Key Kokomo

Copyright © 2012 by William S. Beatty

Registration Number TXU 1-833-202

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4759-8945-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-8946-5 (ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013908181

iUniverse rev. date: 05/06/2013

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

In memory of my father,

William Scott Beatty.

Dedicated to my

daughter and son

Cassandra and Wesley,

and to the love of my mother

Nola Ruth Hargis.

If your family has been affected by alcohol, drugs, or evil,

This book is dedicated to you, also. Hang in there!

CHAPTER I

C het Walker looked into the blue eyes staring at his in the court house hallway. The conversation he was having with his newly divorced ex-wife reached a lull. He could hear the clicking of shoes as their heels struck the highly polished floors around them. Everything in front of him was futile, with no hope insight. A memory came to him. He was eating pizza, at Marci’s, with Tracy in eighth grade. They just came from a victorious basketball game. The room was buzzing with jubilation as everyone downed sodas and pizza. Depression grew inside of him, at all that was now lost. There was no more innocence left to his life. Time seemed as if it was spent in vain. He vividly understood ‘Water under the bridge’ and ‘Spilt milk’.

Would you like to have one last lunch, Tracy? We could go up town to the square, and have some of Marci’s Pizza? Remember, those little greasy square pieces?

No Chet! It’s time we went on. I just want to get on with it. Please, don’t do this.

She stared into his eyes. Tears formed and rolled down her face freely. She asked herself what happened to their love. They shared their virginity, and married young. Now, she would only have his child to haunt her of the past. All Tracy could surmise was that she grew up, and Chet was still the young boy she fell in love with in high school. However, she was tired of the Sunday afternoons watching football with the same friends always getting drunk. She was sick of picking him up at the bar because he couldn’t drive home, and most of all the endless time alone while he was out golfing, fishing, or whatever.

Her bottom lip quivered slightly as she pushed his brown hair away from his eyes. She fell forward to his chest sobbing and lying. I hate you, Chet Walker! He held her tightly and wished he could freeze time forever.

After a few moments, the couple left the court house. They walked across the street to a hotel, where they checked into a room, and made love for the last time. She stood and dressed in front of him, never taking her eyes off of the deep-blue sea that stared back at her. Once dressed, Tracy turned, and walked out of the room. When the door closed to the hotel room, for the first time since boyhood, Chet cried deeply. At one point, he lost his breath from the deep sobs of anguish coming from his soul. He dressed and returned to work. Once at his desk, staring into the glow from his computer, he felt empty and alone. Life seemed, again futile, and his job seemed pointless. He picked up the project sheets that he was currently working on, and walked into his boss’s office.

Gordon Barker and Chet were longtime best friends, and as of yesterday lived next door to each other. Instantly, he shared the pain. Standing up, his large six-six frame towered half a foot over his younger friend’s head. He was a big man with an even larger heart. Chet, why don’t you take some time off? You shouldn’t be working.

Gordon, that’s why I’m here… I can’t do this anymore. I have to make some changes in my life.

You’re heartbroken, man. Just take some time off. Take a couple of weeks if you need to. Hell, take a year, if you want!

Gordy, it hurts too much! I have to resolve this now.

The room grew silent for a moment.

I understand. You’re always welcome here, you know that, anytime!

Thank you, Gordy. Hey, would you have a drink with me?

Gordon looked at his watch. It was 3:30 on a Thursday afternoon in July and raining heavily outside. He had a four o’clock meeting with the vice president of accounting. He pressed the intercom button on his desk, and his secretary responded.

Yes, Mr. Barker

Peg, reschedule Tom for tomorrow. I will be out of the office during the rest of the day.

He thought for a moment, as he looked at his friend standing dejectedly in front of him, knowing he would be out late. He spoke. Peg, make it an afternoon appointment.

They left the office together, and took Gordon’s car down to the River Station, a large restaurant pub located along the Illinois River in downtown Peoria. They stayed until the manager asked them both to leave. It was half an hour after closing time. Neither of them was in shape to drive, so they hailed a cab. Once the cab dropped Chet at the Pere Marquette, the hotel he was staying at, Gordon began to think of how fortunate he was. He was going home to a woman and family that he loved, and they loved him back. He eagerly wanted to hold his wife and forget the anguish of his friend. Sitting back in the cab, he listened to the rain pouring down like buckets on its roof. The shelter of the vehicle, made him feel secure, safe, and warm as he sat and thought about his friend. After a brief moment, the cab left the curb. It splashed its way out into early-morning traffic, and set a course for the suburbs.

