Fever Tree

by Tim Applegate

  Jesse and his partner were the first to arrive on the scene. According to the dispatcher, a call from a neighbor had described a loud, vehement argument spilling out onto the sidewalk, onto the street. Shouted threats, a sudden fistfight and finally, according to the caller, gunshots. But when Jesse and his partner pulled up to the house on Mulberry Drive, all was quiet. They drew their guns and crept warily toward the front porch. Standing off to the side, Jesse rapped on the door, to no response. He signaled his partner to call backup. Then he announced that he was going in.

  Later Jesse told a team of investigators, sent down from Tallahassee in the wake of the shooting, that it was so dark inside the house he could hardly see what he was doing.

  But why’d you go inside in the first place, one of the investigators asked. Why didn’t you wait for backup?

  Because I heard a child in there, Jesse mumbled. And she was crying.

  Eventually Officer Taylor was cleared of any official wrongdoing but from that day on the shooting haunted his dreams and his work began to suffer. Time after time a bedroom door swung open and a bare-chested black man appeared in a glaring wedge of light, brandishing a pistol. Pointing his own gun, Jesse ordered the suspect to drop his weapon but the man ignored him, raising his shaky hand, waving the barrel in the air. At that point, Jesse told the investigators, I had no choice but to protect myself. He squeezed off a shot and then watched in horror and incomprehension as the bullet shattered the skull of twelve-year-old Tina Johnson, who had been standing behind her father the moment he dove away. Night after night Jesse woke in a sweat, sometimes screaming. Shell shock, his captain informed the commissioner, shaking his head. To avoid any further public outcry, the commissioner recommended dismissal, and the department let Jesse go.

  Just south of New Port Richey, Colt stopped for lunch at a roadside cafe. The key to a drug run was to not think about the duffel bag stuffed with six kilos of cocaine locked and hidden behind a false panel in the trunk of your car. The key was to embrace distraction, to concentrate on something else, like the statuesque legs of the waitress, for instance, who now sashayed down the old-fashioned stainless steel counter to take his order, a tall, shapely blonde in her mid thirties with a pleasant if not particularly memorable face. When she caught him looking, she didn’t shy away.

  What’ll you have?

  Whatever you recommend, darlin’.

  She was chewing gum, but he wasn’t going to hold that against her. What I recommend, she replied, returning his bold stare, is that you tell me what you want. Why don’t we start with that?

  Colt waited a few moments, savoring the repartee. Then he folded his paper menu and slipped it back into its metal holder. What I want—I mean, you know, right now—is a Reuben sandwich. As the waitress sauntered away he checked her out again, head to toe. Those legs were driving him crazy.

  The diner was a dive and his Reuben sandwich was almost tasteless but Colt didn’t care. Even though there was only one other customer at the counter the waitress kept passing back and forth behind it, filling the salt shakers or replacing the ketchup bottles, any excuse to give Colt another glance at those astonishing legs. Once she even bent over, instead of kneeling down, to grab a handful of coffee filters from a cardboard box in a cabinet near the floor, stretching her white skirt tight across her bum.

  That Reuben okay?

  He slid the empty plate away. Tell you the truth, I’ve had better.

  She leaned over the counter, lowering her voice. Yeah well, who hasn’t? Without asking if he wanted any more, she refilled his glass with water. Then she set his check down next to it. So you headin’ down to the Glades or what?

  Talk to no one, Teddy advised. Do what you want on the way back, but on the way down, talk to no one.

  Just passin’ through, he said as casually as he could.

  The waitress studied him for another minute. Too bad.

  Ain’t it? He laid a ten on the counter, grinning. ‘Course you never know when a guy like me’ll be passin’ through again.

  That right?

  Catch you later, darlin’.

  You do that.

  By the time he reached the turnoff to Everglades City the sun had dropped below telephone poles crowned with osprey nests, casting a rosy glow over the hardwood hammocks. There was little traffic today and a deadly silence hung over the coastal prairie, that vast sea of grass. A couple miles past the turnoff he veered south onto an unmarked road where his tires churned dry gravel, raising a cloud of white dust and startling a snowy egret nesting in the dark arms of a roadside mangrove. Spooked, the egret wheeled over the tidal flats that bordered the road as Colt rolled down his window, smelling the brine in the air, close to the saltwater now.

