Seminole Bend Page 19

  CHAPTER 32

  Tuesday, March 9, 1982

  6:05 p.m.

  L ew and Phil tied up to the dock at Bennett’s Airboat Palace a few minutes past six. Lew made a call to the sheriff’s department from the pay phone and was told that Willy Banks was on duty, but couldn’t be “bothered.” Lew offered to meet the deputy anywhere in the county and the response was, “Not today, sir.” Lew detected a tone in the receptionist’s voice that something was going on with Willy Banks and it was none of his business. Lew wasn’t about to fight the law, but his curiosity had just peaked.

  “They won’t let me talk to Willy Banks,” declared Lew. “You got any options, Phil?”

  “Won’t let you talk? Strange, being he’s a public servant, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Very strange indeed. You know where he lives by any chance? Maybe I could visit him at home.”

  “Not sure, but I do know that his brother’s girlfriend, well, ex-girlfriend, works in the photo department over at BoldMart. Her name’s Abby Charles. She’s Tyrone Banks’ mama. Nice gal, but not sure she works this late. The store’s open ‘til nine if you want to check it out. She lives with Willy so she should know how to get ahold of him.”

  “How do I get to BoldMart?”

  “Go left out of here and at the stop light turn right. It will be a couple miles up on the right. Can’t miss it.”

  “Thanks so much for everything,” said Lew as he shook hands with Phil. He took out a piece of gum and unwrapped the tin foil, then scratched his phone number onto the inside of the wrapper. “Here’s my phone number. Keep in touch. Let’s do some fishing next time I come!”

  “Dang tooting, Lew. Be much obliged to find you a whopping big bass!”

  * * * * *

  There were plenty of parking spaces at BoldMart, which was the case most Tuesday nights. Folks in Seminole Bend wouldn’t miss Happy Days, Laverne and Shirley and Three’s Company back-to-back unless there was a Warrior basketball game in town. Thus, BoldMart used Tuesday nights to run inventory on their stock. That was the reason Abby Charles was working late. The photo department had processed 137 rolls of film the previous week, but the credit card slips and cash in the till amounted to 124 rolls and someone had some explaining to do. Abby was visibly stressed when Lew came up to her counter.

  “May I help you?” uttered the attractive clerk with a hint of anxiety in her voice. She didn’t look up at Lew. She was busy examining the spreadsheet in front of her hoping to find the source of thirteen errors she was tasked to find.

  “I’m looking for Abby Charles. Is she working tonight?”

  Abby glanced up and replied sarcastically, “Working would be a mild term used in this labor camp. I’m Abby Charles. How can I help you?”

  “Actually, I’m looking for Willy Banks. Can you help me?”

  “Try the sheriff’s department. He’s working the noon to eight shift.”

  “I did try to call down there. They wouldn’t let me talk to him. Phil Bennett told me you worked here and could find him for me.”

  “Why wouldn’t they let you speak to him? Are you some sort of hit man?” Abby was back to her sarcastic ways. She was busy and needed this conversation to end.

  “No ma’am, far from it. My name is Lew Berry, I’m Coach Brett Berry’s dad. I’m just in town for a short time and wanted to ask Willy some questions about my son’s accident, that’s all.”

  “I’m so sorry,” apologized Abby. “I didn’t mean to be rude, just have a lot of stuff to finish here tonight. Your son and daughter-in-law’s accidents, well, they were just terrible. My son, Tyrone, played for Coach. Loved him! He was a good man, Mr. Berry, a really decent man!”

  “Thank you. That’s much appreciated, it really is. So, any chance you could hook me up with Willy?

  “Sure thing, but he usually heads down to Nubbin Slough for some night fishing after work on Tuesdays and gets home pretty late. Are you staying in town tonight? Willy will be heading for work ‘morrow before noon, you can catch him before he goes.”

  “Guess I’ll stick around for one more day. Can I get your address?”

  Abby wrote her address with directions down on a note pad and handed it to Lew. Lew thanked her and started to head off when Abby called for him. “Lew, hey, want to see a great picture of your son in action?” Lew turned around and came back to the photo counter.

