Gator Wave

by David F. Berens

  Her dark tan, but nearly transparent skin was dotted with liver spots and her skin hung all around her with deep, elephant-like wrinkles. She had a new bandage on her face, likely another skin-cancer removal, and her eyes were watery and pale.

  The grin on her face was sly, mischievous, and evil all at the same time. Somehow, it reminded Gary of the Golden Girls’ Rue McClanahan. What a beautiful actress to think of at a horrible time like this.

  Myrtle was in a bathrobe that was far too thin and exposed far too much for a woman of her advanced age. Luckily, she held a copy of her own Keys News over her chest. The Cap Wayfarer reward post was facing Gary and she tapped on it with a curled, knobby finger.

  “Seems like you got yourself a boat, eh? Take that young boy out you been fancying?”

  His pulse raced. First, he hadn’t told Myrtle it was a man he’d been wooing. Second, how in the world could she have remembered that conversation? He’d spoken to her on many occasions when she couldn’t remember whether or not he’d paid the rent. On several of those, he’d claimed that he had—knowing full well he hadn’t—when he’d been a little short on money.

  “Ah, no,” he said carefully. “I’m not sure what that’s all about.”

  “Uh huh.” She folded the paper and tucked it under her arm. “Well, I just happened to be down at the Green Turtle stocking up on my wine when you and your fella cruised past with that bright orange kayak on top of your Jeep. Hard to miss since it’s the only one I’ve ever seen like it, ’cept on the Dukes of Hazard that is.”

  She turned to gaze out into the parking lot. Gary’s 1980 Jeep CJ-7, the “Golden Eagle” model, sat in the first space next to the handicap spot. Anyone who watched any television in the eighties would immediately recognize it as the Daisy Duke Jeep from the long-running hit show about Bo and Luke. It was no General Lee, but it was nearly as iconic. Most boys his age had fantasized about being with Daisy. He had fantasized about being Daisy. Thus, when he was old enough, he’d sought out a collector’s edition of the famous Jeep. He used to like how distinct it was, but now it seemed that fact might get him into trouble.

  He laughed nervously, “Oh, yes. That was us. But that kayak came from somewhere el—.”

  “Cut the crap, Suskind,” she interrupted him. “You and I both know it was you and now it seems like you have a twenty-five thousand dollar problem on your hands.”

  Gary gulped down the bile threatening to escape his throat.

  “I don’t know what you did to that boy, but I could sure use that kind of money. Especially since some of my tenants don’t always come up with their rent.”

  Gary had to clamp his mouth shut to keep from vomiting on the woman. When he was sure he’d recovered, he took a few seconds to consider the fact that she hadn’t already called the police. She had come to his door first. But why? She’s playing me for something, he thought.

  “Okay, Mrs. Hussholder,” he said. “What now? Are you turning me in for the reward.”

  “Oh, heaven’s no,” she laughed as she let the paper fall away, exposing her body under her thin nightgown. She ran a finger down her crepey, sagging cleavage. “I’m actually thinking of another, more … friendly solution.”

  Behind him, Shakira squawked, “friendly solution. Friendly solution. What happened to Matty? What happened to Matty?”

  He glared over his shoulder, planning an appropriate demise for the parrot. Then he felt a fingernail tracing down his abdomen. The finger slipped into the waistband of his boxers and snapped the elastic below his waist. He jumped back a step, realizing that his own bathrobe was hanging open, exposing his stomach.

  It wasn’t common knowledge that he was an Instagram influencer with a fitness account aimed at men. Not many people knew he was Insta-famous with over one million followers and a daily “like” count that even top tier actors didn’t achieve. Much of the reason his account was so popular was his abs—his rock hard, twelve-pack, washboard stomach. Every time he posted photographs of it, his account grew by ten percent.

  Myrtle’s eyes were tracing the deep grooves of his transversus abdominis muscles when he snapped his robe shut. She feigned a look of hurt and slipped her hand into a pocket. Pulling out her cell phone, she held the paper up to her eyes.

  “Let’s see,” she said, squinting at the Cap Wayfarer reward post. “Where’s that number again?”

