Killing The Blood Cleaner (6 page)

NINE

The Cloister Hotel at Sea Island, Georgia is a venerable resort which has catered to the well-to-do since its opening in 1928. The hotel was built by the Coffin family, along with the development of the “cottages” of Sea Island. The property descended to the Jones family who owned it for several generations until its sale in bankruptcy in 2010. The hotel and the beach club have been a prime destination for generations of Atlanta families. It was the sort of place where parents could rent a cottage and safely turn their children loose with their beach club number and bicycles, subject only to stern warnings to stay on the island and that they were only allowed to charge in the snack bar.

For years, bingo on Tuesdays and Thursdays has been seriously played by children, parents and grandparents alike. The cash bingo prizes were always generous and it was not uncommon for a child to turn over a well-worn bingo card to find the comment of a parent written long ago. “This card stinks!” or “I won $50,” were common themes.

The grounds of the hotel were filled with ancient live oaks laden with Spanish moss. Many an Atlanta child had been disappointed when their shopping bag of the gray moss from the island failed to prosper over the winter when transported to the trees of Atlanta.

Parents and children enjoyed the freedom staying at Sea Island brought. Connected to St. Simons Island by a bridge and then a long causeway to the mainland, Sea Island was a world of its own. Children were safe to roam on their bicycles, swim and play with their friends, discretely supervised by a staff of attractive teenagers hired by the Cloister for this purpose. Adults could have an elegant dinner and drinks by themselves, safe in the knowledge that the hotel would keep the children amused and happy, away from their boring parents. Later in the evenings couples could drive over to St. Simons which had a variety of somewhat more lively establishments where drinking and dancing could continue into the night.

Many generations of Atlantans had moved down the path toward adulthood by boldly presenting fake IDs at the drive-in liquor store window of the Geechee Club which was one of the few black nightclubs on St. Simons. These questionable identifications were always graciously accepted, especially when accompanied by a large order and a five dollar gratuity.

Another St Simons favorite was the Altamaha Fish Ranch, owned and presided over by owner and cook, Gerald Hopkins. It was located in a cinderblock building on the south end of the island decorated with strings of white electric light bulbs and served the best seafood and steaks in South Georgia. Gerald was an Atlanta lawyer who had left the practice of law and escaped to the quiet of St. Simons. The decor was eclectic with ancient mounted local fish on the walls near many of the better tables. It also featured a crackling fireplace in the winter and leather sofas and chairs, along with a repeating tape of South Carolina beach music for added effect. On a good Friday or Saturday night the parking lot was crammed with scores of expensive automotive hardware from Sea Island with a total value of about three times the construction cost of the restaurant itself.

In recent years Sea Island decided to reinvent itself, much to the dismay of its longtime visitors and leading inevitably to its eventual bankruptcy. A gate was constructed at the entrance of the bridge to Sea Island and the Cloister declared itself to be a private club, open only to hotel guests and club members. “City” charge accounts (meaning Atlanta) which had been in effect for years were abolished, which meant that the more thrifty of Atlanta’s gentry holding these accounts could no longer book an inexpensive room on St. Simons and then wander over to Sea Island for dinner and drinks.

The gate and the heightened security also eliminated the time-honored practice of teenage residents and young visitors to St. Simons sneaking into the beach club and its evening dances in hopes of meeting an attractive Sea Island visitor.

These changes and Sea Island’s attempts at grander real estate development had pushed the resort into vast debt and forced the layoff of a good many employees. There was one sad day when hundreds of employees were let go. However, even with these problems, Sea Island and the Cloister remained a haven of tranquil Southern charm in a chaotic world and continued to be so under the new owners.

Jack was not concerned about the gate or any of the changes as he drove across the bridge to Sea Island after being properly identified as an authorized hotel guest by the pleasant guard. He’d been there scores of times beginning as a child and each trip blended in with the ones before and produced an immediate sense of comfort and relaxation the minute he was on the island. The salty marsh air thickly rolled over the windshield of his white Mercedes convertible. He could hear the familiar crunch of seashells that had made their way to the blacktop as he slowly turned into the entrance of the hotel past the old oaks and their heavy Spanish moss. As he pulled into the entrance he thought about the red MG automobile he remembered from his childhood which was always parked at the entrance to the hotel. As a child, he had been told that it belonged to Mr. Jones, the Cloister’s owner, but it had disappeared years ago.

