Water Hazard
By Tim Baker
Blindogg Books 2010
Copyright 2010 by Tim Baker
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the author.
This book is a work of fiction.
Places, events and situations in this book are purely fictional and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Other work by Tim Baker:
Living the Dream
ISBN 978-160844-087-0
No Good Deed
ISBN 978-0-9835204-9-8
Back Seat to Justice
ASIN: B005DN7872
All media inquiries should be directed to Letting the Ink Dry www.lettingtheinkdry.com
Acknowledgements
I would like to extend my sincere thanks to the following people:
For saving me from the hell of being my own publicist, and for extraordinary editing – Dana Grizzél ( www.lettingtheinkdry.com )
For hosting the book release party and providing a key location in the story – The Golden Lion Cafe in Flagler Beach, 500 N Scenic Highway A1A, 386-439-3004 (http://www.goldenlioncafe.com ) Special thanks to Julio for all of his help.
For making the best sandwiches in Flagler County and for hosting a book signing – my favorite deli, Dominic’s Deli and Eatery in Palm Coast.
For being a wizard with photographic imagery and creating a beautiful cover – Alex Grichenko (http://www.DigiDreamGrafix.com/ )
For his expert technical advice on handguns and general writing tips – Tony Walker (www.tonywalkerbooks.com )
For the use of his name, his music and for allowing me to plug his CDs – Teague Stefan
( www.theteaguestefanband.com ).
For reading the first draft and asking the tough questions — and also for assistance in making the character of Joe Edwards more believable – My brother Joe, the real writer in the family.
( http://ndn-politics.blogspot.com/ )
For generously offering assistance with proofreading and editing – Barb Siler (www.sarcoidosissupport.com )
For writing “Water Follies”, the book that proved to be my inspiration – Professor Robert Glennon. ( www.amazon.com/Water-Follies-Groundwater-Pumping-Americas/dp/1559634006/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1272129975&sr=1-1 )
For offering honest critiques – My brother Ted (the real Brewski), Dee Dee (the one and only), my sister Jayne, Lenore Aptekar, Kim Beckstead, Gwen Carmack Campbell, Linda Honchell, Bill Kinell, Andy Nemec, Darlene Pardiny and Alexa Sampselle.
For artistic encouragement and unsolicited support – J.J. Graham of The Hollingsworth Gallery in Palm Coast. ( www.hollingsworthgallery.com )
Author’s Note
Several of the characters in “Water Hazard” were introduced in my first novel, “Living the Dream”
This is not a sequel, so there will be no unanswered questions if you haven’t read “Living the Dream”
…but I wouldn’t mind if you did…
Dedication
This book is dedicated to the best friend imaginable
Kevin Fava
Thank you for everything
"When
the well is dry, we learn the worth of water"
Benjamin
Franklin
Water Hazard
By Tim Baker
© 2009
Prologue
The motor home glided along Route 40 toward the Ocala National Forest, effortlessly pushing the warm night air aside. In its wake, it left a turbulent mixture of dead lovebugs and diesel fumes.
From his perch in the driver’s seat, 76-year-old Herb Thomas watched the black carpet of Florida highway roll up to and pass beneath his wheels like the mat of a gigantic treadmill. The moonless night and unlit back country road prevented him from seeing more than a hundred feet ahead. His headlights preceded him through the solid wall of night.
Theresa stretched her arms over her head and yawned from the passenger seat. Herb looked over at his wife.
“Did you have a nice nap?” he asked.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” she replied. “How long was I out?”
“Only about a half hour.”
“Where are we?”
“Coming up to the St. John’s River; we’ve still got an hour and a half to go.”
The RV was quiet inside with the exception of an oldies soundtrack coming from the satellite radio. As Herb gently guided the vehicle around a slight bend in the road, he spotted a set of headlights in his side view mirror. Either the vehicle had been riding very close to his rear end or it had come up quickly, because he hadn’t seen a car in the last thirty minutes.
Up ahead he saw the flashing red drawbridge light and noticed the gate arm was down. Lifting his foot from the gas pedal, he let the RV coast to a stop. The two halves of the draw bridge extended skyward like skyscrapers, tilting slightly toward one another.
The Searchers sang about “Love Potion Number Nine” as Herb waited for the bridge to lower.
In his peripheral vision, Herb caught the glow of headlights in his mirror as a vehicle came to a halt behind them. A few seconds later, as he watched a tugboat pull a barge along the river, he was startled by a tap on his window.
A well-dressed man in his mid-thirties stood on the street holding a road map in his hand and using the universal sign for Herb to roll his window down. Herb did so and politely asked the man if he needed help.
“Yes sir,” the man said in a gentle southern drawl. “I seem to have gotten myself good and lost.”
The man held up the road map and stepped closer to the RV as Herb put the shifter in park and climbed down to offer assistance.
“Where’re you headed?” Herb stepped up for a look at the map, only to see that it was a map of Minnesota.
As Herb attempted to make sense of it, he looked up to find himself facing the barrel of a semi-automatic pistol.
His first thought was that this man didn’t look like the type to be carrying a gun. He seemed like the quiet, polite type. He was well-dressed with neat black hair and handsome brown eyes. The only flaw in his face was the familiar scar of cleft palette surgery on his upper lip.
“Just get on back in the motor home, sir,” he told Herb in a polite tone that was totally contradictory to the gun in his hand.
Herb stumbled up the step into the vehicle as Theresa sang the final fade-out chorus with The Searchers. The man nudged Herb with the gun and told him to climb over the seat and sit on the floor next to his wife, then leaned back and signaled to the vehicle behind them. Herb heard a car door open and close and a second man trotted up behind the first. Herb could not see him from his position on the floor.
“All right then, Donny,” the first man said, “it’s all up to you now.”
“You got it, Mitch,” Donny replied.
Theresa looked over in confusion.
“Herb, what’s going on?” she asked with a slight tremor in her voice.