  If he had been given a choice, he would have preferred to drive on down to Islamorada tonight and get this over with. But Teddy Mink didn’t like his mules to tire, so he had secured a safe house outside Everglades City, a place where Colt could get something to eat and a good night’s sleep before continuing on in the morning.

  He pulled up to a tee in the road and hung another left. In the distance, he could see the blade of a white sail and farther out, the dark smudges of the Ten Thousand Islands. Then the gravel road turned into hard-packed dirt scarred by deep potholes he swerved to avoid, driving at a snail’s pace.

  After two or three more bone-jarring miles, a weathered clapboard house loomed into view at the end of a shaded driveway. He pulled into the drive and got out of the car, stretching his legs. The safe house was silent. In the patchy front yard a tire swing hung by one strand of its rope from the crooked limb of a mimosa.

  On the veranda that wrapped around the house he noticed movement, a shadow. Then the screen door creaked open, framing a petite middle-aged woman wearing frayed denim shorts and a loose Indian blouse. The woman’s skin was walnut brown from the sun but oddly unwrinkled from such exposure. She approached the car, unsmiling, severe.

  You must be Colt.

  Yes ma’am.

  She gave him a look. Ma’am? Did you just call me ma’am?

  Colt shrugged, suddenly weary from the long drive. Look, I don’t even know you, lady. I was just being polite. What, he wondered, was this bitch’s problem?

  Uh-huh. All business now, the woman nodded at an outbuilding, a fishing cabin built on stilts over the flats. A rickety dock extended out from the cabin, the old cedar pilings scarred and pockmarked by a hundred years of storms.

  You can sleep out there.

  Ignoring the woman’s brittle attitude, Colt’s eyes swarmed over her body even though the look she gave him in return squelched any desire his scrutiny might have triggered. The message behind that look was clear; don’t even think about it, pal.

  There’s beer in the cabin, she said, and sandwiches. I can wake you in the morning whenever you want.

  That’s okay, I don’t need anyone to wake me, lady. I’m a big boy now.

  The woman shrugged. Suit yourself. Teddy said you’d be leaving early. I’ll have some coffee ready for the road.

  Thanks, um . . . sorry, but I didn’t catch your name.

  Without bothering to reply the woman spun on her heels and headed back toward the house before hesitating halfway across the yard. Colt tensed, wondering what kind of grief he was in for now.

  Look, I don’t mean to be bitchy, she said, but I’ve had a rough day, okay? Even though the woman was trying, without much success, to soften her tone, Colt made her wait a moment before he nodded. And my name, is Pam, Pam Morgan.

  Now this is more like it, Colt thought, a little civility.

  And mine, ma’am, is Colt Taylor.

  His wry emphasis on ma’am made Pam Morgan smile even though she didn’t particularly want to.

  Well why don’t you get some rest, Colt. I’ll see you in the mornin’.

  As the sun tumbled behind the mangrove
s, darkening the flats, he sat out on the dock with his legs dangling over the water, sipping his second beer. Despite his determination to keep his emotions in check until the run was over, his inner demons—anxiety, paranoia, and dread—had returned, as they tended to whenever he was carrying. The drug runs were lucrative, especially compared to the wages he earned down at the club, but the fears they generated were not easily dismissed. He chugged the rest of his beer and opened another one, trying to cheer up. Tomorrow, he told himself, would be a better day. As soon as he unloaded the coke the tension of the run would vanish and he’d drive home clean, without a worry. If he was in the mood, he’d stop at that diner again in New Port Richey and find out if the waitress with the astonishing legs was more than just a tease. Gazing out over the shadowy flats he heard, once again, her parting volley when he hinted that he might return. You do that . . . Then the screen door of the safe house banged open, and when he looked across the yard he saw Pam Morgan standing under the mimosa. She had changed into a yellow shift and moccasins and her hair was wet from a shower, and neatly combed.

  The cabin okay?

  It’s fine.

  Got everything you need?

  Colt saluted her question with his beer bottle. All the comforts of home.

  Frowning, conflicted, Pam scuffed the dust with one of her moccasins. Listen, Colt, about earlier . . .

  Don’t worry about it. He held up a hand. Believe me, I know how it is.

