by David Berens
Shit, shit, shit, she thought, backing away in a panic. But as she watched, she realized that he was looking down at something and hadn’t seen her. What is he doing? Then she heard it, the jingle of keys. She heard one slide home into the door’s lock and heard it squeak as the man turned it. She dove backward into the hall, running as fast as she could away from the door. She ran past the check-in area. No use going that way, she would’ve been out in the open. Ahead she saw three doors. The one straight ahead was cracked open and there was light coming from inside. The closer she got, she realized she could hear the voices talking in that room. Over her shoulder, she could see the man had turned around to lock the door behind him, and in a rush, she dove into the door on the left. She almost ran into a rack of old cleaning supplies. She reached out to stop herself and knocked a broom loose from the rack. In slow motion, she watched it falling toward the collection of old metal dust pans—the sound from that would give her away for sure.
In an instant, she lunged out, reaching for the broom. Her fingertips touched it and somehow she was able to deflect it from the shelf and kick her leg out to catch it before it hit the floor. It balanced precariously on her ankle and she hopped on one foot until she could reach down and pick it up. Footfalls clicked outside the door, and she realized she hadn’t closed it. It stood halfway open and she was standing right inside. If he looked her direction, he would see her for sure.
She held her breath and watched the man walk past her door without looking. Oddly, he had both hands firmly on his crotch. He was groaning in what sounded like pain as he limped into the door with the other voices.
“What the hell happened to you, Country?” she heard someone ask him.
“Stupid bitch shot mah balls off.”
21
A Stitch In Time
Winchester Boonesborough was either dumbfounded, shocked, or sick to his stomach staring at Country Cooper’s bloodstained crotch. Buff Summerton couldn’t tell which one it was, but he sure as hell didn’t want Boonesborough to get sick all over the damn place.
“Winnie,” he said. “Get yourself together, dammit. We’ve got business to attend to and I don’t want this to take any longer than it already has. Florence is at home ogling that damn pool boy again.”
“I’d get rid of that kid.” Country eased himself into a folding chair. “I wouldn’t want my woman ’round any bad influence like that. That’s the truth.”
Boonesborough pointed at the man’s pants. “What in God’s name have you done to yourself, Country? Are you okay?”
“Yeah, it’s just a scratch.” he said, lifting the soaking wet towel up to take a quick look. “Had some stitches, but then I got kicked. Long story short, I think I popped a couple. Need to get back in and have ’em redone.”
“Well, you sure as shit can’t go back to the hospital now.” Buff smacked his hand on the desk he was sitting on. “The local PD has gotten a whiff of something somehow and the hospital will be on alert for any strange behavior. And if anybody was ever the definition of strange behavior, it’s you.”
Country cocked his head sideways. “How you figure that, Mister Summerton?”
Without warning, Buff backhanded the man across the cheek. He hit him so hard that the metal chair he was sitting on tipped up on two legs and almost toppled over. Anger flashed across Country’s eyes and Buff took two steps and leaned over the man, his face only inches away.
“What?” he demanded through gritted teeth. “What are you gonna say, you piece of—”
“Gentlemen, please,” Boonesborough said, weaseling his arm between them. “Let’s quit all this bickering and get to the matter at hand.”
Buff held his ground, pushing lightly against Boonesborough’s arm, then shook his head and stepped back.
“Goddammit, Country,” he said. “It’s Frank. You always have to call me Frank. Or Mister McCorker. If you slip up and make that mistake to anyone else, this whole operation is over.”
“I’m sorry, Buf—er, Mister McCorker,” Country said as he rubbed his jaw.
“Just don’t let it happen again.”
“Yes, sir.”
Buff eased himself back down to sit on the desk. He could feel his blood pressure rising, the throbbing in his neck getting stronger. He took a few deep breaths to calm himself.
Country pressed his towel down on his crotch, and blood trickled down off his chair and spattered onto the floor.