Jack handed his keys to the valet and waited as a bellhop took his bags from the car. “Welcome back, Dr. Randolph,” the bellhop chirped, obviously alerted to his arrival by the guard at the gate.

“It is always good to be at Sea Island,” he responded as he walked up the stairs and into the lobby. Once again, like the perfume of an old lover, the crisp distinctive smell of the Cloister lobby greeted him. Instantly he felt a pleasing sensation as his unconscious recollected a long assortment of happy memories.

“Good afternoon Dr. Randolph. Are you ready to check in?” the attractive thirtyish woman at the mahogany and brass reception desk asked. “We have you over at the River House. Is that okay?” she continued as she handed him the usual forms to be signed.

“I remember the old River House. My Dad used to let me catch crabs off the dock next to it. We always used a rope with chicken necks tied to the end. I would slowly pull it through the water and the crabs would jump on and he would scoop them up with a net. I suppose you don’t allow chicken necks over there now,” he replied.

“Would you like me to order you some chicken necks?” the woman replied with a smile. She was quite used to this sort of banter from the old Atlanta regulars.

Jack laughed. “Not right now. Maybe later. My friends from the CDC tell me they are full of germs. We didn’t know that when I was young.”

In a few minutes he was well ensconced in his room in the River House. He mixed up a bourbon and water from the minibar and opened the French doors to the balcony which overlooked the Blackbanks River. Leaning on the rail he could see the river and marsh which separated Sea Island from St. Simons. It was low tide and scores of sandpipers were busily poking into the slick and muddy banks of the river in search of their dinner. Jack waved to an elderly black fisherman on the opposite bank. The man waved back and proudly pulled a string of fish from the river, showing off his catch. Jack raised his glass in salute to his neighbor’s fishing prowess. Another fisherman in a motorboat cruised slowly past, being careful to keep in the center of the river to avoid any sandbars that had popped up during low tide.

Jack thought of the many times he had fished on that river, thinking back to one particularly good catch of ten large sea trout off an oyster bed right around the river’s next bend. He had been twenty and was still a student at Vanderbilt and he well remembered the trout and his willowy companion that day in her red bikini.

He walked back into the room and picked up the telephone. In a few seconds the hotel operator had connected him to Dr. Clayton.

“Howie, let’s head over to St. Simons for some dinner. We need to scout up a wild woman for you. I’m worried that you might be headed for erectile dysfunction from lack of use,” he said.

“What about Annabelle? I’m surprised she doesn’t have something big planned for you tonight,” Dr. Clayton replied.

“Annabelle and I are done. Seems like BT has won her heart and her vagina. She went out with him the night we had lunch. You remember her talking to him that day at Capital City. Apparently that evening was a major erotic bonding for the two of them. He invited her to a big house party at his place at Lake Rabun this weekend. Her touching goodbye call lasted all of a minute. So I am now history. But I had already paid for our room down here so I just came on down,” Jack said.

“Good man. As bizarre and mean as she was, I really don’t think she was the girl for you. I’m glad you came on down, anyway,” Dr. Clayton replied. “I was a little concerned about the potential genetic combination of Annabelle and yourself. Such couplings should be prohibited under international law,” he continued.

“I think I need to get out and celebrate my close brush with matrimony. Maybe I can round up some loose hide over on St. Simons. Why don’t we meet at the Coast Cabin at eight?” Jack asked.

“Agreed,” was Dr. Clayton’s quick response. Jack hung up the phone and settled on the bed with his bourbon for a quick nap prior to getting ready for the evening. The girl in the red bikini with the trout kept running through his head as it touched the crisp down pillow and he dozed off to sleep.

