“Three-on-three?” Ian asked.
“Basketball,” Puckett said. “There’s a tournament with all the local fire departments, rescue squads, wildlife management officers, and sometimes even the Coast Guard. Draws a big crowd. Proceeds all go to charity.”
“No thanks. I’m terrible at sports.”
“Well, hell. That doesn’t matter, son. Do I look like I can play basketball? It’s all for the kids.”
Ian put his hat—the lone undamaged item from his original uniform—on his head and walked to the door.
“I’ll think about it.”
“I’ll pencil you in,” the sheriff made a big motion of scratching something into his calendar. “You going out?”
“Yeah,” Ian said, thinking he didn’t really want the sheriff to know he was headed back down to check in on his cowboy, “just gonna cruise up and down. It’s almost time for the drunks to be out.”
Paul Puckett smiled the wide, toothy smile of a politician who wasn’t actually happy. “Go get ’em, tiger.”
Ian closed the door without replying.
“What do you think about that kid, Mark?” Puckett asked the deputy who hadn’t made a peep during the whole exchange.
He raised his eyebrows at the question, but didn’t answer. The phone rang and he picked it up.
“Okay. No, he’s not … but … no, sir. We haven’t—” Mark put his hand over the receiver. “It’s the writer guy. Chaz.”
Puckett rolled his eyes. “Crap. You mean Chad Harrison?”
Mark nodded. “I’ll put him through.”
“No, no, don’t—” The sheriff was interrupted by his phone buzzing. Double crap.
He picked it up. “Sheriff Paul Puckett speaking.”
“Well?” the voice on the line asked.
“I’m sorry, what’s the question.”
“Stop playing games, sheriff,” Chad said. “You and I both know what I’m calling about. Has your lousy excuse for a police department done anything to find my kayak?”
Puckett took a deep breath, “Actually, no. We have no resources at this time to devote to finding your—”
“Resources?” Chad blurted through a laugh. “Do you know who you’re dealing with, sheriff? I’ve looked up the numbers from your last campaign. There was a pretty big discrepancy between the two reports I saw. I wonder if I dug a little deeper how much that would affect your upcoming campaign?”
Triple crap. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Let me read from the report I found. Turns out your ex-wife had a box of documents that she was more than happy to deliver to me.”
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. What did she do to me? Chad was reading aloud the sordid details of the missing campaign funds, but Paul Puckett wasn’t listening. He knew it all already. There was a very nice 2018 XLE Lite 20MBC Bunkhouse Travel Trailer parked in his driveway because of that fund discrepancy.
“So, sheriff,” Chad said, finishing his triumphant tirade, “do you think we could find the resources now?”
Paul Puckett slammed the receiver on his desk three times startling Mark out of his chair. “Oops, sorry. Dropped the phone. What I meant to say was, we’ll get a full search on tonight and have your kayak back to you by tomorrow … or the next day at the most.”
“Why, thank you, sheriff,” Chad answered with a sneer in his voice. “Your constituents appreciate that. I’ll be calling tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll be waiting.”
He slammed the receiver down. “Mark, who in the hell could possibly know where that stupid boat is?”
The disinterested deputy looked up. “No clue. Maybe you should just buy him a new one.”
The sheriff opened his mouth to say what a stupid idea that was … until he realized … it wasn’t a half-bad idea after all.
He clicked away from his failing solitaire game and opened a browser window. He was shocked to see how much a new kayak would cost. He wasn’t sure what came after triple crap, but that’s exactly what he was thinking.
22
A Sassy Nation
Troy was having trouble keeping up with the bartender who was sliding Corona after Corona across the bar to him. He was happy that he wasn’t paying for them, nor was he running up a tab. In fact, the owner of Woody’s, Dante Caparelli, was generously taking care of them. What Troy didn’t know until much later, was that Dante was using the alcohol to relax his inhibitions about giving him information.