“Country, you need to get that taken care of,” Winchester said, looking away. “Frank, there has to be something we can do.”
Buff thought about it for a few seconds. “Just get a damn needle and thread. That’s what we had to do in the Stan.”
“Jesus, Frank,” Boonesborough said. “We’re not all soldiers. The man’s going to bleed out, and then we won’t have anyone to take care of the girl or the delivery.”
He took a deep breath. “Actually, it’s not such a bad idea. Just need someone who can do a decent stitch with some dental floss. Don’t you have anyone on staff at the club who can sew? Seamstress or something like that?”
Boonesborough clapped his hands together and widened his smile over his brilliant capped teeth. “Daisy Mae. That’s who can do it. She stitches all the girls’ outfits and has even done a button or two for me. We’ll get her to do it.”
Country did not look at all satisfied, but Buff said, “Just get it done, Country. I need you on this job.”
I need a patsy on this job, he thought, and you’re a perfect fit.
“Oh, now, Mister McCorker,” he grinned and nodded his head. “Don’t you worry ’bout nothin’. I’ve got me a couple of fellas right ready to help.”
“Oh? Who?”
“Couple of modern day cowboys. And I got a plan to pin the girl’s untimely demise on one of ’em.”
Prosperity held her breath as she listened to the conversation happening in the next room. She had no idea what the whole Frank McCorker or Buff Summerton deal was all about, but she did know she heard them say something about her untimely demise. She had no intention of sticking around to find out what Country had planned for her. She took a step toward the door and another wave of vertigo hit her. She reeled backward and fell against the rack with the brooms. One of the broom handles slid down and threatened to slam against the floor.
On pure instinct she lunged for it, and her forehead smacked the shelf with all of the metal dustpans. The sound they made as they clattered to the floor was like a selection from the Broadway show Stomp. She had seen it with her mother on a trip to New York and had loved it. Right now, the cacophonous sound the dustpans made as they clanged down against each other sent a chill up her spine.
There was no way they couldn’t have heard it. And right on cue, she heard someone’s voice yelling from next door. “What in God’s name was that?”
She decided to run for it. She bolted out of the closet just as Country emerged from the next room. He lunged for her, but she had a head start and he was in obvious pain. She sprinted as fast as she could toward the exit door and freedom. Behind her she could hear the clump of boots chasing her, but she didn’t bother to turn around. She was far enough ahead of them that she would be out the door and gone before they caught up.
Her hands reached out and slammed into the door of the prison. Expecting the door to swing open, she put her full force into it. As her head flew forward and smashed into the window of the door, she vaguely remembered that Country had locked it after he had come inside. Damn, she thought as darkness filled her vision again. She wondered if this counted as a second concussion, or just an extension of the first. She felt hands wrapping her arms in vice-like grips as she blacked out.
22
Déjà Vu All Over Again
Troy pulled the decommissioned police cruiser he borrowed from Michael Banks up to the filling station and eased alongside the closest gas pump. He’d borrowed it after learning from Michael that the officer who had delivered the APB on Troy was Jed Manning, an
officer he was very familiar with. Apparently, there was a particular shift and assignment that all of the officers hated except for Jed—Saturday nights at the Tail Spinner Club.
“Yup, Jed used to love goin’ down to the titty club,” Michael told him. “All the rest of us would trade shifts with him when we were assigned there.”
“Why’d he like it so much?” Troy asked.
Michael shrugged. “Boobies and beer, I suppose.”
“He’d go inside?”
“Yeah, the ownership of the club worked out some kind of arrangement with the MVPD to provide an officer on Fridays and Saturdays. Apparently, it can get kind of rough in there on busy nights.”
“I know that’s true,” Troy said.
He could remember back in his Las Vegas days DJing at the Peppermint Hippo the rowdiness that liked to come in on weekends and liven up the place. Sometimes it would end with the blue light cab coming in and dragging everyone off to the tank to stew in their testosterone and booze for the night.
