Mangrove Bayou (2 page)

Groud smiled. “Know every foot of that route. More'n a hundred miles. All-day trip by powerboat. And I wouldn't do that in a canoe if you paid me.”

“Plus, Doctor Duell is right,” Troy said. “The Tampa P.D. booted me out. I need the job. And, not to be overlooked, I'll take the job for the pitiful salary you're offering. What was wrong with the other applicant? Was he a bigger jerk than I am?”

“He had one tooth, and a left eye that pointed someplace his right eye wasn't looking at,” Max Reed said. “I wondered if he could even shoot a gun straight.”

“I guess that might depend upon whether he shot right- or left-handed,” Troy said. “So does the beige guy get the job?”

The mayor looked at his councilmen. Reed thought about it but then nodded. “May as well. These two are the only people who answered the ad. We can always look for a replacement later, re-advertise, see if we can get more responses than a half-blind guy and a trigger-happy, insubordinate, fired guy.”

Principal Councilman Dr. Howard Parkland Duell just looked sorrowful and shook his head. “This man is far from suitable,” he said. “And I certainly don't care for his attitude.”

Groud looked at Reed and Duell. “I vote yes. That's two out of three.” He looked across the table at Troy. “You get the job. On probation. For six months. Then we'll make it permanent or look around some more.”

“Good,” Troy said. “Now that I'm your chief…”

“Actually, director of public safety,” Dr. Howard Parkland Duell said.

Troy ignored him and focused on Les Groud. “Now that I'm the chief, I want some things.”

“Demands already?” Groud frowned. “I'd hoped to get to the next monthly town council meeting before that started. Whattaya need?”

“Can't be anything that costs much money,” Max Reed said. “We run a tight ship here.”

Troy looked at him. “You're in a marsh between Everglades City and Naples and not even the sheriff's deputies like to come here. You have a nine-person police department, a volunteer fire department, and the town clinic doctor drives the town ambulance. Ships don't come tighter than that. Your officers not only look like bad Gestapo troops in sweat-stained black uniforms but they like to stay inside their air-conditioned Suburbans all day. Nice patrol trucks, by the way.”

“Hah. Got those with some drug-bust money,” Groud said. “Along with that fancy police boat we have. You find any more drug money and you can have a shopping list for yourself.”

“I'll keep an eye out,” Troy said. “But I need officers that get out and hoof it around too. Some of them need haircuts and shaves. They're undisciplined and, I suspect, a little insubordinate. Some are getting soggy around the gut.” Troy pulled a paper from his shirt pocket, unfolded it, and handed it to the mayor. “Here's a list of things I need right off. Nothing too expensive.”

Les Groud pulled out some reading glasses and looked at the list. He smiled. “This is going to be fun to watch.”

“Hope you enjoy it,” Troy said. “By the way. What happened to that kid with the razor blades?”

“He didn't eat any. He thought Bob Redmond was crazy too. Today the kid is in county jail in Naples. I hear Jack DeGrasse, the state attorney there, is asking for the max adult time and likely to get it.”

“Kid's thirteen, right?” Troy asked. “Isn't that a little young to be tried as an adult?”

“Yeah. But Jack DeGrasse never forgets that he's elected. He rides into office each time on full prison cells, hefty political contributions, and harsh law enforcement. Don't forget that, by the way, or he'll be on your case.”

“Kid may have been better off eating the razor blades,” Troy said.

Chapter 2

June

“Tats” Michaels rolled over onto his back and gasped for air. “Wow,” he said. “That was some fuck. Been saving up.”

“Honey-bunny, I could tell,” Katie Barrymore said with a laugh. “Lemme clean up.” She hopped out of the motel room bed and vanished into the bathroom. Tats sat up and lit a cigarette and looked down at his skinny chest where one of his many tattoos was a golden dragon. He liked the dragon, but at times like this, he wished he'd had the guy put it on upside down, so Tats could admire it better. He pulled the heavy spread up over his skinny torso and reached for the pint bottle of cheap red wine on the small table between the queen-sized beds.