The next six months passed quickly for Chet, and were just a blur in his mind. He spent all of his banking account money, lost most of his friends, and was thrown out of the Marquette. It was a cold winter evening in Peoria Illinois, in mid-January, and snowing heavily. The last rays of the sun’s warmth, long disappearing under the horizon’s edge, left Chet wanting to be warm. He picked up the Navy duffle bag with the remainder of his worldly possessions, and left the alley where he was drinking vodka heavily. Staggering a few blocks to the bus station, he went inside, and as he was walking or stumbling, it was hard to distinguish which he was doing the most, he knocked over a woman’s suitcase. She and her child were awaiting the eleven thirty Greyhound to Chicago with a few other patrons.

Hey! She exclaimed. She smelled alcohol all over the drunkard. It was a soured filthy smell. Watch what you’re doing you foolish drunk… The woman called out, as she pulled her child closer to her bosom, and set her suitcase back up with the other hand.

It’s warm in here. He said, shivering from the cold. I like it inside. It’s nice… What’s your name Mamn?

The woman looked at the hollowed shape of a man in front of her. He reminded her of her brother Bobby. Bobby was young, handsome, and on a path to nowhere but the bottom of the bottle. All Bobby wanted to do was drink and party. She wondered why he never wanted a home or a family. Please go away. The woman said rather loudly. He didn’t take the hint, and leave her alone. Teetering he tried to approach her and the small child.

You have a lovely baby, Mamn. May… I hold him… He stammered.

No! She shouted even louder. It was loud enough for the security guard to turn his attention in their direction. Go away from me, you damn drunk! She continued.

I’m sorry Mamn. So, sorry…

It’s okay. Just go away. She gathered her things closer to her.

The security guard recognized him, and went over and intervened. He saw him several times this week. I told you not to come back inside. Leave, or I’ll get the police.

The drunken man looked at him. It’s nice in here, really…

The big burly security guard grabbed his duffle bag, and started pushing the drunk toward the door forcefully, like a linebacker defending his ground. Listen, to me man. This is the third time this week you tried to sneak in here! You can’t stay inside! If I see you here again, I am going to have you arrested for loitering. Do you understand me, fool? By this time, the guard’s voice was almost yelling, and the man was mostly stumbling backwards precariously close to falling.

Chet stopped, and grabbed hold of the man’s arm. They both teetered to a standstill, looking into the large brown-colored eyes of the towering guard. He tried to sober up and focus. It’s cold outside. I don’t have anywhere to stay. My wife… my wife left me, you know. She said she didn’t love me anymore. I have a son. His name is Charles. He just turned one, two days after Christmas. He paused. Spending his Christmas alone underneath, the Murray Baker Bridge, that crossed the Illinois River from Peoria to East Peoria, he sat for hours staring at the frigid water flowing toward the mighty Mississippi.

He loves me. Charles loves me, you know! I know he does. Of course, he can’t tell me. He’s only one, and he’s with his mommy. That’s the best thing you know, a baby being with his mommy. I’m… I’m not important. A child should be with his mommy… please sir, don’t make me go back outside.

The ex-high school star for Manual, now a guard at the bus station raising children at the same school, looked at the man in front of him, and felt pity for him. He could never fathom the thought of losing his family. Looking around at the few passengers in the room, no one returned his stare, except for the woman and her child. She briefly smiled and looked away. Sympathetically, he said. Okay… but just for tonight. One night only, you can sleep inside, but no drinking. Do you have any booze with you?

No, sir… no booze with me, I don’t like to drink much. It’s bad for you, you know. It’s not good for the liver.

The burly guard smiled at him, and took him over to a janitor’s closet. He fumbled with some keys, hanging from a big retractable ring on his belt, and unlocked the door to the closet. Flipping the light on, he let him inside. You can sleep right here tonight, but if you cause any trouble, any trouble at all, I’ll throw you out in a heartbeat by the scruff of your ass! Now, I’ll wake you in a few hours, okay? The large guard gestured to intimidate fear.

No trouble from me sir… Quiet as a mouse in here…

The guard looked with concern at him. Why don’t you go south where it’s warmer? He suggested, and then closed the door to the closet while turning the light off. Once in the dark, he laid down on the floor beside his duffle bag. South he thought to himself. It’s warm in the South. Falling asleep, he dreamed of going there.

Chet Tried to brush the cobwebs from his head, and to make his mind focus. There it was a rhythmic roar. Again and again, it kept pounding him into reality. Softly, it started building itself up into a deep thunder, a huge crash, and a gentle tinkling. The sound was like a whole ballroom full of chandeliers falling, hitting a marble floor, shattering, and echoing through the corridors of a great castle.

