What is it, Chief?’ asked Thiery, cupping his hand around his phone to keep the sound of passing cars and the bar’s country music from seeping in. He sat behind the wheel trying to think straight, brush off the bottle-to-the head assault, but the laceration was stinging like a bee sting.

  ‘One of the guys looking for the car is also a friend of mine from church. He thought he was just helping out, but now he’s had some second thoughts, so he called me. Says a bunch of the guys are carrying guns and drinking and whooping it up.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound like a good combination,’ said Thiery. He found napkins from a fast food joint in the glove box and dabbed at the back of his head.

  ‘He also said they think they’ve found that black Camaro up in Lake Wales. Are you still up that way?’

  Thiery almost choked as he pushed the keys into the ignition. ‘Yeah. Do you have an address?’

  ‘I do. It’s 10909 Guava Lane. It’s in a residential area between Lake Rosalie and Lake Tiger.’

  Thiery found his iPad in the glove box and made a note of the address. Wrote it down on his iPad. ‘Are you coming up?’

  Dunham was silent for a moment, then said, almost woefully, ‘No. I better not. I got a call from the city manager tonight. He reminded me the Sebring taxpayers pay my salary, and I’ve got responsibilities here.’

  ‘No shit,’ said Thiery. ‘I’ll give him a call as soon as … ’

  ‘Thanks, Agent Thiery,’ the Chief interrupted. ‘But, don’t bother. He’s already talked to the governor, who indicated he had issues with the investigation, too. Said the lead was going to be reassigned to Sheriff Conroy. Thought you might like to know that, too. They’ll make a press statement tomorrow morning. Something about giving authority back to local law enforcement with jurisdiction over the school and putting the FDLE into an advisement capacity.’

  Thiery felt his blood begin to boil. Again. He felt embarrassed, as if he’d done something wrong – or was it that old feeling of ineptitude creeping back in? He wasn’t sure what to say to Dunham. ‘Well, uh, thanks for letting me know first, Chief. I haven’t been recalled as of yet, so you and I didn’t have this conversation, okay?’

  ‘What conversation, sir?’

  Thiery smiled. Dunham was a good man, but in the wrong place. ‘Thanks for everything, Chief. You’ve been a big help.’

  ‘Not so much, but, if you need me, don’t hesitate to call. I’d like to know why Miss Weisz ran. And, I’d like to shake her hand one day, too, just for keeping those kids safe.’

  ‘You got it,’ said Thiery. On his tablet, he tapped the map app and punched in the address Dunham gave him. It read: 16.6 miles, 24 minutes. He was sure he could make it in ten.


  When the Lopez brothers got to Guava Lane, there were so many vehicles there they had to check the address again. There were only a few houses on the street to the left and a wide, open lake to the right. But, in front of one of the tiny cinder-block homes were about a dozen pickup trucks. In their rented, metallic green Chrysler 300, they felt out of place on the shell rock road dotted with potholes.

  ‘Must be someone having a party,’ said Eduardo, referring to all the pickups lining one side of the road.

  They drove by the parked trucks, slowly, saw the address, 10909, but kept going. They found a cross street, hung a left, turned out the lights, then backed onto Guava Lane, so they could watch the house.

  ‘What the fuck?’ said Alejandro. ‘These rednecks her friends?’

  ‘I don’t think so’ answered his brother. ‘Why would they all still be standing around outside?’

  ‘Maybe they’re undercover cops?’

  Eduardo watched them through the streaky, lovebug spattered windshield. He could make out a group of men talking outside, leaning against their trucks. A few of them cracked open beers, and he saw them spitting long, brown squirts of chewing tobacco. ‘I don’t think so, hermano,’ he said. ‘These guys just rolled out of the turnip fields.’

  Alejandro was the older brother, the thinker. Quiet compared to Eduardo, and more patient. He considered their options. They could go back to the hotel, but if they lost the target doing so, there would be hell to pay with the Esperanzas. They could do a full frontal attack, but he sensed these rednecks likely all had guns in their trucks; he’d seen some framed in the windows as they drove by. They might not be accustomed to using them on people, and he was sure he could mow half them down in minutes, but that was risky, too, and would draw unwanted attention.

  As if reading his brother’s mind, Eduardo said, ‘I can sneak around back and take a look inside. If it’s too dicey, we don’t go in. If the woman is just sitting in there watching TV, we slip her out the back or take her down while these guys are out here finishing their beers.’