Gash in the Glades

1

Saturday, January 15 . . . 6:14 a.m.

Somewhere in the dimness before dawn, I heard Sinatra singing Summer Wind, a sweet and gentle tune. It felt like a power drill boring into my brain. Badly hung over, not to mention queasy as hell, I pulled my head out from under a pillow and fumbled for my iPhone on the bedside table. It slipped out of my hand and hit the floor with a thud.

A summer wind came blowin’ in from across the sea, Frank crooned.

Cursing under my breath, I leaned out of bed, scooped up the phone and tapped the answer button, mercifully stopping the ringtone.

What? I snapped, hanging upside down, my face near the floor.

Someone hasn’t had his Cheerios yet.

Someone had too much scotch last night, I mumbled, hoisting myself up and laying back on the pillows. What the hell do you want, Jeffrey? It’s the middle of the fricking night.

At that moment I noticed that I was in a cheap motel room, I had no idea where. I also noted a woman was next to me, I had no idea who. She was faced away, snoring like a zonked-out bear. Lifting the covers, I saw that she was naked, and so was I.

It’s a brand new day and time for you to bust out of your doldrums.

Doldrums? I rasped, putting a hand to my throbbing forehead. Where’d you get that idea?

Because a few weeks ago, at that publishers cocktail party, you told me you were getting bored over at that little shop of yours.

Oh, you mean the party where you hit on every skirt in the room?

That’s immaterial, George, Jeffrey persisted. What matters is that you’re dying to cover the big story. You begged me, in fact, to let you know if something juicy comes along, that you’d be interested in freelancing a piece. Ring any bells?

Okay, it rang bells. Jeffrey Rucker was editor-in-chief of the Universal Planet, one of the most out-there supermarket tabloids. A few years earlier, I was his top investigative reporter, writing all kinds of jaw-dropping stories. For instance, I revealed that Lady Gaga was, in fact, an alien life form and that Justin Bieber had, indeed, fathered twenty-seven children by age sixteen.

Since then I had become an editor in my own rite of a respected community magazine based in South Florida. As such, I still investigated stories here and there as fodder for my weekly column. However, they usually involved neighborhood carwashes and garage sales. Yeah, maybe I was stuck in neutral.

The name is George Leon, by the way, president, publisher and editor of GoWeston.

So, I assume the juicy story has arrived, I muttered.

Not just juicy. Amazing.

Tell me about it.

You heard about Wally Shaw, mayor of Broward County, right?

Of course. He’s been missing for the past month. Supposedly left his wife for some babe in Mexico. At least that’s what Channel 7 says.

Yeah, well, he ain’t missing and he ain’t south of the border, amigo. He was killed in a most unusual way.

As gentle morning light seeped into the room, I again lifted the covers. This woman sure had a nice ass, whoever she was. She also had a dragon tattoo on the small of her back. Was she a biker chick? I couldn’t remember.

Let me guess, I said, admiring the way her dark hair spilled all over the pillows. He was murdered by the mob and buried beside Jimmy Hoffa under the goal posts of Giants Stadium.

I’m being serious here, George.

Okay, I give. How was he killed?

You know that jetliner that crashed in the Everglades about a month ago?

Good Christ, Jeffrey. I don’t live in a cave, I said, keeping my voice low so as not to disturb my unidentified companion. Advantage Flight 603. It went down about the same time Shaw disappeared.

Funny you should mention that, because therein lies our story.

How so?

It seems that while old Wally was out in the Everglades, playing around on his airboat, the jet crashed right on top of him. Now the guy is in a million pieces at the bottom of the swamp, alligator stew.

I shook my head in disbelief, which only intensified the pounding pain.

"Jesus, Jeffrey. I know the Universal Planet prides itself on publishing the most bizarre stories possible, but that one’s a bit too implausible."

Not when you hear what I got.

What you got?

A witness.

A witness?

How could that be? The plane had crashed in such a remote area that federal investigators couldn’t find anyone who had seen the explosion. Other than a few motorists, who had observed some black smoke from a highway five miles away, there had been no real witnesses, at least according to newspaper accounts.

Look, Jeffrey said, why don’t you meet me at Lester’s around eight, and I’ll tell you all about it.

I checked my fancy Omega, wrapped around my wrist with a silver-link band. It was a few minutes shy of 7:00 a.m.

Yeah, okay.

I hit the end-call button and turned to see the woman staring at me. Now it all came back. She was the barmaid at the dive I had hit the night before. She also was another notch in my destructive, cavorting lifestyle of late. See, I don’t take being dumped all that well. A few months earlier, I had been on the verge of asking my girlfriend, Mercedes Delgado, to move in with me. It would have been a huge step for this hardcore bachelor. But Mercedes was absolutely gorgeous and feisty as all get-out, and I had fallen madly in love with her.

Then she fell for this bullfighter from Spain and texted me her goodbye while waiting to board a flight from Miami to Madrid. Subsequently, there had been a blur of inebriated nights and a string of assorted women, usually barmaids and barflies. When I wasn’t drinking or trolling, I was grinding through long work days, trying to keep my mind off Mercedes. None of it helped.