  You do, huh?

  Sure I do. Sometimes it comes down so hard you need a hat, right?

  Pam grinned, genuinely amused this time. You got that right, a big old hat. One of those sombreros.

  Colt considered the woman in the yard with new eyes. Now that she had lost her crappy attitude Pam Morgan was, if somewhat weathered, rather fetching. Rode hard and put up wet but not bad, he thought, not bad at all. He wondered how she had ended up here, in the middle of nowhere? Was she one of Teddy’s ex-girlfriends, banished to the boonies, embittered and alone?

  Anything I can do to help?

  For a few moments Pam seemed to actually consider his question, its double entendre. Then she laughed. Well, I reckon not. But thanks for asking.

  The next day he crossed the bridge to Islamorada around noon. The sun was high in the sky, its fierce light glancing off the bonefish boats anchored in the marina. Just past the marina he turned into a gravel lane that wound back through a copse of palms. At the end of the lane he saw the former dive shop Teddy had described to him. Knee-high weeds growing wild around the perimeter of the abandoned building camouflaged a For Sale sign stabbed into the ground: Harmon Properties.

  He slid out of the car and leaned against the chassis, waiting for the buyer to arrive. The shade helped temper the intense noon heat but there was no breeze here and the air was thick with mosquitoes.

  A few minutes later a cherry-red Oldsmobile nosed up the drive and parked behind Colt’s rental. Wheezing from the effort, a large, florid man uncoiled his flabby body from the driver’s seat and offered Colt a beefy hand. Harmon, he said.

  Dieter, Colt thought. And now Harmon. The fuck happened to first names? Taylor, Colt Taylor.

  Well grab your stuff, Colt Taylor, and come on in.

  Sure thing, um . . .

  Dub. Harmon opened his mouth in amusement, exposing a row of perfect teeth. The name’s D.B. but you can call me Dub. Everyone does.

  Sure thing, Dub.

  Once inside, Colt took note of the front counter that ran the length of the room. Behind the counter a few dive posters were still tacked to the wall; otherwise the shop was empty.

  Colt set the duffel bag on the top of the counter and stepped away, careful not to take his eyes off the realtor. He had muled dope down to the Keys a dozen times before, but Dub Harmon was a new customer, and with anyone new you had to be careful.

  The realtor pointed at the duffel. You mind?

  No sir.

  As the big man unzipped the bag, Colt’s gaze flitted out the window. His nerves were shot. On every run this was the worst time, the actual exchange. His fear bubbled to the surface, making his palms sweat. What if a curious cop happened to cruise down the lane and see their cars and step inside to investigate? Where would they hide the duffel? Six kilos. Enough weight to lock you away for good. Colt had an inordinate fear of prison. With his movie star face and well toned body he knew he’d be an easy target for every pervert lurking like a phantom behind those iron bars. He’d heard the horror stories, and they’d made him cringe.

  He refocused on Harmon, who had opened the duffel and was examining the contents now, taking his sweet time. This—the realtor’s laid back, unhurried manner—was exactly why Colt didn’t like dealing with people he didn’t know. Too many things could go wrong. What if Harmon had been tailed? Or what if, God forbid, he was undercover?

  This last suspicion, paranoid or not, was particularly nerve wracking. He reminded himself that this was nothing more or less than a simple business transaction. Deals like this went down every day. Besides, Teddy Mink might be a grade-A prick but he was too smart for a setup. In all the years Colt had known him, Teddy hadn’t been burned once, and he wasn’t going to be now. For one thing, on this particular run, the real danger—a ripoff—had already been taken out of the equation when Harmon transferred the payment into Teddy’s offshore account a week before Colt left town. All he was this time, Teddy had assured his mule, was a courier. But Colt’s mind remained uneasy. Why, if the deal was so cut and dry, was the big man dicking around in that duffel? Why didn’t he hurry the fuck up?

  At last the realtor zipped up the duffel and led Colt back outside. He opened the trunk of the Oldsmobile and hoisted the bag inside and turned back around, offering his glad hand again. Pleasure to meetcha, Colt.

  You too, Dub.

  Harmon took a handkerchief out of his pants pocket and wiped his sweaty face. Even though the transaction was over, he didn’t seem ready to leave just yet.

