Fever Tree

by Tim Applegate

  Another beer, Teddy?

  I don’t think so, Gene. But hey, you know what I do need?

  No idea, Teddy.

  What I do need—and now Teddy leaned over the counter to emphasize the importance of what he was about to say—is a favor. The drug lord swallowed the rest of his beer. And all of a sudden he seemed as relaxed as a deflated balloon, as if the issue, whatever it was, had been resolved.

  What kinda favor? Gene stuttered.

  A simple one! I just want you to tell me what you know about this guy.

  Gene’s skin crawled. He thought about Dieter strolling into the bar the other day—Anything you can get me, bro, anything at all—and he knew that something was happening here he couldn’t quite grasp. He imagined a net tightening around the stranger at the Gibson, a man who may or may not have been innocent. He imagined his own complicity in the affair.

  But I don’t know nothin’, Teddy. Don’t know a thing.

  ‘Course you do, Gene. Teddy slapped his hand on the bar. You’re a bartender!

  Sure I am but . . .

  Registering the look on Teddy’s face—irritation but something more, something more than disdain, more than disappointment—the bartender choked on his own inadequacy. He feared he had gone too far. You didn’t fuck around with guys like this. They could make you miserable. They could make you dead.

  You know what I think, buddy? With a mean little twist of a grin Teddy took a folded fifty out of his wallet and placed it on top of the counter. What I think is that you and me better start over. Sound like a good idea?

  Gene looked down at the money. If you believed the stories, behind the drug lord’s casual demeanor—the sun-bleached hair, the muscle shirts and flip flops, the easy affability—lurked a stone cold killer. There were persistent rumors that refused to die, like the one about the two guys who crossed him on a deal in St. Petersburg and were found a few weeks later face down in Tampa Bay.

  Teddy was waiting, a chessman who had just placed his opponent’s king in check. Time was running out. It was the bartender’s move.

  Ashamed, conflicted, but mostly just scared, Gene reached out and picked up the fifty. His weakness seemed vast, his betrayal abhorrent.

  Last time I saw him was Tuesday, last Tuesday.

  Here?

  Yeah, here.

  And?

  And he asked me, you know . . .

  No, Gene—Teddy leaned back on his stool, at ease again—I don’t know. Why don’t you enlighten me.

  25

  Afterward, Nicky Meyers lay face down, naked, on her waterbed, skimming the National Enquirer while the dark paddles of a ceiling fan evaporated the beads of sweat goose-bumping her skin in the wake of the acrobatic, yet curiously unsatisfying, bout of lovemaking she had just engaged in. Ever the trooper, Nicky had given it her all, but as she rode the waves of Colt’s mechanical pleasure she had sensed a certain distance, a shared emotional detachment, as if they were merely going through the motions even though they’d only been sleeping with each other for two weeks. Sometimes the initial shine wore off that quickly, not that this particularly bothered her. Soon Colt would flee—guys like him always did—and yet in light of the sheer number of attractive bodies out there available to a woman like her, there were, she reasoned, worse predicaments. She flipped through the tabloid, heaving a sigh, practically blissful; so many men, so little time.

  Lying next to her, Colt shook his head in dismay, bewildered to be screwing someone who, in the afterglow, read the National Enquirer. He thought only little old ladies living alone in trailer parks on the wrong side of the tracks read that rag. With Maggie there had at least been real books, paperback novels featuring intricate plots she liked to describe to him as they lay in the evening heat, sated. Those lost days that now seemed, in retrospect, a kind of Eden because nothing, really, had replaced them. Heaving his own sigh, he glanced across the bed as Nicky, captivated by a story about a UFO that had landed unannounced in Vatican City last week, followed the lines of type down the page with a polished fingernail, moving her silent lips.

  To counter the vague but very real dissatisfaction that increasingly clouded his thoughts these days, Colt reminded himself that this would soon be over, all of it: playing house with the stripper, sleepwalking through his shifts down at the Black Kat Club, making nice with Teddy Mink. He counted the days till the next drug run, the last drug run, his growing anticipation like a chemical high. Seven days. Seven days until he headed south for the Keys without any intention of actually going there. Seven days until he cruised into Sarasota with a trunk full of powder to split with Eddie T. Seven days until he became, at last, a free man.