  “I just processed this picture today and I know I’m not supposed to show folks someone else’s private photos, but I thought it was fantastic. I’m thinking about making a copy for Tyrone so don’t tell anyone you saw it.” Abby reached in a drawer and pulled out an envelope that contained a pack of pictures and six strips of negatives. She opened it carefully, flipped through several prints, pulled one out and handed it to Lew. The picture was of Brett standing by the bench with his arm raised high and displaying four fingers. He was calling out a play. Standing next to him, his faced beaded with sweat and looking rather nervous about the game situation, was Tyrone Banks. It appeared he was taking a short breather.

  “Very nice,” commented Lew with little emotion. He enjoyed seeing a picture of his son, but was once again overwhelmed with grief at his loss. “So, who took the pics? He or she is a fine photographer.”

  “Well, as I said before, I’m not supposed to tell you this, but they were taken by some cowboy named Danny Martin. Don’t know the man, but he printed his name and phone number on the label. The dude was huge, Lew, all muscles and such. He didn’t look like no photographer. Sorry, I know that’s a stereotype and I shouldn’t be talking that way.”

  “Did he take any other pictures at the basketball game? I wouldn’t mind seeing them before I leave.”

  “That’s the strange thing. This was the only photo from the game. Most folks will shoot a whole roll for a sporting event. Also, I know all the boys on the team and none of them have the sir name Martin.”

  “When was the picture taken?” asked Lew.

  “It was right in the middle of the roll of film and I’m guessing it could have been during the Sebring game. They played them at home a week before your son’s accident. I processed prints that your daughter-in-law Sheryl took from that game and there were some great pictures. She bought a frame for one that Brett was in while he was celebrating with the boys. Sheryl was a good lady, too, Lew. I’m so, so very sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you, Abby,” said Lew as he was glancing back at the picture of Brett and Tyrone. Who are the other boys on the bench? I really only heard about the starters from Brett.”

  Abby pointed at the photograph and said, “That’s Willis Mann, Amos Carnes, Tony Rambus and Tim Carter behind Coach and Tyrone. I recognize Norma Foss sitting behind Brett, she was the boy’s fifth grade teacher who just took a leave of absence to have a baby. Nice gal, they all loved her back in elementary school. And over on the left is Gordon Timkins, probably Seminole Bend’s biggest fan! He always sits right behind the players’ bench so he can hear what Coach is saying in the huddle. There on the right is Bard Smith. He’s a sport’s writer for the Miami Sentinel. And up on top of the picture is Marvin and Maxine Gormon, Kenny Gormon’s mama and daddy. You can barely see them.”

  “Yes, I recognize them. I saw them briefly at Angler’s Delight earlier today. The coach from Florida was recruiting Kenny.”

  “No kidding?” asked Abby with a surprised look on her face. “Well, I’m happy for Kenny but I’ll bet Roy Jackson would have a shit fit, oh, sorry ‘bout my language, Lew, if he knew Florida was recruiting Kenny and not his son Jimmy.”

  “I’ve heard about this Roy Jackson. Phil Bennett told me. He sounds like some pompous ass, if you ask me.” Lew paused momentarily. “Oh, now I’m sorry for my language, Miss Charles.”

  Abby chuckled and Lew smiled.

  “By the way, Abby, I heard Willy was involved in quite an airboat accident a couple of months back. Phil Bennett told me that, too. Was he injured badly?”

  “Quite frankly, my frien
d Willy is crazy! He smashed into something and flew headfirst into the river bank. Almost got eaten alive by a gator. Some Mexican dude saved his butt, thank God!” Abby shook her head as she remembered how close Willy had come to dying.

  “Who’s the Mexican man? I’ll bet he’s Willy’s best friend, huh?”

  “Don’t know. He disappeared after dropping Willy off at Angler’s Delight.”

  “Why would a town hero disappear?” asked Lew. “Saving the life of a sheriff’s deputy could be legendary around here.”

  “You would think, wouldn’t you?” replied Abby. “Well, I don’t mean to rush, but I best be getting back to work or I won’t have a place to work come tomorrow.”

  Abby began to place the pack of photos into the package but several of the prints on top slipped out and fell to the floor. Lew bent down to pick them up and noticed there were eight photos of a Mexican man taken at a convenience store. Six of them were of him chatting with some other folks, perhaps co-workers, and two were of the man munching on a Hostess Twinkie.