TEN

The Coast Cabin restaurant had been a fixture just off Frederica Road in St. Simons for many years. It was famous for local seafood and good steaks. As expected, the Coast Cabin was a huge, log structure with a broad green door and high beamed ceilings. The longtime waiters wore white coats and were quick with a serious drink. In the winter there was always a fire in the huge fireplace accelerated by sputtering pine fatwood piled high around the hardwood logs.

In recent years the Coast Cabin had added a dance club in a large room to the side of the restaurant. It was a favorite of the locals throughout Glynn County and the unreconstructed countryside beyond. Ladies drinks were usually a dollar on Friday nights and this greatly increased the crowd. The music was provided by a disc jockey who played favorites from the 70s and 80s along with some South Carolina beach music classics. Most evenings ended with an enthusiastic beach medley after which the house lights were switched on brightly and all exit doors opened wide.

Jack walked through the wide, front entrance door and saw Dr. Clayton seated in an overstuffed leather arm chair near a window overlooking the marsh. He was a little surprised that his friend was engaged in a lively conversation with two attractive women who were seated on one of the ancient leather couches nearby. Usually Howard was quiet and shy and rarely interacted with others, but these girls were laughing loudly at whatever he was saying at the moment. Dr. Clayton looked up and smiled heartily at Jack.

“Jack we were just talking about you. I was telling them the story about when we were Epsilons at Vanderbilt and you picked up that great-looking woman with tattoos at a liquor store. She was trying to make it in music in Nashville. The fraternity hired her as our cook for several months until she got her big break. She then went on to a successful career as a third string country singer. She’s probably out there in a motel lounge somewhere, all thanks to you,” Dr. Clayton admiringly stated.

“Johnny, you are misleading these girls. You know I was the shy intellectual one, and you were constantly on an ether frolic on your way to medical stardom. That girl bonded with you and wanted to have your baby which would have been born with a tattoo. Luckily, she met that guy from the rodeo and walked out of your life,” Jack replied to the laughter of all.

“Jack, this is Cindy Jessup and her friend, Danielle Haaert. Cindy works for the Sheriff’s office in Ossabaw County and among her many duties she is the Assistant Homeland Security Director for the Georgia Coastal Region,” he said, reading the title from her business card in the dim light. “She was invited to the conference as a local emergency preparedness official. Danielle is in real estate and wants to sell you a condo,” Dr. Clayton continued.

“Should there be an Ebola epidemic I would like to be quarantined in a condo with these two,” Jack said slowly as he looked straight at Cindy’s taut figure and flowing red hair. “Why don’t you to join us for dinner?” he continued. With a nod from Jack to the waiter, the group quickly moved to a nearby table. The white coated waiter who had been watching this process and now seeing its expected conclusion, approached and announced the dinner specials which were the usual prime steaks along with freshly caught, local sea trout which only hours before had been lurking on the edge of a nearby oyster bed in the Medway River. It only took a few minutes for fresh drinks and dinners to be ordered and the waiter was on his way.

“Just what are your duties as the Assistant Homeland Security Director for the Georgia Coastal Region?” Jack asked, eyeing Cindy hungrily.

“The Sheriff of Ossabaw County, Roger Odum, is the actual Director of Homeland Security Law Enforcement for the Georgia Coastal Region and that is a Federal appointment. I work for him. We monitor all of the emergency, police and military communications on the rivers and coast in the Georgia Coastal Region. It is our job to know the whereabouts of all these folks and all vessels and aircraft in the region. I also do typing and filing for the Sheriff, so it is not all glamorous,” she replied.

“Do you deal with many drug smugglers around here?” Dr. Clayton asked. This question instantly produced a crisp response from Cindy.

“Our job is to notify Washington and the local authorities if there is any suspicious activity which might be terrorist related. But, there is a lot of drug smuggling around here. There are miles and miles of twisting inland waterways which are great places to hide. And there are lots of flat roads and abandoned airfields for planes to land. But it is our job to look out for terrorists, although that does produce some drug smuggling arrests,” she replied in almost a mechanical way, as though the response had been rehearsed and memorized. Obviously, this was not a subject which she wished to discuss further.

