Neon Nights Chapter 4

Fish Tales Bar and Marina sat at the east end of the Wharf, East Bay’s partying eco-system of hotels, restaurants, and nightclubs. Marc’s best friend since grade school, Paul Jackson, a burly former all-conference linebacker at East BayHigh a lifetime ago, owned and ran the place, inheriting it from his parents who finally decided several years earlier to go be tourists somewhere else through the summer months. Though his beard had grown fuller over the decades, and his once close-cropped hair had done the same, he maintained a youthful glow that was more welcoming than menacing, given his size.

The property was an anachronism to the modern marina present in so many beach towns, looking and feeling morelike a Jimmy Buffett song in 1970s Key West than a polished and pristine place for rich people to dock their yachts. Now there were more millennials renting jet skis than hippies looking to score dope. Major fishing contests set sail out of the marina every year, and the wood on the docks was stained with the blood of everything from tuna to dorado, and even the venerable homo sapiens when the fisherman had an argument that couldn’t be resolved by pulling outthe tape measure.

The bar and grill stayed jam-packed from sun-up to damn near sun back up. It was a sprawling wooden-faced structure adjacent to a gravel parking lot and boat ramp. If your objective on vacation, or just your run-of-the-mill Tuesday, was to kick the day off with a Bloody Mary and end it with tequila shots over live music in the wee hours,this was the place for you. They were known for their “crush” drinks, which consisted of fresh fruit squeezed overvodka with some Sprite to make it pop. It was one of the healthiest ways you could black out imaginable. The friedgrouper sandwiches were legendary, with batter so light and airy that the sound of a customer biting down on itelicited a purchase from the neighboring table or bar seat more than eighty percent of the time.

Marc and Paul had spent most of their formative years at the property, where Paul’s dad, Dave, had them do everything from cleaning boats and working in the kitchen to delivering bait and working in the tackle shop. Whenthey weren’t working, fishing took center stage, and when they got old enough, regular runs around the bay in rental boats and jet skis to “make sure they were in good working order” were the norm.

Marc took a left down Flounder Street, East Bay’s answer to the age- old question of whether people would buy property anywhere if it was waterfront. Despite hosting boat storage facilities, public utilities, and a bevy of other industrial uses, some homesites sat overlooking the bay that people had piled their fortunes into to have a view of the boats leaving for the deep blue sea.

The entertainment at the Wharf was as diverse as the group of proprietors; doctors who had hung up the scalpelin favor of a

filleting knife, fishermen who had come ashore for good and now worried only about the occupancy levels at their hotel, and women who possessed an almost holy reverence for the world of bread and baking were just a sampling of the eclectic mix of businesses and personalities dotting the docks. During the day, it was all about families wandering around, taking photographs, and overrunning the retail shops for items that would get forty-eight hours of fun before getting cast to the back of a closet or toy chest. At night though, as the sun fell over the trees to the west of the bay, the area turned into a menagerie of characters who seemed hell-bent on trying to forget their good time.

The parking lot was nearly full and bustling with activity when Marc pulled up. He walked through the restaurant and waved hello to several people he knew as he descended the steps to the docks. Tourists rented boats for the day on one side, and commercial fishermen who had been out all night came in with their catches on the other. The staff ranaround the market, set up the grill for lunch, and got bait and tackle sold to those going out with the local guides.

Paul yelled toward him as he got closer, hauling a Santa-sized sack of shrimp from one of the boats on his shoulder.

“Can you grab that envelope from Salty and meet me back at my office?!”

“I stopped working here like eight years ago!” Marc yelled back. The big man’s grin was wide as he went by.

“Big weekend ahead. Everyone works. Shit, I even make the customers do stuff.”

Marc laughed and walked down the dock to where Salty (no one knew his real name and no one cared) the captain of the Shrimp Shifter, was rinsing down the deck of his boat complete with flaking paint, chipped wood, barnacles thesize of golf balls, and a propeller that looked like it had been on since the days of disco. Marc had crewed for Salty a few times in high school, and they were the longest, most grueling days of his life. The man could and probably should be in a nuthouse or, at the very least, make a compelling case for an extended vacation there.

“Salty, how you been? Looks like a great catch today.”

“Ain’t nothin’ compared to twenty years ago. Government always sticking its nose in places it doesn’t belong.”

Note to self. Never say more than hello to Salty.

“Paul asked me to pick up your envelope.”

“Yeah, I got his money. Guy’s been robbing me on my fuel.” “Isn’t it the price on the sign?” Marc asked with a smirk.

