The One That Got Away

by Joe Clifford

  Kee-rist, Remmie thought again. The sound made his teeth grind: Ceaseless scraping mixed with the wet tearing of skin and flesh. Remmie said nothing. He tried to watch without watching, took in the rundown bathroom with its broken floor tiles (like a shitty subway station) and dirty bathtub, red streaks thickening by the second across chipped porcelain. Remmie worked once—for a long hellish week—in a butchering factory. They did pigs there. Remmie’s job was to pull out the guts, plop them down on a conveyor belt. Five straight days, one fat pig after another, and Remmie woke up on his first day off with an unmistakable urge to slice his own throat. He quit the next day, didn’t show up for work at the factory. His wife didn’t like that decision, but that wasn’t the worst of it—Remmie could never stomach bacon again.

  Trevor finished the second leg, tossed the pieces at the foot of the bathtub. He shifted to the dead pimp’s head. The body was draped over the tub, the pimp’s neck lifted at the sky, his half-hairy chin pointed at the drab yellow lights and black mold sporing across the ceiling. “The thing with the head,” Trevor said, “is that it comes away kind of messy, but it’s an easy job. That’s why I save it for last—you don’t want to get messy before you have to. I bet you’ll agree with me there, huh?” He positioned the hacksaw slightly higher than the pimp’s Adam’s apple. Before slicing, he stopped, turned to Remmie. “Know what? I could use an apron. Last thing I need is my dry cleaning guy giving me a bunch of shit about a little blood. You mind?”

  Remmie wandered like a ghost into the kitchen, opened a few drawers, found an apron crushed into a crusty ball. He walked back to the bathroom and handed it to Trevor. The fat man set the hacksaw on the edge of the sink and slipped the apron over his barbered hair, tied it around his broad belly. On the front of the apron was a cartoon image of a slim woman in a red bathing suit.

  Trevor smoothed down the apron and studied his profile in the bathroom mirror. The glass was rutted with toothpaste stains and caked with the gunk of the dead pimp’s uncouth and sporadic grooming habits. In the glass, Trevor was a lumpy shape framed by soap scum. He turned to face himself, ran his hands over the woman’s curves. “Kiss this cook,” Trevor said. He looked back at Remmie, noted the ketchup-stained pants again, and the greasy sheen of Remmie’s boots. “Say, where in the hell do you work, neighbor? I bet I might know the place.”

  “Big Stop’s Roadhouse. Just off the highway. We got—”

  “The world’s only egg-six-ways burger,” Trevor said nodding his head.

  “You know it?”

  “Like the underside of my dick. I get the bacon burger with scrambled eggs on top. That’s one hell of a meal, if you ask me.”

  Remmie said, “I bet I’ve cooked you a burger.”

  “It’s a small world, neighbor.”

  Remmie glanced at the pimp’s limbs piled in the tub. He’d come all this way—from the podunk shit heel town of his birth, from the mustard-odor of a dog food factory during the pitiful years of his youth, from the trailer park wedding and home births of his two little boys, from the county jail lockup—and wound up a fry cook at an inner city burger joint, a grease monkey standing in a shitty bathroom while a fat man in a suit chopped up a dead pimp.

  Small world?

  Yeah, Remmie guessed that about matched.

  He said, “The smallest world.”

  Trevor picked up the hacksaw, drew it down across the dead pimp’s neck, and began his bloody work. When it came free, the pimp’s head dropped, bounced, and rolled casually across the tile floor. It ended up at Remmie’s feet, the dead man’s sky blue eyes glaring up at him from the oily frame of black curls. Jeez-us, Remmie thought again. Kee-rist.

  Trevor tossed the saw in the tub. “Time to bag this sucker up,” he said. “This is where you’re going to earn your money, neighbor.”

  “Jeez-us,” Remmie said. “Kee-rist.”

  Trevor nodded and said, “Amen, brother. And may he rest in peace.”

  Click here to learn more about The Bad Kind of Lucky by Matt Phillips.