  Lew stood up, handed the pictures back to Abby, pointed at the top one and asked, “Who is this guy? The photographer must have found him pretty interesting to take eight shots, wouldn’t you say?”

  Abby looked closely at the first picture, then shuffled through the other seven. “Don’t know, but the picture was taken at Quick Stuff. That rusty Chevy van in the background hauls migrants over to the orange groves on the coast. I’ve seen them many times early in the morning getting junk food.”

  “Well, I don’t know what you think, but taking eight pictures of that Mexican guy seems kind of suspicious to me,” said Lew. “You sure you don’t know this Danny Martin fella that took the pictures?”

  “Nope. Ain’t never seen him before he dropped off that roll of film a couple of days back. Maybe the guy is a friend of his, that’s all.”

  “You said Danny is a big, muscular cowboy. Ever see cowboys hanging around with migrant workers?”

  Abby shook her head no.

  “What’s on the rest of the pictures in that pack,” inquired Lew. “Would you mind if I took a look?”

  “Absolutely not, Lew! I could get in big trouble as it is looking through private pics. But showing those pics to someone else is terribly wrong.” Abby stacked the photos into a neat rectangular bundle and placed them back into the package.

  Lew glimpsed down at the spreadsheet on the counter in front of Abby and recognized that it was a cash flow statement. Abby had been stressed about something on that balance sheet when he first arrived, so he thought he would take a guess. “How much are you off today?”

  “What?” replied Abby.

  “I noticed you were a bit anxious when I met you, so I was just assuming the balance sheet was off.”

  “Yes, you’re right, Lew, but it’s really none of your business. I like you, but I think you should go now. I’ll see you tomorrow at the house if you stop by.”

  “Please, Abby. Don’t get me wrong. I was just curious and making small talk, that’s all.”

  “Well, if you think you must know, I’m missing sixty-five dollars somehow. But that’s not your problem, so I’ll just deal with it.”

  Lew reached for the wallet in his back pocket and pulled out four twenty-dollar bills and handed them to Abby. “Here’s eighty bucks. I would just like to rent those photos we just saw for one day. They’ll be as good as new when I get them back to you tomorrow night, no finger smudge marks or anything. What do you say, Abby?”

  Abby stared into Lew’s eyes and was stunned. She glanced away and shook her head no, but with little emphasis. She didn’t have enough money of her own to cover the loss and she feared losing her job if the balance sheet wasn’t equalized. Seconds later, Abby stopped shaking her head and her red, tired eyes locked again on Lew’s.

  “One day! One day only I’m telling ya! I’m working only until four tomorrow afternoon. Don’t be a minute late, and don’t you dare tell a soul, you hear?” Abby took the pictures out of the package and placed them in a manila envelope. That way she could keep the negatives at the store. If for some reason Lew didn’t get the photos back, she would have to make reprints. But before handing the envelope over to Lew, her curiosity peaked and she decided to skim the pics for herself. The last three photos were of a man fishing in the distance. Abby recognized the location as Nubbin Slough, and then she thought she recognized the man in the picture holding a cane pole and staring intensely at a red and white bobber that was floating on the water. She pulled a magnifying glass out of the drawer and maneuvered it over the fisherman’s head. Abby looked up at Lew with trepidation.

  “What’s the matter, Abby?” asked Lew.

  “It’s this guy fishing,” Abby replied as she pointed to the distant face in the picture. “It’s Willy.”

  CHAPTER 33

  Tuesday, March 9, 1982

  8:30 p.m.

  “S eminole Bend,” sighed Lew to himself from the practically empty BoldMart parking lot as he scanned the surrounding concrete block houses hidden in nighttime shadows. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this place.” In the course of just a couple days, he learned that his daughter-in-law was not killed in a horrible accident, but rather kidnapped by unknown persons, and his son may have been taking money under the table from a notorious local pain in the ass named Roy Jackson. And who was in Brett’s house searching his bedroom? Lew was pondering the circumstances of recent events from the bucket seat of his rented Pontiac Trans Am. He could not seem to organize his thoughts as he flipped through the eight pictures of the Mexican man at Quick Stuff and the three photos of Deputy Willy Banks fishing on a riverbank. Perhaps there was somehow a link between the Mexican man and Willy Banks? Lew knew bizarre things were happening in this small town and he had a gut feeling that Brett and Sheryl were at the center of the strangeness. But he couldn’t place his finger on it. He needed to find out more before heading back to the FBI office in Miami on Thursday. Lew got out of the car and walked over to a nearby phone booth and dialed “O”.