“He’s rigging the pumps. I’ll bet you anything. Might not sell him none of my shrimp no more.”

Marc took the envelope from the man’s gnarled and greasy hands, complete with two missing fingers that an irritatedhammerhead had taken one day after getting inadvertently caught in a net.

“Thanks, I’ll take it to Paul.”

“You still messing with that little cutie from high school?” “Um, the girl I dated twenty years ago?”

“Yeah, that one with the tight ass and the blond hair.” Marc huffed. “No, not with her since … well, twenty years ago.”

“Think I could get her number? I need a lady on this boat, something fierce.”

Marc fought back the urge to laugh directly in the man’s face. “I’ll see what I can do, Salty.”

Marc walked around the property to Paul’s office and knocked on the door.

“Why are you knocking?” Paul asked from behind him. He jumped at the surprise, nearly dropping theenvelope.

“Just don’t know what you do in there by yourself. Don’t want to be scarred, is all.”

The big man’s laugh was hearty and full, and he gave his smaller friend a bear hug.

“C’mon in,” Paul said, turning the handle to open the door for them. Marc handed the envelope to Paul.

“Here’s Salty’s money. He accused you of rigging the pumps.”

“That guy gets crazier by the day. Last week, he got into it with one of the guides, Lamont. He walked onto the guy’sboat with his client standing there, grabbed the flounder the Wall Street dude had caught, and started dry humping it. Then he licked it and started ranting about how the alien bases offshore were causing fish to taste different. He evenoffered the client a lick to prove his point.

Honestly, that one was hilarious, but I told him if he ever pulled some shit like that again, he could find somewhere else to dock.”

Marc’s eyes grew wide. “True story,” Paul said.

The tiny office looked like a cross between a fourteen-year-old boy’s room, a storage locker, and a surf shop. A posterof Kelly Slater after winning his fifth world title was on one wall, Farrah Fawcett’s iconic swimsuit shot from ‘76 was on another, and propped in the corner was an eight-foot twin-fin that Paul had custom ordered from an Australian surfboard shaper.

Paul’s black swivel chair groaned under his weight as he sat down, the beige foam peeking through the numerous holes in the leather. The salt air and a lack of care meant that every time Paul swiveled in it, the squeak sounded like a door hinge from a horror movie.

Marc pulled up two old, red plastic milk cartons to sit on.

“Okay, you didn’t drag me back here to tell me anything good, so out with it,” Paul demanded.

“Kerry Baker is in a coma right now from a pill she took at that music festival last night.”

“Oh, shit.”

“Yep. I don’t know much else yet, but she won’t be at work this weekend. I’m headed to the hospital now to talk to her parents. I have no idea if she will make it or not.”

Paul put his head in his hands and took a deep breath.

“Man, she has been here since she was fourteen. This is going to crush Jamie. She’s been like a second mom to Kerry forever.”

Marc nodded, knowing how much Paul and Jamie, his wife of a decade, cared about their employees. Everyone therewas treated like family, and no one gave up their jobs there unless they moved away forever or started down another career path. Even then, they might still come back and work for the season.

“How’s Jamie, by the way? I meant to ask how the test went the other day.”

“Eh.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing good to tell you and nothing new that’s terrible,” Paul responded.

“Okay. How are you doing with it?” “Not.”

Marc held up his hands.

“What kind of answers are these?”

Paul pulled at his beard and fidgeted with some papers on the desk.

“I’m not great, man. I want her better. The kids want her better. It kills me I can’t fix her; you know?”

They sat in silence for a minute.

“How can I help? Do you need me to take the kids out to do something fun one night and give you guys sometime? I can take

them to a baseball game or something. We’ll have a blast. They’re at an age where I probably can’t screw it up too bad.”

Paul looked at his friend and smiled.

“They would love that, man. You’re ten feet tall to them.” Marc felt the temperature of his cheeks inch higher. “Next week then, after the shit show this weekend.”

“I’ll tell them. Thanks.”

“One more thing,” Marc said to him. “Shoot,” Paul said.

“I’m buying you a new chair for Christmas.”

Marc pulled into the parking lot at the Sandbar on 14th Street and saw Carly’s black Explorer already there.

He’d been dreading this since he’d hung up the phone earlier.

The oceanfront coffee shop was a popular hangout for locals and tourists alike, staying packed through the seasons,everyone fighting for the ocean-view tables, which were nearly impossible to get at sunrise. There was a line out the door, but he spotted Carly in the far corner of the patio. She held up his coffee, and he started to move towards her, inching slower as he got closer.