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  Here is a preview from Harbinger, a prequel to the Ania Series by Frank Zafiro and Jim Wilsky.

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  CHAPTER 1

  Boyd

  The sky is a clear, dark cobalt blue as the daylight fades. The sun just went down but its soft golden glow lingers on the boats and calm water of Gulf Pointe Marina. Going to be a half moon tonight and I can see its outline up there already. I work my stiff neck around a little and look down at the deck below me. Everything is done.

  Hicks and I have already scrubbed and washed the boat down. The bait wells are clean, tackle and gear stowed, rods have new lines and are ready in their holders. Even our little galley is squared away.

  Dusk is my favorite time of day and even more so on this Friday evening. Earlier, we had only our second charter of the entire week. A pain in the ass father and his two whiny, spoiled sons out on their first ever deep sea fishing trip. Probably their first fishing trip of any kind, period.

  Bottom line, though, Hicks put them on fish all day, as he always seems to do. Today it was mostly Spanish mackerel and bonitos but the youngest boy also hooked a good size kingfish. We had to help him so he wouldn’t lose it and he whined about that, too. They caught more than enough to get their fair share of excitement.

  The lunch we served them, on the other hand, was a ‘little disappointing’ according to the discerning tastes of the oldest son, who was probably twelve or so. All in all, though, I suppose they were satisfied and had a good time. As satisfied as a snake lawyer from New York City and his two brats are going to get, anyway.

  I shift in the captain’s chair on the bridge of our boat, the Harbinger, and it squeaks a little protest. I look at the few wispy clouds in the west that are now only a burnt orange and try to enjoy the beauty. Sipping on another ice cold Dos Equis that was going down good, I set the bottle back in the holder and resist finishing it just yet.

  The big ice chest is down on the deck, which isn’t very convenient when you’re doing some serious beer drinking. It doesn’t matter, since this is my spot. I like sitting up here and looking around. Watching the weather, whatever it may be. Looking at the lights of Fort Meyers, the causeway over to Sanibel Island. I watch the people on the docks and on their boats. I can think better in the big chair.

  As the light continues to fade, the pole and berth lights of the Marina are blinking on one by one. The rows of boats are gradually lit up. Some of these boats are just trophies. ‘Look at me’ boats, as we like to call them. They get used maybe three or four times a year by folks who don’t even live here. Just toys for people with money to burn. People who are really just grown children who get bored quickly. Other pleasure boats here, though, are at least out on the water almost every weekend. Then there’s boats like ours. Working boats.

  Many are sitting quiet, still, and dark. There’s a number that still have crew guys washing them down, cleaning up and doing prep work for tomorrow’s business. Something Hicks and I don’t have. We’ve got a six hour charter booked for Wednesday of next week but nothing in between. And nothing after that. No email inquiries to answer, or phone messages to follow-up on. Zero.

  And right on cue, my phone laying on the padded console next to me vibrates and the screen lights up. I finish my beer while standing to twist and stretch my back out a little. Definitely not answering, but I pick it up to look at the number displayed and recognize it immediately. Just not in the mood to talk to anybody right now, let alone my dad.

  He’ll be wanting to talk about the customer we had today, whether we caught fish and whether the boat is ready to go for the next run. Was the customer happy and will he be back someday. Now, Hicks would have answered it with a smile on his face and he would have obliged my dad. He would have talked about the day. He’d play the game, say the right things but
he would have glazed over the real issues.

  Not me.

  I grab my empty bottle and head down the metal rungs that I’ve gone down and up more times than I can count. Down on deck, I get another beer, open it and take a slug. I check the rods in their holders, open the clean bait wells, and check the tie downs…as if I’m going to find something out of order. Then I pace around the deck and talk to myself a little more.

  Again, the phone hums and vibrates in my pocket. Dad wants to talk, and I feel guilty about that but the conversation that needs to be had, never happens. What Dad won’t want to talk about is how we need to advertise more, how the Harbinger needs a full refitting right down to the cracked vinyl seat I was sitting on up there. The boat basically needs new everything.