  “May I help you?” asked the operator in a southern drawl that reminded Lew of his all-time favorite movie, Gone With The Wind.

  “I’d like to make a collect call to 412-687-2211. My name is Lew Berry.”

  After eight rings the operator said gently, “Sorry sir, there doesn’t appear to be anyone at home.”

  Lew thanked the operator and hung up. What was his wife, Janet, doing in the Poconos? It had been a very long day, starting with the FBI refusing to allow him to board the flight home to Pittsburgh. And although he was thoroughly exhausted, he wanted to find out if there was a connection between the mystery Mexican in the pictures and Deputy Banks, even though he had never met either one. Abby had mentioned that Tuesday night was Willy’s fishing night, usually at Nubbin Slough. Maybe he could find him there.

  Lew checked the Seminole County road map he purchased on the way out of BoldMart and found Nubbin Slough. He fired up the Trans Am and squealed rubber as he left the parking lot. It was going on nine when he pulled the nocturnally concealed black car well off the road near the marsh.

  Lew carefully moved along a trodden path to an embankment overlooking the watershed. Cricket frogs and cicadas chirped madly in melody with the hoots from a Barred Owl. He began to descend down towards the water, but stopped suddenly as a long, shiny silver snake slithered through the weeds in front of him. It appeared to be an Eastern Ribbonsnake or some type of racer, but with Lew’s limited knowledge of herpetology, for all he knew it could be a Cottonmouth that despised Pennsylvania-bred snow birds. From where he was frozen in his tracks, Lew surveyed both banks to see if anyone was fishing. No one, he was sure of it.

  Lew backtracked the path to his car, his sleep-deprived mind nervously searching for man-eating salamanders or killer terrapins along the way. In the safety of his bucket seat, Lew contemplated his next move. He remembered that the gardener he and Phil met earlier while docking the airboat mentioned that he enjoyed fishi
ng. Could there be a chance that he’s fished with Willy Banks?

  “Was his name Miguel?” muttered Lew thinking aloud. “Or did he say his name was Pancho? No, I think he said his friend was Pancho and they rode with Phil on his airboat. It’s either Miguel or Pancho. I’m sure of it. Maybe. Why am I talking to myself? I’m losing it.”

  With nothing but time to kill, Lew decided to drive back to the golf course estate and see if he could find the Mexican. He remembered seeing an oversized utility shed hidden from sight near the dock and Lew thought at the time that the gardener probably lived in it. Perhaps a hundred-dollar bill might entice the man to lead him to a fishing hole where Willy might be. Lew pulled out on to the road and made a U-turn. A half hour later he entered the Seminole Bend Golf Course Estates and according to the bronze sign attached to a security guard post at the entrance, a Division of Harfield & Jackson Enterprises. The guard slid open the Plexiglas window and grabbed a clipboard and pen.

  “Yeah, where to?” asked the disinterested guard. He was in a hurry. Lew could see a portable thirteen-inch Sony television on the counter next to the guard. The Knicks and Celtics were in overtime.

  Lew thought for a moment, then decided to tell the truth, well, sort of the truth. “Brett Berry’s house.”

  “Know you’re coming?” replied the guard without looking at Lew. His focus was entirely on the Sony. Larry Bird just hit a three-pointer from the corner. “Damn it, Holzman! Campy Russell can’t guard Bird. Put Maurice Lucas on him!”

  “Sure, he’s been expecting me for a while now. I’m running a bit late.” Lew lied. He decided to take advantage of this well-timed NBA advantage to distract the guard. “So, you a Knicks fan?”

  “No, not really. Just sick of watching the Celtics win every year. Okay, let me see. You said Brett Berry’s house. What’s your name?”