by Jack Hardin
Terror overcame pain and burned off the remaining fog from behind his eyes. Scotch sat up, blinked. Ringo sat in a white chair across the coffee table from him. One leg was crossed over another, and his fedora sat atop his knee.
“Ringo, I━”
Ringo lifted a hand. “It’s okay. It’s okay. We all fall off the wagon now and then. Let me get you something to drink. Your head must feel like the inside of an Instant Pot. Bloody Mary? That’s what you like, isn’t it?”
“Uh, yeah. Yeah, thank you.”
Ringo nodded at Chewy who, in turn, disappeared around the corner.
Scotch reached up and touched the back of his head. The hair was matted to his scalp with sticky, drying blood. He looked down at the orange pillow beside him. A dark bloom of blood had seeped into it.
Ringo waved a gracious hand toward him. “Don’t worry about the pillow, Scotch. It can be replaced.”
Scotch nodded, tried to smile, tried to swallow and push down the fear that was making his loins feel like water and his guts like warm grits.
“Scotch, did I ever tell you the story about when I broke my forearm?”
“No, Ringo.”
“I didn't think so.” Ringo looked across the expansive room and rubbed his naked chin with his fingertips. “When I was eight years old, almost nine, we lived in Pine Apple, Alabama. Not but a couple hundred people called it home. It was just my father and I. No brothers or sisters to speak of. My mother incubated me in her womb nine months and perished before they had even carried away the afterbirth. My father, he had no education and never learned a trade. He would bounce from job to job - janitor, ditch digger, newspaper delivery. Even tried frying eggs and flipping pancakes at Linda Comphrey’s diner. All that work, and we still never had two dimes to rub together. I don’t know what made my father an angry man. He wasn’t angry when I was little. But it grew in him, like a swelling appendix. Then one day it just burst. He had come home from whatever the job of the moment was and poured himself one of these.” Ringo lifted his glass. “Bourbon on ice. He was on his second glass when he went to use the head. I had decided that was a good time to try the stuff myself. My lips were coming off the rim when he came around the corner. The fire water was still burning its way down my gullet when he grabbed my belt and shirt collar, brought me above his head, and threw me into the dining room wall. He never said anything. That was the interesting part. He just picked me up and threw me down. Snapped my forearm like a dry twig.”
Chewy entered the room with a glass in each hand.
Ringo smiled. “Ah, here we are.”
Scotch considered Ringo’s story. He had worked with Ringo long enough to know that one could never be quite sure which of his stories were true. The man was an enigma through and through.
Chewy handed a fresh bourbon to his boss, exchanging glasses with him, and extended a martini glass toward Scotch who took it and set it to his lips. He drank freely and winced as the cool liquid ran down his throat. He paused. There was no kick, no astringent bite produced by the presence of vodka.
“What’s wrong?” Ringo asked.
Scotch looked quizzically at the glass. “It’s...just tomato juice.”
“I see. Are you inferring that I’m a poor host?”
“No,” he shook his head and winced against the pain. “No. Of course not.”
Ringo stared into his glass, swirled the golden liquid so the ice rattled against the sides. “The point of my story, old friend, is that you never drink from another man’s glass without asking. Not unless you want to run the risk of bodily harm.” He stood, nodded toward Chewy. “Come on. Follow me. I want to show you something.” Chewy helped Scotch to his feet and motioned for him to follow. Andrés, who had just come out of a side room as if he had been listening, waiting for the right time, stepped in line and took up the rear. They walked toward the corner of the living room and up a narrow, winding, iron staircase that led to a carpeted landing on the next floor and overlooked the room they were just in. They walked the length of the living room before taking a right down a short hallway and coming to a stop at a small iron railing, waist high. It looked down on an empty room the size of a racquetball court. It had white bare walls all the way around, and the floor was the same red clay tile that ran through the rest of the home.
“Scotch. Have I ever given you a reason to disrespect me?”
“No, Ringo.” Scotch blinked up at him, the way a puppy might when it realizes the master discovered that his slippers were torn to bits.