Now, in first light, this particular barmaid looked ten years older than she had at 2:00 a.m. Her eyes were bloodshot and her mascara was smudged, making her look like a bedraggled raccoon. She kept gazing at me, apparently trying to figure out who I was. Hell, we hadn’t even exchanged names. Eventually she sighed, as though she had done this before. Without even saying good morning, she whipped back the covers and jumped out of bed. She grabbed her miniskirt, tank top and panties off the floor and padded to the bathroom. The door squeaked loudly on its hinges as she closed it. Within seconds the shower water was running.

I took the opportunity to find my clothes on the floor, faded jeans, a white dress shirt and a heavy blue sweater. Combined with black Nike athletic shoes, it was the same slapdash outfit I had worn to work the previous day—and the day before that. For weeks now I had been showing up at the office looking disheveled, prompting whispers.

What happened to the Armani suits?

The guy forget to shave?

What’s with George?

I got dressed, sat on the bed and numbly looked around the room. It had dull white walls, musty carpeting and a single bulb screwed into the ceiling. What a palace. But befitting somehow. Fifteen minutes later, the woman came out of the bathroom dressed in the slinky get-up she had worn the night before, including high heels with ankle straps. Her hair was still damp and stringy. As she put on a warm coat, I studied her. She was about thirty-five years old, of medium height and, all told, quite attractive.

Why was she spending nights with strangers? Had her marriage gone sour? Was she a nymph, constantly on the make? Or was she desperately looking for love? I guessed she was simply a lonely soul who had given up looking for Mr. Right and hated herself each time she settled for a Mr. Wrong, like me. After giving me one last doleful look, she walked out into the chilly morning air, pulling the motel room door closed behind her.

I went to the window, pulled back the curtain and watched her get in a sun-faded subcompact Ford. It was parked next to my high-powered silver Porsche. As she backed out and drove away, I thought how sad. We had spent the night together yet hadn’t even said goodbye. Perhaps that was to be expected, considering there was no emotional connection. Just the same, I hated myself for not at least asking her out to breakfast.

I slithered into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. Staring back at me was this thing with long straggly hair, tons of stubble and rumpled clothes. My eyes were bloodshot and my tongue felt like an Eastern European army had marched all over it—barefoot. It was so unlike me. Normally I was well-groomed, well-dressed and well put-together. Now I looked like a vagabond.

I splashed some water on my face and suddenly remembered the previous night. The barmaid had been passionate and giving. She had moaned and writhed. She had whispered in my ear and yelled in pleasure. She had clung to me tight when she reached the ultimate moment of release, and I had done the same with her. Yet I had been awash in regret because she wasn’t Mercedes.

Hanging my head in despair, I shut my eyes tight and tried to drain the murk out of my brain. Eventually I grabbed a towel and dried my face. Then I wandered out into the cold.

2

Saturday, January 15 . . . 7:53 a.m.

The sky was full of gray clouds as I got in the Porsche and pulled out of the motel. Still light-headed, I drove slowly south on some roadway, trying to get my bearings. Wherever I was, it wasn’t the nicest part of town. There were liquor stores, adult bookstores and rundown bars on both sides of the street.

Before long I saw a sign saying this was State Road 7, putting me somewhere near Fort Lauderdale. As I crept along the roadway, which was quiet on this early Saturday morning, I soon recognized the lounge where I had met my barmaid playmate. It was called The Clucking Hen, of all things.

Now the previous evening came into sharper focus. Sometime after midnight she had followed me in her car to the closest motel. I had paid a clerk, sitting behind a bullet-proof window, cash for a room. From there it had been a matter of two strangers falling together, trying to find some consolation in each other’s arms in the darkest hours of night. I stepped on the gas and tried to put the whole thing behind.

Spotting an entrance ramp ahead, I got on Interstate 595 and aimed west. Opening my driver’s side window, I hoped some cold air would clear my head. It helped, but not much. I exited at Southwest 136th Avenue and drove a short ways to Lester’s, a popular diner nestled into a business park area. I found Jeffrey Rucker seated in a booth next to a front window, a steaming cup in front of him.

You look like shit, he said, by way of greeting.

Like you’re some beauty queen, I grumbled, flopping down across from him. The restaurant was busy, filled with chatter and clinking silverware, all of which sounded like an air horn blasting in my ears, thanks to my hangover. Is there a reason you called so fricking early? I could have used another hour or three of sleep.

Jeffrey chuckled.

When I get an idea, I act on it, no matter what time it is. So, after realizing you’re the man for this story, I called while still in bed this morning.

Outstanding, I mumbled.

Jeffrey snapped his fingers and yelled to a nearby waitress.

Hey, sweetheart. Over here.

Busy with another table, she shot him an irritated glare.

Be there in a sec, sir.

Sure. Just step on it.

If I knew Jeffrey, he had already flirted liberally with the waitress. She was young and pretty, after all, and he thought he was hot stuff. In reality, he resembled a Turkish prison guard with a hooked nose, a comb-over and a thick black beard. The waitress finally worked her way over and placed a glass of water in front of me.