  He slapped Nicky’s bare ass and leapt off the bed. Gotta go, babe. Things to do.

  What things?

  Gotta see someone.

  Gotta see who?

  Jesus, it was worse than being married. Every time he left the apartment Nicky wanted to know where he was going and what he was planning to do. Even Maggie hadn’t been this bad. Matter of fact, there toward the end Maggie didn’t seem to give a damn where he went. Well, all that was about to change too. Show her the pictures, Eddie T. advised. The pretty as a postcard beach, the quaint little Mexican village, those wild parrots that nested like psychedelic pigeons in the bell tower of the Catholic church. Show her the pictures I sent you from the last time I went down. He leaned over and planted a kiss on Nicky’s shoulder. Just a guy, babe. Be back soon.

  Nicky tore her gaze away from a photo of the UFO hovering over St. Peter’s Square, her lips curling into the inauthentic sexual pout she bestowed on customers who stuffed five-dollar bills into her G-string.

  You better, boy.

  Colt slid into his Camaro and took off. Boy? Was that what he was to her, her boy? He had to laugh. For the first few nights of their ill advised affair, Nicky’s bimbo behavior had seemed a small price to pay for the time they shared in the sack, but now even that had lost its appeal. For a bona fide airhead, the stripper was okay, sweet and muddled and harmless as a housefly. The problem was Colt didn’t love her, he wasn’t even sure he liked her that much. And in the long run, genuine affection was a must for a guy like him. What he had—has—with Maggie. What he feels for the kid.

  He downshifted into second gear and swerved onto Fisher Point Road, heading out to his old high school. It was a flawless afternoon with shafts of light spearing down through clouds as buoyant as balloons but there was a weight in his heart that blinded him to such beauty. How many times had he cruised down this very road on his way to a game, a party, a date? How many times had he negotiated these tight curves with his arm around the shoulders of a curvy blonde? Even if the future held great promise—and it did, he kept assuring himself, it definitely did—the reason for his melancholy today was clear. Now that he was leaving his hometown for good, he was starting to realize that it was the one place he would miss, perhaps even mourn, in his long exile. But he didn’t want to think about that now. He wanted to concentrate on the task at hand, because the plan was in place, time was running short, and he had to make sure there were no glitches.

  Since it was Sunday afternoon, Gene’s battered old Plymouth was the only other vehicle parked in the school lot. Colt climbed out of his car, noting how the high clouds above the somber central building darkened the windows of the classrooms and cast into shadow their lecterns, their blackboards, their tidy rows of desks. As usual, the sight of those antiseptic rooms provided a dose, in equal measure, of repugnance and pride. He was never much of a student, and his classes had been torture, but being the best athlete in his class had also lent him stature unmatched since. He remembered underclassmen whispering his name when he strode down the hallway, teachers patting him on the shoulder the day after a game.

  He stepped around the corner of the gym and spotted Gene sitting alone in the bleachers that flanked the baseball diamond,
sipping from a flask. Over the years, this ballpark had become their refuge, their comfort zone, a hallowed shrine with faded green bleachers where they could gaze out over the grassy field reminiscing about the good old days, two aging, undistinguished young men whose last shot at glory took place right here. On the pitcher’s mound, in the batter’s box, rounding the bases to the cheers of their hometown fans.

  After his father’s funeral, Colt found solace here by slamming back shot after shot of Southern Comfort until the cobwebs of denial were blown away by the horror of what had occurred, until he finally broke down and sobbed in front of his friend. And ever since, in times of trouble, and there were many, the two had returned. When Maggie announced her pregnancy, when Gene was fired for showing up drunk for work at the sawmill, the day before Colt’s first drug run down to the Keys. It was here that Gene had admitted his darkest secrets, his addiction to smack and pornography as well as his complicity in a brutal sexual episode in the shower room at Raiford where he had been serving a six-month stint for passing bad checks. Here that Colt had listened to these depressing disclosures without comment or judgment before revealing a few of his own, because sinners needed confessionals, and this ball diamond was theirs.