“I’m surprised you didn’t want to make me wait,” he said with a nervous grin.

“I don’t know that I am talking to you yet. Since I got here first, I thought it was rude not to get you a coffee. Almost as rude as someone you work with every day for years telling you they quit over the phone.”

“Seems like you’re talking,” he said with a timid smile as he sat down.

Her eyes narrowed into a glare that made him shuffle in his seat. “Just like that, huh?” she asked.

Marc’s defenses came up, and he bristled back.

“It’s not just like that. You know that more than anyone. The end always feels fast, even if it’s been a long time coming.”

“Deep.”

“Really? You’re going to be shitty with me like that?” “Easy, killer. I’m happy for you, but can’t I be sadtoo?”

He took a breath and composed himself as seagulls took turns dive- bombing scraps that fell from the tables nearby.

“Yes, you can, and I am too. It’s not an easy decision, just one I needed to make.”

“I know last year was hard …” He cut her off.

“Hard isn’t the right adjective.”

“Okay, what do you want me to use then?” She asked. He thought about it for a second.

“Miserable. Soul-sucking. Soul-crushing.” “It wasn’t your fault, Marc.”

He looked at her and felt his eyes get tighter, tears he thought were all cried out looking to begin a fresh campaign.

“Explain to me how that’s true. No one has been able to do that successfully.”

“There was no way to avoid it, how do you not see that?”

He held up his hand indicating the conversation was over. Her eyes softened a bit, and they both relaxed their posture.

“So, what will you do then?”

“I don’t know yet. I just know I can’t see this stuff anymore. The booze helped. Without it, I just can’t handle it.”

She challenged him.

She always challenged him. “Can’t or won’t?”

“Come on, Carly, give me a damn break. You had a front-row seat. I shouldn’t even be here today …”

“But you are.”

He took a sip of his coffee and tried to come up with something earth-shattering to say, an irrefutable argument to forever erase any doubt that came with the decision.

He couldn’t, so he stayed quiet.

She sat back in her seat, clearly content with his inability to mount an effective protest.

“My two cents is that you’re making a mistake here.” He smiled.

“Thanks, but you can keep your change.”

Chief Rome couldn’t stop staring at the Ziploc bag on his desk. In over thirty years of police work, he hadn’t seen a pill like this one. There was enough neon-colored mayhem packed into this little tab to make an 80s tank top designer lose their mind.

He glanced at a photo on his bookcase of a man and a twelve-year- old boy knee-deep in the ice-cold current of theColorado River, fly poles in hand, and a massive rainbow trout on the end of the boy’s line.

Smiles to match the catch.

At least he’s not here to be around this stuff.

His eyes started to well up with tears.

A year now, but the pain still felt like a minute ago.

There was a knock on the door, and he stood up and did his best to compose himself.

“Chief, it’s Sherry. McKinley and Hill are here to see you.” His voice cracked.

“Thanks. Give me two minutes and send them in.”

He pulled a small airplane bottle of clear liquid from the back left corner of his desk drawer, unscrewed the cap andbelted it back, then threw the empty in the drawer.

“Morning, Chief,” the pair said nearly in unison as they came through the office door a moment later.

“Hey guys, grab a seat.”

He slid the baggie across the desk, so it was between them

“Last night, one of our uniformed officers stopped a kid leaving the show who was high as a satellite …”

“Isn’t it a kite?” Marc asked.

“Not in this case,” the chief said. “The kid was on a different playing field than the rest of us, so she searched his car. This baggie was tucked under one of the seats. Ever seen this one before?”

The two detectives looked at it and shook their heads. “Wild-looking pill,” Carly said.

“Is this the stuff Kerry took?” Marc asked the chief.

“Could be. There’s so much of this stuff running around these festivals, but this is the first time I’ve seen this one. Whatever it is, it’s not your normal run-of-the-mill party drug. I want to make sure we get Narcan in every officer’s hands this weekend. I get the sense they could be deploying a few of them.”

“I was just headed down to see Kerry and her family at the hospital. I’ll ask her parents if anything was going on with her,” Marc said.

Rome looked at Carly.

“Did he tell you he’s quitting?”

Marc rolled his eyes and leaned his head back. “Here we go again.”

“I’m not acknowledging it. He will end up staying.” “That’s what I think too,” Rome said with a smile.

“I’m here. Sitting … right here. You guys can see me right?"