Herb raised a calming hand to her and said to Donny, “What is it you want from us?”
Donny climbed into the driver’s seat and smiled at Herb. The smile was totally devoid of humor; the smile of a scorpion about to sting an unsuspecting beetle.
“Y’all just sit there and be quiet,” he told them.
Theresa gripped Herb’s upper arm and began whimpering softly.
Donny settled himself into the seat and put the shift lever back into drive. Herb saw a .45 Colt pistol tucked into the waistband of his tattered blue jeans. Thick mud was caked on his battered work boots. There was a cigarette tucked behind his right ear, partially covered by his greasy brown hair. A tattoo of a spider perched in its web covered most of the right side of his neck.
After a few minutes the drawbridge lowered and the RV was moving west again. Several miles later, on a dark and desolate stretch of road, Donny eased the RV onto the grass shoulder.
“Awright folks, let’s go on back into the living room and get cozy, shall we?” Donny said in mock politeness as he drew the gun and pointed to the back of the RV.
Herb held Theresa by the hand and led her to the living area. Her hand trembled uncontrollably in his.
“Sit your asses down there on the floor,” Donny ordered.
Herb helped Theresa to the floor and sat beside her. He glared at Donny and his mind went back to a time when he was a twenty-year-old Marine, full of piss and vinegar; that Marine would have taken this redneck apart piece by piece. Now his body would not allow it. The voice of his platoon sergeant, a huge Texan named Roy Anderson, came back to him.
“We’re all gonna die—just make sure that when your time comes you die like a Marine.”
Herb put his arm around his crying wife’s shoulders and looked into pale brown eyes that once had the brightness of the sun.
“I love you, Theresa,” he said, causing her eyes to fill with tears.
He looked at Donny and sat up as straight as he could, taking a deep breath.
“Get it over with, you coward,” Herb said defiantly.
Confusion grew in Donny’s eyes as he looked at Herb. Herb could tell that Donny lacked the intelligence to know he had just been insulted by a man who knew he was about to die. After a few seconds of unproductive consideration, Donny shrugged, pointed the gun and fired two shots in quick succession.
He looked at the two bodies lying on the floor, the old man’s arm still around his wife’s shoulders, and shrugged again.
“I guess you really don’t know when to shut up, old man,” he muttered as he turned and left the RV.
Outside, Mitch was standing by the rear of the vehicle with a gas can and a rag. He handed the gas can to Donny, removed the RV’s gas cap and stuffed the rag into the opening. Donny spread gas around the perimeter of the RV and dumped the last of it on the rag hanging out of the fill spout. He heaved the gas can into the woods and walked back to the pickup truck. He took the cigarette from behind his ear and handed it to Mitch, who lit it, took a long drag and flicked it at the RV as he blew out a long cloud of smoke.
The mammoth vehicle was instantly surrounded by a ring of fire. The two men climbed into the truck and Mitch backed away, heading east on Route 40. Donny turned in his seat to see the show and Mitch watched in the rear view mirror.
The explosion was tremendous. It shook the ground and filled the night sky with an orange glow as flames shot fifty feet into the air. Pieces of the RV flew off in silent trajectories through the night, creating a one hundred-foot-wide field of debris.
As the furor subsided, the flames continued to devour the skeletal remains of the $300,000 Fleetwood motor home.
Donny picked up the pack of Marlboros from the dashboard and withdrew two. One he put behind his ear, the other he handed to Mitch.
The spotless white truck rolled silently away from the inferno and toward the black horizon.
1
Justin DiPrete pressed himself against the concrete block wall, closed his eyes and tried to calm himself.
Heat that had been absorbed from the Florida sun during the day radiated from the wall, warming his back, while the crisp night air kept his face cool. The difference in the two temperatures, along with nerves that were on edge, gave him a slightly nauseous feeling. Looking skyward through closed eyes, he took a deep breath in hopes it would slow his racing heart and stop his legs from shaking. To his right, Russell peeked around the corner of the building.
In reality, it was not so much a building as it was a two and a half story concrete block skeleton with no roof. The soft, sandy ground around it was a dusty minefield of construction debris. Justin wished he was somewhere else—anywhere else.
“It’s cool, let’s go,” Russell whispered.
Without a sound, Russell was gone. Justin took another deep breath and trotted after him. They made their way to a dumpster and knelt behind it. Russell crept to the corner and peered around.
“Be all clear, let’s do it,” he said softly as he stood and sprinted away.
Justin followed him. They reached the car together and crouched against the flawless silver paint as they surveyed their surroundings. The sweet, new Lexus had been parked there all day and Russell told Justin if it was still there that night, they were going back for a smash and grab.
Justin often tried to figure out why he let Russell talk him into these things. Russell didn’t seem to care if they got caught or not, as if he were trying to ruin his future. Justin, on the other hand, was terrified of being caught and having a police record that could ruin his chances of going to college. Several times he tried to say no, but Russell would always manage to persuade him into going along. Maybe it was a loyalty thing. Russell was the first friend Justin had made when he came to Florida three years ago and for all intents and purposes remained his only friend. It didn’t take long before everybody in the school knew them as Ebony and Ivory. When Russell started going through his delinquent phase, Justin figured it wouldn’t last long. Now, it was looking as though Russell enjoyed it too much and had no intention of stopping. Justin truly believed his friend would get arrested before they graduated high school the following year. All too often it came down to a choice between a path to nowhere or losing his friend.
Russell raised himself up and looked inside the car.
“Look like a nice stereo,” he whispered to Justin. “Lemme have your sweatshirt.”
Justin pulled his hooded Florida Marlins sweatshirt over his head and handed it to Russell. Russell found a piece of concrete block on the ground and wrapped the sweatshirt around it.
Justin looked at the dark outline of the construction trailer twenty feet away. Even though there were no lights on or other signs of life, he prayed nobody was inside.