“If you would please, tell me the rules that I have established for my organization.”
“Sell noth— ”
“Number them, please.”
Scotch’s Adam’s apple rose and fell rapidly as he swallowed dryly. “Number one: Sell nothing but cocaine.”
“And that means what exactly?”
“No trafficking anything else. No guns, no girls, no other drugs.”
“Next?”
“Number two: Never lie to you.”
“And...number three,” Ringo prompted.
Scotch took a deep breath, his chest trembling on the exhale, his lazy eye rolling down and away, as if it had just died by fear. “Number three: Never try the product.”
Ringo threw his hands out. “Winner, winner, chicken dinner. Ladies and gentlemen, please tell this man what’s he’s just won!”
Chewy set a heavy hand on Scotch’s back. “You know that this room you are looking down on is typically used as the game room. In fact, I think you and Andrés have played a few games of pool together, haven’t you?”
Scotch nodded. His face was clammy.
“You’ll notice that we have cleared it and that it’s empty. Almost empty,” he corrected. “You’ll also notice that the windows and doors are all gone. The last two days men have been coming and going through this place with 2x4’s and sheetrock and paint. Where we stand is the only entry and exit point.”
Ringo spoke. “I wanted to make sure that my new guest room was suitable for you. Only the best for you, Scotch, old friend.”
“Now Ringo━”
Ringo’s smile was gone. He leaned in and locked eyes with Scotch. “You have drunk from my holy chalice without asking. You broke one of my rules and then…” He shook his head. “That boy.” Ringo pulled out a cigar and slid it between his teeth, leaving it unlit.
Andrés said, “You are aware that one of Ringo’s idiosyncrasies is that he sees it as a challenge to try not to relieve someone of their life in the same manner he has someone else. At this stage in the game, it makes it difficult - very difficult - to be creative. We can’t shoot you or stab you or drown you or hang you or poison you. We can’t even beat you.”
Scotch could feel bile trying to coming up his esophagus, stinging the back of his throat.
“Chewy, this whole thing was your idea, so I will let you fill him in on his accommodations,” Andrés said.
Chewy’s eyes remained on the floor below as he spoke. “If you would step up closer and lean over the rail, you will be able to see.” Scotch didn’t move. “You must see this. We’re not going to throw you over,” he added.
Scotch cautiously bent at the torso and looked below.
Chewy pointed over the railing. “You’ll see down there.” He craned his neck. “This corner back here closest to us.”
Scotch’s nervous breath now wheezed through his chest. He leaned over and looked where Chewy’s eyes were planted, where his finger was pointing. His throat thickened and his hands trembled when his eyes made contact with the twenty-foot snake below. It was curled into a corner and its forked tongue was flicking out of its mouth every two seconds.
“It’s Ringo’s newest pet,” Andrés said from behind him. “A Burmese python to be exact. The snake has not eaten in six months, not since its captor pulled it out of the Glades. They can go without food for a very long time. They lower their…” He struggled to find the English word.
“Metabolic,” Chewy sa
id.
“Yes. Metabolic. They lower their metabolic rates up to seventy percent to stay alive. We gave it a small rat yesterday to bring its energy up and help it to remember what it is like to eat. By nature, pythons are gentle creatures, but this one has been stuck with a cattle prod on a low electrical setting for the last hour. So he is angry. He is angry, and he is hungry. Very hungry.”
“He’s hangry,” Ringo interjected. Andrés smiled. Chewy did not.
“Ringo, please━“
Ringo raised a finger to his Scotch’s lips. “Shhh. Let him finish.”
“Burmese pythons can eat small alligators and deer. I have seen a video of one eating a small hippopotamus. It regurgitated it soon after because his meal weighed so much that the snake could not even slither away. Fascinating. It is good that you are a small man.”
“No...no...please…I have a fianc—”
“You have disillusioned the citizenry, the community of this lovely county,” Ringo said. “You’ve brought renewed and undue attention upon the nature of my business. But all this has come upon you if for no other reason than you killed that young man. How can I ever forgive that?” He came in closer, and Scotch responded with a meager whine that came off his lips.
