Southern Poison

Men from my
past keep reappearing in my life. First it was my best friend from high school, twenty years after we’d been abruptly split apart when we both joined the Marine Corps. Duke Oxendine, a full-blooded Lumbee Indian whom everyone calls Ox, went through a divorce when he took his twenty-year retirement from the military. It took only three or four tequila shots to convince him to manage my bar, which occupies the lower level of a historic building known as the Barter’s Block, or more commonly, the Block.

Next it was my father, who’d abandoned my mother and me before I’d even hit puberty. A retired cop who’d lost his driver’s license due to deteriorating eyesight, Spud appeared on my doorstep a few years ago and moved into the efficiency apartment that is connected to mine, both of which are on the upper floor of the Block, directly above the pub.

And now it was my handler. Three years into my stint with the marines, I’d been plucked from active duty as an MP to go to work
for an antiterrorism tentacle of the government the agents called SWEET—when there weren’t any superiors within earshot. The acronym stands for Special Worldwide unit for Entertaining and Exterminating Terrorists. It sounds strange to those who don’t know, but often, part of a SWEET agent’s job is to entertain the bad guys—even though the bosses prefer to call it infiltration. It was in SWEET that I learned very cool things such as how to identify explosives and carry out surveillance, alter my appearance, meld into an undercover environment, and kill somebody with seemingly innocuous everyday items. In addition to paying for my specialized training, taxpayers also footed the bill for a pair of perfectly round size-D breast implants. They were enhancements, my bosses explained at the time, which along with a brow lift and periodic injections of cosmetic filler into my lips, would help me do my job. I no longer subject myself to the prick of a needle in my mouth—your body reabsorbs the stuff at an amazingly rapid pace anyway—but I do retain the store-bought boobs and have grown rather fond of them. Regardless of my current hair color, I have the dumb blond routine down pat and can turn it on or off with a mental flip of the light switch in my government-conditioned brain.

Moving slowly down the stairwell that leads from my apartment to the Block, I studied Ashton to make sure it was really him. Gazing at the Cape Fear River, he lounged at the bar and blended with the locals and tourists who found temporary haven in the Block. One of my favorite things about the Block, and quite possibly the reason I bought the old building in Wilmington, is the huge industrial-size garage doors that can be opened to take advantage of river-scented breezes and the view of boats gliding by. Unless it is blowing rain or unusually cold, the doors are open every day and today was no exception. It was midday and quite warm outside, but the overhead fans made it comfortable inside the Block.

Ox had called upstairs to tell me I had a visitor, but Ashton was
the last person I expected. I hadn’t seen him in person for five years—since I lost my sense of invincibility and retired from the government to open my own security agency.

I slid onto the vacant bar stool next to the man and checked out his profile. He’d gained some pudginess and his pale skin made a double chin stand out more than it should have. But Ashton had aged from more than just the passage of time. He turned to study me—face down to my sandaled feet and back up again—before speaking.

“Jersey Barnes.” He took a healthy swallow of beer from a frosted mug. “You look just as fabulous as you did five years ago. North Carolina must agree with you.”

He stuck his hand out and I shook it, warmly. He’d done a good job of looking out for me during my stint with the government, even through all the dangerous assignments and seemingly absurd plans of action. I am alive, and for that I will always be grateful to him. “Thanks, Ash. I really love it here. The people, the climate, this old building, everything.”

Cracker ambled up to sniff my visitor’s shoes and wait for a treat.

“This must be your dog. Yellow Lab?”

“White Lab, actually. My father named him Cracker because he is too white to make a good hunting dog.”

Ashton didn’t give the dog a peanut, and with an audible sigh, Cracker moved on in search of a more promising human, a regular customer who would scratch him behind the ears and shell a few peanuts for him.

Ox placed a beer in front of me and I automatically reached for the glass. It tasted good, better than beer should to a woman who’d vowed to quit guzzling the liquid as though it were sparkling water from the fountain of youth.

Ashton and I drank. There was a reason he’d appeared in my
bar and sooner or later I would find out what it was. It came sooner.

“We need you back, Jersey, for a onetime assignment,” he said. “Could take a few months, maybe more.”

The beer floating happily in my stomach threatened to inch back up my throat. “What?”

“The agency needs you back.”

I kept the brew down by drinking some more, and shook my head. “I don’t think so, Ash, but thanks for the offer. I have a standing date with
Incognito
, my boat. I might even learn how to play golf. I’m not working any longer, not even for my own agency. I just brought in another partner to work with Rita.”

He nodded knowingly. “Joan Jackson, also known as JJ. Started as an army sharpshooter. She’s done some freelance work for us on occasion. Likes to use the lobbyist-slash-activist cover. As I understand it, she actually got some stem-cell research legislation shoved through the system last year. Good choice. She’ll do well with the type of clients your agency takes on.”

I gave him my patient smile. “You’ve been checking up on me.”

“Far as the agency is concerned, we never stop keeping tabs.”

“Should I be flattered or pissed?”

He drank some beer. “Standard operating procedure for all agents of your caliber, active and retired. Doesn’t necessarily require an emotional response of any kind.”

Ashton always had been dry to the point of seeming callous. I looked more closely at his face and detected something off in his eyes. Worry? Exhaustion? Something else? He laid a sealed manila envelope on the bar. “Take a look at this.”

“A file loaded with top secret intel, of course. The theatrics are mildly amusing, but as I said, I’m not interested. Not with standing the utmost respect I have for you, I don’t
want
an assignment. Seriously, I’m retired.” I slid the envelope back toward him.

“During the tenure of the assignment, you’ll work on a contractual
basis and will be paid one lump-sum check upon completion. Plus, there’s an upfront hazard-pay bonus.”

I almost wanted to learn more but quickly regained my senses. I had zero desire to do another job for the government. Especially when the words “hazard pay” were involved. “I’m not a wealthy person, but I live comfortably. The Barnes Agency doesn’t advertise, yet we still have to turn away business. The Block breaks even, and even surprises us once in awhile by showing a small profit. And I’m happy. You see, I have all the money I need. I got tired of playing chicken with the Grim Reaper. That’s why I retired so young.”

He smiled, tolerant to the point of condescendence. “I’m not here to ask. I’m here to facilitate.”

“What the heck does that mean?”

“You don’t have a choice, Jersey.” He pushed the envelope back in front of me. “I’m going to order some food and eat while you throw your eyeballs on this. What’s good here?”

I passed a menu to Ashton. “The beer-steamed shrimp is excellent, as are the crab cakes. Hush puppies are a house specialty. Burgers are good. And you can’t go wrong with whatever the specials of the day are.”

“Gumbo, served over brown rice with a side of collards. For the appetizer, spicy fried sweet pickles,” Ruby said, hustling by with a plate of hot wings. A fifty-something veteran waitress, she is famous for eavesdropping without being obvious about it.

“Fried what?” Ashton said.

“Southerners will deep fry just about anything. Pickles, jalapeños, tomatoes, squash. You name it.”

“Without opening it, Ashton returned the menu to Ox. “Think I’ll pass on the specials. I don’t even know what a collard is. But an order of the crab cakes would be great. Maybe some hush puppies with that.”

“You got it,” Ox said from behind the bar, his luscious mouth
twisting in amusement at me and my rapidly changing retirement plans.

The food issue settled, Ashton returned to business. “Did you read your contract, Jersey? The one you signed when we first recruited you?”