There was a large sign bolted to the front wall of the trailer that Justin had seen many times in the light of day. Despite the darkness, he could still make out the rendering of a golf course with a cluster of condominium buildings around it. Construction had begun on twelve of the buildings and they all sat in various stages of completion. According to the sign, there would eventually be fifty-one buildings and a community center with a pool house, not to mention tennis courts and a bicycle path. Huge green letters boasted “Stillwater Resort” would be “Another Golf Community by The Hall & White Development Corporation”. As he read about the amenities that would be offered for bargain prices, starting in the low 400’s, his thoughts were interrupted by a loud pop, followed by the sound of thousands of pieces of broken glass falling to the ground and into the car.
Both boys froze in place—neither of them so much as taking a breath. Like sprinters poised for the starter’s gun, they waited for the sound of an alarm. After three agonizingly long seconds, they let out their breath and went about business.
Russell opened the car door and slid into the driver’s seat, where he used the concrete block to smash the dome light. Justin scooted over and squatted by the open door. Russell handed him a black vinyl case full of compact discs, followed by a wrist watch and a wallet. As Justin put his sweatshirt back on and stuffed the pilfered items into the belly-pocket, Russell went to work on the stereo.
Justin waited impatiently while Russell struggled with the stereo, a visceral fear spreading through his body like wildfire. Something was wrong, he was sure of it.
“Almost,” Russell grunted.
Justin’s fear escalated to panic when a faint wash of light spread over the interior of the car and grew until Russell’s face was bathed in bright light. The sound of an engine came over the night air toward them. Two bright white orbs of light approached, not more than one hundred feet away.
The boys looked at the headlights and then at each other.
“Shit,” Russell hissed. “Time to de-ass.”
With no further communication, they sprang from their positions and bolted back the way they came. Russell was two strides in front of Justin when they reached the dumpster. Without looking back, they ran until they reached a dried-up retention pond. They followed the muddy edge that marked the former waterline until they reached a path that eventually brought them to State Road A1A.
From the shelter of the trees at the shoulder of the road, they scanned the highway in the direction of the construction site entrance. Seeing nothing to indicate they had been spotted, they darted across the road and ran through a parking lot past the burned carcass of a former restaurant. They continued running until the lot ended and they were on the beach.
With adrenaline still coursing through their systems, they ran for nearly half a mile. When they finally ran out of steam, they were in front of a set of wooden stairs. Climbing the steps up over the dune, they reached a small gazebo and stood scanning the horizon for signs of pursuit. They were at the intersection of State Road 100 and A1A in Flagler Beach and by all appearances their escape had gone undetected. Across the street, on the roof of a restaurant called Donnegan’s, a band played a cover version of Stevie Ray Vaughan’s “Crossfire”. The sounds of people having a good time drifted across the night air.
A wooden staircase climbed the side of the building like ivy, providing access to the rooftop bar area. A large, tattooed biker staggered down the stairs, leaving his friends behind to carry on the festivities. He called parting shots to them as he headed for his motorcycle at the back of the parking lot.
After waiting for two large tanker trucks to roll by, Justin and Russell walked as calmly as they could across the street and fell in about ten steps behind the biker. Justin took out the wallet from the car and examined the contents under the light in the parking lot; there was a decent amount of cash in it, which he pocketed before tossing the wallet aside.
“Yo,” someone yelled behind them. Both boys froze and looked at each other in terror. Justin felt sweat break out on his forehead.
“Shit,” he whispered to Russell, “we’re fucked.”
“Yo, Bam-Bam,” the voice yelled again.
The biker turned around and looked at Justin.
“You call me?” he asked in a drunken slur.
“What? No, it wasn’t me,” Justin stammered.
The biker looked past them and they turned around to see another biker, just as large and just as tattooed, walking down the stairs.
“You might need these,” the second biker called, holding up a key ring.
Bam-Bam tapped at his pockets. Finding no keys, he said, “Hey, thanks Todd.”
Todd tossed the keys to Bam-Bam, who dropped them. As he bent to pick them up, Justin and Russell scooted around him and exited the parking lot without looking back.
They disappeared into a neighboring trailer park.
2
Steve Warwick pulled his Jeep Wrangler off the road and parked it on the sandy shoulder of A1A in front of his store, saving the parking lot for customers. Parking “area” was more accurate—it was too small to be classified as a parking lot. There was just enough space for five or six cars, depending on the parking skills of the customers. Besides, with the parking lot situated behind the building, Steve preferred parking in front to keep an eye on his vehicle.
As he slid his six-foot frame from the confines of the Jeep, he paused briefly to take an admiring look at the Atlantic Ocean as it pounded away at the Florida coastline one hundred yards away. The morning sun warmed his face, telling him a beautiful day was on tap—a welcomed change after five consecutive days of heavy rains. After taking in a long, deep breath of fresh ocean air, he strolled leisurely to the door of the small stucco building, unlocked it and stepped in. The steady beep from the alarm panel reminded him that if it wasn’t deactivated in one minute the alarm company would be notified, followed by the police. He disarmed it, turned on the lights and hung his keys on a hook below the cash register.
Getting to the store an hour before he opened was his ritual, giving him time to read the morning paper, enjoy a nice hot cup of tea and get the store ready for business. The tea was especially good this morning. Sitting on his leather bar stool, feet propped up on the counter, he opened the St. John’s Tribune. On page one, above the fold, was a story written by his friend Joe Edwards.
“All right Joe, tell me what happened in the world while I slept,” he said aloud.
Fifteen years ago when Steve opened his CD store, Joe did a feature story about the new business. The story had a typo in it and when Steve called Joe to explain that the name of his store was Disc Breaks not Disc Brakes, it started a friendly competition between them, which evolved into a standing wager. Whenever Steve found a typo in one of Joe’s stories, Joe had to buy Steve a drink. In fifteen years, Joe had bought Steve exactly two drinks. Edwards’ writing, even when it spoke of murder, would draw the reader in and hold them there with amazing authority. His command of the English language was mind- boggling. His reporting was meticulous and his research practically infallible.
