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I LEFT CARLA’S APARTMENT thirsty and hungry. Maybe the secondary smoke from the pot floating in her condo had gotten to me.
I parked on First Street, just after I’d passed a place called Skip’s Bar with a bright neon sign just above the faded green awning.
I walked inside and was hit with the smokey essence of a local place. I had the feeling everyone knew I wasn’t a regular, as most eyes were on me. I made my way up to the bar where a sign on the wall said, Established 1939.
The worn, wooden bar top and a thick cloud of smoke suspended above the crowd gave the place a certain feel you wouldn’t find in most places.
The crowd was mixed in both age and attire.
I sat at the bar in the only open seat available. The bartender had a Jack Daniels in my hand before I even had a chance to say hello.
“First time here?” he said.
I looked around the place. “I think I’ve been here once or twice. Those days are a little foggy.”
“That’s why people come here.” He gave me a smile and a nod and ran a rag along the bar next to me. “You on vacation?”
I shook my head. “I wish.”
He nodded, as if he understood. “You from around here?”
About to sip my drink, I stopped with my glass in front of my lips. “I live on a boat in a marina on the St. Johns.” I took a sip of Jack. “I should say... I used to live on a boat.”
His eyes moved along the bar as he studied each glass in front of his patrons. He walked off and grabbed any empty one and filled it without having to ask what it was.
“What’s your name?” I said as he walked past me.
“Jackson.”
I raised my glass to him. “Henry.”
Jackson reached under the bar and came out with a pack of Marlboros. He stuck a cigarette in his mouth and lit it as he walked to the other end of the long bar. I watched him take a few quick drags, blow the smoke out his nose. He seemed like he just needed to hurry, get as much nicotine into his body as he could in a somewhat condensed smoke break. He put the cigarette in the ashtray then disappeared through a swinging door.
He walked back out within less than a minute, carrying cases of beer. He placed them down on the floor and filled the cooler behind the bar in front of me. He looked up at me. “Ready for another Jack?”
I pushed my empty glass toward him with a nod.
He reached for the bottle and gave me a healthy pour. “So you said you used to live on the St. Johns, huh? Where are you now?”
“Good question,” I said as I reached for my drink. “You happen to hear about that boat that exploded over at Trout River Marina?”
He nodded. “Of course.”
I took a drink and watched him over the rim of the glass. “That was my boat. Although, not technically. A friend of mine owned it. But that’s where I used to live.”
Jackson looked past me. “Someone was just in here talking about that. I don’t remember who, but...” He paused for a moment. “The guy that was killed...He was a friend of yours?”
“You could say that.”
“He’d been in here before, you know. I recognized him when they showed his picture on the TV. Owned a jewelry company or something like that, right?”
I nodded and sipped my Jack.
Jackson walked away and grabbed his burning cigarette from the ashtray at the other end of the bar. He took a drag of what was left and smashed it out.
Three women in bikini tops laughed from about six stools down from me. He went over, asked what they wanted, then reached under the bar and put three cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon in front of them.
I looked at the chalkboard on the wall across from them. Someone had scribbled, Pabst Blue Ribbon cans two dollars.
Jackson walked back over and squinted when he looked at me. “The guy’d been in here at one time with a couple who used to come in here all the time together. The wife was older, but real good looking. Her husband—or ex-husband, from what I hear—was a short, chubby guy. Older than her, from what I could tell.”
“And they were with Philip Wetzel? You sure?”
He paused a moment. “You got a picture of him?”
I pulled out my phone and flicked my finger on the screen. I turned the only picture I had of Philip toward Jackson.
He nodded. “Yeah, that’s him. In fact he’s been in here more than once.”
“You know their names? The couple he was with?”
“The ex-husband’s name was Charles. I called him Charlie once. He told me to call him ‘Charles.’ “
“And the wife?”
Jackson shook his head, looked down toward the ground. “I don’t know her name. Like I said, real pretty. There was something about her.”
