Radicals, page 24
Josie nodded. “I’m guessing.”
Sun beat down enough to make them squint behind the sunglasses.
“Ain’t it too soon?”
“Damn right it is.”
With all the distractions that fought for tourists’ attention, they walked a balance beam between alert and worried about being watched. The marina behind the buildings held fishing boats, speed boats, and yachts in dark green waters that led to the Gulf of Mexico.
Down the boardwalk, Crashers Surf Shop blared a Ventures song over speakers just inside the open door, girls in bikini tops walked amongst the slow herd of sunburned tourists, and window displays offered all manner of shells, silk-screened T-shirts, and postcards.
“Remember the last time we came here with Uncle Scotland?” Rachel’s voice was soft and it cracked on their uncle’s name.
At the mention of him, Josie’s shoulders slumped and the strap on her purse slipped down to the crook of her arm. “Been trying not to think about that all day.” She readjusted her strap.
Rachel smiled and shook her head. “I haven’t laughed that hard since that day.”
Josie scratched the sweaty skin above her left breast and sighed. “I haven’t eaten that much taffy since then either.”
“I miss him.”
“I still don’t want to think about it.” Josie resumed their search.
A propeller plane towed a banner advertising nickel beer night at the Hibiscus Pit.
As they passed a Monte Carlo with the doors unlocked, Josie bent down as if to tie her shoe. Rachel followed her younger sister’s lead and stood lookout.
From her crouch, Josie opened the door and slid into position to reach under the seat and check the glove box, which held an unopened pack of Marlboros and nothing else worth taking.
“Excuse me!” A guy walking from the Seafood Shack through the parking lot called out to them. He waddled more than he walked, and he approached like he knew they were up to no good. He had a red nose and the whites showed all around his eyes.
“What are you two up to out here?”
Rachel cleared her throat, her mouth pasty with disappointment in herself for not alerting her sister sooner. But she didn’t run. She never ran.
Josie sighed as she stood.
While Rachel stammered, Josie smacked a hand on the car’s roof. She stood tall and smiled. Looked him in the eye. Her breathing was even, controlled, calm.
“Silly me. I’ve misplaced my keys,” she said, lowering her sunglasses as she looked him up and down. “But ain’t you sweet for looking out for us decent folk.”
“Is that right?” He rubbed sweat from his forehead with the palm of his hand. “What’s the license plate number?”
Even if it were her car, she wouldn’t have taken the time to commit the license plate number to memory.
Rachel stood far enough back that she was able to convey the plate’s numbers and letters with fast hand gestures. Josie made it look like she was remembering their order. He never went back to check.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I’d hate to get the cops involved.”
Josie shifted her weight, drummed her fingers on the roof of the Monte Carlo, and made mental comparisons between this guy and others she’d duped in the past. As she did, her muscles tightened to outrun the porker if they had to.
“How about both of you in the back seat of my car?” He nodded, as if sending a subliminal message to encourage them to agree. “Ten minutes, tops.”
Josie thought about the folding knives they each carried in their purses. Both of them being involved made it easier for them to roll him. Fortunately, this guy didn’t look the sort to have much of value and they had to meet Skip at four.
“That sounds like a party and all, but we’re waiting for my boyfriend to bring my extra set. You might know my boyfriend, he plays for the Bucs.”
“I don’t know many of those players. I’m a Steelers fan, myself. From just outside Pittsburgh.”
“Well, this season will be his first as a starter anyway. Defensive line. He’s fast for a big guy. Practice just let out so he should be here soon.”
Rachel stood at an oblique angle to the two of them. She licked her lips, as the sun and salt air made them dry. She flipped her hair from one shoulder to the other. Neck muscles corded. Sweating.
“Oh.” The guy blinked and gave the whites of his eyes a break for a second.
“I’ll tell him you weren’t hassling us,” Josie said, “but I just hope he’s in a good mood.”
“Well now, I’ll just leave you to continue your search. Be sure to check under the driver’s seat. I’ve dropped my keys down the side there a time or ten.”
“Will do. Thank you.”
With the guy waddling toward the seafood place, Josie elevated her chin to the sun, felt the warmth radiating through her body. “Dumbass.”
Rachel paced as she muttered to herself.
Josie took off her sunglasses as she turned to her sister. “Why the hell did you spaz like that?”
“I didn’t spaz.” Rachel looked at the crushed shells beneath her feet as she spoke. “I just kind of got tense. He reminded me of Daddy.”
“Daddy’s got a gut, but he ain’t that fat. He did have the same way about him at first. I’ll give you that.”
Rachel shoved Josie’s shoulder. “You’re going to get caught in that football lie someday.”
“We know too much about them for that to happen,” Josie said.
“Who? The Bucs or the tourists?”
“Both,” she said. She held up the pack of Marlboros and walked toward Gulf Boulevard.
“A pack of smokes. Nothing else?” Rachel asked.
Josie returned the shove to Rachel’s shoulder. “Pretty great day overall.”
A lone seagull flew silently over them. Shit-bombed a buttoned-up Corvette illegally parked near a corner.
They laughed and plucked at their tank tops to cool down as their bare legs took long strides, arms swinging beneath bags loaded from a productive haul. Up Gulf Boulevard toward home, squealing in excitement, dance stepping, and getting catcalled, which they liked.