The band was in rare form, having somewhat settled in with their new drummer. The guy was wearing his hat again tonight and Troy again thought there was something very familiar about him. But, that feeling continued to ebb out like low tide with every golden beer he drank.
“They actually don’t sound too bad tonight, eh?” Dante asked.
“Yup. Not bad at all,” Troy replied, working hard to keep from slurring.
He hadn’t been this drunk in a long time and his danger radar began to tingle. Dante seemed to notice apprehension growing in Troy and signaled the bartender to deliver two filled-to-the-brim tequila shots.
“I probably sherdn’t,” Troy said, forgetting his efforts to speak clearly.
Dante clutched his shoulder tightly. “I insist.”
“Alrighty then,” Troy picked up the glass. “What should we toast?”
“My son,” Dante raised his glass. “Wherever he may be.”
Troy wrinkled his brow. “You don’t know where your son is?”
Dante threw back the shot and slammed his glass down on the bar. Had Troy been more sober, he would’ve noticed the anger in the motion. Instead, he followed suit and chugged his own shot.
“I don’t,” Dante growled. “But when I find out where he is—”
“Donny, Donny, Donny,” Troy said, slapping the old man on the back, “you know kids. Why, when I was a young man, I used to take off for days at a time—to go fishing mostly. My old man didn’t care much—not like you do—but it used to give my mom fits.”
Dante ordered two more drinks and another beer for Troy. He slid the shot over and Troy picked it up.
“My boy isn’t like that,” Dante said. “He’s more responsible than a cowboy like you.”
“Can’t argue with that,” Troy agreed.
“Say … you wouldn’t know anything about where my boy is, would you? Being a rambler like yourself, maybe you’ve bumped into him?”
Troy gulped his shot and laughed. “Don. Can I call you Don?”
“It’s Dante,” the old man slammed his fist on the bar.
“Okay. Okay. No need to get testy, Donny. I don’t reckon I know your son, but if I see your guy, I’ll tell him you said, ‘hello’. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I gotta hit the head.”
Troy got up and stumbled past the bar to the restroom. When he put his hand on the door, someone grabbed it. Even through the haze of drunkenness, he was aware enough to grab the person’s wrist and jerk them into the bathroom with him. He slammed the door behind them and turned the lock. When he flicked on the light, he was startled to see it was Cinnamon.
“What are you doing?” she demanded, jabbing a finger into his chest.
“Takin’ a piss,” he said, pointing at the urinal—which was filled with ice, an old trick used in many a bar to mask the smell of alcohol laden urine.
“I can see that,” she said. “I meant why are you talking to Dante?”
“Donny? Me and him have been having the nicest chat,” Troy whispered and pointed toward the closed door. “And he’s been buying everything.”
He grinned triumphantly and wobbled. Cinnamon caught him, barely in time to keep him from tumbling down to the slick, yellow tile. The tile had originally been white, but years of accidental and intentional misses had stained it to its current shade.
“I can see that,” she said, crossing her arms. “So, what? Are you guys big buddies now?”
“I reckon we might be. Shame what happened to his son.”
Cinnamon’s
tone snapped dangerously close to anger, but there was too much fear for it to go all the way. “He’s talking to you about Matty?”
“Yup. Say, you mind if I pee while we talk. I’m about to bust over here.”
She huffed and opened the door. “I’ll be at a table by the band. Come straight away, don’t talk to Dante anymore.”
Troy flashed her a thumbs-up, but by the time the door had closed, he had forgotten their entire conversation. When he finished, he walked out to find Dante standing there holding two beers.
“There you are, friend,” he said, smiling like a snake to a rat. “Ready for another round?”
Troy swayed when he reached for the beer and fell into Dante. The beers slipped out of his hands, crashing down on the floor in a heap of broken glass, spewing foam all over the man’s expensive suit.
“You jacka—” The old man’s words were drowned out by the band ripping into an AC/DC song.