“Now, now,” he whispered and put a thick hand on Scotch’s shoulder. “Let’s not make this harder than it needs to be.” He nodded at Andrés who came from behind and quickly shoved a large rubber ball into Scotch’s mouth. Five seconds later two layers of duct tape were wrapped around to the back of his head.
Scotch yelled through the gag. It came out muffled and flat.
“This home is large, but I do have another guest, so I would prefer to minimize the noise of your intriguing demise. I have a meeting I need to get to. So if you’ll forgive me for not watching.” Ringo reached in, placed his hands on Scotch’s temples, and kissed him on the top of his head. Scotch’s breath moved loudly and forcefully through his nose, and his sweat smelled like vinegar.
“Hey...why so glum, chum? I hear the ol’ Elysian Fields, Paradise, Valhalla, Heaven, you know, whatever you might be into...I hear it’s quite nice.” Then Ringo paused and got a far away look in his eyes. He didn’t move for a while, just kept staring over Scotch’s shoulder like something had just dawned on him. Then animation overtook him again, and he patted Scotch’s cheek one more time. “Of course, I don’t know if you’ll be getting a ticket to any of those particular stops seeing as you killed that boy.” He clicked his tongue and shook his head. Then he turned away.
Scotch jerked and in his panic fell to his knees, writhing violently on the ground in a vain effort to prevent the inevitable.
Ringo’s hand slid along the iron rail as he descended the circular steps. Halfway down he a heard a thud and the muted crack of Scotch’s legs as they broke on the hard clay tiles below. It was followed by a muffled scream, a clear mixture of pain and terror.
He smiled.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
THE CESSNA amphibian aircraft flew low over the waters of the Gulf. The pilot had kept radio silence for the last hour since leaving Havana.
He checked his chart and made a mental note. He would put down in a small cove on the west side of the island. Crews would be there to unload, and he would be up in the air heading back to Cuba within four to five minutes.
He thought of his teenage son, Eterio, and his wife, Benita. Five more runs over the next month and his boss would help him bring his family to America. They had a happy life in Cuba, but they were poorer than the cockroaches who ate their crumbs. It had become too much to just sit by and watch his friends move the drugs and become wealthy. He had stayed out for years, but the pull of freedom had become stronger than any moral impulse that had kept him from moving drugs in the first place.
Suddenly, the lights on the front panel began to blink. The pilot frowned and checked the crucial instruments. Everything still appeared to be in working order. He looked out the window onto the black darkness of the water below then checked his altitude again. Again, the lights went out, the plane dipped, and his breathing escalated. He pulled back on the yoke, but it didn’t budge. The altitude indicator was rocking back and forth like it was seasick. A bead of sweat ran through his eyebrow and he twisted his neck and rubbed his shoulder onto his eye to clear his vision. He could feel his heart thumping.
Checking that the radio frequency was set properly, he reached for the handset. He spoke in Spanish. “Going to crash. Controls frozen. Three miles south of destination.” The radio crackled but offered no reply.
“Alguien…? he whispered. “Cualquiera?” The lights from just beyond the shore twinkled in the darkness. The altitude indicator came back for just a moment and showed a reading of twenty feet. Panicked, the pilot pulled back hard, and the plane responded.
But just slightly.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
AT FIVE MINUTES TO NINE, Ellie turned the El Camino left off of Stringfellow Road and onto Main Street, the northmost road on the island. A hundred yards later she pulled into the parking lot of the restaurant that her former boss had chosen as their meeting place. She stepped into the late evening air and pushed the car door shut. The sun had already descended below the water, leaving a soft orange brushed against a horizon that was gathering in more gray every moment. At this end of the island, the only lights were dim and came from the few homes lining Main Street, the Bokeelia fishing pier, the boat ramp, and the lights on the outside of the restaurant. Stars were peeking out in their eternal game of hide-and-seek.