They were in a motel on Marco Island, Katie's favorite meeting place. They rarely met more than the once per month when her husband went to Atlanta and Katie drove up to Marco Island to pick up Tats. She insisted that he never come to her; she always came to him. Tats hated the waiting, for the next night with Katie, and for the ultimate payoff yet to come.

Katie Barrymore came back to bed and slipped in beside him. She took a drag off his cigarette and a pull off the wine bottle. “Sleep good tonight,” she said. “Gotta get up early, though, and get back. Don't want no neighbors seein' me comin' home at dawn.”

“We gotta do this more often,” Tats said. “When we gonna do your husband?” Tats laughed. “Then we can fuck all the time, and have the money to buy real booze.”

“Gotta wait, honey-bunny. You know that. Just a little longer. Year's almost up. I get away often as I can. Lucky for us he goes out of town every month. Lucky for you, anyway.”

“Yeah. Right. You screwing him too?”

“Got to. Often as he wants. He doesn't want it too often. He's old. Don't worry, Tats. You're my guy. Always have been. Always will be.”

“Always have been, always will be. Sort of our motto. I don't like your fucking another man. Old, rich guy. What's he got that I don' have?”

“He's got money. You don'. He's old and ain't getting it up much any more. You're my stallion.”

“Stallion. I like it. Maybe next tat I get will be a stallion.”

“Where the hell would you put it,” Katie asked. Katie was patient. She had known Tats her entire life. They had grown up together in Goodland and had been screwing each other since she was fourteen and he was fifteen. Tats thought that was love; Katie was more practical. He was slow, she knew. She had a high school diploma, he had dropped out. “We been over this, honey-bunny. This is my job. Marryin' him was my job. For now. In a few weeks you can do
your
job. Then we'll both be rich and we'll be together all the time.”

Tats took another drag and blew a smoke ring at the ceiling. “Always have been, always will be. Still don' like you fucking another man.”

“A few more weeks,
honey-bunny
. Just a few more weeks. Hang in there with me.” She felt around under the spread. “Ooh. Why Tats, you devil. Ready again already?”

There was no ashtray in the nonsmoking motel room and Tats stubbed out the cigarette on the top of the night table, leaving a burn mark. He put the bottle next to the butt. He rolled over on top of Katie. “Toldja. Been a long time.”

Chapter 3

Monday, July 1

The man clutched his ex-wife tightly, her back against his chest, his left arm around her under her breasts, his right hand holding the big hunting knife to her neck. He looked at the other officers and then sideways at Troy.

“Put down the knife,” Troy said. “Nothing is so bad we can't work something out to help you. You don't want to hurt her. You love her.”

“I can't go on like this,” the man said. The woman was weeping silently, her eyes on Troy as if he were her salvation. “I can't go on without her.”

“You can and you will. We'll help you.”

The man shook his head. “You'll just put me in jail. I've been to prison before. I'm never going back.”

“At least let her go. You know you don't really want to do this. Do the right thing here.”

The man shook his head. Troy had his Glock lined up on the man's right ear, about the only thing he could clearly see behind the terrified woman. “I came this far,” the man said. “I'll take it all the way.”

The man's face tightened. His left arm squeezed even harder and the woman let out a grunt from the pressure. The right hand pressed the knife harder against the woman's throat.

“Don't do it,” Troy said. “I can't let you do it.”

The man bent his head to look around the woman's throat, the better to aim that first deep cut that would sever her trachea and jugular vein. Suddenly Troy was seeing the man's right eye and part of his skull over the top of the sights on the Glock. Troy started to squeeze the trigger.

“You win,” the man said. “I don't really want to do this.” He took away the knife. He let the woman go. And Troy's Glock went off and killed him.