“Well, our drugs are legal and we will prescribe you some later,” Jack said. “Especially if you are nice to us,” he continued. “Of course it would be our medical duty to give you a full examination before doing that,” he said. Cindy’s reticence to discuss the local drug smuggling culture only increased Jack’s interest in the subject.

“An Atlanta magazine did an article on the smuggling industry on the Coast a while back. I recall them saying that marijuana and cocaine smuggling were the number three industry down here, right after shrimp and Sea Island. I also remember seeing in a newspaper that the Georgia Attorney General had tried to prosecute a Deputy down here and at the trial called some Sheriff a … fountain of corruption. Is all of that right? It sounded pretty authoritative,” Jack asked, watching Cindy closely.

“That Cindy’s Sheriff, Roger Odum all right. He’s been down here for years and he is famous. But there are a lot of folks that love him. He is always helping some local charity or making big donations to some politician’s campaign fund,” was the giggled response of Danielle. “You always hear that there is some big investigation going on and that our local Judge Valentino, the one that did the Georgia Maximum Security Prison case and isn’t afraid of the devil himself, will be coming down on them. But for years nothing has happened and Cindy is still not in jail. Of course, some people who might have been witnesses have disappeared sometimes and that may have slowed things down,” she continued less gleefully.

Cindy added, “Oh, I see that stuff in the newspapers too. And sometimes we get subpoenas from the Court about our activities. But all we do is arrest drunks, break up domestic fights, give out traffic tickets, and serve divorces and lawsuits. Sometimes some of the shrimpers or high school students get caught with a little marijuana or cocaine, but the Sheriff arrests them and they go to jail with everybody else. I think if this were true the Feds or the Georgia Attorney General would’ve arrested him years ago like they did in Charleston and Savannah with the big busts they had up there. Anyway, if they were doing stuff like that I don’t think they would be including a little file clerk and secretary,” she commented, crisply.

Dr. Clayton interjected, “I heard a story once about the drug trade in Key West from a friend of mine at the Georgia Attorney General’s office. There was a little State Bank down there with one head cashier. She was an old lady and lived in a trailer with her dog on one of the back Keys. Late one night, the dopers broke into her trailer and gave her the choice of them shooting her and her dog right then, or taking the automatic cash counter they brought with them and processing bags of bills and depositing them in the bank without the proper Treasury paperwork for $10,000 a week. Of course, she and the dog decided not to be shot and when she died of a heart attack two years later they found the cash counter and two million in plastic trash bags in her trailer. Apparently they were able to run about $40 million through that little bank with her help,” Dr. Clayton said.

Jack jumped in as Cindy was looking a little irritated. “Gosh, I hope they didn’t prosecute the dog. Cindy, we don’t mean to imply that you were personally involved. But you do sort of look like a sexy drug babe, and I mean that as a compliment,” he continued.

Cindy’s expression eased and changed to a faint smile. “Yes, that is right. Like that old lady in the Keys, I have millions of dollars in cash hidden in my luxury trailer in Ossabaw County,” she replied with a laugh. At this moment the waiter arrived with their dinners and two bottles of chilled Chardonnay. The music from the disk jockey in the dance room next door picked up and they all had to nearly shout as the subject turned to sea trout and beach music. The seafood was quickly devoured amid laughter with Jack and Cindy moving their chairs a little closer together and Howard and Danielle eyeing each other with smiles. The dinner closed with the waiter flaming a Bananas Foster for four with an elegant flourish along with cognacs for the men and Canadian ice-wine for the ladies. They all moved back and forth to the music which now could not be ignored.

“At least we made it through the dinner like serious professionals. I was a little worried there with all the wine and cognacs that Howie would begin to lose it and embarrass me with his famous Talking Trout Head at dinner, which is a sure sign that he needs to be sent home immediately in a taxi,” Jack said as he pushed his chair back from the dinner table in obvious satisfaction.

“Right, Jack. I’m always the one doing the Talking Trout Head. At least the waiter didn’t set the tablecloth on fire during his Bananas Foster presentation,” Dr. Clayton replied.

