A Killer Thriller Collection - Eight The Hard Way (Mystery Thriller Suspense) by Nick Stephenson & Ryan King & Kay Hadashi & Alan McDermott & Micheal Maxwell & R.S. Guthrie & Robert Swartwood & D. D. VanDyke

Author:Nick Stephenson & Ryan King & Kay Hadashi & Alan McDermott & Micheal Maxwell & R.S. Guthrie & Robert Swartwood & D. D. VanDyke [Stephenson, Nick]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2013-12-10T16:00:00+00:00

The Florabama was the closest thing you could find anymore to a real roadhouse. It sat squarely on the Florida Alabama border and thus its name. It had suffered fires and hurricanes and floods but always sprung back again like a stubborn stand of bamboo.

It was a Friday night and around dinner time, but even so Gulf Shores never really had much of a rush hour. Compared to the major beach and resort destinations to the east, the Redneck Riviera was calm and tranquil even during peak tourist months.

The drive from the Oasis Condo to the Florabama took only about ten minutes and they arrived to find a sizable crowd at the establishment. The women unloaded from the van, placing Dolores carefully in her wheelchair before making their way with some difficulty across the white seashell and gravel parking lot.

The Florabama itself was a sprawling mishmash of timber, sheet metal, and neon lights. One would have been hard-pressed to pick out the main entrance from the half dozen or so options presented. There were about a dozen different bar areas to buy drinks both outside and inside loosely connected by open rooms, winding passageways, and wooden stairwells. The Florabama was less a building than a giant tree house resting on the sand, seemingly designed by hyperactive and imaginative toddlers.

Despite this, or possibly because of its idiosyncrasies, the Florabama had lasted where other bars and roadhouses had come and gone and it boasted a large and loyal customer base of both locals and seasonal tourists. The sprawling complex of driftwood and plastic screamed carefree enjoyment and relaxation where nothing was expected of a patron other than to relax and not take anything seriously.

Martha deftly guided them to the wheelchair ramp which led up to what could have been equally and correctly termed the second, third, or second-and-a-half floor, depending on the vantage point.

“What can I do for you ladies,” asked a perky diminutive girl behind the bar.

“Any specials?” asked Ruby.

The girl smiled and pointed to a chalkboard to their right, “Bushwhackers are two for five dollars the next hour. After that we got three dollar shots and domestic beer the rest of the night.”

“What’s a bushwhacker?” asked Trish and the bartender started to explain, but Dolores cut her off.

“What the hell does it matter?” she said with a wave of a hand. “I bet it’s good and will wash the road right off of us nicely. Give us a round of those, little lady.”

“Coming up,” she said with a smile and began pulling out glasses and several bottles of liquor.

They all stood and looked around at the graffiti, dollar bills, and bras adorning the walls and ceilings. A gentle wind carried the sounds of slowly crashing waves and unhurried seagulls.

“Here you go,” said the bartender, finally placing the drinks on the counter. “Do you want to run a tab?”

Everyone reached into their purses for money at the same time, but Dolores was prepared and beat them all handing over a credit card.