  As always, Gene raised his right hand to execute his half of their secret handshake but even that usually vigorous gesture seemed listless today. Clearly something was troubling the man. On the phone he had sounded nervous and strung out and now, in the unforgiving light of the sun, he looked awful, his eyes pouched and bruised from sleeplessness and worry. Had Tammy kicked his ass out again? Was he back on the junk?

  As they passed the flask, Gene told him about his conversation with Teddy Mink, all those incessant questions.

  About what?

  About Dieter.

  Who?

  Dieter! The guy at the Gibson.

  Oh yeah, right. The enigma. The mystery man.

  Him.

  Gene explained how Teddy had backed him into a corner, sliding a fifty across the bar.

  I don’t get it, Colt responded. Why all this interest in Dieter? Guy seems harmless, your basic flake.

  Not to Teddy.

  Colt took another swig from Gene’s flask, wincing. He didn’t know what was worse, the sting of Gene’s cheap bourbon or the fact that he had called him out here to discuss something that seemed, what was the word, innocuous?

  Not to Teddy?

  Gene frowned. He genuinely loved this guy, always had, but sometimes Colt’s inability to put two and two together drove the bartender nuts. Did he have to spell it out for him? Did he have to draw a fucking diagram?

  Wait. Are you trying to tell me that Teddy thinks Dieter’s a narc. A fucking narc?

  Gene sighed—congratulations, Detective Poirot—while Colt squeezed his hands into fists and bit his lower lip, momentarily discombobulated. He didn’t like where this conversation was heading, he didn’t like it one damn bit. Seven days until he pulled off the deal of a lifetime and now this apparent complication, this possible wrench in the gears.

  If Dieter was a narc, would Teddy back away? Would he cancel the next run? That would ruin everything. Eddie T. had already made the arrangements. The deal was in place. And what if it wasn’t true? What if Dieter was just some chump kicking back in Crooked River because he didn’t have anything better to do? What if this was just one more example of Teddy’s legendary paranoia?

  C’mon, Gene, are you sure about this? That goofy fucker? A narc?

  I’m not sure about anything, Gene whined. I’m just telling you what happened. He polished off the last few drops in the flask before recounting how Dieter had strolled into the bar the other day, all smiles.

  Is that how he said it? Where can I score?

  That’s how he said it all right.

  And the next day, that’s when Teddy came in.

  You got it, chief.

  Colt groaned, taut as a wire now. The local authorities wouldn’t lay a hand on the kingpin—hell, half of them were on his payroll—but the feds were a different kettle of fish. Every few years the suits paid lip service to their masters by dropping a dime on players like Teddy Mink. They understood better than anyone that nothing was going to staunch the flow of coke—the market was simply too large, and too lucrative—but an occasional high profile bust made for good press, and helped secure their pensions. Was Dieter their front man? In a way he fit the bill: cipher, enigma, mystery man. In Colt’s experience that was exactly what narcs were like, ingratiating, unknowable, and stealthy as sharks. But still . . . Dieter?

  What I wanna know, Geno, is what you think, not Teddy, you.

  About what?

  About Dieter!

  The bartender gazed out over the diamond at the centerfield fence. His eyes were bleary, his words a little slurred; he’d been drinking since noon.

  I don’t know what to think. At first I figured it was bullshit, you know? But then I started to look at it from Teddy’s point of view. Guy shows up out of nowhere, drinks with the deckhands, gets cozy with the bartenders, starts askin’ questions. Wants to know where he can score. You gotta look at the angles. I mean why would someone like that stay here for so long, in fucking Crook? He wants to get high, why wouldn’t he go down to Miami, down to Tampa Bay?

  He likes small towns, Colt replied, but Gene wasn’t buying it.

  He likes the slow pace, the quiet beaches.

