Page 3 of Knox Unleashed
So, as we sit and think about avenues we haven’t tried and new approaches we could take to find whoever gave Paltrow Jackal’s address, I daydream about how I’d kill him.
Alligators.
It’d be the easiest cleanup. The truth is, fatalities by alligator are incredibly rare. Out of about four hundred unprovoked alligator attacks in Florida in the last seventy years, only twenty-five resulted in fatality. The truth of it, most of us around here just ignore them, and they ignore us.
So, I’ll abduct the sheriff, drug him, then rile up the alligators. They might kill him, or they might just break his arms and legs. But once they’re finished with him, I’ll put my boot on his head and hold him beneath the surface until that fucker drowns.
“What if we stopped paying dues out?” Sunny asks. “I’d be cool with that if it got us answers.”
“Speak for yourself,” Lock says. “Some of us just bought a new house.”
Havoc shakes his head. “Many of the men out there have full-time jobs, so they won’t hurt if we don’t pay out. Meanwhile, we’d all be fucked.”
I rub my hand over my face. “Don’t believe in withholding what a man already worked for.” I take a breath. “If I had a magic eight ball, I’d tell you what the answer is, but the only obvious thing I know is that we haven’t leaned on the right person yet. But when we do, they’ll feel the wrath of this club, I promise.”
2
MAREN
“That doesn’t sound good, boss.”
I look over to where Leo Sánchez stands in front of the freezer. He’s the longest-serving employee of Magnolia Bait and Marine Supply, the company my grandfather established fifty-two years ago. It sells exactly what it says on the outside: boat chandlery, fishing supplies, and airboat tours. But I’ve added things over the years. Fishing gear rentals for tourists, accompaniments to their catches, like fresh lemons, honey from a nearby homestead, and earthy potatoes. A section where I sell local artisan things like clay fish dishes for keys and handmade soaps. A small cafe area, run by Elspeth, a friend of Mom’s, that serves coffee and fresh juices, pastries, and sandwiches.
“I’m scared to check what’s wrong,” I admit, looking up from my laptop. “Sounds like the compressor, which means a lot of money.”
Leo removes his ball cap and wipes the back of his hand over his forehead. “You want me to take a look? See if I can fix it?”
I doubt he’ll be able to with his gnarled knuckles and arthritic fingers, but I also know that because of his commitment to mygrandfather and this place, he needs to try. “That would be great. Thank you.”
He pulls the freezer door open. “I’ll move everything out, first, in case it’s losing temperature.”
“Should be straightforward. The shrimp order came in short. And I haven’t been able to look at it because Rocky’s sick today, and I’ve had to rejig all the airboat charters around.”
It’s been that kind of day: Shorted deliveries. Scheduling chaos. Frustrated airboat customers who had the audacity to complain that they thought June would be milder weather and that the airboats are noisy.
I was understanding until they suggested I should give them a refund. I pointed them toward the disclaimer that I am not responsible for the weather and reminded them that they were offered little foam earplugs that they refused.
The song I’ve been listening to on the radio ends. “And if you’re just joining us this morning, the National Hurricane Center has officially upgraded the system moving through the Gulf to a Category Two hurricane with a warning that it could become a Category Three.”
“Shit,” I mutter. As any Floridian worth their salt will tell you, Category One hurricanes aren’t even worth prepping for. The severe end of Category Two needs some. But Category Three is where we take it seriously. Probably makes no sense to those who don’t live in a frequent hurricane trajectory. That’ll mean cancellations for the airboat tours and a dip in bait purchases, and it also means a shit ton of work bringing all the airboats inside, securing the boathouse, and bringing all the furniture on the dock into the store.
The announcer continues: “While storms in June are not unheard of, they’re relatively rare. According to NOAA records, only a handful of storms have made landfall in the Gulf during the first half of June in the last fifty years, and this will be thefirst since 1906 to make landfall in the Everglades this early in the season. Forecasters say warm Gulf temperatures are to blame and that residents along low-lying coastal areas should renew and activate storm plans for the full wrath of this storm hitting Thursday evening. Residents should expect rain, wind, and flooding to build over the next forty-eight hours. So be safe out there, everyone.”
I look out the rear doors to the sky. It still looks blue, but the humidity is rising. A sure sign a storm is coming.
A message pops up on my phone.
Rocky:It’s bronchitis. Got antibiotics. Won’t be in tomorrow, boss.
“Shit,” I mutter as I type a suitably sympathetic reply suggesting he get some sleep and get well soon.
I open the schedule, and sure enough, Rocky has four trips out tomorrow. Guess I’m gonna be playing tour guide unless I can convince Brandon, one of our other airboat captains, to come in on his day off. Jessie and Callum are both already scheduled.
Wait, what am I thinking? Hurricane. I do a quick count. Forty-eight hours until it’s supposed to land. It depends when the winds ramp up and the first band of rain starts.
By the end of the day, Leo has conceded defeat on the compressor, and I’ve called the customers who had airboats booked for tomorrow. Most have bailed, but there are two in the morning willing to play it by ear. Then, I cancel for the two days after that. Elspeth has closed down the cafe, and I’m expecting Moira, a local cleaner, to come and clean the store any minute.
“Stay home tomorrow,” I tell Leo.