Suzie's Crab Shack was known for its weekend nightlife and for five years running had been endowed with the acclaim of the best piña colada on the island. The inside of the restaurant was spacious, even if the ceilings were low, and boasted an outdoor bar that looked out onto the short seawall and the pier just forty feet away. But tonight it was quiet, with only a couple cars in the parking lot. A couple was sitting on the pier with their legs dangling toward the water, and someone further out was packing up their tackle.
Ellie rounded the corner and saw the slim figure of Ryan Wilcox sitting at one of the many picnic tables used for outdoor seating. He was almost out of place; Ellie had never expected to see him again, least of all here on Pine Island.
He smiled when he saw her approach and came to his feet.
Ryan was in his late-forties - over a good decade older than she - and stood at exactly six feet in height. His brown hair was short and for the last couple years had begun to show a slight peppering of grey. It had been eight months since he said goodbye to her on the tarmac in Kabul, but it felt like a lifetime ago. Eight months in this place had a mystical way of making the past seem almost unreal.
“Hello, Ellie.”
“Hello, Ryan.” They reached out and clasped hands. Ryan wasn’t the huggy type. He set his free hand on top of hers, a display of kindly affection she had never witnessed before. They sat down, and Ryan motioned toward a longneck. “I got you a beer if you want it.”
“Thank you.” The wind blew off the water and whipped strands of Ellie’s hair around her face. She took a pull on the beer and set it back down. “Are you stateside now?” she asked.
He nodded. “For now. I’m going to finish up a year at Langley before going back to the field.” He fixed his gaze on her in the fading light. “I miss working alongside you. I’m sorry things worked out the way they did.”
“Me too,” she said.
“You ever get that dog?”
“Somehow I think you already know the answer to that.”
He smiled and then got down to business. “I want to clear away the obvious questions by saying up front that I’m not here to ask you to come back in any way.”
Ellie felt a bundle of tension slip from her shoulders. But not all of it. “Okay. So, what is it then?” she asked.
He nodded. His eyes were calm but held something Ellie couldn't quite place. She was good at reading people, but Ryan was one she could never peg. He, like her, had bee
n trained well. He wouldn’t let her see something in him he didn’t want her to see.
He stood and slipped a hand inside his open windbreaker. He drew it out and was holding a wide, but thin, manila envelope. He slid it onto the tabletop in front of the best case officer he’d ever had. “You’re going to have questions.”
Ellie’s eyes darted from Ryan to the envelope and back to his face.
“The answers will come in time,” he said softly. “I just wanted you to know.” Then he walked away, disappearing around the building and into the darkness.
Ellie stared at the envelope for a long time. She took a long draw on her beer. Whatever was in there was going to change something. She just didn’t know what. Ryan Wilcox didn’t just call you out of the blue, invite you to meet, and then walk away ensuring that you would have questions. She picked up the envelope and reluctantly fingered the metal clasp on the back. She lifted the flap. She drew the contents out.
It was a large picture that looked to have been taken from a CCTV camera and dated last Thursday. Three grainy figures were huddled together in what looked like a subway car. They wore thick trench coats and fur papakhas on their heads. Russians, Ellie thought. She leaned in, and her eyes scanned the faces.
Then she fell apart.
She gasped, touched her lips with her fingertips while her confused eyes began to fill with moisture. “It can’t be,” she whispered out loud. A thousand questions poured into her mind, like a school of fish being dumped on the deck of boat. It wasn’t possible.
Ellie grabbed the sides of the table and struggled to breathe.
The photo was grainy and the lighting poor, but the image of her father’s face was unmistakable.
A LIZARD, a pelican, a seagull, a stray cat, all sat along various points of the Norma Jean pier. The darkness was warm and quiet. A low hum hung in the atmosphere of the dark, early morning hours and steadily grew louder. The lizard scattered, the pelican stared, the seagull darted off, and the cat hissed as the airplane pitched toward the ocean-end of the pier and slammed into it, hurling fiberglass, pilings, fire, diesel, a cat, and one ton of Colombian-picked, Mexican-processed cocaine across a two-hundred-yard radius, all of it spraying into the sky, riding on flame.