Thank you, sweetheart, Jeffrey said in a voice oozing of condescension. Could you bring this gentleman some coffee?

I honestly thought she was going to spit at him. But she kept her cool.

Sure thing, she said tersely and turned away.

Jeffrey’s eyes followed her backside, which, admittedly, was quite nice in tight black pants.

I may have to tap some of that tonight, he said nonchalantly, as though he had a chance.

Right. And I might fly to the moon, I muttered.

What’s that?

Nothing. Just not feeling that hot.

Jeffrey reached inside his sports jacket and pulled out a bottle of Advil. He slid it across the table toward me.

Maybe you shouldn’t drink so much, George. You look like you died two weeks ago.

Opening the bottle, I shook two caplets into my palm, popped them into the back of my throat and took a long drink of water.

More like three months ago, I murmured, remembering the day Mercedes told me she had connected with a new man. I put the glass down. Tell me about this thing with Mayor Shaw.

Just as Jeffrey started to answer, the waitress delivered my coffee and asked if we were ready to order. According to the plastic tag on her white shirt, her name was Paula.

Yes, we are, sweetheart, Jeffrey said in that sickening voice. I’ll have two eggs scrambled, link sausage, rye toast and a side order of you.

She rolled her eyes and looked at me.

How about you?

Just dry wheat toast, please, I said quietly. My stomach was too queasy to handle anything more substantial. You try packing away half a bottle of scotch and see how your guts feel.

Coming right up, she said, leaving.

I’d like to make her come right up, Jeffrey said, his eyes again trained on her butt.

I ignored his lechery and sipped the coffee. It was hot and black and just what I needed.

You say you have proof that Mayor Shaw was smashed by that airliner?

Never said I have proof. I said I have a witness, which is almost as good.

A real witness?

Of course, a real witness. What other kind is there?

The kind you pay to say whatever you want in the name of developing a fake story, I said, pulling no punches. "I know how the Universal Planet works, Jeffrey. I used to work there. Remember?"

Trust me, George. This is all on the level.

And this witness saw what, again, exactly?

She saw Broward County Mayor Wally Shaw get dive-bombed by that airliner while he was on an airboat in the middle of the Everglades. This was on Thursday, December fifteen, exactly a month ago. In the ensuing explosion, he was obliterated and thus never found.

Paula, the waitress, returned to refill our cups. I nodded my thanks, which hurt. It still felt as though a herd of elephants had trampled over my brain. Jeffrey gave her an exaggerated wink, prompting her to shake her head.

She wants me, Jeffrey persisted after she left.

Right, I said, sipping the steaming brew. I’m sure she’s already selected names for your children.

Jeffrey raised his eyebrows.

Hopefully, things won’t go quite that far.

I put down my cup.

So Shaw just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time; that’s what you’re saying?

Exactly.

I thought you guys wrote a story saying Shaw was killed during a drug deal gone sour.

Jeffrey shrugged.

One of our better fiction pieces, he conceded. But what I’m telling you now is the truth.

Uh-huh. And what was our witness doing way out in the Everglades? Sightseeing? Hunting? Sunbathing?

That, I can’t answer. She refused to tell me.

I smirked.

She refused to tell you. And yet you buy the incredible coincidence that she just happened to be in this extremely remote area and just happened to see an airliner slam into a man on an airboat?

Yes. And so will you once you dig into the story.

I looked out the window at the gloomy sky and thought about what he was asking me to do: investigate two momentous events that may or may not have been linked. The first was the crash of Advantage Airlines Flight 603, which ran into trouble shortly after taking off from Fort Lauderdale. Although investigators knew there had been some sort of fire, they otherwise had no idea why it went down. The second was the disappearance of Mayor Wally Shaw, a fixture in Broward County politics. His colleagues suspected something was amiss when he failed to show up at a commission meeting a few days after the airliner crash.

Interestingly, because of the intense media coverage surrounding the air disaster, Shaw’s absence basically was ignored at first. When he still hadn’t surfaced two weeks after that meeting, news stories and speculation escalated. Some media outlets surmised that he was done in by the mob after failing to pay a gambling debt. Some, like the Universal Planet, guessed that he was killed by drug dealers. Others theorized that he ditched his middle-aged wife in favor of a young Latina and ran off to Mexico. One online site even claimed that Shaw, an avid outdoorsman, was killed by a bear.

Although many of the stories were farfetched, none were so outlandish as to suggest an airliner had crashed right on top of him. The odds of that happening were astronomical. In reality, the authorities had no idea why Shaw was missing, just as they had no clue what caused the airliner to explode.

Who is this witness, exactly? I asked. Another airboat operator? A hunter?

Before Jeffrey could respond, Paula set our breakfast plates down. Thank you, sweetheart, he cooed. You know, I think I’m falling in love with you.

That’s nice, the young woman replied dryly. Can I get you gentlemen anything else?

More coffee when you get a chance, please, I injected before Jeffrey could say anything else inappropriate.

You got it, she said and left.

Jeffrey stabbed a link sausage with a fork and inserted the entire thing in his mouth. Chewing loudly, smacking