  So let me ask you somethin’, friend.

  Wary again, Colt gave the realtor an almost imperceptible nod. He thought about the .45 locked in the glove compartment of his car. What good, he wondered, would it do if Teddy was wrong, if Harmon was about to double cross him?

  You like the Keys, do ya?

  The big man’s breezy attitude was infuriating. Why didn’t they just leave now, go ahead and part ways? Colt’s paranoia reared its ugly head again. A double cross wasn’t likely but what about a bust? He pictured half a dozen black-and-whites blocking the end of the lane, patrolmen with pointed guns, bullhorns.

  Love ‘em, Dub. Come down here every chance I get.

  Harmon was sweating bullets but it didn’t seem to bother him. He swiped his face again with the handkerchief. Well let me tell you something, son. You ever wanna move down here you gimme a call. Cuz I got places for sale all over these fuckin’ islands!

  I’ll do that, Mr. Harmon. I’ll keep that in mind.

  Dub, son, call me Dub.

  Five minutes later Colt was heading north again, breathing free and easy now, the knee-buckling stress of the exchange blown away by the sea wind streaming through the open windows of his car.

  One more run, he thought, and I’ll be done with all this. No more Dub Harmons, no more Teddy Minks. No more mule. In two weeks he’d drive back down to the Keys carrying more weight. Except this time he wouldn’t make it. Because Eddie Tannenbaum would be waiting for him in Sarasota. Good old Eddie T., his former high school teammate who, like Colt, was going to turn those next six kilos of coke into a future of such ease and comfort it would make Teddy Mink’s current lifestyle seem like a grind. Colt laughed, visualizing Teddy’s face when he realized what had just happened. Hit ‘em where it hurts, his father once counseled his son the night before a football game. Make ‘em pay for it.

  When he walked into the diner, the waitress practica
lly melted. After another lively round of flirtatious banter—accompanied by another lousy sandwich, chicken salad this time—he slipped her a scrap of paper with his room number at the Rodeway Inn. Then he rose from his stool, shooting his cuffs.

  So where’s a guy get a stiff drink around here, darlin’?

  The waitress glanced back toward the kitchen to make sure the cook wasn’t eavesdropping. The Friendly Tavern, she whispered.

  The one next to my motel?

  That one. I’ll be there in a jiff.

  After so many rounds of Pina Coladas he finally lost count, Colt took the waitress back to his room where, following the third go round, she finally fell asleep. He counted his blessings. He was exhausted—the woman was an animal—and sore. On top of that, he was still so pleasantly drunk all he wanted to do now was lie back and picture his pad on the beach in that village south of Puerto Vallarta Eddie Tannenbaum, with his gift for gab, had so lovingly described. A Mexican villa with all the bells and whistles overlooking the turquoise sea. Palm trees rattling in the wind. Sailboats skimming the horizon. Cold beer, hot Latin ladies, tons of cheap grub. He imagined lying in a lounge chair with a cold Corona in his hand. In the distance, he heard the child’s manic laughter followed by the mom’s. Slipping on his shades, he saw Maggie and Hunter running down the beach waving their arms and calling out his name . . . As he woke, hungover, in his room at the Rodeway Inn, the waitress lay sprawled across the bed sheets, a thread of drool hanging from her lower lip. Looking at that fan of blonde hair (with dark roots, he now noticed) Colt felt a pang of guilt even though he knew it was unwarranted. Maggie, after all, was the one who had demanded, in no uncertain terms, that he leave. What did she expect him to be now, a celibate?

  But no worries, he mused, because both of their lives were about to change and soon enough the breakup would be all but forgotten. For how could Miss Maggie Paterson, or any other woman for that matter, resist the scenario he was about to lay out for her? The villa he was going to purchase—complete with local housekeeper—for fifteen grand. The little town with its quaint Catholic chapel right next door to an open air cantina where you could kick back with an a cold drink and watch the surfers ride the waves. There were other expatriates living in the village, he’d tell her, a whole boatload. And my buddy Eddie from Sarasota, he’ll be there too. Good old Eddie T., who had assured Colt that the school Hunter would attend was excellent, that the teachers all spoke perfect English, and that most of Hunter’s schoolmates would be as American as apple pie.