The drummer was in rare form, slamming the drums like he was trying to make them bleed. Troy whooped and started walking toward the stage. He caught sight of Cinnamon sitting at a table and tried to sit down with her. The only problem was, his balance was seriously compromised and as he lowered himself into the sticky, vinyl covered chair, his knee gave out. He spilled forward, knocking the table over and tumbled onto the ground with it.
“Oh, my God,” she said, kneeling to help him up. “Are you okay?”
“Right as rain, darlin’,” he said, grinning. “But if it’s alright with you, I should probably get goin’.”
“Sounds like a good idea,” she agreed. “Let me get my stuff. I’m going with you.”
“Absolutely not,” Dante’s voice was loud over the roaring guitars. “It’s the busiest night we’ve had in two weeks. You’re not going anywhere.”
Troy might’ve heard the threatening tone of Dante’s voice, and he might’ve realized that she was trying desperately to signal him that she was scared and didn’t want him to leave, but the band apparently had cranked their amplifiers up to eleven as the guitar solo began. The entire crowd was cheering and hollering at them and the drummer was standing on his stool, kicking the cymbals with his feet. Troy also didn’t notice the vice-like grip Dante had on Cinnamon’s arm. He was done and as such, began to crawl toward the exit. No one noticed him leaving … no one except the Islamorada Sheriff’s Department's newest officer, Ian Bass.
As Troy stumbled south, the Ford Explorer followed at approximately three miles an hour, with its headlights off.
The cowboy knows something about my Matty. Dante Caparelli had never been more sure of anything in his life. He picked up the family phone and waited for the line to connect. When it did, he told the person on the other end of the line that Matty was missing and that he knew who had done it.
“You said you were sending the guy?” he asked.
“He shoulda been there by now.”
Dante’s blood went ice cold. Troy’s words echoed in his head. “...if I see your guy, I’ll tell him you said, ‘hello’.”
This dude was definitely the Cowboy Killer. Not only had he probably killed Matty, but now … had he somehow found and killed the family assassin? Nah, surely not. He tried to assure himself that there was no way that bumbling idiot had pulled that off. And if the guy was in town … Dante’s face broke into a smile.
“Happy trails, cowboy,” he said, hanging up the phone.
23
Home Sweet Home
Cinnamon watched helplessly from the stage, unable to signal Troy as he stumbled out the door like a newborn giraffe. She’d been naked up here many times, but for some reason, she felt more exposed now than ever. She finished her dance under a shower of folded one dollar bills and raked the money up into careless wads under both arms. Some of it drifted away, but she didn’t care, she was ready to get the hell out of here.
Dante had been staring at her since before Troy came in and his expression was as dark as Stephen King’s early horror. In fact, he looked a bit like an older Jack Torrance after the Overlook Hotel started to poison his brain.
The money was good tonight, better than it had been in a long time, but she decided that she didn’t feel safe. It was time to make a quick and quiet exit. She didn’t have a ride, but it wasn’t too far to her apartment and she didn’t want to wait for a cab or try out the newest ride sharing company—Thum.
She surreptitiously gathered her things and tucked them into her bag and waited. When Dante staggered off his bar stool to use the bathroom, she grabbed her purse, threw a couple of dollars to Sully behind the bar and dashed out the front door into the warm, humid night. When the raindrops started to fall, she regretted her decision and started to jog—a feat hampered by the nine inch neon pink stilettos she was wearing. The rain came down in sudden sheets soaking her to the bone.
Her left heel broke sending her splashing down into a mucky puddle and she felt tears welling in her eyes. She was thankful that the road was dark. No one would see her in her semi-naked, muddy state … or so she thought.
Troy was almost certain that the bell for third period science class was responsible for waking him. He jolted upright, sure that Sister Connelly would be rapping his knuckles with her splintered yardstick for his insolence.
“I’m sorry, Sister,” he groaned, waiting for the whack on the back of his hands.