Something gritty was in his mouth. It tasted a little salty. He wanted to open his eyes. He tried to open his eyes, but he just couldn’t open them. What was that in his mouth? The roar began to pitch again in his head. There it was building, crashing, and echoing. His crotch was wet. He recalled passing out in a drunken stupor. Millions and millions of stars were his last memory, as he flopped onto his back, lying in the sand under a pitch-black sky. What was he going to do for clean pants? Hunger pains were pounding in his stomach. If only that insidious roar stopped, then he would eat something, but what he didn’t know, and where was he going to get the money? He was broke of money, just like yesterday. There it was a roaring in his head. He forced himself to think. It was Sunday. No, it was Monday. Sunday was yesterday, when he caught a fish for lunch. That’s right. He caught a fish with some fishing line, a hook, and some shrimp the stuff that nice man gave him at the pier in Fort Lauderdale.

There was that insidious roaring!

Forcing his eyes open, he rose to his feet, standing shakily at first. The roaring in his head was replaced by throbbing pain from the large volumes of alcohol consumed the previous evening. He spat sand out of his mouth, and wiped his salty lips. There was a fuzzy memory of catching a ride with a drunken lady outside of Ft. Lauderdale. Hunger pains, from eating only once yesterday, wet blue jeans from peeing in his sleep, and dead-broke images faded from his mind, as he heard the surf and brushed his hair back from his eyes.

A four foot wave crashed upon its self in a thunderous roar. It broke twenty yards off the beach, in the surf in front of him, making a rushing sound as the wind and tide pushed the wall of bubbles, water, and shells to the shore. The sound gently faded away, as the water raced back to the sea.

What had once been a dream to him was now a reality… The Florida Keys a place sung about by the Beach Boys and Jimmy Buffet, a reality filled with the seduction and forever warmth of the pristine aqua-green waters of the south Atlantic, and a place where he hoped his dreams would come true. Following a few pelicans with his eyes, they floated and flew along the coast line, holding a tight formation like a bomber squadron in the skies of Europe in World War Two, the lead pelican seemed to steer them on endlessly as they disappeared down the coast.

Feeling dirty he quickly ran, dived, and splashed into the cool morning waters of the Atlantic. Swimming out in the brisk salty water far enough to tread neck deep, the crisp water snapped him fully awake. He floated. It seemed amazing to him how pure and clear the water was. He wondered how it survived the industrial revolution, cold war, and Bubonic Plague, yet still looked so fresh and clean. He was happy that he left Illinois for Florida. After all, it was something that he always wanted to do. In Illinois, he felt trapped, not because it was such a wretched place, but rather that he did not feel that he belonged there. Not sure where he really belonged, he knew it wasn’t in a corn field, livestock farm, or locked away in some isolated metropolis. Besides, he always liked the ocean. It seemed deep and mysterious, to him. It is untamed by man even though he fills it with his piss.

A smile broke out across his face as he thought about the money he just saved, since the ocean mostly laundered his blue jeans. He turned and swam back to shore. Once he could stand chest deep in the water, he turned again to see the sea and the beauty at the horizon’s edge. He didn’t feel he was a bum, even though he looked as one. After all, concluding, it had only taken him six days to hitchhike to the Keys. Some of the other men and woman, whom he passed along the way, had been on the road for weeks. They were just fighting the fearsome winter of the North and trying to decide where to go or what to do. After a few minutes, the sun lost its orange glow, and something brushed against his leg, startling him! He looked down into the water. Fear set in! He thought to himself of sharks. Paranoia Tried to grab hold of him, but then reality revealed a school of Mullet fish surrounding his body as, they schooled by. The thin gray narrow bodies of the Mullet glistened in the sun. They were working the trough at the ocean’s edge, catching minnows, before heading back to the swampy water on the gulf side of the key. As another one bumped his body, he turned and left the sea.

He went back to his little motel in the sand, where there was a thin blanket spread out next to his Navy duffle bag filled with clothes, memorabilia, and survival gear. Noticing the empty bottle of Vodka beside his blanket, it reminded him of the pounding inside his head that the waves awoke him too earlier. He buried the bottle deep in the sand so that no one would step on it. Surveying his surroundings, off to his left, he could see nothing but a sandy beach with a couple of people surf fishing. To his right, there was a big pier jetting out into the ocean with a large building on top of it.