“Howie, I do remember that. We were in some restaurant in Nashville the night of our fraternity formal and the idiot nearly burned the entire restaurant down,” Jack said.

“And they wouldn’t even comp our dinner, but you gave it a good try,” Dr. Clayton said.

The girls were beginning to dance seductively in their chairs. South Carolina beach music was now shaking the very rafters of the Coastal Cabin. Jack grabbed Cindy by the hand and motioned to Dr. Clayton.

“We need to get these girls out on the dance floor before they start dancing on the table. Myrtle Beach music is calling,” Jack said, gently guiding Cindy toward the dance hall. Dr. Clayton and Danielle were quick to follow.

Once inside, the dance hall could have easily been mistaken for the Illuminated Beer Sign Hall of Fame. The walls were filled with glowing neon slogans. Above the bar were at least ten of the most famous moving beer signs in North America. All night long, the signs worked their magic, hypnotizing several of the regular patrons at their seats at the bar. There was also the required mirrored, rotating ball which hung from the rafters and disseminated the lights from several colored lasers controlled by the DJ. The beer signs and the mirror ball were the only illumination, but it was obvious there was a good crowd on the dance floor with additional onlookers at the bar and at the tables on the edges of the room.

In general, the room was the picture of Friday night partying. But, just for a moment, Jack noticed one serious figure in the crowd. A muscular, thirtyish, black man stood military straight to the right of the front door. He was neatly dressed in dark slacks and a white polo shirt, and in his hand was a red plastic glass which did not seem to be getting much attention. On his hip was a portable radio with a small antenna. Jack turned to talk to Cindy and then glanced back, but the man was gone, and the door where he had been standing was left open.

“Shake your booty, Jack, honey,” Cindy said as she danced provocatively in front of him, slightly bent over to give him a full view of her ample and nicely tanned breasts. The man was instantly forgotten by Jack.

“I want to dance!” Jack said, as he moved elegantly toward Cindy. He looked over and saw Dr. Clayton engaged in a stiff, boxlike dance attempt, with an occasional pathetic hand gesture for effect. This sad display of Caucasian dance limitations seemed to have no effect on Danielle who was shaking and dancing hotly enough for both of them. Jack could see the eyes of the rednecks at the bar following each of the girls with close attention. At one point, one of the men began to approach Cindy in an effort to cut in. Jack saw him begin his approach and watched as he stopped and returned to his seat, after a huge man in a Hawaiian shirt, who was obviously the bouncer, tapped him on the shoulder and motioned for him to return to the bar. What Jack did not see was that this activity had been prompted by a slight gesture to the bouncer from the mysterious black man who had somehow materialized near another door on the other side of the room.

After several rousing numbers the music slowed down and Jack knew from Cindy’s tight embrace that this night had erotic potential.

“I want to be fucked at the Cloister,” Cindy nearly shouted in Jack’s ear, but louder than the music, with a slight slur, slightly bumping into other nearby dancers.

“You want to be fucked by an oyster? How kinky,” Jack replied, as though he had misunderstood her the first time. He grabbed her by the hand and looked around for Dr. Clayton and Danielle.

“We are heading out now,” Jack said to Dr. Clayton and Danielle as he spotted them on the dance floor. They waved as Jack and Cindy went outside. As the door closed behind them it was almost a shock as they left the music behind. The July flies, high in the trees, were the only sounds other than the occasional passing car and the muffled murmurings of the music inside.

Jack kissed Cindy passionately, pressing her tanned body against the cool, white metal of his car, “You can be fucked at the Cloister only if I get to do you in your trailer next time,” he said with a laugh.

“I’m going to hold you to that,” she said. “I’ll be sure and put the best chenille on the bed and dust the velvet picture of Elvis that hangs over it.”

The guard at the Sea Island gate took only a few seconds to identify Jack, and with a brief discussion and a slight smile at Jack’s newly acquired friend in her truck behind him, the gate was opened and the two vehicles entered Sea Island. No one noticed the tan, unmarked, patrol car with a large antenna on its bumper as it made a U-turn on the road, several hundred yards behind them, but in clear sight of the gate guard house.