  Back in the day, our business, Fish-On Charters, was one of the best in the Fort Meyers area. My father, Ben Tomlin, and Dan Ledoux, Hicks’ dad, had a winner. They were downright prophets when the named the boat Harbinger. Good things did come. The calendar was full. Hell, potential customers sometimes needed to be turned down and referred to one of the other charter boys out here. They made good money around these waters, and even better legends.

  That was a good fifteen, twenty years ago, though. Competition kept coming, not only in numbers of boats but in what they had to offer, the amenities, equipment and such. They caught up to our dads and then ran by them like they were standing still.

  The phone stops and I try to hang up in my mind too. Maybe not think about this situation for a bit. Best I can do though is just push it back in the corner for now, because the problem is not going away. Bottom line, we’re damn near broke and the money won’t get spent to turn this thing around. I can see that coming as clear as any reef.

  Heading back up the ladder to the bridge now. I settle back into the cracked vinyl chair again and sip the cold beer. Looking blankly at the dash of instruments and gauges, I remember that today we had a little glitch in the GPS that we’ll have to check out closer tomorrow. It’s always something, always.

  I can feel my mood getting darker and I’m glad to be alone. Having no one else around, even Hicks, is just the way it needs to be sometimes.

  Hicks is pretty much the only guy in this world I want to be around and we are almost always together, always have been. But earlier, when he headed over to Sanibel to hit a few of our haunts, I passed. Just one of those nights where I need to completely check out, I guess.

  Three boat slips down, the big twin inboards of the Sea Witch cough and then rumble to life. Earl ‘Early’ Loomis is the owner and captain. He’s been running his charter business for over twenty years. An old friend of our fathers, as well as Hicks and I.

  Early just bought that boat less than a year ago, a new Cabo that had been hardly used by the previous owner. The hours on it were so low that he must have paid top dollar. Not saying it isn’t worth it, but damn.

  I can see him up on his bridge, but the light is fading fast now. As if he knew I was thinking about him, he does a half turn and waves, then salutes me. I salute him back. It’s a little routine we have and it at least brings a half smile to my face.

  Early isn’t frugal and money doesn’t wear a hole in his pocket, that’s for sure, but I think that’s also what has made him successful. Got to spend money to make it and all of that. His charter business is good, always has been through the years. Steady business, his boat is out on the water more than it’s sitting here.

  I take another pull on my beer and sigh. It’s one of those still nights where there isn’t a whisper of wind and the temperature is just right. I lean back and close my eyes for a second but the constant deep gurgle of the Sea Witch’s engines eventually brings my head back up.

  I mean hey, there is no denying that I love boats and love being on the water. Besides the military, the Corps, it’s all I’ve ever really known. On the other hand, it’s also a fact that I’m getting burned out on this business struggle and the burn out is growing.

  My eyes float back to the right, over to the familiar noise of those idling boat engines. For some guys, guys like Early over there, that boat or the next one is literally his entire life. It’s his house. It’s everything to him. The fishing business is his past, present and future.

  He’s never been married, has no kids or even relatives. I think he’s originally from Arkansas, or some damn where but he sure as hell ain’t never leaving here. He’d rather be dead and no doubt would be, within a year, if he didn’t have his charter business.

  The Sea Witch’s running and deck lights come on now. Early throttles it up a little, then down again. He’s getting ready to head out somewhere. Not unusual. He goes out all the time, even later than this sometimes.

  He’s told me more than once that on calm nights he likes to cruise around, have a few drinks and think about things. Just last week we were swapping stories about our worst customers. He winked at me and said, “I’ll tell you what Boyd, when I go out at night and just cruise around a bit…well, it’s like good medicine to me. It heals whatever is ailing me.”