Steve read the article, scanning every syllable for errors. The story was about the double murder of an elderly couple and the subsequent torching of their RV in Astor. When he had finished, he leaned back and took a drink of his tea.
He held up his cup in a toast, “Another gem, Joe.”
Fifteen minutes later, as he perused the sports section, the tranquility of the morning was disrupted by the ringing of the telephone. Steve reached behind him and picked up the cordless; the caller ID display read “unknown”.
“Disc Breaks,” he answered.
“I knew you’d be there,” came the voice of Ike, Steve’s best friend. “You need to find a distraction if you consistently feel the need to get to the store an hour before you open.”
“First of all, I’ve only been here for twenty minutes,” Steve told him, “and secondly, I like being here early enough to get things organized before the crowd comes in.”
“Crowd,” Ike laughed, “you’re getting crowds now?”
“You know what I mean,” Steve responded. “So, what’s up? Did you just call to interrupt my tea?”
“No, I actually have a reason; Teague is playing at the winery tonight, you in?”
Teague Stefan was a young bluesman from Orlando who made playing a guitar look like child’s play. Steve and Ike rarely missed watching him whenever he came to the area.
“I’m in,” Steve told him. “I’ll meet you on the boat around 6:00.”
“Roger that,” Ike said as he hung up the phone.
Steve replaced the phone in its cradle and turned on the stereo. Under the counter was a 400-disc changer loaded with music that ranged from AC/DC to ZZ Top. Every style of music was covered; from pop to rock, jazz to blues, honky-tonk to ragtime and hip-hop to bebop. It was permanently set on “random shuffle” to give the effect of a commercial-free radio station. Since the changer held approximately 6000 songs and wouldn’t repeat one until it had played them all, it took about two months to go through the entire collection. Many times he had sold a CD because a customer heard a song playing in the store that they had never heard before.
The changer went through some warming up before T-Bone Walker came on singing “Stormy Monday Blues”.
“Well, T-Bone,” Steve said to the empty store, “you’re three days early.”
Steve was looking forward to the weekend. Derek, his nineteen-year-old employee, had gotten to the point where Steve could trust him to run the store by himself, which gave Steve weekends off. In fact, if Derek kept up the way he was going, Steve was even thinking about opening a second store and allowing Derek to run it.
At exactly 8:00 a.m. Steve turned on the open sign and switched on the security gate, which sounded an alarm if someone tried to leave the store with an item that had not been paid for.
As he went about his morning routine of organizing the compact discs in their slots and straightening up the store, he was surprised to hear Judy, the FedEx driver, come in with her usual greeting.
“9:15, time to wake up, Stevie,” Judy cheerfully repeated her usual greeting.
“Hey Jude.” Steve enjoyed quoting The Beatles as a greeting to her. “You surprised me. I didn’t think it was this late already. How’re you doing?”
“Doing fine, handsome, doing fine,” she told him. “Got a bunch of stuff for you today.”
She placed two boxes on the counter and went back to her truck for the rest. Steve opened the packages, which contained promotional CDs from record companies, as well as some he had ordered to restock inventory or fill customer requests. Judy returned with three more boxes and placed them on the counter. As Steve signed for them he could feel her looking at him. He handed her the electronic signature device, avoiding eye contact.
“Have a good day, Judy,” he said somewhat stiffly.
After taking three steps toward the door, she turned to face him.
“Stevie, you got any plans tonight?” she asked with a wide smile.
“Actually I do,” he said, thankful he didn’t have to lie. “I’m going up to St. Augustine to meet a friend.”
Judy spread her hands and smiled with disappointment.
“Can’t blame a girl for trying.”
Steve watched her attractive form as she walked out the door and climbed into the FedEx truck. The truck pulled away and he found himself still staring at the spot where it had been. He snapped himself out of the mini trance and began logging the merchandise.
The CD changer switched discs and Bob Marley sang, “Could You Be Loved?”
3
At noon Steve was busying himself sorting through the “Used CD” bin, arranging the discs in alphabetical order. Since seventy-five percent of his business came from the sale of used CDs, with a mark up as high as four hundred percent, he made sure people didn’t get frustrated looking through the bin finding Frank Zappa next to ABBA. He usually spent two or three hours each week keeping it organized, but it was time well spent.
After selling a Justin Bieber CD to a woman for her ten-year-old daughter, he was about to resume his alphabetizing when the door chime sounded. Steve looked up to see two teenaged boys come in. One of them was a tall, thin, black kid with a gangsta attitude, wearing an oversized Alan Iverson NBA jersey and shorts that were two sizes too big. His right hand was holding his crotch—for reasons known only to him. The other boy was shorter and white and he looked like a typical W.A.S.P. kid from Flagler Beach. He wore a striped polo shirt, plaid board shorts and flip flops. His reddish-blonde hair almost reached his shoulders.
An odd pairing, to say the least, Steve thought.
“Hey, guys,” he greeted them.
“‘Sup,” the black kid mumbled as he strolled to the far wall to check out a display of new rap music.
The white kid came to the counter and placed a black vinyl CD carrying case on it. With a bit of trepidation, he slid it across the counter toward Steve.
“You buy used CDs?” he asked, trying to hide habitual politeness.
Steve looked the kid over for a few seconds before he reached out and picked up the case.
“Yeah, I do. Let’s see what you got.”
With one eye on the kids and one on the CD case, Steve took a quick inventory of its contents. The case held thirty-two discs, all standard mainstream stuff—some rock, some country. The problem was, they were all inserted in the plastic envelopes of the case without any of the original packaging, which reduced their resale value significantly. Without even looking at the entire collection, Steve put the case back on the counter and slid it across to the kid.
“Sorry man, nothing I need in there,” he told the kid.
The black kid had moved down the wall and was flipping through a stack of CDs like he didn’t have a care in the world. The white kid looked at Steve with a hint of desperation.