Troy woke up, sweating. He lay there a moment, waiting for his heart to stop pounding, staring up at the darkness. But he knew, from experience, that he had to get up quickly, before the nausea came. The room was an unfamiliar one and he bumped into things getting out to the hall and to the bathroom. He vomited into the toilet, waited there, head down, and then vomited a second time. There was usually a second time; he never knew why. He ran cold water and drank some and splashed more on his face.

He flushed the toilet, put down the lid, and sat on it. He had been seeing a psychologist in Tampa and had a referral for one here in Mangrove Bayou. He wasn't sure that any of that had helped in the past or would help in the future.

The condo unit was a single bedroom with a living room, bathroom with small washer and dryer, and a kitchen separated from the living room by a counter with two stools. It was plain, but clean, and the view was spectacular. The entire living room end of the unit had glass floor-to-ceiling windows and a sliding glass door.

Troy put on some shorts and went out onto the large balcony. There was a table here and two chairs and room for more if needed. He sat in a chair and looked out at the early morning darkness. The moon was setting and reflected off the quiet water between Barron Key and the small mangrove islands offshore that lay between the town and the Gulf of Mexico. He heard voices and laughter from his left, where the hot tub and swimming pool were, around a corner from him.
Who sits around in a hot tub at 3 a.m.
he wondered. No matter. He had the moonlight, a silver tunnel direct from his eyes to the sky in the west.

Troy's unit was on the end of the building. To his right he saw Snake Key, assorted small concrete-block houses faintly visible in the silver light, with an infill-scattering of mobile homes and, beyond them, Snake Key's big boatyard that doubled as the working waterman's marina and storage. He had no view of the pool and hot tub. Mrs. Mackenzie didn't need a police presence so much that she would assign him to one of the larger and pricier units overlooking the pool and garden area. He got the Snake Key view.

After a while he got up and went back inside. He picked up his car keys and went out front, got into his Subaru Forester, and drove slowly around Mangrove Bayou. Anything to take his mind off the dream, and he needed to get more familiar with the town anyway.

Chapter 4

Monday, July 1

Troy woke in the strange bed, momentarily disoriented. The bedside table light was on but daylight was streaming in from a window. His alarm clock was set for 6 a.m. and, as usual, he woke a half-hour earlier than that, dream or no dream. Volume Three of Winston Churchill's
History of the English Speaking Peoples
was still open on his chest. He had worked on that after coming back from his tour of the town. He sat up and put the book on the bedside table. Today was his first day on the new job. Troy smiled. He had to admit that he was a little excited by it.

Troy showered and shaved, put on some jeans and a tan back-vented shirt, almost the uniform here among the fishing guides, and let that hang outside his pants. Unlike the guides, his fishing shirts were all heavily starched. It was probably a holdover from the Army, he knew, but he liked starched jeans and shirts. He took his Colt Commander .45-caliber pistol out of his briefcase, slipped it into the horsehide holster and clipped that inside his waistline at his right hip. He put a spare magazine into his left pants pocket, just in case he got into a World War. But if he didn't take it along then what was the point in having it? From force of habit he checked in the bathroom mirror but the shirt covered the gun with no “print” at all.

Outside, Mrs. Mackenzie was bustling about rearranging the pool patio furniture. She was a short, stout, fiftyish, tanned woman in yellow hair and a yellow sundress—Troy was to learn that Mrs. Mackenzie had an inexhaustible supply of identical yellow sundresses—who bustled around all day seeing that walks were swept, the pool clean, the hot tub de-germed, and the beach in front clear of seaweed, dead fish or anything else that might remind the tourist renting here that the Gulf of Mexico was an actual sea and not just a very big pool.

Troy walked two blocks down 1st Street to the Sandy Shoes Café and had breakfast. The “Shoes” was actually a good-sized restaurant with no walls on three sides, offering a view of the beach to the west across a grassy field named Barron Square, and of the boat ramp to the east. On a July morning, overhead fans and misters
did their best to keep the few customers cool.