  “Hold on,” Gary touched her arm. “That’s not necessary.”

  She arched an eyebrow at him and the grin on her face became more lascivious than he would’ve imagined possible for a woman of her age.

  “What … um … exactly …” he coughed. “What exactly did you have in mind?”

  She reached down and pulled his robe apart. “Did you see Fifty Shades?”

  “You mean the sadomasochistic piece of garbage that ruined the beauty of the Twilight series?” Gary asked, disdain dripping from his words. “I did.”

  Myrtle shoved him into his apartment, following as he stumbled backward. She closed the door behind her and let her shift fall to the ground.

  “We’ll start with a little light whipping and see where that gets us,” she said.

  “Light whipping,” Shakira screeched. “Light whipping.”

  Gary felt his dignity fall away with his boxers. Maybe going to jail would be better than this.

  14

  Exchanging Glances

  Troy woke to a cool, gentle breeze rocking his hammock back and forth under the hazy morning sun filtering through the nearby mangroves. His lower back felt like a professional wrestler had been bending, twisting, hammering, and pummeling it with a crowd-favorite signature move—perhaps called the pile-driver, or the sledgehammer, or maybe the wrecking ball. As the fuzzy goggles of way too many hard tequilas and Coronas began to fade, he realized he was not actually in the hammock. He was lying on the porch beneath it. Did I fall out? He shook his head to aid the receding fog. Did I ever make it in? And then when a figure lying in the hammock squirmed a bit and groaned, he realized that he was not alone.

  The hallmark of any good soldier is that they can be on their feet and ready for combat within minutes, or even seconds. Troy knew that he would never have been referred to as a good soldier, but he was able to roll over twice, hurling himself off the porch into the scraggly bushes lining the nearby court. It wasn’t much cover, but it would have to do. When he tried to get up, his knee screamed at him. A good amount of running and walking and pedaling last night had him in more pain than he’d realized.

  With great effort and more than one yelp of pain, he pulled himself up to peer over the deck of the tennis shop veranda and was shocked awake at what he saw—a girl. She was seemingly naked from head to toe, except for a tiny black tank top that looked suspiciously familiar. He glanced down and realized that it was indeed his new souvenir shirt that she was using as a makeshift sheet. What appeared to be her clothing was lying in a rumpled, glittery heap beneath the hammock and he realized that he must have been using it as a pillow.

  It was when he saw the sequins that he began to regain some of the blacked out memories of the previous evening. What an evening it had been. He’d started down at Hog Heaven accidentally inciting a Navy riot and birthing two new exotic dancers, to Lorelei where he’d been a near hit on amateur night, and finally to Woody’s in the Keys where a friendly stripper and a generous bartender had turned his head into a pressure cooker of pain. And finally, they had come back to the tennis club only to find that he had lost the keys and couldn’t get them inside. While he looked for an open window—failing to find one—the girl had folded herself into the hammock and fallen asleep. Not wanting to leave her alone, he’d taken up watch underneath her. He couldn’t remember how she’d gotten naked and how he’d lost his shirt to her, but he figured that was probably best.

  He stepped up onto the porch and shook her gently.

  What was her name? Cindy, or Cynthia, or … without warning, the girl stretched both arms up and over her head, fli
pped over so she was facing away from him, and proceeded to start snoring softly. The black tank top dropped to the ground, revealing that she was quite totally nude—just like the front door of Woody’s had promised last night. Troy leaned down, picked up the tank top, and slipped it over his head. It still smelled like a dirty ashtray, but now it had a slight vanilla scent as well.

  He bent down and picked up the shiny pile of stuff under the hammock and did his best to cover her up. There was only so much he could conceal as the clothing was apparently designed to do the exact opposite. He walked around the club, thinking he’d get on his bike and head up to The Trading Post and get a few things for breakfast. When he strolled into the parking lot, he was shocked to find that his bicycle wasn’t there. His first ironic reaction was to curse the random thief that had taken it (ironic because in actuality, he’d stolen—or at least borrowed it himself.) But then he remembered leaning his bike up against the corner of Woody’s last night and figured it might still be there. Maybe his keys would be there as well.