“Come on, dude,” he pleaded. “There’s gotta be something in there you can sell.”
It was all very generic stuff; Steve didn’t need any of it. His used CD bin already contained several copies of almost every disc in the case. On top of that, he would have to supply his own jewel cases and sell them without the inserts. Last, but not least, he was fairly certain they were stolen.
The kid stood on the opposite side of the counter fidgeting as if he had to go to the bathroom. Giving in to his softer side, Steve decided to give the kid a break.
“All right, I’ll give you ten bucks for it,” he told the kid.
The kid’s mouth dropped. “Aww, c’mon man, there’s like thirty CDs in there,” he bargained, “how ‘bout twenty?”
Steve smiled at the kid’s effort and decided to make him one more offer.
“Fifteen, take it or leave it.”
The kid let out a long breath through his nose and looked around the store as if he would find advice written on the walls. He didn’t.
“All right, all right, fifteen,” he moaned.
Steve punched a button on the register to open the drawer and withdrew a ten and a five. Out of habit, he took a business card from the holder next to the register and wrapped the money around it before handing it to the kid.
“There you go,” he told him, “but if I burn my fingers on them I’ll remember you.”
The kid looked at him with wide eyes, confirming Steve’s suspicions.
“Russell,” he said to the black kid, “let’s split.”
The black kid swaggered over with his right hand still gripping his crotch, his head tilted back at an angle, looking down his nose at Steve. They left the store, passing through the security gate without incident. As Steve watched the kids cross A1A and head north, he felt a pang of empathy for them. Something told him with a fair degree of certainty that both boys came from fatherless homes. Growing up without a father himself, he had a way of spotting it.
Steve pushed the CD case aside and headed to the back of the store to resume his organizing. As he passed by the bin that held the hip-hop and rap music, he spotted something on the floor. He bent over to pick it up and sighed heavily when he saw it was one of the hard plastic security tags attached to all of the CDs to prevent theft. With a mixture of anger and sadness, he carried the tag to the trash can behind the counter and threw it away.
Creedence Clearwater Revival’s “Bad Moon Rising” filled the room with swamp rock.
4
Mitch sat in the chair picking his teeth with a toothpick while Donny paced around the trailer running his hands through his hair.
“Donny,” Mitch said in a controlled calm, “would you sit down please? You’re getting on my nerves.”
“Sorry, Mitch,” Donny drawled, “I just don’t know what all to do.”
“The only thing you need to do is let me think. I’ll take care of this.”
“But what if the old man finds out?”
“Donny,” Mitch forced himself to be patient, “the only way the old man can find out is if we tell him. Now, I ain’t gonna tell him—are you?”
“Hell no,” Donny said, shaking his head.
“All right then. I won’t tell him—you won’t tell him—so he won’t find out. We got until next Friday before he gets here. That’s a whole week. So, if we get the discs back before then, it’s like it never happened. Ain’t that right, old buddy?” Mitch looked at Donny with raised eyebrows and smiled.
“I reckon,” Donny agreed.
“Well, all right then. Now, why don’t you stop pacing around here like a cat in heat and go take a look around behind building five and six. That would have been the easiest way in and out if they was on foot. Maybe you’ll find something.”
“Yeah, that makes sense,” Donny said as he opened the door and stomped off.
Mitch threw his toothpick at the trash can and missed. Waving a dismissive hand at it, he rested his elbows on the desk and cradled his face in his hands.
This could be bad—very bad, Mitch thought. He knew his future depended on resolving the issue before DeSantis arrived.
He stood up and walked to the window. Outside the trailer, he could see that the glass repairman was almost finished installing the new window in his car. Pieces of broken glass littered the asphalt parking lot, glistening like diamonds in the sun. Mitch stared at them until they went out of focus. Despite his cool façade, for the first time in his life he was truly afraid he might be in some seriously hot water.
As if to snap him back to reality, his cell phone rang. With very little enthusiasm, he unclipped the phone from his belt and checked the display. The caller ID read “Donnegan’s”.
Donnegan’s was a restaurant located about a mile south on A1A. Mitch could think of no reason for anyone there to be calling this number. Despite his urge to ignore the call, he pressed the talk button.
“Hall and White, Mitchell Wheeler speaking.”
“Hello, Mr. Wheeler,” came a voice that had obviously spent the majority of its life north of the Mason-Dixon Line. “My name is John Benoit and I’m the manager at Donnegan’s in Flagler Beach.”
Without giving Mitch a chance to interject, he continued.
“One of my dishwashers found your wallet in our parking lot last night. I’m afraid there was no cash in it, but we did find your business card with this number on it.”
Mitch looked skyward and gave silent thanks. This could be the big break he needed.
“That is fantastic news,” he said politely. “It was stolen from my car just last night. I didn’t think I’d ever get it back.”
“Well, we’ve got it. You can pick it up anytime. It appears to be intact, except for the cash—obviously.”
“Yeah, I figured as much, but at least they left the rest. You said a dishwasher found it?”
“That’s right. His name is Kyle. He was working until closing last night.”
“I’d most certainly like to meet the young man and show him my gratitude properly. When will Kyle be working again?”
Mitch heard the shuffling of paper as Benoit presumably checked a schedule.
“He comes in again at 3:00…about two and a half hours from now.”
“Well, I thank you very kindly Mr. Benoit, and I’ll see you—and Kyle—around 3:00 then.”
“Very good,” Benoit said. “Bye, now.”
Mitch hung up the phone and pumped his fist in the air.
“Yes,” he said loudly. “Thank you, Jesus!”
At that moment the door opened and Donny came in looking dejected.
“I din’t find nothin’ Mitch.”
“Forget it. We just got ourselves a break,” Mitch told him.
Mitch explained the phone call from Benoit, but Donny wasn’t sharing his enthusiasm.
“But it’s only the wallet; that don’t help us none.”
“It’s a start Donny, it’s a start.”
