“Shit!” he yelled into the air.
He took a deep breath, emboldened by the newfound courage of a .40 caliber weapon in his hand, and stepped back into the mangroves. Ten yards in, something bumped against his leg. He yowled, knowing he was going to die and emptied the Glock into the object.
When all he heard was the clicking of his trigger, he stopped and looked down. With hysterical laughter, he realized it wasn’t the gator.
“You killed a kayak, Ian,” he said to himself. “Nice work buddy.”
A bright orange, mangled, and now mortally wounded kayak bobbed up and down next to him. He laughed again and kicked the kayak.
“Ow, shit, my toe,” he hopped up and down, sloshing the water around him.
Suddenly, the gator, growled and surged up out of the swamp behind the boat. The dagger-like teeth of the massive maw of the mama gator slammed down onto the kayak, chewing, tearing, shredding the orange fiberglass.
Ian emptied his bowels again along with his bladder this time, but he didn’t stick around long enough to see if the gator could smell it.
17
Coronas And Key Limes
Between the jangly closing bars of his favorite Skynyrd tune, Troy Clint Bodean heard something thrashing around beyond the fence behind court number nine. He lifted his sunglasses, tilted his hat back on his head, and pulled the borrowed headphones from his ears. He waited and watched. Other than the usual rustling of the wind and the occasional torrent of birds taking flight out of the trees, he heard nothing out of the ordinary. He thought for a second he might’ve seen something slinking around in the shadows, but whatever it was had gone back into hiding.
He shrugged his shoulders and put the earbuds back in. He grinned at the song that had replaced the southern rock stalwarts legends. Jimmy Buffett had sneaked his way into the playlist and had begun extolling the virtues of a fully loaded cheeseburger. Troy’s stomach growled and he wondered how Cinnamon was coming along with the sack of ingredients he’d brought back from the Trading Post. As if she’d known he was thinking that, she poked her head out of the apartment window facing the courts.
“Hey, cowboy,” she called with a wave, “breakfast is served.”
Troy gave a thumbs up over the rumble of the tractor as he pulled it back into the garage. He turned the key off and froze. As a longtime resident of swampy places, he was all too familiar with the sound a mama gator made. He was certain he’d heard it when the sputtering of the tractor died down. Sweat dripped down his forehead in the greenhouse-like heat of the shed. The wind creaked through and the door drifted open.
“You comin’?” He heard the girl’s voice echo across the courts.
Dangit, woman, he thought. Now ain’t a good time.
His view was obstructed to the right and left of the open door. He felt sure the gator had slunk out in the open to investigate the noise he was making brushing the courts, but he couldn’t see it. Calculating the distance across court number eight to the fence, he realized that with his not-so-good knee and the land speed of a Florida alligator being something around thirty miles an hour, he decided he couldn’t outrun it.
He scanned the inside of the shed for some kind of weapon. He wasn’t sure he could kill the thing, but he might be able to fend it off or slow it down long enough for him to get to the fence. The tools of the tennis trade didn’t offer much in the way of a good weapon inside the building. Leaf blower, line brush, bags of clay, extra line rolls, nails … and a hammer.
He picked up the hammer and for reasons only known to men, he swung it up and down a few times, testing its heft. Probably only good enough for a whack to the skull, he thought. Getting a firm grip on the handle, he took a deep breath. He knew when he lunged out, his knee would revolt against the quick burst, but it couldn’t be helped and he willed it to press on.
He jumped out of the garage and hit the ground hard. In protest, his knee buckled and went limp under him. He slammed into the clay and rolled forward in an awkward somersault. The hammer went flying as he clutched his now screaming knee in pain. He rolled over onto his back, scanning for the attacking gator. He raised his hands against what he was sure would be the dagger-lined maw slamming down on him.
Nothing happened. He looked left, right, back. His head swiveled around looking for the alligator.
“What are you doing down there?” Cinnamon said, her voice echoing over the settling calm over the courts.