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AFTER A COUPLE OF HOURS and three-or-four-too-many whiskies I left Skip’s. I went looking for a better place to eat, because pickled eggs and slim Jims weren't going to cut it.
The streets outside were busy for a weeknight and, like Skip's, filled with a mixed crowd enjoying the hot, humid Florida evening.
I didn’t know the area well, so I turned down a random side street and followed it for a few blocks. But soon I realized I’d walked away from the crowd and, by the looks of it, any chance of finding a decent place to eat.
The street I was on was mostly residential, with small houses and apartments close to the street. As soon as I turned to walk back in the other direction, I saw a car driving slowly toward me with the headlights on. I stopped and watched it go past me and tried to look inside. But the windows were tinted dark.
I continued to walk away from the car and headed in the opposite direction.
I heard a squeal and turned as the car’s reverse lights lit up. The car backed down a side street, turned and again drove toward me.
I continued walking until I heard car doors open and close. I turned and looked behind me. Three men—each wearing sunglasses even though the sun was going down—were coming toward me.
I picked up the pace, but didn’t run. I reached in my pocket for my phone and, at that point, wished I’d taken both Alex and Billy’s advice to carry a firearm.
One of the men yelled, “Excuse me, sir.”
I ignored him and kept moving.
“Hey,” he said. “I’m talking to you, buddy. Hold it right there.”
I glanced over my shoulder. All three men were stocky. Maybe on the heavy side. I was sure I could outrun all three of them.
So that’s what I started to do.
As I ran I heard behind one of the men yell, “Get the car!”
Two of the men continued to follow me on foot but I glanced over my shoulder and realized the distance between us was widening.
I ran as fast as I could and regretted the last two or maybe three shots of Jack I had at Skips. My eyes were on the North Street sign as I hit the next intersection and ran in front of the oncoming cars, blowing horns as I ran across to the other side.
No matter how fast I ran, the two men were somehow keeping up.
I turned down First Street. The crowd was thick and allowed me to blend in while I caught my breath. I didn’t turn to look, instead I kept my head down and moving without trying to draw attention to me.
I spotted a restaurant called Doro and pulled on the front door. But it was locked. The place was closed. As I turned from the door the two men were no more than twenty feet away, moving toward me. One of them had his hand inside his suit coat. The black car they were in—a Cadillac, now that I could see it up close—pulled up along the street. The driver blew the horn. The crowd cleared out of his way.
I stood in front of the restaurant’s glass doors. I had nowhere to run. My eyes were on the man’s hand, still inside his coat.
He walked straight toward me and pressed a gun into my stomach with his back to the crowd. He grabbed me by the arm and pulled me toward the car parked on the street in front of us. “Get in the car,” he said. I felt the heat of his breath on the side of my head. He looked up and down the sidewalk while the other man—my size but thicker with muscle he clearly worked hard for—opened the back passenger door of the car.
I drove my elbow up into the face of the man with the gun, then drove my shoulder into his chest as he caved over. I threw all I had into a punch that sent him stumbling backwards and into the crowd. I ran past the restaurant along the sidewalk and turned hard around the corner of the building onto a dirt path surrounded by trees and overgrown grass.
There was a pop. The people screamed. I had no doubt what it was, and soon felt a burning ache move through my leg. A spot of blood soaked through my jeans.
I heard one of the men yell something but didn’t wait to find out what it was, his voice covered in screams from the scurrying crowd.
I dropped down to the ground but pushed myself back up. I ran as best I could with the pain now moving through my body. I knew I’d been shot, and looked over my shoulder as I ran along the side of the building. I expected to see the men but there was nobody behind me.
The black Cadillac roared along North Street, tires squealing, as it turned and disappeared around the corner.
I stopped, holding my thigh with both hands. The spot of blood grew as it soaked further through my pants. I leaned against the brick exterior of the building and slid down to the ground.