5
At 3:30 on Friday afternoon Mitch and Donny walked into Donnegan’s and asked to see Mr. Benoit. A perky waitress who was barely twenty-one years old asked them to wait while she found him.
Donny sat on a wooden bench while Mitch looked at pictures of Ireland that decorated the walls of the foyer.
After a couple of minutes a tall, thin man with short gray hair and a neatly trimmed moustache and goatee approached them from the dining room. He was dressed in standard business casual wear and a small gold hoop dangled from his left ear.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen. Can I help you?” he asked politely. Mitch instantly recognized the northern accent.
“Hello, Mr. Benoit,” Mitch said in a polite, professional tone as he extended his hand. “Mitch Wheeler. We spoke earlier. I believe you have my wallet.”
“Yes, of course,” Benoit said cheerfully. “It’s in my office. If you’ll just wait right here, I’ll be right back.”
With a quick look of curiosity at Donny, who was still sitting silently on the wooden bench against the wall, Benoit turned and walked off toward the far end of the building.
Mitch was pretending to be interested in a large, framed photograph of the Irish countryside when Benoit returned.
“Here you go, Mr. Wheeler. As I said earlier, there was no cash in it, but everything else is exactly as it was when Kyle found it.”
“Yes, I’m sure it is,” Mitch said as he took a cursory look through the wallet. “Now, if I could have the pleasure of meeting the young man who found it so I might show my appreciation...”
“Certainly, certainly,” and again Benoit turned and walked away through the dining room.
He returned a few minutes later followed by a stocky kid who appeared to be in his early twenties. A Chicago Cubs hat covered his head and a stained white apron covered a holy black tee shirt and the upper portion of his camouflage shorts.
“Mr. Wheeler, this is Kyle,” Benoit said before retreating back into the dining room.
“Hello Kyle. It’s a genuine pleasure to meet an honest young man.”
Mitch extended his hand. Kyle looked at it, unsure of what to do. After a brief pause, it dawned on him that he was supposed to shake the man’s hand. The boy’s hand felt like a wet fish to Mitch.
Kyle nodded, avoiding eye contact, and made a noise that may have been a thank you. Mitch reached into his pocket and pulled out a roll of cash. Kyle’s eyes drifted toward it, then up to Mitch’s face. Mitch peeled off two twenties and a ten and handed them to Kyle, who accepted them with a quick lick of his lips.
Mitch kept the roll of bills in his hand, making sure Kyle had a nice view of it.
“Tell me, Kyle, how did you find my wallet?”
Kyle looked a little confused, but pointed over his left shoulder with his thumb.
“It was out there in the parking lot.”
“Well, yes, but what I mean is—did you just happen to find it?”
“Well, I saw them boys throw it down, but there weren’t no money in it when I picked it up—that’s the truth.”
“Of course it is, Kyle,” Mitch said calmly, “but you saw the person who dropped it?”
Kyle nodded slowly.
“Well now, can you tell me anything about them? Have you ever seen them before?”
“Yes sir, I see them all the time,” Kyle answered.
Mitch contained his enthusiasm.
“Do you know their names?”
“No sir, I don’t, but I see them all the time walking through here. They live over yonder in the trailer park,” he said as he pointed with his chin to the west.
“Well, can you tell me what they look like?” Mitch asked.
Kyle gave a fairly good description of Justin and Russell, after which Mitch handed him another fifty dollars.
“Kyle, thank you very much. You have been a great help.”
Kyle looked at the cash in his hand, then back at Mitch. He made another “thank you” sound before he turned to go back to the kitchen.
Back in the truck, Mitch was excited.
“You see, Donny, now we know more than we did an hour ago.”
“We surely do,” Donny agreed.
“Tonight we’ll have a little look-see in the trailer park before the trucks start showing up,” Mitch said as he lit a cigarette and threw the match out the window.
6
Closing the store was a routine Steve could practically do in his sleep. After running the vacuum cleaner over the floor, he totaled out the register and prepared the daily deposit. He then went on-line to his distributors and ordered whatever CDs had been requested by customers or were simply needed to fill gaps in the inventory. After turning off the magnetic gate and arming the alarm system, he flipped the light switches and stepped outside. The front of the building faced east and was sheltered from the sun at this time of day; nevertheless, the eighty-two degree temperature felt hot after leaving the air conditioning. The steady breeze coming off the ocean provided some welcome relief.
Just as he was about to
secure the deadbolt, he remembered the case of CDs he had bought from
the kids earlier in the day. Knowing they were more trouble to him
than they were worth, he decided to donate them to the musical
library on Ike’s boat. At least there they would get some use and
Steve would be rid of them.
Leaving his key in the lock, he pushed through the door, disarmed the alarm system and went to the counter to grab the case. He retraced his steps back to the front of the building and secured the deadbolt. Climbing into his Jeep, Steve executed a U-turn on A1A and headed north to meet up with Ike.
Thirty minutes later he was at the St. Augustine Municipal Marina, sitting on the deck of Ike’s boat, The Knight’s Mare, drinking an ice cold bottle of Sam Adams beer. Ike stood in the door to the cabin with a can of Budweiser in his hand. On the bridge above his head the Jolly Roger flapped lazily in the breeze. The sun was sinking rapidly toward the horizon and the shadows of the neighboring boats were growing longer.
“Teague starts at eight,” Ike said.
Steve checked his watch; it was only 6:45. Since they could walk to the winery from the marina in about fifteen minutes, there was still plenty of time.
“I met a couple of cuties this afternoon—they love boats,” Ike said as he took his cell phone out. “Want me to have them meet us?”
“No,” Steve held up a hand. “I’m good.”
“Good?” Ike asked, tucking the phone into his pocket. “Listen, bro, I know good, and you?” He laughed, shook his head and drank some Bud. “You are not good—but have it your way.”
“Thanks. I appreciate that,” Steve said.
“You want to do some fishing tomorrow? I’m going out around seven,” Ike said.
“Sorry,” Steve said, “I’ve got a lesson with Master Cho at 8:30.”