Taking out, what seemed to be his cleanest shirt and jeans, he rolled his blanket up into a tight ball, and stuffed it in his duffle bag. Watching the fisherman, so they would not see him, he hid his duffle bag in the sand dunes, and hung his wet jeans in the lower branches of a thick bush. Quickly dressing, he grabbed his boat shoes, and then headed off toward the big pier in the distance. He had a happy feeling inside, as if his journey was about to end, and he would find a small town along an ‘Out of the way’ key, and become a waiter, a cook, or a bartender. He would spend his free-time fishing, and trying to demystify his perception of the keys. His gait, along with attitude, picked up a little, as he headed closer to the pier structure. What Chet did not realize was that, as the T-shirt says, ‘Reality ends in the Florida Keys’.

CHAPTER II

J ethro Thurman Billman filled his soul with rage and hate. Jethro Thurman was orphaned as a small child. His mother and father were deported back to France, and as he was born in America, his parents left him for adoption and a better life. Jethro ended up in an orphanage in New Jersey. Never being adopted, he was bused to and from the orphanage throughout schooling. Shunned in high school, as a short-fat reject, a young cheerleader slapped him in the face, for asking her to dance. After that, JT became a monster. He decided he would take everything from the world that he desired.

Jethro leaned back in his leather chair, and stared out of a one-way mirror in front of him. There was a large soft brown leather couch in front of it. The mirrored window almost filled the entire wall. It provided a view into the greeting room, where a young receptionist sat with her back to him. She was working at a desk using the computer. It was exactly sixty-eighth degrees in his office. This is the temperature he felt most comfortable at. Room temperature is something that he can control, and whatever Jethro can control he does. However, lost in delusional thought, he had tiny beads of sweat forming on his upper lip, and at his ever retreating hair line. The night came back to him, and he recalled strangling the young cheerleader girl. The smell of her perfume and warm soft body brought an end to the needs harbored since boyhood, and recalled the lifelessness and stillness in the air, behind the football stadium bleachers, after the wild rage and hate ended in his climaxing into an already dead young virgin.

Leaning forward, he turned his concentration back to the realities at hand. He surveyed the computer screen which controlled the security system of cameras, microphones, and motion sensors located throughout the key. With his mouse cursor, he selected security palette three. The nine computer monitors, encompassing the entire left wall and arranged in three rows of three, filled with several views. Two were of the restaurant’s kitchen. Another was an image of the hostess stand, where a man and woman were signing for their breakfast. The middle row had several angles to the restaurant dining area, and on the bottom-rows were ‘Under Pier Beach’ views.

Everything looked good to him.

He selected security palette four, and all nine monitors filled with a very clear blow up making one large picture. This image was of a pregnant woman, whom Jethro had in a small private locked room. The room was located behind a false wall of the largest guest suite inside of his large plantation styled home, that everyone referred to as the Plantation House. It was a two-story home, with eight white-painted pillars supporting the front porch. Watching the woman for a few moments, he became frustrated as she was staring at the dresser and not the television. Jethro wondered why she was doing that. It was early in the morning, when the woman was supposed to be watching the Lamaze child birthing tapes. She was supposed to watch them each morning from nine to ten. He punched a few control keys on his computer keyboard, and activated the channel to her room.

Pricilla… He said softly.

The woman’s attention remained focused on the wall in front of her at a small dresser. It was the opposite wall behind the camera that hung over her bed. She was staring at a photo of her in an earlier life. It was a picture of her husband and her. They were at a Fourth of July party. You could see their soon to be born child under her sundress. Both were smiling jubilantly. It was the only thing she kept from her previous life. She threw away the cards, the gifts, and the photo albums. She left her home, and wrecked her car. She divorced a loving man just as broken hearted, and then cast aside her dignity. Pricilla drowned herself from reality in alcohol and sex.

Pricilla… . He said softly again. You should be watching the Lamaze tapes, my dear. Please, watch the tapes. You know the baby will be born soon.

He heard her sob, and knew that she was crying. He feared how emotional she had grown in the recent months. She turned and looked into the camera behind her. Pricilla, a beautiful woman at age thirty-four, with large lovely green eyes and long soft brown curly hair only had one problem, and that was controlling alcohol. She liked to drink straight rum or gin, ever since she lost her daughter in childbirth six years ago.

You are going to kill me aren’t you? She asked.

Kill. No… No, dear. Please Pricilla, don’t upset yourself. You’re just emotional. Your job is almost over, and you’ll get the money we agreed to. You will be free to leave, and do whatever you want. However, until then, you must hold to our bargain and birth our son. Now please, watch the tapes. It won’t be much longer.

