Tom Simpson - Sink

“That’s quite a story Stretch. You and Frank sure can set up a good scheme if you put your mind to it. I sure this job in Florida will work just as well. Oh, by the way. I’m sorry I teased you so bad back at my house. You must be furious with me. I so used to using men all my life I couldn’t help myself when the opportunity arose to show off my body knowing you just got out of prison. I tell you what. I know we’re cousins but blood relations have never meant anything to me. I will show you a really good time after we finish this job in Florida. Just the two of us will go off together for a couple of weeks and it will be a time I don’t think you ever will forget. Friends?”

Francis Bartholemew Franklin III. walked slowly towards the water’s edge and stared piercingly at the green mallard swimming lazily in meandering circles around the end of the concrete and cypress dock. Bart, as he was better known, wondered just how tasty the feathered fowl would be. If it would just swim a little closer to shore. The duck was just cautious enough not to come any closer but splashed a bit of water with its feet in a seemingly teasing manner.

Bored, but not intimidated, Bart proudly turned his head and stared back at the white rear wall of the marina office. The bait tank, with its air compressor humming noisily in the afternoon breeze was kind of out of place against the gleaming new wall of the office but it was a necessary piece of equipment for those die-hard bass fisherman who demanded fresh live shiners every morning. This interruption of decor meant absolutely nothing to Bart, who could really care less. It was the buzzing of the compressor that brought memories of sleepless nights when hoards of mosquitoes were relentless in their pursuit of a blood feast meal. Those nights were long gone though since Otis and Bart had moved into the new marina apartment. The comfortable little apartment was just big enough for the two of them and was a far cry more plush than their shack had been on the banks of the old river. Yes, Bart was quite happy in his new home and all the people that visited the marina were really nice, especially that Jeff Finley, who with his son Todd always had a kind word and a little snack for Bart.

The woods, gleaming greenly in the afternoon haze, seemed like a cooling retreat from the overhead summer sun and Bart decided to spend the afternoon meandering around the tall shady trees instead of taking his usual afternoon nap. The birds, squirrels and other small creatures kept the forest alive with sounds and occasionally, a deer would wander towards the edge of the woods. That was always a thrill for Bart, to catch a glimpse of a doe or buck or even sometimes a weak legged little fawn. The adrenaline rush he received from seeing a deer would stand the hair up on the back of his neck and the primitive instincts would come alive causing a real blood rush. That was what life was all about anyways. The breaking of the normal boring routine made living really worthwhile.

Entering the woods where he usually did, Bart sensed something was not like it always was. He didn’t really know what was changed but there was strangeness about the woods he had never before experienced. Looking past the limestone boulder that marked the entrance to his usual path Bart noticed a hole about three feet in diameter that was decidedly fresh. The smell of damp earth evaded his nostrils not unlike that of a fresh grave. Bart never had smelled a fresh grave or had any knowledge of what a fresh grave even was still; he knew this was totally different. Walking over to the edge of the new hole, he stuck his head over the edge and tried to peer downward but only blackness met his eyes. The strange thing was a slight breeze was, coming out of the seemingly bottomless hole. Bart, never one to give much thought to anything let out a slight yelp and trotted quickly out of the woods. The shade of the big oak tree on the side of the marina office sounded like a much nicer place to take a nap and Bart decided he would let somebody else worry about the strange going ons in the woods. It wasn’t his job to worry about anything. All he had to do was protect Otis from any mean strangers and lie peacefully in the shade. After all a dogs life wasn’t really that hard.

“Excuse me sir. Do you know where I can find a Mr. Calvin Wilkins? I heard at the courthouse that he might be here and I heard he is an authority on this area.”

The bartender looked up from his methodical task of glass washing; to him it seemed a never-ending chore, into a pair of very violet colored eyes. The blonde standing on the other side of the counter was a definite keeper. On a scale of one to ten she, in his opinion rated a fourteen. Slightly tongue tied for a moment he gradually regained his composure and replied in a, what he thought, was a very sexy voice.

“Yes ma’am. I know where you can kind Mr. Falvin Wilkins. I er mean I know where you can find Mr. Calvin Wilkins. He’s sitting in the last booth over there. The old man with his head down. By the way, everyone around here calls him Pops, Pops Wilkins. Oh, if you want to talk to him, which I imagine is why you’re here. I would suggest bringing him a ginger and rye. That’ll lubricate his vocal chords real well.”

“Thank you very much Mr. Oh, I’m sorry I didn’t catch your name.”

“It’s Stanley T. Brown, proprietor of this modern sanctuary of spirits, the “Brown Spot.” Supplier of the finest wines and liqueurs in this part of the south. Your business is my pleasure.”

“Well, Mr. Brown thank you again. I’d like to purchase a drink for Mr. Wilkins and a very dry vodka martini for myself.”

“That’s great. I’ll bring them over to the table for you so, you can go ahead and visit with Pops. I’ll be just a minute.”

The three men seated at the bar and Stanley T. Brown watched the blonde as she walked toward the table. Not until she had leaned over and shook Calvin Wilkins shoulder, spoke softly in his ear and seated herself across the table from him, did the four pairs of eyes return to their original forward positions and resume their interrupted conversation.

“Mr. Wilkins. I’m Marcia Meadows of channel ten. Perhaps you’ve seen me on TV.

I do special interest stories on Monday nights right after the six o’clock newscast.”

“Well, can’t say if I’ve ever seen you Miss Meadows. I don’t get on watching the boob tube much except that fishing show on Satiddy. Me and Butch McCoy and Samuel Booker all gather around that high fluent’in big screen old Mac installed in his sundry store and get a big kick out of watchin them city folk try to catch’em a big ol largemouth. Now that’s some fun seein those idiots with their high-priced gadgets keep missin what we’ve been catchin on crickets and night grubs for years.”

“I guess that would be very entertaining Mr. Wilkes but, what I would like to find out from you is the local color around here for the past forty years or so. I have heard that if anyone knows what goes on in Forest Glenn it’s Mr. Wilkins, the local historian. The reason I want to know more about the area is because I’m doing a feature on the grand opening of the new resort and I’d like to know what kind of impact it will have on the surrounding area and its inhabitants. Also what the local people feel about taking over cow country and citrus groves in a nice rural setting and transforming it into a tourist attraction almost overnight.”

“Well, I guess I’ll be able to help you out Miss Meadows, but please call me Pops.”

“Okay Pops, but please call me Marcia and you will be quite reimbursed for your help.”