Thorn P.I. 16 Trickster by James W. Hall

Author:James W. Hall [Hall, James W.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Dead Last Press
Published: 2022-07-03T22:00:00+00:00

Thirteen

Sugarman slid in and out of the clogged lanes, trying to find the sweet spots between the laggards and the flat-out suicidal drivers. Making it from Key Largo to Delray in two hours was a minor miracle considering it was Friday afternoon and the roads were packed with folks getting the jump on the weekend.

There was a time not long ago when South Florida traffic slacked off between ten in the morning and three in the afternoon. Things got civil for those five hours. And on school nights after eleven, the roads were mostly clear.

Not anymore. Every minute of every day and every night it was like this. Twenty-four/seven rush hour.

Year after year with newcomers flooding the state, looking for their sliver of paradise, they’d turned traffic into a full-contact brawl. It had finally reached critical mass. If the hurricanes or sea level rise didn’t sweep away South Florida first, then the accumulated tonnage of all those cars and trucks and SUVs might just fracture the limestone crust and send this whole mess sinking into the damn aquifer.

Like Thorn had been saying for years, it was time to move farther out to sea.

Exiting I-95, Sugar headed east until he crossed the Intracoastal then, as Thorn had instructed, he headed south on A1A to Atlantic Dunes Park and pulled into a public lot across the road from the beach. He took one of the sandy trails through the scrub and found Thorn standing half-naked just north of a lifeguard stand.

“Somebody stole my shirt,” he said. “I liked that goddamn shirt.”

“What?”

“I stole their weed-whacker, they stole my shirt. Fair enough, I guess.”

“You can buy a new shirt, okay. Now let’s go speak to this Rocco Budd.”

“Things have changed. There is no Rocco Budd.”

While rosy-skinned tourists and the nut-brown melanoma crowd paraded past in their skimpy suits, Thorn described his recent adventure impersonating the Lawn Ranger. When he was done Sugar blew out a pained breath.

“But Kathy’s okay?”

“I think she’s being held prisoner. Those three thugs who sent me to the hospital way back when, they’re keeping watch on her.”

“And you didn’t help her escape?”

“She wouldn’t have it. Said Stetson was the reason she couldn’t go.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Neither do I.”

“You tell Kathy about Minks taking her away, his corpse in the trailer?”

“There wasn’t time,” Thorn said. “Goons arrived. Ended our conversation.”

“So, we go back to the house, the two of us, try again.”

“Are you packing?”

“Glock Nine. There’s a .357 in the car if you’re interested.”

“I’d prefer grenades and a howitzer, but small arms will do.”

Back on Seacrest, the lawn service trucks were gone. Neighborhood quiet except for a dog yapping nearby. Two women with bright white hair blew by in a souped-up golf cart. The Rolls was no longer in the driveway.

“Goddamn it,” Thorn said. “They jumped ship.”

“Could’ve moved the car into the garage. Hunkering down.”

“Maybe,” Thorn said.

Sugar circled the block and Thorn directed him to the café out on A1A where his VW was parked.

“Kathy’s eyes,” Thorn said. “They were different. Dulled.

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