He pried his eyes open and was suddenly struck with vertigo so strong that he reassessed his situation. This wasn’t the third grade. No, it was Afghanistan and his chopper was going down. The sound wasn’t a school bell, but rather an alarm klaxon telling him he was out of fuel or an engine had blown up … or they’d been hit by enemy fire. When his eyes finally adjusted and he found his balance, he sat up. A distant, yellow light shone through the hazy night and his surroundings crept into focus.
The cloud of alcohol parted enough for him to realize he was swaying in the hammock on the veranda of the tennis club. The evening came back to him in bits and pieces, but he wasn’t exactly sure how he’d gotten home.
He knew he’d been at Woody’s talking to the owner … What was his name? Dante. Good guy. Bought a bunch of drinks.
His thoughts were interrupted by the loud ringing sound again and he saw his phone lying on the ground under him. The screen showed a number he recognized. He bent over to answer it and having forgotten the sneaky ways of hammocks, tumbled forward in a flash and somersaulted over until he lay flat on his back, staring up at the yellow flood light on the corner of the building.
His phone persisted in buzzing, so he swept his arm out until his fingers were able to grab it. He put it to his ear and clicked the button to connect.
Cinnamon wiped the rain from her face and dialed Troy’s number again. She wasn’t sure who else to call and she wasn’t really sure why she’d decided to call him. But when he answered, the relief swept through her like a tidal wave. The wave quickly turned into a trickle when she realized how intoxicated he sounded. His words slurred and he didn’t make much sense. She almost hung up, but she noticed there was a pair of headlights trailing her through the downpour.
“Somebody is following me, Troy,” she said, clutching the phone tight to her face. “What do I do?”
“Cops,” he grunted. “Gotta call the cops.”
“I don’t want to hang up,” she said. “And besides, they wouldn’t find me until it was too late.”
“Cops,” he repeated. “Just call 9-1-1. Can you go inside somewhere? Grocery store or Walmart or somethin’?”
She shook her head. He really was drunk. “Do you know what time it is? Nothing is open right now.”
“Two? Maybe three.”
“What?”
“Is that what time it is?” he asked. “Don’t have a watch. Haven’t worn one since I got back to the States.”
“Just stay on the phone with me, Troy,” she said, looking over her shoulder.
The car was still there, but it had slowed a bit more—which wasn’t all that strange,
the rain was heavier than ever. She had taken off both shoes and was trudging through several inches of water. Scanning around, she couldn’t see anything but mangroves and jungle and dark ocean. After a while, she lost sight of the car and up ahead, she saw the driveway to her tiny, pale yellow apartment building appear. She jogged past the rotten Lime Tree Apartments sign and hurried up the metal stairs to the second floor. The breezeway was covered and she was elated to be out of the rain. Even though the car had seemingly disappeared, she rushed to find her door. Some of her neighbors’ lights were on, but no one was usually awake at this time of night.
“Thank God for that,” she muttered to herself, rummaging around in her purse for her key.
“Well, hello, doll,” a voice screeched, causing her to drop her bag, spilling the soaking wet contents all around her bare feet. “Late night, eh?”
“Hi, Mrs. Hussholder,” Cinnamon smiled and knelt to scoop up her things.
“Miss Hussholder,” the old woman growled. “Mr. Hussholder was a degenerate who ran off with a 16-year-old girl two years ago.”
“Sorry, Mrs. er, Miss Hussholder.”
“None of that matters,” said Myrtle Hussholder, leaning against the rail outside her door. “What I need to know, is if you’re ever going to pay your rent? Every last one of you is late this month. What the hell is wrong with young people today. Always entitled. Always wanting something for nothing. Makes me sick.”
Cinnamon dug around in her purse and pulled out a wet, wadded pile of money. She shoved it at the woman—it couldn’t have been more than a hundred dollars.
“I’ll have the rest soon, Miss Hussholder,” she said, finally finding her key and jamming it into the lock. She jiggled it and turned and the door swung open. “I’ll have the rest for you by the end of the week. I’ll pick up another shift or something.”
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