Gash in the Glades

Somewhere in the dimness before dawn, I heard Sinatra singing Summer Wind, a sweet and gentle tune. It felt like a power drill boring into my brain. Badly hung over, not to mention queasy as hell, I pulled my head out from under a pillow and fumbled for my iPhone on the bedside table. It slipped out of my hand and hit the floor with a thud. “A summer wind came blowin’ in from across the sea,” Frank crooned. Cursing under my breath, I leaned out of bed, scooped up the phone and tapped the answer button, mercifully stopping the ringtone. “What?” I snapped, hanging upside down, my face near the floor. “Someone hasn’t had his Cheerios yet.” “Someone had too much scotch last night,” I mumbled, hoisting myself up and laying back on the pillows. “What the hell do you want, Jeffrey? It’s the middle of the fricking night.” At that moment I noticed that I was in a cheap motel room, I had no idea where. I also noted a woman was next to me, I had no idea who. She was faced away, snoring like a zonked-out bear. Lifting the covers, I saw that she was naked, and so was I. “It’s a brand new day and time for you to bust out of your doldrums.” “Doldrums?” I rasped, putting a hand to my throbbing forehead. “Where’d you get that idea?” “Because a few weeks ago, at that publishers cocktail party, you told me you were getting bored over at that little shop of yours.” “Oh, you mean the party where you hit on every skirt in the room?” “That’s immaterial, George,” Jeffrey persisted. “What matters is that you’re dying to cover the big story. You begged me, in fact, to let you know if something juicy comes along, that you’d be interested in freelancing a piece. Ring any bells?” Okay, it rang bells. Jeffrey Rucker was editor-in-chief of the Universal Planet, one of the most out-there supermarket tabloids. A few years earlier, I was his top investigative reporter, writing all kinds of jaw-dropping stories. For instance, I revealed that Lady Gaga was, in fact, an alien life form and that Justin Bieber had, indeed, fathered twenty-seven children by age sixteen. Since then I had become an editor in my own rite of a respected community magazine based in South Florida. As such, I still investigated stories here and there as fodder for my weekly column. However, they usually involved neighborhood carwashes and garage sales. Yeah, maybe I was stuck in neutral. The name is George Leon, by the way, president, publisher and editor of GoWeston. “So, I assume the juicy story has arrived,” I muttered. “Not just juicy. Amazing.” “Tell me about it.” “You heard about Wally Shaw, mayor of Broward County, right?” “Of course. He’s been missing for the past month. Supposedly left his wife for some babe in Mexico. At least that’s what Channel 7 says.” “Yeah, well, he ain’t missing and he ain’t south of the border, amigo. He was killed in a most unusual way.” As gentle morning light seeped into the room, I again lifted the covers. This woman sure had a nice ass, whoever she was. She also had a dragon tattoo on the small of her back. Was she a biker chick? I couldn’t remember. “Let me guess,” I said, admiring the way her dark hair spilled all over the pillows. “He was murdered by the mob and buried beside Jimmy Hoffa under the goal posts of Giants Stadium.” “I’m being serious here, George.” “Okay, I give. How was he killed?” “You know that jetliner that crashed in the Everglades about a month ago?” “Good Christ, Jeffrey. I don’t live in a cave,” I said, keeping my voice low so as not to disturb my unidentified companion. “Advantage Flight 603. It went down about the same time Shaw disappeared.” “Funny you should mention that, because therein lies our story.” “How so?” “It seems that while old Wally was out in the Everglades, playing around on his airboat, the jet crashed right on top of him. Now the guy is in a million pieces at the bottom of the swamp, alligator stew.” I shook my head in disbelief, which only intensified the pounding pain. “Jesus, Jeffrey. I know the Universal Planet prides itself on publishing the most bizarre stories possible, but that one’s a bit too implausible.” “Not when you hear what I got.” “What you got?” “A witness.”