  Even with a bum knee, it was still just a quick stroll up the road and he figured the walk would help clear his head and ease his aching muscles a bit. Besides, the Trading Post was past that, so either way—on his bike or on foot—he’d be closer to his goal of some fresh bacon and eggs and coffee and maybe even some hot Cinnamon rolls—Cinnamon. That was the girl’s name. Her real name if he remembered correctly. It was decided.

  He had his mental grocery list, so he adjusted his severely scratched Costa sunglasses over his eyes, pulled his hat down low to combat the newly heating sun of a much warmer Islamorada day, and limped up to the Overseas Highway.

  He turned north and started walking.

  At mile marker eighty-two, he saw that his bike had indeed been borrowed by another soul in need of a ride. To his utter shock, the person had left a note and a fifty dollar bill. Troy had almost missed it, but he kicked a rock in frustration, exposing the borrower’s IOU. He shrugged, tucked the bill into his pocket, tossed the note away, and continued on up to the grocery store.

  He was sweating by the time he got there, and he could smell the tequila leaching from his skin. As he approached the Trading Post, a family of tourists rushed to get their kids tucked safely into their station wagon and he realized that he probably looked like a vagrant.

  He was sweaty, grimy, un-showered, wearing a local strip-club t-shirt, and hadn’t shaved for—well, he’d lost count of how many weeks, or maybe months it had been. But, he had cash now, so that was all that mattered. He pushed open the door and was thankful that the store’s air conditioning was set on frigid.

  Chad Harrison was out of Solspring Biodynamic Organic Extra Virgin Olive Oil—an obscenely expensive luxury he used liberally in making his daily bacon, egg, and Brie cheese on Italian bread breakfast sandwich. He had experimented with at least two dozen different brands before discovering that this particular oil made his recipe zing with flavor. He had lobbied the owner of the Trading Post for over a year before she would agree to stock it on her shelf. Hell, even the Olive Morada just up the road wouldn’t carry it.

  Sure, he could order it online, but he preferred to spend his money locally. He figured that was prudent, seeing as how he had become the de facto voice of the Florida natives in his Cap Wayfarer column.

  He wheeled his bike into the first slot of the curbside rack, not bothering to lock it. He’d only be a second inside to grab the oil and a few more free range eggs. His mouth watered just thinking about the sandwich he was going to create. Basil, maybe he’d add a sprig of fresh basil and see what happened. He made a mental note to grab some.

  Pulling open the wooden screen door, he was greeted by the familiar whoosh of ultra-cooled air and the tinkle of a real bell—not an electronic chime. Atmosphere, he thought. It’s all about the atmosphere. If you had an electric door notification beeping at the customers walking in, you couldn’t really sell that this place was a Trading Post. Marie had done an amazing job of taking care of the place since Ernie had passed five years ago.

  He grabbed a basket—not the plastic variety found at most grocery store chains. No, this was an honest-to-God, wood, woven picnic basket with a red gingham cloth liner. He strolled down the first aisle, not bothering to wave back at the older woman running the cash register. He turned down the dairy, egg, and yogurt aisle and stopped short.

  “Christ,” he muttered. “Looks like they’re letting the bums shop here now.”

  The man in front of him, rifling through the eggs like an assembly-line worker sorting widgets, was dirty. He smelled of smoke and was wearing a shirt he’d obviously stolen from a tourist. Worst of all, he was sweaty and grimy and was touching every single damned egg.

  “Friend,” he said, not hiding his disdain, “you gonna wash all those eggs you’re defiling there?”

  The man looked up, tilted his straw cowboy hat back on his head, and smiled. “I’d be happy to do just that. I didn’t realize folks ate the shells or I’d have been more careful.”

  Chad opened his mouth to reply, but couldn’t think of a sharp enough retort. He was slipping. Back in his heyday, he would’ve ripped the man a new one with some sly, sarcastic comeback. As it was, he just shook his head and grabbed the nearest half-dozen cage free organic eggs that looked like maybe the man had skipped over them.

  “You like that brand, do ya?” the man in the hat asked, scratching his chin. “I woulda got those, but I heard they keep their chickens in a barn. Fourteen hens per square meter.”