“Yeah, old Jed always worked it,” Michael said, “and the owners always requested him if a tangle broke out.”
“Who owns it?”
“Well, now if’n that ain’t the sixty-four thousand dollar question. They keep it a pretty tight secret. It’s all listed under a corporate name. Summerton Industries. I tried for years to dig info up on the company, couldn’t find a damn thing.”
The name hit Troy like a tidal wave. Summerton. So, Buff owns a strip club? What the hell is this dude up to?
“I gotta get out there,” he said. “You wanna take a road trip?”
“Troy, as much as I’d like to help you out with this, my narcolepsy makes me wary of goin’ anywhere close to a tense situation.”
Troy nodded his head. “Well, you wouldn’t happen to have a car or somethin’ I could borrow for a bit, would you?”
Michael scratched at his chin under his long white beard. He seemed to be hesitant to answer.
“I mean, if it ain’t too much to ask.”
“Heck, I’d give you the bike, but Country took that a while ago,” Michael said. “I do have my old cruiser. Bought it when they retired it a few years after they retired me.”
“You mind?”
He took a deep breath. “I reckon that’d be okay. Just try not to hurt her. She’s all I got left of my service.”
Troy patted his shoulder. “Friend, I’ll treat her like she’s mine.”
Michael gave him a sideways grin. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
He pulled a set of keys attached to two glittering gold dice. “She’s in the first storage unit you’ll see after you get back to the Vineyard. The small key there opens up the unit. The other one starts the car.”
“Can’t thank you enough, Michael.”
“Just get her back in that unit safe and sound, and you and me can still be friends.”
Troy liked this guy. He felt like maybe he could hang out with him after this mess was all over.
“Michael,” he said, “I need another favor. It’s a big one.”
“I was afraid you might say that.”
“I need you to agree to help Country with his job,” Troy said, studying the man’s eyes. “I can’t be sure, but I think he’s gonna do something bad to Prosperity.”
“If he hasn’t already.” Michael waggled his finger as he said it.
“True. But if there’s a chance to save her, I’ll need you to help me do it.”
For a long second, Troy thought the man might refuse. And given his health condition, he wondered if maybe he should.
“Okay,” he finally said. “I’ll at least go along with it for a bit.”
“Thank you again, Michael.”
“But I’m tellin’ you, if things get tense—”
His eyes fluttered and closed. He was snoring in seconds.
After a short boat ride back to Martha’s Vineyard, Troy found the storage unit and went inside. Armed with the cruiser, GPS directions, and his M1911, Troy headed to the Tail Spinner strip club. A mile from the place, the car dinged, warning him that he was about out of gas. Rather than chance running out in the middle of a surveillance mission, he pulled into the Phillips 66 station to fill up. Troy put the pump into the car and leaned backward on it, running through the things he knew about this whole situation.
He knew the gubernatorial candidate Frank McCorker was actually Buff Summerton—his old commanding officer back in Afghanistan. He also knew that Winchester Boonesborough, the former D.A. down in Murrells Inlet was now a senator in Massachusetts. It was like a reunion of bad dudes from his past.
Boonesborough was helping Buff run a campaign to get his new identity elected governor of Massachusetts with funding from some kind of drug and gun ring that presumably was all being run out of an Airbnb that Boonesborough owned on Martha’s Vineyard. The dude named Country was apparently in charge of all that, and was working on some kind of big deal that was going to help push the McCorker campaign over the finish line.
He had no idea how the cop Jed was tied up in all of this. He was probably just a bad cop on the take. A kickback from the Summerton and Boonesborough camp ensured that the police would look the other way when they had shipments or deliveries, and from the sound of things, they were using this strip club outside of town as a cover for meetings and such. Not a bad place to do dirty deeds, Troy thought.