“Jesus H. Christ,” Ike chided. “Why do you waste your time with that friggin’ Kung Fu shit? You’ve been going to that old guy for what—fifteen years now? If you want to protect yourself, just buy a gun.”
“It isn’t Kung Fu,” Steve corrected. “It’s called Goju-Ryu, and it isn’t a waste of time. You’d know that if you weren’t such a thickheaded bastard. On top of that, you know I don’t believe in guns. You do enough of that for the both of us. I think the SEALs warped your mind.”
“The only reason you don’t believe in them is because you’ve never had one pointed at you,” Ike told him. “Believe me, when you’re staring down the barrel of a gun, it looks like a bottomless pit and you wish to God you had one of your own in your hand. I didn’t need the SEALs to teach me that.”
“Well, let’s just hope I never have to learn that particular lesson,” Steve said.
“Just remember, a famous man once said, ‘Happiness is a Warm Gun’.”
“Yeah, that was the same man who said, ‘All You Need is Love’ and ‘Give Peace a Chance’.”
“Obviously, he was under the influence of a controlled substance when he wrote those.”
Steve shook his head as he stood up and placed his beer on the deck beside the chair.
“I just remembered,” he said to Ike, “I have something for you. I’ll be right back.”
“Is it a gun?” Ike called as Steve trotted up the dock to the parking lot.
Steve returned with the CD case and tossed it to Ike, who caught it in a right hand the size of a small African village.
“A free gift for you,” Steve said as Ike examined the case.
“What do we have here?” he asked as he opened it.
“Some kids came in the store today looking to sell them—they’re probably hot. I wasn’t going to buy them, but I felt bad for the kids—one of them anyway—the other one ripped me off. Peeled a magnetic detection strip out of a CD and walked out the door calm as you please.”
“That system turned out to be a good investment,” Ike said facetiously. “You see, yet another reason you should have a gun.”
“Yeah, I should have shot the kid over a fifteen-dollar compact disc,” Steve said.
“Not a bad little collection,” Ike said, ignoring Steve’s sarcasm. “Some of it I already have, but mostly it’ll do. There’s even a couple of homemades.”
Ike put one of the homemade CDs into the stereo and pushed play. The CD player made some whirring sounds for several seconds before the display panel flashed the words “No Disc”. The whirring sounds stopped.
“Nothing there,” Ike said as he removed it and inserted the second one.
The result was the same.
“They must be blank,” Steve said, “or they’re MP3s. Then again, it’s possible they contain computer data instead of music.”
Ike put them back into their sleeves and continued flipping through the rest of the discs. Two or three pages later he stopped and pulled another disc out.
“All right, and speaking of guns,” he said as he put the CD in the stereo. “You can never go wrong with Skynyrd.”
As Ike stepped out of the cabin, Lynyrd Skynyrd sang, “Gimme Back My Bullets”.
They finished their beers and left the marina on foot, walking west along King Street to the winery. The streets of St. Augustine were crowded with college students, tourists, vendors, street musicians, artists and even a few pirates.
They passed a hotel whose first floor was occupied by shops and restaurants. A delivery man pushed a hand-truck full of bottled water in front of them. The wheels of his hand-truck hit an uneven joint in the sidewalk and the unexpected jolt sent a case of bottled water to the ground. Twenty-four 16-ounce bottles rolled every which way and the delivery man chased them down. Ike picked one up and read the label before tossing it to the frustrated man.
“Crystal Lake,” he said to Steve. “Who do you think came up with that name?”
“Some overpaid, underworked ad man, I’m sure,” Steve replied as they waited to cross a side street.
“Have you noticed how many brands of bottled water there are?” Ike asked. “You can’t keep up with them; and on a gallon by gallon basis, it costs more than gas.”
The light changed and they crossed the street.
“The thing is,” Ike continued, “they ain’t getting that water from any crystal lake. They’re taking it from a tap in a factory somewhere and just cleaning it up a little. People who buy that shit are idiots.”
“Well, I’m glad to see you haven’t totally committed to a position on it,” Steve joked. “Let me know when you have an opinion.”
“Roger that,” Ike said as they turned into the parking lot of the winery.
On the roof of the winery was an open air café with seating for about fifty people. From the parking lot they could hear Teague going through his sound check.
He was playing the Otis Redding classic, “You Don’t Miss Your Water”.
7
Mitch started the truck to run the air conditioning. Donny spit a wad of tobacco juice to the ground and then rolled his window up.
“How long are we gonna sit here watching a dad-gum trailer park?” Donny complained.
“Until we see something—you got something better to do?” Mitch said with a slight touch of anger. “Right now those two kids are our only hope of getting the discs back. And if we don’t get those discs back, we’ll be gator bait.”
“I just hate waitin’ is all,” Donny said. “I’d rather be doin’.”
The truck was parked in a public parking lot one block west of A1A, used primarily by beach-goers. The spot gave Mitch and Donny a good view of the trailer park, and according to Kyle, the two boys who had dropped his wallet lived in there somewhere. The small community was made up of dozens of single-wides in various states of disrepair. There were a few double-wides scattered about, one or two of them even had above-ground pools. The roads that wove their way between the trailers looked barely wide enough for the pickup trucks that sat in most of the dirt driveways. Patches of brown grass, a few palm trees and some palmetto bushes constituted the landscaping. In the ninety minutes since they had arrived, they had seen quite a bit of activity in and around the rows of manufactured homes, but no kids matching the description Kyle had given.
“It’s almost six; we’ll give it another half hour, then we’ll head back to the site.” Mitch said. “We got trucks coming in tonight.”
Donny nodded in silent agreement.
For another fifteen minutes the only noise in the truck was the quiet hum of the air conditioning fan. Donny periodically rolled his window down and spit wads of tobacco juice, which sent up small puffs of dust when they landed on the gravel parking surface.