  Again, Chad tried desperately to come up with a witty, scathing remark, but none was there. He tucked the eggs into his basket and turned around, not bothering to dignify the man with so much as a dismissive glance.

  “That all you need?” Marie asked as she manually punched in the prices on an old five-and-dime cash register.

  Chad pointed to a stack of papers at the front of the store. “And a copy of the Blue Paper.”

  “Okie dokie. That’s seventy-five dollars.”

  “Seventy-five? Jesus, Marie. It was only fifty-five two weeks ago. I’m not a tourist, you know?”

  The old woman shrugged. “It’s your oil. They went up. Really proud of that stuff.”

  He shuffled a few bills across the counter and jerked the receipt out of her hand. “Highway robbery is what that is.”

  “You want me to stop ordering it?”

  Chad huffed as he pushed open the tinkling door. He loaded the groceries into the hopper on the front of his bike and folded the paper over the top to keep the sun from beating down on them. A poorly drawn artist’s sketch of the Cowboy Killer stared back at him. His eyes went wide as he looked up to see the bum who’d been fondling the eggs walking out of the store. The dude had a scruffy beard and shoulder-length black hair … and a cowboy hat. He nodded at Chad and touched his finger on the brim of the hat. Chad jerked his bike backward out of the rack the rear wheel dipped off the curb faster than he expected and he went down. His groceries spilled out and he distinctly heard at least three—probably more like five—of the eggs cracking.

  The man—the Cowboy Killer—walked toward him. “You okay there, buddy?”

  Chad picked up his bike and stuffed the pile of now soggy groceries into the wire basket on the front. “All good. Thanks.”

  “Looks like you broke a few eggs. I’m sure they’d replace ’em.”

  “No worries,” Chad said, hurrying to pedal away. “Not gonna eat the shells anyway, right?”

  He didn’t wait for the man’s reply. When he reached Dion’s Quik Mart, he pulled his bike to the far side of the store and watched as the man in the hat started walking. He was headed south, the same direction Chad had gone. The former investigative journalist in him began to think of the headlines: Cap Wayfarer Bags Notorious Serial Killer or maybe Thriller Writer Nabs Cowboy Killer.

  He wiped a smear of egg that had somehow splattered onto the screen of his phone and dialed 9-1-1.

  15

  Kandy Kane
’s Kicks

  Sheriff Paul Puckett recognized the number when it flashed up on the caller ID. He didn’t waste time with his whole 9-1-1 shtick, but launched straight into what he thought the person on the line was calling about.

  “I’m sorry, Chad,” he said, putting a hand up. “I don’t have any new information on the whereabouts of your stolen canoe.”

  “Kayak,” Chad Harrison blurted into the phone. “It’s a kayak, you moron.”

  Paul almost hung up, but then Chad continued in a somewhat frantic voice.

  “But that’s not what I’m calling about. I am calling about a murderer on the loose at the Trading Post.”

  Years of sitting in the station with his feet propped up on his desk made him slow to react and doubtful besides.

  “A murderer you say? At the Trading Post?”

  “Yes, well, he’s not there now. He’s actually headed south somewhere around … around mile marker eighty-two.”

  “Okay, I’ll bite, though I’m likely to regret it.” The sheriff sat up and flipped the top off of a blue ball-point pen. He slid a yellow legal pad off the desk and into his lap. “Let’s start from the top. Who did this person kill?”

  “Well … I don’t know. Maybe like a man, or maybe a woman … or both.”

  Paul flipped the pad back onto his desk. “Look, Chad, I know what you’re doing. I promise I cruised the island myself and didn’t see any obvious signs of your canoe (he called it a canoe on purpose this time to needle the man.) Furthermore, it is a federal offense to falsify an emergency call. Now, if I hear anything about your—”

  “Shut up and listen, sheriff.”

  Paul Puckett clicked the button to disconnect the call. Within seconds, the line rang again.

  “Sheriff, wait. I’m literally cruising along the road behind the Cowboy Killer.”

  Paul sat up. However unlikely the man’s frantic story was, his law-enforcement trained intuition buzzed. “You have my attention.”