His mind turned to Prosperity. Young, beautiful, and totally innocent. She had stumbled into the wrong room at the wrong time and now they were going to make her disappear—if they hadn’t already. He took a deep breath and stared at his reflection in the car on the other side of the pump. When his reflection opened the door and stepped out, Troy was sure he was hallucinating. Not enough sleep, too much lemonade and rum, and now he was seeing things. He rubbed his eyes, but his reflection did not disappear. In fact, it took the nozzle from the pump and put it into the other car.
Troy walked around to the other side and upon closer inspection, realized he was not seeing himself. This was a near carbon copy of himself—but a little taller, a little younger, and a lot more good looking.
The kid, who was the second guy Troy had seen today that resembled him, wore a cowboy hat, a white linen shirt, khaki shorts, and flip-flops. His face was stubbly, but it was dark hair like Troy’s and had looked like a full beard. He noticed Troy staring at him and tipped his hat slightly.
“I’ll be dang,” Troy said.
“Beg pardon, sir?”
Troy extended a hand. “Howdy. Might I ask your name?”
The kid took it and shook it firmly. “T.J., sir. And you?”
“Troy. Troy Bodean.”
“I like your hat,” the kid said.
“Yeah. That’s what made me come over. I like yours too. Looks like we have similar tastes.”
“Yup.”
Troy had no idea what more to say, so he nodded and walked back to his side of the pump. He had heard that everyone has a twin somewhere on the planet, and today he’d met two of them. One was what he expected he might look like in a few years, and this kid, T.J., was like a younger version of himself. It was the boy he had been when he came back from Afghanistan. His pump clicked off, bringing him out of his daze. He replaced the nozzle, slid his gun under the driver’s seat, and walked inside the store to pay and pick up a twelve pack.
Studying the contents of the beer cooler and its lack of Corona, Troy yawned. He hadn’t realized until just now that he’d been going on just a few hours of sleep the last couple of days. He picked a random IPA and stuck his hand into an iced down tub of Red Bulls and pulled one out. He looked up to see T.J. standing on the other side of the tub.
“I see what you mean about similar tastes,” he said, sticking his hand in and grabbing two cans.
“You gettin’ two of those, kid?” he asked as he pointed at the Red Bulls. “Them things’ll kill you, ya know?”
T.J. jutted his chin toward the twelve pack of beer. “Not as fast as thos
e will.”
“Touché,” Troy said, “but you’re a young man, full of vim and vigor. Why do you need a can full of caffeine?”
The kid shrugged his shoulders as they walked down the candy aisle. He bent down and picked up two king-size Milky Way bars.
“Some caffeine and some sugar to keep me awake till my mamas get off work,” he said. “It’s a night shift. They don’t get off till four in the mornin’.”
Troy almost balked realizing the kid had two moms, but it is a brave new world, so he rolled with it. More power to ’em, he thought. Love is love is love.
“Dang,” he said. “What are they doin’ till 4 am? Ain’t no factories out here. Heck, only thing open that late is the strip club.”
T.J. looked at him blankly.
“Oh,” Troy said. “Ohhhhh, I see.”
“Yeah,” T.J. said, dumping his drinks and candy bars onto the counter. “I don’t like to talk about it. They keep sayin’ they’re gonna quit soon, but they started sayin’ that two years ago.”
Troy slapped his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “It’ll all work out for the best.”
“I reckon.” T.J. laid a twenty dollar bill on the counter.
The woman behind the counter turned the register’s LED screen around. “It’s twenty-two forty seven. You’re a little short.”
“Aw, crap,” T.J. said, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Lemme run out to the car and see if I got some change.”
Troy put his beer and Red Bull on the counter, and reached down to pick up the twenty. He handed it to T.J.
“Just put all this together, please,” he told the woman at the register.
She rolled her eyes and swiped the new items past the laser. Troy paid her with his last bit of cash and walked out with T.J.
“Hey, I was actually headin’ out to the club for a bit.”
T.J. arched an eyebrow.
“Not to go in, mind you,” Troy said. “For somethin’ else entirely.”