Troy couldn’t help but smirk in relief. Though he was sure he’d heard a gator chuffing around out here, there was clearly no sign of her now. Or maybe he’d imagined the whole thing.
He picked himself up and dusted off the caked on layer of clay. His knee ached, but it wasn’t as bad as he thought it would be. He turned around and waved to the girl poking her head out of the second story window.
“Just caught my flip-flop on the edge of the door,” he said. “I’m gonna wash off this dust and I’ll be right up.”
“Don’t be too long,” she said. “Your eggs will be cold.”
He looked around one more time to reassure himself there was not an attacking beast coming up behind him. Nothing but the gentle sway of the mangroves and a distant bird singing in the breeze. As he limped through the open gate, he heard a plop to his right. He jerked his head around and saw that a nearby lime tree was dropping the sweet, ripe fruit on the ground. He scooped up a couple to squeeze into an afternoon Corona.
Cinnamon rinsed the plates as Troy leaned back and rubbed his full belly.
“That was dang good, young lady,” he said, stretching his arms above his head. “You’ll make a fine wife one day.”
“Hey,” she said, crinkling her nose, “that’s sexist and I don’t appreciate it. I’d rather be a chef than a homemaker.”
Troy raised his hands up in surrender. “Didn’t mean any offense. You’d make a great chef, too.”
She grinned and winked at him. “Maybe I could be both.”
Troy coughed and sputtered and searched for the words to change the subject.
“Don’t worry, cowboy.” She laughed and threw the dish towel at him. “I’m not looking for anything like that any time soon. What I really want to do is perform.”
“You mean, like, at Woody’s?”
“Ugh, no,” she said. “That place is a dump. I’d like to be a real dancer, not a stripper. But right now, I need the money. When I get enough, I’m out of there.”
“Can’t say as I blame you.”
A beam of sunlight streamed through the window over the kitchen sink. Dust motes floated around in the not-too-awkward silence that had settled between them.
“I see you brought in a couple of limes,” she said, rolling the green fruit around in her hand.
“Thought they might go good in a Corona on the beach.”
“Now, that is the first smart thing you’ve said all morning.”
“You got a suit?” Troy asked, and then realized that, of course, she hadn’t brought anything with her.
“Nah,” she said, stripping her t-shirt over her head, “but this oughta do the trick.”
Her spangly, sparkly, sequined bikini from her work the night before at Woody’s glinted in the sunlight.
Troy felt his mouth drop open, though he tried hard to keep it from doing so. It is anecdotally known most strippers look amazing under dark black lights, but then in the light of day, they resemble something between the creature from the black lagoon and the swamp thing. Cinnamon not only looked good, he noticed, she looked even better in the early afternoon glow.
“Why don’t you take a picture,” she said, breaking his daze, “it’ll last longer.”
“I am … I’m so … you have to forg—”
She grabbed his arm, pulling him up out of the chair. She pecked him on the cheek and tapped the top of his hat.
“I’m just teasing,” she said. “It’s sweet. You get the beer on ice, I’ll look around and see if I can find a couple of towels. Is there a decent stre
tch of beach near here?”
“If we cross the highway, the other side is nice enough. Usually pretty quiet.”
“Perfect. I need to work on my tan lines.” She grinned and put a finger under his chin to close his mouth again.
Like almost any other early afternoon on US 1, traffic was scattered and sparse. The sun was bright and hot and before Troy could react, Cinnamon reached up, grabbed his hat and plopped it onto her own head. He almost raised his arm to take it back, but dang if she didn’t look super cute in it. He grinned and put one foot out onto the road. As soon as it touched the warm pavement, the sound of a vehicle roaring recklessly past made him stumble back, almost dropping the styrofoam cooler.
“Hey, watch it, dude,” he yelled, feeling like an old man in Bermuda shorts with black socks pulled up to his knees. “Slow down, man. It’s the Keys!”
An Islamorada Sheriff’s SUV barreled past them, barely staying in his lane.
“Jesus! That was close. He should at least turn his lights on, right?” Cinnamon asked.