A woman in her early thirties returning from the beach approached the car in front of them. She had long, curly brown hair and a body that was well conditioned. A sheer, black wrap covered her small, yellow bikini. As she leaned forward to load a beach chair and a small cooler into the trunk of her car, Donny watched admiringly. While he entertained thoughts about a sexual encounter that would never happen, Mitch sat up fast.
“I think we got something,” he announced.
Donny tore his eyes from the woman and looked across the street. Inside the trailer park, strutting like a rooster on steroids, was a tall, thin black kid. Despite the heat that still lingered in the early evening, he wore heavy jean shorts that could have easily held two kids his size. A long, blue basketball jersey hung on him like a cape and his tightly braided hair was partially concealed by a red bandana tied with a big knot on his forehead.
Mitch and Donny watched as he approached a single-wide with a silver mini-van parked in the driveway. The black kid stood in front of the trailer and whistled loudly. A few seconds later, a stocky white kid emerged wearing a striped shirt, shorts and flip flops; reddish-blonde hair hung down almost to his shoulders.
“Yes, I think we just might have something here,” Mitch said.
They watched as the two kids left the trailer park and headed for A1A. Mitch let them get a block away before he put the truck in gear and followed them.
The kids turned left, heading north on A1A. Mitch pulled out of the side street, drove about a hundred yards past them and pulled the truck over on the shoulder in front of a set of wooden steps that led to the beach.
Donny turned in his seat and watched; Mitch kept an eye in the rear view mirror. The kids were on the opposite side of the road when they reached the truck.
“Follow my lead,” Mitch said to Donny as he rolled down his window.
“Hey,” he called to the kids.
They stopped walking and looked curiously at the truck, not sure if Mitch was calling them.
“Hey, you two want to make twenty bucks each?” Mitch called to them.
As a formality, each kid looked at the other for an opinion before they sprinted across the street. The black kid reached the truck first.
“’Sup?” he asked Mitch.
“Can you give my buddy a hand carrying some fishing gear down to the beach?” he said.
Donny opened his door and stepped out of the truck as the two kids came around to that side. He opened the small half-door at the rear of the cab. The black kid got there a step ahead of the white kid and Donny pulled out his gun and pointed it at him.
“Get in the truck, boy,” he said.
The black kid froze, unsure of what to do. Donny grabbed the front of his jersey and yanked him into the truck. When the white kid realized what was happening, he mumbled an “Oh, shit” and bolted down the wooden stairs to the beach.
“Sum bitch,” Donny said.
“Get ‘im,” Mitch yelled.
Donny slammed the two doors, leaving the black kid in the truck with Mitch, and tore after the white kid.
Mitch pointed his gun at the black kid and grinned.
“Just relax, son,” he said calmly, “this won’t take long.”
8
Justin took the wooden steps two and three at a time. Completely ignoring the last four, he jumped to the beach. Pinwheeling his arms to maintain his balance, he managed to stay on his feet and keep running—kicking his flip flops off in the process. With no conscious plan at all, he ran south toward the pier. Fueled by pure panic, he sprinted for all he was worth. There were a few fishermen standing in the surf and a handful of people swimming—other than that there was no one to offer him any assistance.
He risked a look over his right shoulder and saw the man with the gun running after him. Thankfully, the man could not run as fast as Justin and the gap between them widened. Justin could see people on the pier fishing or just strolling along. He yelled for help, but the sound of the pounding surf squelched his plea before it reached the pier.
Beyond the pier was another set of steps leading back up to A1A. Justin decided his only chance of survival was to reach those stairs ahead of the man with the gun and get across A1A into the neighborhood streets, where he would be able to find a place to hide. If his lead was big enough, he might even try to make it to the police station a few blocks south of the trailer park.
The adrenaline pumping through his body propelled him across the beach. His legs moved like pistons, his bare feet threw the powdery beach sand up behind him in plumes, his arms pumped wildly and his lungs somehow kept up with his body’s demand for air. He could feel his heart pounding a ridiculously fast rhythm.
When he reached the pier, he angled his course for the steps. A quick glance over his shoulder showed the man with the gun a safe distance behind. As if he had tapped a new well of energy, Justin took the steps two at a time and darted across A1A without looking for traffic. Once on the other side, his momentum carried him into the grid of streets that made up the trailer park. As he approached an intersection, he tried to decide which way he should turn. Three blocks to the right was his house; he could go there and have his mom call the police. Three blocks to his left was the police station; he could try to make it there and have the cops handle the whole thing, and maybe his mom would never have to know about it.
Once at the intersection, out of habit, he turned right and ran toward home. His only thought was of reaching a safe haven. When the white pickup truck swerved to a halt directly in front of him, there was no way he could stop his momentum in time. He ran full bore into the nose of the truck and bounced off. Before he stopped rolling a man jumped out of the truck and grabbed him with amazing strength. Justin felt himself being dragged toward the truck without the benefit of his legs. He was thrown into the back seat where he landed in a heap on top of Russell. His breath came in huge gasps and he was completely disoriented by the panic of the chase. Somewhere in the distance he heard the door of the truck slam, followed by the sensation of rapid acceleration. The truck made a sharp turn, throwing him backward and causing Russell to land on top of him; more acceleration, followed by a sudden stop, then more acceleration around a turn to the left. A few seconds later the truck skidded to a stop and the man who had chased Justin on the beach opened the door and climbed in, wheezing and gasping for air. The door closed and the truck took off again.
Justin and Russell sat up and looked at each other. For the first time since he had known Russell, Justin saw fear in his friend’s eyes. The man who had chased Justin on the beach turned in his seat and looked at him, still panting like a dog in August.
“Speedy little thing, ain’t cha,” he wheezed, before turning around to face front.
Still trying to catch his breath, Justin somehow summoned the nerve to speak.
“Where are you taking us? What do you want?”
The driver looked at Justin in the rear view mirror.
“Don’t you worry, boy. If you play your cards right, you can be home before your mama even knows you were gone.”