Victor Gischler - Suicide Squeeze

Finally, they passed a narrow gap in the trees. They’d already motored halfway past when Conner caught a glimpse of moonlight on water. He reversed the boat, told Jenny to scan the water with a flashlight. He hadn’t come this far only to hang the boat up on a submerged log.

“It’s clear,” Jenny said.

“Hold on,” Conner said. “This’ll be tight.”

The screech of tree branches on fiberglass launched a shriek of flapping swamp birds. Once through the branches, the passage opened up a little and doglegged left. Conner eased the boat in as far as he could. It was well hidden but not completely. Somebody sailing within twenty feet might catch a glimpse of the stern, but the vessel was more or less out of sight.

Once Conner had snugged the boat in as tight as possible, he and Jenny tied it off. They went below, made sure all the ports were covered, curtains drawn before switching on the galley lights over the sink.

Conner had to look twice at Jenny. In the unforgiving wash of fluorescent light, she looked haggard, dark circles under the eyes, hair limp and matted. It had been a long night. She’d been through the wringer. They both had.

Conner went into the cramped head, squinted at his reflection in the small mirror over the toilet. He looked worse than Jenny. Swollen lip, a shiner under his left eye. The weight of the world sank into his bones. He leaned against the sink, splashed cold water on his face. His heart sank at the sudden knowledge they had no way to get back to the little riverfront motel. They’d set the canoe adrift with the Japanese guy. He started laughing uncontrollably. It was so ridiculous. The whole night. What was he doing here?

He thought about Teddy Folger tied to a kitchen chair and stopped laughing.

Back in the main cabin, he found a mess. Contents spilled from cabinets. Drawers left open, clothes tossed and scattered. He heard Jenny in the master sleeping cabin, presumably searching in the same haphazard manner. Conner didn’t know how to feel about her, didn’t have the energy to care. As soon as he found a way back to his Plymouth Fury, he’d take something from the boat back to Derrick James, prove he’d successfully made the repossession. Maybe he could find the Jenny’s registration.

He opened the galley’s little refrigerator and was delighted to find a six-pack of Tecate. But the fridge was off, the beer warm. Instead, Conner found a new bottle of Maker’s Mark. He broke the seal and swallowed; it burned a hot trail down his throat and set his gut on fire. The egg salad sandwich seemed like a long, long time ago. He heard broken glass and cursing from the forward cabin. He shook his head, took another hit of whiskey. How did Jenny still have the energy?

He cast about the cabin, took in the interior of the boat. She was a good craft, sloppy now from Jenny’s search, but a good vessel, new, nice upholstery. The framed print over the dining table stood out for being so ugly. Seabirds gliding over a beach landscape. It looked like something from the lobby of a cheap beachfront motel. Conner supposed having lots of money didn’t automatically confer good taste. Conner was no kind of art expert, but he knew ugly when he saw it. Tyranny would have been able to articulate why the painting sucked in highbrow art-class jargon.

Conner thought about Tyranny again, frowned, decided he was unhappy, and took two big gulps of the Maker’s Mark.

Jenny returned, slid into one of the bench seats at the dining table. She put her elbows on the table, rested her chin in her hands. “There’s nothing,” she said. “He must have all his money stashed in the bungalow. Damn. I wanted to clean him out sooooo badly. I wanted him to fucking squirm.”

Jenny’s petty revenge didn’t interest Conner. “We don’t have the canoe anymore.”

“So what?” She reached across the table, took the bottle out of Conner’s hands. She tipped it back, swallowed. She sputtered, coughed, wiped her chin.

“How are we supposed to get back?”

Her eyes widened, mouth lolling open. “Oh, shit.”

“Yeah.”

She snapped her fingers, face brightening. “There’s an inflatable dinghy in the forward storage area.”

“If you tell me I have to blow it up, I’ll cry.”

When Jenny fetched the box with the canvas hanging over the sides, Conner was relieved to see it came with a foot pump. There was also a two-stroke outboard motor with a pull-cord starter. It was small, resembled an overgrown blender with a tiny propeller at the end of a long, rusty shaft. No amount of coaxing could make the thing turn over. Conner shook his head over the worthless chunk of machinery. “Can’t catch a break.”

They pumped up the dinghy and lowered it over the side. It was a tight fit for the two of them and precarious. They settled in and began paddling, arms moving in numb routine. Keep stroking, Conner told himself. Just keep going. Breathe in, breathe out. Get back and you can go home and collapse into bed.

“Only thing I don’t get,” Jenny said. “Who the heck were those Jap guys? Teddy has a lot of goofy friends but nobody like that.”

And Conner realized she didn’t know. Why should she? She hadn’t seen into Teddy’s kitchen, didn’t know what kind of hot water he was in. What would her reaction be? Conner didn’t say anything, not a word. He dipped the paddle into the water, put his back into it, pointed the little boat toward home, and kept his mouth shut.

They left the inflatable dinghy on the riverbank and parted ways. Neither Conner nor Jenny had the energy to pretend anything special had happened between them. Conner had the Electric Jenny’s registration tucked into his pants pocket. He’d exchange it for the rest of his repo fee. Maybe Jenny got some kind of satisfaction from stealing her ex-husband’s boat out from under him.

Jenny was sour and unhappy and mad at the world, and Conner already had enough of that to go around. She was a little bit sad and a lot pathetic, and that made Conner hope things would turn around for her, but not so much that he wanted to get into her up to his eyeballs.

The sun was just yawning and stretching over the horizon when Conner parked the Plymouth, shuffled into his apartment, and fell on his bed. Sleep mugged him, pulled him down into his pillow with his clothes on. He dreamed about bullets and blondes and drowning in the dark.

Conner pried his eyes open at noon, showered, drank four cups of black coffee, and swallowed three aspirin. If he’d had health insurance, he’d have gone to the emergency room. His ribs blazed, roared pain whenever he turned or bent over. He prodded his side, took deep, experimental breaths. He didn’t think anything vital had been punctured.

The day was hot and bright, and the sun glittered on the bay like a picture postcard. Conner’s Plymouth sailed over the bridge into Mobile and he found Derrick James’s shop and parked. He folded the Electric Jenny’s registration and shoved it in the front pocket of his khaki shorts. He hoped showing James the boat’s location on a river chart would be good enough. He didn’t feel like paddling back out there and bringing the boat back by sea.

As Conner approached the shop, he noticed the police cars. The front door stood open. Inside, three uniformed cops poked around. He went back to the office, found another cop standing over James’s dead body.

Hell.

James sprawled on the floor, arms awkwardly beneath his own body, legs twisted, with the knees pointing at one another, mouth slack, eyes glassy and lifeless. A pool of blood the size of a pizza spread from his head.

The cop noticed Conner standing in the doorway. “Hey, you can’t come in here.” He seemed young and nervous. He herded Conner out of the office, whipped out a pen and notepad. “Don’t step on anything, for Christ’s sake. The crime scene guys will go nuts.”