She threw an arm up and flipped the bird toward the disappearing Ford Explorer.
“I reckon,” Troy muttered, squinting at the car now far off in the distance. “Ah, well. Let’s just get down on the beach. I’m ready for a beer.”
18
It’s Blackmail, Sugar
Gary John Suskind choked the bile back into his throat. It burned like he had swallowed a shot of gasoline and sand. Myrtle Hussholder lay under him covered in a sheen of sweat that smelled of mothballs and gin. She moaned as if she was alternating between ecstasy and agony, but when Gary slowed down his rhythmic thrusts, she slapped the side of his face.
“You’re not done until I’m done,” she screeched at him as she sniffed back the endless drip of mucus from her bulbous nose.
Apparently, she was sensitive to his cologne or maybe his bird.
“You’re not done. You’re not done,” the parrot, Shakira, echoed at him from her perch beside the bed.
He fought back the urge to vomit all over the woman and closed his eyes. As long as he kept a strong mental picture of a young Tom Cruise in his signature white shirt and socks from Risky Business, he was able to perform for the old hag. But she kept squeezing her thighs around him and he could feel the sagging skin slapping his hips.
He began to wish the alligator had eaten him along with Matty. Just as he was losing his will to go on, a loud pounding shook the paper-thin front door. He heard a key jam into the handle, the door jerk open, and the chain lock catch it in mid-swing.
“Gary, what the hell?” a voice called into the living room.
“Oh, Christ,” Gary hissed to Myrtle. “It’s my boyfriend, Dani. You’ve got to get the hell out of here.”
“Not until I’m done,” she gasped for air. “I’m not even warmed up yet.”
Fighting another gag, Gary pointed toward the door. “If Dani finds you here, neither of us will get to finish.”
“Well, what do you recommend?” She frowned. “You don’t have a back door, and that window is two stories off the ground.”
Gary looked around.
“Closet. Get in the closet.”
He stood up, grabbed the woman’s flimsy nightie and flung it at her. She was sitting on the edge of the bed licking her lips at the sight of him urging her to hurry. He realized he was still naked and grabbed a pillow to cover himself.
“Gary! Open up. I need to borrow your Jeep!”
That didn’t make sense. Dani had a car. Why the hell would— the sound of the door being forcefully opened, followed by the sound of the chain breaking and the broken parts skidding across the floor interrupted his train of thought. Oh, crap.
He grabbed his aged landlord by the shoulders and slammed her back on the bed. He jerked the sheet up over her head and leaped in beside her. He was just pulling the quilt up over her bulk to camouflage the fact that she was there when Dani burst into the room.
“Hey hun,” Dani said, rifling through Gary’s things piled on the bedside table. “Where are your keys? Why’d you lock the chain? You never lock the chain.”
“Wait. What? Why do you need my car?”
“I got into a little fender bender,” Dani said. “Actually, I’m not sure if there was any damage to the car, but my tire went flat and I don’t have a spare. I need to use your Jeep tonight to get down to Key West. I’m already late to the show.”
Gary shook his head and flung his arm in the direction of the closet. “I have no idea where my keys are … um, maybe in my pants over there in the hamper.”
“Well, can you get up and help me find them?”
Little did Dani know how much trouble he’d had getting up over the past—he looked at his alarm clock—ugh, two hours. He watched as Dani found his pants, dug into the pocket, and pulled his hand out holding the keys.
“You okay with me taking it?
“Yes, yes, of course.” Gary nodded vigorously.
“Not even warmed up,” Shakira said, repeating some of Myrtle’s best lines. “Oh, baby, gimme a kiss.”
Dani, thinking it was Gary who had said it, walked to the side of the bed, leaned over, and pecked him on the side of the cheek. And that was when the old woman’s allergy to Gary’s CK One cologne reached a tipping point. She sneezed loudly three times back to back. If he’d had more than a second to react, Gary would’ve been shocked and repulsed by the amount of snot he felt spray all over his thigh. He didn’t have that time because Dani’s mouth flew open and he grabbed the duvet and flung it aside, exposing the naked sack of a woman, curled in the fetal position next to Gary under the sheets.