  I guess it’s kinda like me sitting up here on the bridge. Early is a man of the water and I suppose I am, too. I think the difference between him and me is that to him, this is not really work. It’s almost as if he’s on a permanent vacation. To me, it’s all work, it’s a job. A job I’ve grown to hate, I guess.

  He wouldn’t dream of being anywhere else, doing anything else. When and if he does dream, I’m sure they’re good and he remembers them. In all of them, Early is probably on the water, on that boat and he’s catching that once in a lifetime blue marlin. Or some clueless customer has lucked into hooking a huge grouper, or some damn thing.

  When I dream and that’s pretty much every night, they don’t have anything to do with that. They are bad much more often than good. The only blessing is that they’re hazy and fragmented. I don’t really remember them, I just know it wasn’t good.

  I raise my beer to drink and get nothing but a little foam. I stare at the empty bottle and draw the analogy. I’m running on empty as well.

  The moving lights of the Sea Witch grab my attention as Early slowly pulls out his slip. Like a white ghost he glides by our row of docked boats and steers towards the mouth of the marina. From there, he’ll make his way out into the bay. Even beyond that maybe, to open water and a two or three hour little cruise down the coast. Whatever, who knows.

  The only thing I do know is that I need another beer and I head back down the ladder. Just as I reach the ice chest, I hear Early throttle up to a third out there in the dark water. He’s cleared the no wake zone now and is free to run.

  Gotta admit, I will always love that sound and the carefree feeling it brings with it.

  As I go back up to the bridge, my mind just won’t allow me to ease up. I start counting things off that we need to do tomorrow with each rung I climb. I’m all about symbolism and irony, I guess.

  Chapter 2

  Hicks

  “Do you really own a ship?”

  She had to shout it to be heard over the musica Cubana in the place. That made her face so close to mine that I’m sure she felt my cheek muscles flex when I smiled. “Well, ‘course I do, darlin’. Lying about such things is a capital offense down here.”

  She laughed. Giggled, actually. I put her at twenty-three, but she could just as easily be an up-jumped nineteen-year old. Either way, she was comfortably legal, certainly fun, and right in that perfect notch that is my wheelhouse—good looking enough to be pretty, but not enough of a knockout to think the world owed her everything.

  We moved to a patio table. The music still spilled out of the open windows, but conversation was possible here.

  “What kind of wine do you like?” I asked her.

  She shrugged. “White.”

  I waved at the waiter, a new guy I didn’t recognize. He still made it over quickly enough. That’s what I liked about this place. Great service.

  “Sir
?”

  I ordered a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. I’m sure she thought it was something exotic, or mysterious. My guess was that she grew up in a world where Chardonnay was just another word for white wine, and no other varietals existed.

  Not that I wouldn’t have preferred a good beer instead. Anything but the Mexican piss water Boyd drank. I mean, I liked Mexican beer, but Dos Equis was never a taste I could acquire. Besides, the girls in places like this one tended to think they were supposed to drink wine if they weren’t having something with an umbrella in it, so I rolled with it.

  We talked about her senior year of college that she spent abroad, which further confirmed her age, until the wine came. The waiter and I went through the ritual of the taste and the pour while she looked on. These sorts of social dances were mostly bullshit in terms of substance, but on another level, they mattered a lot, so I mastered all the steps. It wasn’t that hard.

  We toasted Florida, vacations, and new friends.

  “So are you, like, the captain?” she asked over the rim of her glass.

  I shook my head. “My partner and I are co-captains.”

  She pursed her lips. “A ship can have two captains at the same time?”

  “No.”

  “Then…”

  “Well, technically, I’m the first mate,” I admitted. “But I’m the majority owner of the boat, and the business.”

  She looked perplexed. “Then why aren’t you the captain?”

  “It’s not like the military. Captain is a job, not a rank.” I drank some of the wine, letting it roll around in my mouth. True, beer was better, but there was a certain appeal to a good wine. The taste buds really stand up and pay attention. I swallowed, then let some air in to savor the finish.

  “So the captain of your ship works for you?”