Pricilla feared she would be killed. She couldn’t explain it, but she sensed it. She knew she wouldn’t get the Fifty Thousand dollars. She wouldn’t open up a dress shop in Key West, and she wouldn’t live happily ever after. She longed to still be married and living in Kendal, but most of all, Pricilla wished she had never ended up whoring at a dog track in south Miami for motel money, where she met Jethro Thurman Billman, and signed a contract to carry his inseminated child. Sober now and pregnant in her last trimester, Pricilla wanted to go home, but she had no home to go to.

Dr. Robinson, Jethro’s private physician, knocked and entered the room. He was bringing Pricilla’s morning meal. She turned from the camera over her bed. His anticipated kind gentle nature brought a smile to her tear-smeared face.

Good morning, JT. Dr. Robinson said. The doctor lived in the smallest guest suite in the Plantation House. He was the only one on the key who ever called Jethro by his nickname, JT, which was short for Jethro Thurman. Normally, he was rebuked for it.

Grunting out loud, JT punched security palette one. He was surveying several views of the large casino gambling room. It was the first room as one entered the Pier House from the breezeway. There are two black jack tables, a roulette table, and two rows of five slot machines in the room. One row of the slot machines is five dollars, and the other row is ten dollars. The room was empty, except for a couple who were walking along the north wall going out to the Seahorse lounge. Punching security palette five, he saw various outside views around the resort. Noticing a man going through a garbage dumpster by the gym, he became very frustrated. Banging a few keys on his computer, he opened a channel to the guard barracks that was located near US Highway One, and barked at the guard. Who is on duty there?

The guard pressed a button on his squawk-box and answered. It is Clarence Mr. Billman. How can I help you?

Clarence, There is a man going through the garbage behind the north wing. How did he get by you?

Sir I’ve been on duty since six thirty. I can assure you no one came by here that wasn’t a quest. Except for the produce delivery truck which left almost an hour ago, there was nothing but a few guests going in and out.

Damn it Clarence! I’m not imagining things. I see this man on one of my security monitors right now.

I’ll send someone over Mr. Billman. We’ll pick him up and escort him off the key.

No Clarence, I’ll deal with this myself. You pass the word around that I am very upset. When I find out how he got in, you can be sure that I’ll take the appropriate actions.

Yes Sir, Mr. Billman. JT banged a few more keys turning off the open channel. He then arose from his desk, making a bee-line to the dumpster.

Chet was foraging for breakfast. He was quite hungry and hoped to find something that looked fairly fresh. Bread was what he was after. Normally, when he was searching through garbage, bread could be found in fairly good condition. Once in Nashville, while obtaining dinner from a restaurant’s garbage bin, he ate some half spoiled chicken. He wasn’t able to eat anything else for almost two days. He tried to avoid garbage can meats. Leaning further into the dumpster, his feet left the ground, and he hung precariously on the edge. Continuing his search, he found several rolls, but they were soaked in coffee grounds. Pushing aside some pieces of fruit, and juice soaked newspapers. He found the object of his desire. It was an entire cinnamon roll half-wrapped in a napkin. Returning to his feet, he started to devour the cinnamon roll. Halfway through the cinnamon, roll JT approached him.

Just, what the Hell do you think you’re doing, picking through my garbage? JT asked, in a raised authoritative voice.

Chet looked at the mostly bald older gray-haired man in front of him. He was about five feet seven and very squat and fat. He almost looked round, and his eyes, despite his age, were bright blue and piercing. They were quite startling and commanded respect.

Your garbage… Chet smiled finding it humorous that someone would lay claim to garbage.

JT grabbed the cinnamon roll from the trespassing young man, wiping the smile from his startled face, and threw it back into the dumpster.

Yes my garbage. This is my key. This is my resort, and this is my garbage.

I’m a little hungry sir. I am just trying to salvage something to eat before I go on my way.

And just where are you going?

Feeling he was in a predicament, Chet tried to slide. Sir, I really don’t mean you any harm. I’m on my way to Key West. The ride that I caught out of Ft. Lauderdale dumped me. We were both quite drunk, and I wanted out of her car. I snuck past your sleeping guard, and found a nice spot to rest.

Not accepting the drunken woman’s sexual advances, he was almost tossed out of her slowed vehicle on Marathon. Barely grabbing his stuff, the woman sped her vehicle off over the Seven Mile Bridge leaving him stranded. Seeing Key Kokomo, one of the largest keys, off to the east, he decided to go there and walked the long bridge.

Good thought JT, another drunk. JT sized up the man in front of him. He looked to be strong, healthy, and intelligent. JT