Dani threw his hand over his mouth, gasping at the sight. He barked like a seal a few times, obviously shocked by the sudden appearance of not only a woman in his boyfriend’s bed, but a woman who reminded him of Ed Asner.
“What … the … hell … is going on here?” Dani jabbed his finger accusingly at Myrtle with every word.
Gary threw his hands up. “It’s not what you think! I swear.”
“I don’t care.” Dani was shaking his head furiously back and forth as if trying to throw off what he’d seen. “We are through. I should’ve trusted my instincts. I knew you weren’t gay. You haven’t been with me like this (he pointed his finger at Myrtle again) in so long!”
Gary knew that the reason he’d been distant with Dani was because he’d been falling for Matty, but none of that mattered now that he’d become alligator food, so he kept it to himself.
“Of course I’m gay. You know me. You know I love you. Seriously, even if I wasn’t … I mean … this is not that at all. It’s just … it’s …”
Myrtle Hussholder, who looked like she was ready for a cigarette and a drink, raised her arms over her head and arched her back. Her underarms were unshaven and gray, stringy hair poked out in every direction.
“It’s blackmail, sugar,” she said, grinning like a Cheshire Cat. “The second oldest profession on Earth.”
She grunted and huffed as she slid out of the bed. Grabbing her nightgown and wrapping it around her body, she tapped Gary on the shoulder as she walked out.
“I’ll be back later for more, sonny,” she called over her shoulder. “And if you have any second thoughts about our little agreement here, I’ll call the cops and tell them everything.”
She waddled out the door, pulling it shut behind her.
“What the hell is she talking about?” Dani demanded. “Why is Jabba the Hutt blackmailing you?”
Gary pulled on a pair of linen pajama pants. He led Dani to the kitchen table, sat him down, poured two tall glasses of strawberry sangria left over from their party last Friday night, and told his boyfriend about the stolen kayak.
“So, just take the stupid boat back and tell Mable to kiss off.”
“It’s Myrtle, and, well … I can’t do that,” Gary said, gulping the sangria and pouring himself another one.
“Why not?”
Gary sighed and tried to think o
f the best way to break the news to Dani that he’d been out on a kayak ride with another man—a stolen kayak and a man who was now dead and eaten by a rogue alligator.
19
Work With Me
Troy found himself resting back on his elbows, propped against a small white cooler protecting four unopened Coronas. The sweet and tart taste of Key lime brushed his lips with every sip and the rivulets of condensation dripped lazily down the side of the half-full bottle … or was it half-empty? Felt like the former … right this moment.
The ease of the afternoon took him back to a simpler time. What had it been? Ten years ago? Fifteen? Heck, he didn’t know and didn’t feel like adding it up. Seemed to him like this crazy life of his had all started to go sideways back when he took up residence on Pawleys Island. He glanced over at Cinnamon. She reminded him of Karah in so many ways—except her hair was a little lighter, her smile was a little more worldly, and her legs might’ve been a little longer.
“You going to keep gawking at my body, or are you going to hand me another beer?”
Troy grinned as he realized she’d been looking at him while he reminisced about days long gone. He gulped the last sip of his own beer down, took her empty bottle and replaced it with a fresh one, complete with a slice of the local limes he’d found.
“You seem preoccupied,” she said, scooting closer to him. “What’s on your mind, cowboy?”
He pulled the straw hat off his head and looked at it. “I ain’t no cowboy. Far from it. I found this old thing on a …” He thought better of telling the whole truth of the matter. “... on an old fishing boat drifting past my house.”
She took it from him and slipped it back on his head. “It looks good on you. I can’t imagine you without it.”
“I’ve had lots of people tell me that,” he said, adjusting the hat into its usual position—just slightly tilted down over his eyes. “Been thinking ’bout givin’ it up. Partin’ ways with it.”
Gator Wave Page 9