As I set off, the sun was still far enough above the horizon for me to feel its warmth. The air had cooled with the heavy wash of rain, and for the moment, all seemed very wonderful in my universe. I crossed the public parking lot near the south side of Pier 60 to get to the beach and, at the surf line, I started heading down toward the IHOP. The thoughts of all that had happened in the last few days totally absorbed me. I stopped to skip a few worn flat shells across the dead gray surface of the water. My best effort was only nine skips. “Must still be in a weakened condition from last night,” I mused quietly.
When I got to the parking lot where we had left Mia’s car the night before, I spotted a folded piece of paper stuck under Mia’s windshield wiper. I thought that perhaps Miss Knock My Socks Off had left me a message. When I read the note, my heart did a small flip. In large black magic marker, it read—The bitch will get you killed. Disappear.—I looked around the lot. No one was watching. There was nothing out of the ordinary. I walked to the flat cement break wall nearby and sat down. The paper wasn’t soggy from the earlier rain, so I guessed it had been left in the last few hours. Was this an example of Mia’s humour? I didn’t think so. Was this someone else’s idea of a joke? It was pretty sick if it was.
At some level, I knew that there was nothing funny about this. Someone was threatening me. I remembered Billy Ray and Sammy. Was this the action of a jilted and jealous lover? Perhaps. I looked around again and crumpled the paper. I knew that I wasn’t going to mention the note to Mia. She already had too much on her plate. As I stood and started to walk towards the Honda, I spotted a similar piece of paper pasted to the ground beside the car. I picked it up and carefully opened the fold. Same message badly streaked and blotted—The bitch will get you killed—Disappear. Persistent I thought. The guy had written this before the rain, realized the storm would mess it up and returned to write a new one.
I went back to the break wall and sat down. I considered how to respond. There was nothing that I could do. A message wasn’t going to scare me off. So I guess I’d just wait and see what developed. I thought about how tired Mia must be. She was working a seven-hour shift lugging heavy trays of food after so little rest the night before. I also realized that she must be on a bit of an emotional roller coaster given the lack of any meaningful commitment from Langdon unless we met his criteria of coming up with even one new piece of information or evidence. No way was she going to hear about this threat.
“Hi ya sailor, new in town?” She was suddenly sitting beside me on the wall. How does anyone move up and down so gracefully and silently?
“Yes siree Bob thar little lady, here to see the sights,” I drawled out in my best southern accent—which probably wasn’t very good at all. I wanted to play along with her scenario just to find out where she wanted to take it. “Just got off the HMS Singapore and I’m looking for the meaning of life.”
“I might be able to help you out with that one big boy if you got enough coin,” Mia whispered conspiratorially. She looked all around carefully as if trying to spot a sly ninja blending in with the blacktop of the parking lot. Or maybe to see if a KGB assassin was sighting his laser scope in on her forehead at that exact moment. Seconds passed.
Satisfied that we were all alone, she casually placed her small tanned hand on the middle of my lap and smiled.
“Ah,” I moaned realizing the game had taken on a new, albeit, very nice twist, “that would be the meaning of life according to the Zen Buddhist postulation on the moment of satori.”
“Um,” she murmured and squeezed me lightly.
“Aha, do that anymore, and it will be a fine mess you’ve got in my pants Stanley.”
She laughed lightly and gave another gentle farewell stroke. “You really don’t have your oars in the water do you Joe? What the hell are you talking about? Who is Stanley and what is that sat thing?”
I explained the concept of satori as quickly and simply as I could and followed that with a short identification of the Laurel and Hardy comedy team of the twenties and thirties. I had seen them countless times at my grandmother’s when my family visited her for Sunday dinners so many years ago. Mia looked at me as if I had three heads. Maybe my oars really don’t reach the water. If the guy who wrote me the note had anything to do with it, I’d be dead soon, and it wouldn’t matter anyway.
The sun was just beginning to sink below the horizon in a vibrant crimson sky splashed with wisps of darkening cloud. We sat quietly holding hands and watched. No wonder some people call this part of Florida paradise.
“Okay Joe, what did you get done today?” Mia asked as soon as the sun had dropped from view—the pragmatic romantic.
I lied shamelessly. “Oh, I immersed myself in all the material again and came up with a plan for tomorrow.”
“Good, cause tomorrow, guess what? I got the day off.”
“That’s great Mia. I also talked with my landlady about moving out because of this young lady friend I’ve recently met who I sort a, kind of, a, you know, like really like.”
“Oh yeah,” Mia smiled as she did her levitation act to the standing position, “let’s get to my car. It’ll get cool soon. So, do I know this young lady friend you find yourself really ah liking?”
“I don’t know,” I replied while awkwardly trying to get my feet under me. “She’s kind of a plain little thing I found slaving away at the IHOP a few days back. I felt sorry for the poor little creature. Kinda pathetic if you know what I mean.”
I had just managed to find the upright position and whack—she sucker punched me in the shoulder hard enough for instant numbness to spread like a flash of lightening through my entire shoulder and arm. I believe in the N.F.L. such an injury is called a stinger. They’d be right! With the damage done, she scurried for her car only ten feet away and jumped in. I tried hopelessly to maintain my dignity as I strolled painfully to the passenger side of the old wreck rubbing my bruised and numb shoulder. Damn, the woman could punch.
“Get in,” she said as she reached across to roll down the window and opened the passenger side door. “I’ll give you a ride to your rooming house, and we can sort stuff out from there. And we can talk about your wife.” I made a big deal about getting my floppy injured arm into the car—the old, limp fish routine. She couldn’t help but notice my apparent discomfort. “Poor baby! Did I really hurt you?” she asked with genuine concern seeping into her voice. “I’m sorry. Sometimes I get carried away and the old karate self-defence stuff takes over.”
“Oh, I’ll be alright in a week or two,” I grimaced while seeming to put on a brave front. Actually, the sting had passed. I was now into the realm of pure fakery. “I have another arm. Please don’t feel badly about rendering me crippled. I’ll get by—I guess.”
She smiled—I think she was on to me—and said, “Can I kiss it better?”
“It’s not that sort of injury. I don’t think that would help at all, but if you really want to try …”
When Mia started the car twenty minutes later—I’m a slow healer—I suddenly remembered about Mrs. Reilly and her request for a Snickers bar. I told Mia about my encounter with my bird like landlady and the offer of the use of her home while she was away. I told her I’d like her to meet Phyllis Reilly before we unloaded her stuff still sitting on the Jag’s back seat. Mia had no problem with the idea of meeting my landlady, but was worried about how she looked in her IHOP outfit.
“For Mrs. Reilly’s eyes, I’d say your IHOP outfit is a lot better than in your new red bikini.” I said remembering her question about Mia being a Christian girl. “But if you really want to try that damn bikini on again, I guess I could judge how well it fits you again later tonight.” Then, I dashed into CVS Drugstore.
CVS, like any Walgreen’s, might more appropriately be called an ‘everything’ store. The one just up and across the road from the Hilton Hotel stocks just about anything a person might need to live happily for a very long time. I found the biggest Snickers bar that they had and hurried to the kid
at the checkout cash register. As I was about to leave, Billy Ray’s friend, Sammy, slid up in front of me. The last time that I saw Sammy, he had a gob of melting whipped cream dripping down his throat.
“You’ve been warned asshole. Disappear.”
I smiled sweetly, and fired the hardest short jab of my life right into the middle Sammy’s heart. He gasped once and folded up like a cheap accordion. “Have a nice night scumbag.”
Joe—two—scumbags—zero.
I ran back out to Mia and her beat up Honda.
Mia and Phyllis—An Odd Tag-Team