  Gene wasn’t buying that either. He had learned a long time ago to trust his basest instincts. That was how you survived places like Raiford. If it felt wrong, it probably was.

  I’m tellin’ you, Colt, I’m gettin’ a little nervous here, and you should be too. I don’t need this shit on my conscience right now.

  What shit?

  Look, if he’s a narc he’s already too close. To me, to you, to all of us. And if he isn’t . . . well if he isn’t, what if Teddy whacks him anyway?

  Jesus, Gene, what are you talkin’ about, man?

  Whose fault would that be? Mine, that’s who.

  Colt grabbed the flask but it was already empty. His mind was racing, looking for a foothold. Let’s slow down here, huh. Let’s stop and think about this.

  Coincidence, Gene said, shaking his head. He was staring out past the centerfield fence at a chestnut mare grazing a distant pasture. I don’t believe in it, you know?

  Who does?

  The way he holes up in that hotel room.

  He’s a loner. So what?

  The way he won’t tell nobody nothin’.

  He’s got secrets. Who doesn’t?

  And now this thing with Maggie.

  As a swift cloud passed across the sun and a sudden breeze riffled the grass of the outfield, Colt squinted at the bartender. He figured he must have misheard him.

  This thing with Maggie?

  Gene shrugged, assuming Colt already knew; everyone else seemed to. Then he remembered that Colt had been out of town for awhile, on a drug run. Instinctively he raised his hands, as if to protect himself, because Colt’s voice had already gone flat, the way it did right before he hit someone, or slashed a broken bottle across their face.

  The fuck you talking about, man? What thing?

  26

  On Tuesday morning Dieter climbed into his pickup to drive out to Christopher Key. He was wearing cargo shorts, hiking boots, an IU T-shirt. In his backpack was a bottle of water, two banana muffins from the Delta Café, and the hiking guide he’d picked up the day before at the library.

  So you’re a hiker too, huh?

  Well . . . sort of.

  Man in the wilderness battles the fierce elements, fighting for his life.

  That’s me.

  Our intrepid adventurer.

  Dieter had laughed, following Jackie Banks down the stacks, amused by the librarian’s inability not to flirt with him even though he knew t
hat Dieter was not only straight as an arrow, he was also sleeping with Jackie’s best friend. They paused in front of the 790s. Let’s see now, hiking. Jackie’s eyes raked the spines. Somewhere close, right?

  Sure. Why not?

  The librarian held Dieter’s gaze for a moment, gauging whether the writer’s flip reply concealed an unsavory, and heretofore undiscovered, facet of his character. The other night when Jackie and Maggie had invited him out for drinks at the Holiday Inn, Dieter had noticed how protective Jackie could be around Maggie, presumably determined not to let any further harm—he refused to even mention Colt Taylor by name—befall her.

  Yeah, the librarian finally acceded, why not? Then he grinned, loosening up a bit. Maggie was a big girl now and she could take care of herself. Besides, any way you cut it, William Dieter was a vast improvement on Colt.

  So what about that trail out on Christopher Key? Isn’t that where you like to swim?

  Dieter nodded, amused. Did everyone in town know his personal habits? Or was this just idle gossip, what Maggie and Jackie dished out over their fruity tropical drinks when Dieter wasn’t around.

  I didn’t know there was a trail on Christopher Key.

  Sure there is, and it’s a good one, too. Goes out to the marsh. Lots of birds for one thing. If you like birds.

  A prick of pain as Dieter recalled Jen’s enthusiasm. He saw her consult her trail guide, listen to the calls, repeat the lovely names: Swainson’s warbler, red-tailed hawk.

  Let’s see now. Jackie retrieved a slender volume from the stacks and scanned the index. Here it is. Have a look.

  Dieter read the description of the trail: 2.3 miles of moderate terrain with views over the marsh, including a short boardwalk across the shallows.

  Sounds great. He clapped the big man on the back. Thanks, Jackie, I owe you one.

  Oh yeah? The librarian dangled a wrist in playful mockery. One what?