They bragged as they walked. Recapped the events of the day, not paying attention to anything that didn’t matter. They’d spent most of the afternoon walking along the boardwalk, eating ice cream cones tourist boys bought them and stealing purses out of unlocked cars in the parking lot.
It was good for a Tuesday. Older couples, younger couples with kids too young for school, as well as a surprising number of boys from states where school hadn’t started yet. The lighter weekday foot traffic helped the girls. Bigger crowds brought more selection and potential, but also more possible witnesses and more competition. The Hewett sisters weren’t the only ones to have figured a way to profit from sun-drunk tourists.
They’d eaten four scoops each and gotten two hundred twenty-three dollars in cash, three credit cards, and a bottle of pills Josie was anxious to try.
They had no guilt. It was a matter of principle. They thought, If you can afford to have something this nice AND afford to take a vacation AND shop for ways to spend even more money, then you can live without this wallet or that boom box or that camera or leather jacket, Zippo lighter, or coins in the ashtray. They took what they could get, never got caught, and didn’t worry much about what would happen if they did—they were underprivileged minors with no prior record. Of course, if the news didn’t make their father die of embarrassment right on the spot, they’d have beatings coming. Their father never went more than a month without backhanding, grabbing, or taking a strap to their backsides.
Rachel kicked a dented Mountain Dew can into the street. “I wish Uncle Scotland was our dad.”
“Dammit, girl. Don’t start with that again.”
“It’s true.”
“No shit. We established that years ago.” Josie shoved her sister playfully toward traffic. As she did, she saw her watch. “Oh, shit. Now we’re late.”
CHAPTER 2
Wednesday, August 20, 1986
A redneck named Bud picked up Scotland Ross from the Florida State Prison in a stolen limousine. Parked as it was at the curb in front of the gate, the custom-stretch Lincoln shined so black it looked wet in the summer sun. Scotland almost couldn’t hear it running, and for a moment, he forgot the fancy ride was for him.
It was his first time on this side of the gate in three years. Somehow, daylight burned brighter here. He gripped the rolled top of a brown paper bag in his fist, which he let hang at his side. He squinted his left eye, which held the faint remnants of having been blackened. It no longer throbbed just beneath the surface. According to an article in a magazine without a cover he’d read on the shitter just the day before the scuffle with his cellmate, it was one of only a fraction of black eyes that came from intentional physical violence. Most black eyes come from sports, work, or car accidents. He’d lost count of how many black eyes he’d had during his thirty-four years on the planet. This one had the worst consequences. It had set his release back four days.
But in the sunshine and with the gate finally behind him, he filled his lungs with the humid air of freedom. He dropped his paper sack by his feet, held his hands out to each side, and angled his face directly into the sun. The last time he’d been released from confinement had been under the threat of November snow from a gray Kansas sky.
The sky above him now stood as blue as the ocean with hardly any clouds. It looked different than it had since he’d last been a free man. It made him feel anything was possible.
The buildup to this point had involved a shitload of tense moments on one of five pay phones outside the chow hall as he planned and arranged the timing and details by talking in code to his buddy in Daytona, and to his girl, Kyla. Scotland had learned and forgotten Morse code, semaphore, the periodic table, algebra, and respectable amounts of French and Italian, yet he could rarely guess what most women were trying to say. His mother and sister included. Not Kyla. She always made sense. She’d often say one thing with her mouth and something entirely different with her eyes, and he read it right every time. If there was a woman more perfectly suited to him, he’d never found her.
“Scotland,” Bud said as he shut the driver’s door. “Congratulations, my man!”
Scotland had been around enough to know that everyone would speak to him with uncomfortable enthusiasm because they either didn’t know how else to act, or because they knew exactly how he felt in that moment.
Bud had been the one to restore Scotland’s faith in humanity the whole time he stewed behind bars. It gave him comfort to know Bud had spent his days shadowing Kyla, looking after her since Scotland got locked up. Scotland appreciated that. Trust wasn’t an issue. He worried about her giving in to impulse, but not with Bud. The guy was older, around forty, getting gray at the flaps of his ears. He sported a belly that crested his belt and warped his profile. He wasn’t remotely her type.
Bud walked around the front of the car with a hand held out to shake and nodded toward Scotland. Scotland swatted the hand away and pulled him in for a hug. They were friends, though not truly close enough for such an embrace, but the guy represented home and that was something Scotland had missed more than he realized. Scotland released the pressure of his thick arms as he realized Bud’s face was smashed into his chest. They smacked each other on the shoulder.
Bud was a few inches shorter than Scotland, which gave him a look at the part on the left side of Bud’s collar-length hair. The part was made wider by a thick, white scar running the length of his skull, announcing the poor boy’d had his melon split open at some point in his life. Scotland had to wonder what other clues were hidden beneath his thick goatee.
Scotland’s secrets were out in the open. His hair was short and he’d shaved every morning with an electric razor his first cellmate had left him. That electric razor was in the paper bag Scotland held at his side. He’d also exited prison a little leaner than he was on arrival. Three years earlier, he’d walked in carrying two hundred twenty-five pounds on his six-two chassis. He didn’t know what he weighed now. Fat cells had shrunk between sinew and skin, exposing a muscle-covered stack of bones.
Considering he was up for five, getting three with good behavior had taken patience and diplomacy. So did staying safe in there. He was plenty big, though not the biggest, and plenty bad, though not the baddest. His superpower in the pen had been his ability to find an advantage in every situation.
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Nic Korpon, Radicals
