Randy White - The Mangrove Coast

… “

I said, “Yes. Your Bobby.”

She moved to stand near me, her hand touching my shoulder, saying Amanda? I knew Amanda? For God’s sake, please tell her that Amanda was okay and didn’t hate her, although she had every reason…

I comforted her, dealt with the first concern of a good mother before I said, “You may not want to answer this, but I really have to ask: How’d you get hooked up with a freak like this?”

Merlot was on his feet again, following the conversation. Kept inching back. I knew the wheels were turning, trying to figure a way out.

She still seemed a little dazed. “I… I truly don’t know.” She was shaking her head slowly, as if trying to remember something. “I was so lost… so badly hurt that I must have lost touch with… reality? No. I must have lost touch with my sanity. I’ve spent the last month trying to figure it out thinking of almost nothing else. How did it happen? Why did I end up with him? He was just always there, always… always right in front of me, no matter which way I turned. It got so I didn’t even have to think because he did all the thinking for me, and I didn’t have to cook or clean because he took care of that, too, and he was always saying the nicest things… and the next thing I knew, all my family and old friends were gone and he was selling me to men, to women and men, making me do things that I never thought… never thought-”

She couldn’t continue. More tears, that sound of utter exhaustion.

Merlot didn’t like the direction this was going, his shrill voice interrupting: “It was consensual, I’ll swear to that! Everything this woman did with me or anyone else, it was always always consensual. I have her model release on file! I’ll show you if you want. The pictures, the videos, she consented to everything-”

Merlot stopped abruptly. I was looking at him, looking into his face because he would not meet my eyes, and I could feel it in me stronger than I had ever felt it before, and he knew it. He knew. The voice that spoke did not sound like my own, as I said, “Did she consent to blackmail?”

Gail said, “What?” And then: “I was wondering about that. A second ago, why did you call him Darkrume? That’s the only thing Jackie actually helped me with. I got mixed up with this person, this sick criminal from California. On the Internet, his name was Darkrume. Not-”

I interrupted. Said to Merlot, “Do you want to tell her or should I?” I was still looking at him, wanting to do it, and he could see it in me, how badly I wanted to do it. I said, “A buddy of mine says that the way you worked it was with PIN numbers. Lots of fake accounts and ATM machines. Was he right?”

When Merlot didn’t answer, I cleared my throat and said in a much softer voice. “Last time I’m asking. Was he right?”

I got a quick nod, as he dropped slowly to one knee, then the other. Wanted to let me see the depth of his regret. Submissive, a primal gesture. Said, “Don’t hurt me anymore. Please. I’ll do anything. Anything you say, just tell me. I was wrong. Very wrong! But you have to understand that her husband-Frank I’m talking about-you have to realize that he treated me very badly years ago. I was angry. You don’t think I have a reason? I’m a good person, normally. It was him, the way he treated me. The sonuvabitch had me put in jail and… and you don’t know what they do to people like me in jail!”

In barely more than a whisper, I said, “Oh? I thought he treated you for pedophilia. He did, didn’t he?”

The picture of Merlot and Amanda was there again, just behind my eyes. The revolver felt very light in my hand. Self-control, I was fighting to maintain it, as I heard myself say, “Don’t want to talk about it? Okay, let’s change the subject. Start by telling me how much cash you have in the house.”

“Money? Not much. I really don’t. Maybe a thousand dollars. You can have it all. I’m serious. I’ll give it to you if it means no hard feelings. There’s no reason why we all can’t be friends!”

I used the pistol to motion at his face. “A thousand dollars? You’d better have a lot more than a thousand dollars. What you’re doing here, fat man, is buying your life back. So dig deep.”

The woman had moved close enough to me that our shoulders touched if I turned or gestured. She was watching, listening, maybe figuring things out. After I said, “So dig deep,” she interrupted: “I don’t care about the money. Just take me away from here. Let’s go now. Please.” She put long fingers to my elbow as if to stress her point. “But you need to have him arrested. Have him put away. Or you need to kill him, because he will never let me leave this country. I mean that. Not if he can get to a telephone.”

I drew the hammer back on the revolver.

“Gail! You can leave. Honest! All I want is for you to be happy.” His palms were pressed out again. “Did I say a thousand dollars? I have more. I forgot! Here, follow me. Follow me!”

He had more than $40,000 locked in a metal box behind a desk, plus some gems, some stock certificates and three nice Rolex watches.

I put it all in a pillowcase that I had stripped off the bed.

I said, “What about your video collection. And photographs?”

He was still very nervous, not convinced that I wasn’t going to kill him. As if confused, he said, “Videos? Of who?”

“Of her, Gail… or pictures of anyone else I might know.”

A light seemed to go on behind his eyes. Could see him thinking, Oh dear God, when he realized that I meant Amanda; that I had seen what Gail knew nothing about- the photo of him with her child daughter.

“I keep the pictures in my office,” he said quickly. “I have a large safe there, humidity-controlled. Ask Gail, she’s seen it. I’ll take you there. Destroy them all, yes-I’ll help! I’ve been meaning to do it, really. To look at them now, it makes me sick. It really does. Ask her!”

For a moment, only a moment, I let down my guard, as I turned to look at Gail for confirmation… and, too late, I heard her scream just before I felt the crushing impact of Merlot on me, his weight compressing my chest, one of his fat hands locked onto the revolver as he pushed me backward, backward toward the French doors of the little office we were in…

I lost control of the pistol; heard it hit the floor.

When his big hand moved from my right wrist to my throat, I ducked under the mass of him and punched him hard in the kidneys… then slapped his face when he turned into me; slapped him with forehand, backhand, forehand, backhand… saw his big nose burst, the blood pouring… and then I hit him chin-high with a heavy right fist that knocked him through the French doors, where he tumbled backward over the railing and disappeared.

I picked up the revolver and went to the railing. He’d hit the ground hard, but was already on his feet. It is a distressing thing to watch fat people struggle to move quickly. They have been reduced by their own excesses, proof that suicide takes many forms. He was limping, but still trying to find cover as fast as he could move. The feverish determination reminded me of something… a wounded animal.

Gail was looking at him, too. What she said then surprised me, because she said it without pause or emotion: “I meant it. You should have killed him.”

I had my arm around Gail; had the money in the pillowcase as I led her down the steps to the driveway, where she waited while I straddled the Harley, got the kickstand up and ready to go.

“You really were a friend of Bobby’s?”

“Ask your daughter. She can show you the letters.”

“Then you’re him. You’re Doc. He wrote about you.”

“Yeah. I’m Doc Ford.”

She slid on behind me, huddled close in the rain. Had her hands meshed together over my stomach, her head resting against my back. As I throttled off, I had to remind myself: hand clutch on the left; the Hailey’s foot gearing was one down, four up.