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Tides of Tybee
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© 2010 by Reg Owens
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Chapter 1
She has long legs and a perfect ten body. She is scantily clad in two silver pasties and a matching silver bikini thong. All three have short tassels that move in time with her gyrating sultry dance. Her name is Gloria, which matches her long golden hair that she manipulates like a rodeo cowboy, playing with his leather lariat. She is on stage at Larry’s Vegas Bar, on South Pine Street in Savannah Georgia. I stopped in to meet a fellow reporter. I am sitting at the bar and looking straight up at Miss Gloria wrap her lovely body around the dance pole. I am excited big time to say the least. The music playing is bump and grind and boy she knows how to do both. The next thing I know, her pretty little boo-tay is being shook just inches from my eyes. Its tip time, and old Brent Cole slips a twenty in the most material covered spot in her silver bikini, which is very little. She leans down and rewards me with a long and luscious kiss. She whispers, “meet me at one o-clock handsome, when I get off work.”
I give her a wink and a big thumbs-up. She winks back and moves over to the next howling wolf, drooling on the bar, with eyes as large as silver dollars. Suddenly the front door opens with a loud noise and my friend staggers in. He motions for me to join him in a dark booth on the back wall, and I do. He slumps heavily as he sits, or rather falls, into the booth. William, are you Okay? I ask with concern in the way he looks and acts, He’s breathing hard. He looks like he’s badly hurt.
“Brent, I got a bullet in my left shoulder,” he barely manages to get the words out.
“Do you want me to get you to a doctor?” I ask.
“Too late for that, he mumbles,” barely able to talk. I notice a trickle of blood coming from the corner of his mouth.
“Here, hold on to this.”
His breathing is coming in gasps now as he hands me an envelope, and then falls hard and fast to the floor face up. There is now a lot of blood now on the floor where he falls. Reaching for the jugular vein in his neck, I know immediately that he is dead. I quickly put the envelope in my inside jacket pocket and head for the office, that is located behind a door to the left of the bar. I open the door and see the owner Larry who is standing next to a file cabinet with a hand full of papers.
“Call the police, there’s a man lying on the floor with a bullet wound. He’s dead.” I immediately return to where Jack lies on the floor, with his eyes still open, so I reach down and gently close them.
“Do you know this man?” Larry asks me.
“Yes, he was coming to meet me here tonight and someone shot him before he made it. His name is William Reynolds, a reporter for the Morning News,” I tell the owner.
“And who are you may I ask?” He propounds.
I answer, “Brent Cole, I work with him at the newspaper.”
He looks at me and says, “I read your articles all the time. I didn’t recognize you from your picture in the paper.”
“That picture was made a few years ago when I was in college,” I tell him.
I really wanted to see what was in the envelope before the Chatham County Police arrived.
“Would you excuse me for a few minutes?”
I head for the mens room to read the note. The envelope was not sealed and I quickly retrieve the note inside.
“To William Reynolds,
If you want to know who’s behind Savannah’s human trafficking trade, meet me at warehouse seventeen shipping dock, Port Wentworth at ten tonight.
It was signed Juan Alvarez.
The name Juan Alvarez is not familiar to me, but I can check some back issues of the paper I am thinking. I place the note back in the envelope and leave the mens room. As I walk up to William’s dead body, I see the police have arrived.
“Hello Brent,” Inspector Robinson greets me with his hand outreached.
“Hey Jacky,” I replied. His name is Wilson but everyone calls him Jacky, after the famous baseball player.
“He’s one of yours the owner of the bar tells me.”
“Yeah, he is and a darn good reporter too. I think that maybe that’s what got him killed.”
“Why do ya say that?”
“Just before he died he gave me this note,” I pass it over to Jacky.
“There was no time to discuss the note. He killed over as soon as I touched the envelope.”
“Do you know this Juan Alvarez?” He asks after reading the note.
“No I don’t. Do you know him?”
“We’ve busted several named Juan Alvarez, he says, but not one involved in kidnapping or selling anyone as slaves,” Jacky returns.
“I was not aware we had human trafficking here in Savannah.”
“Here lately there has been some chatter about young girls being kidnapped and sold, but nothing has been uncovered so far. If this Juan subject tries to contact you, let me know right away?”
“You can depend on that. I don’t want to wind up like my friend poor William there on the floor.”
The PD worked for another twenty minutes and the body was removed by an ambulance crew. About eighty percent of the customers have left Larry’s bar, so he gives a last call and says he’s closing in thirty minutes.
I go back to the bar to wait for Gloria until the place closes for the night. Larry told her she was free to go, so she comes over and sits down beside me.
“Larry says you worked with the murdered guy,” she says while stirring a rum and coke she brought with her.
“We’re both reporters for the Savannah Morning News and he was a good friend, a good reporter. We collaborated on several stories over the past five years.”
I look into her sparkling blue eyes.
“So tell me about yourself, Gloria? I ask while taking a sip of scotch and condensed milk over ice.
“Not much to tell. I’m a senior at Georgia Southern University at Statesboro. You might be interested to know I’m majoring in journalism.” She smiles a really nice one.
“No kidding,” I return with more than a passing interest.
“And from where did you matriculate Mr. Newsman?”
“University of Georgia School of journalism; Brent Cole, class of ought one at your service, lovely lady.”
“I hope you aren’t married.” She looks at me with an inquisitive stare.
“Maybe a wedding band is hidden in your pocket?”
I look her straight in the eye,
“Not married, and never have been. Would you like to search my pockets?” I invite her with a half-grin.
“Maybe later,” she says with a come sexy smile.
“Brent, this is my fourth week working here and I really don’t like it.”
“I’m surprised to hear you say that, you’re really good at dancing on the pole.”
She returns with a Thank you.
“One of the other girls told me who you were when you sat down at the bar, before I went on stage. I’m sure my eyes lit up, when she mentioned you were a newspaper reporter.”
“And I thought it was my smashing good looks,” I tease.
“Well, that too. I am really surprised some lady hasn’t latched on to you by now.”
“Me too,” I agree with a smile, as I reach for her hand lying on her lap over the zip-up dress she wears to cover the skimpy costume.
“You have the hands of a doctor or an office worker.”
“Why do you say that?”
“You’re not a manual laborer; your hands are too soft.” She stands, “Listen you wait here while I go change into my street clothes.”
“Hurry on back now, ya hear?”
“OK,”
She laughs, and calls me a hillbilly.
Picking up her half full glass, she takes a long pull and sets it empty on the bar. As she disappears from the room, a burley bartender leans over.
“You know Gloria?”
The bartender-part bouncer with muscles that have muscles, dressed in a T-shirt with Larry’s Vegas Bar printed on the front, asks me.
“Just met her,” I say, taking a good look at the big guy.
“You just better treat her nice or you’ll have to deal with me,” he threatens.
“Oh absolutely,” I assure him.
“My name is Paul,” he says while sticking his hand over the bar.
Bunyan I say to myself.
“I’m Brent Cole, nice to meet you Paul.”
We shake hands and his grasp feels like King Kong’s.
“Say Paul, you got a strong right hand there my friend.”
He grins showing a big set of teeth.
“Now you know why I wanted to shake your paw,” he informs, without a hint of a smile. He was just adding an extra measure of intimidation to the aforementioned threat.
“Right, I say, I get your message loud and clear.”
Chapter Two,
When Gloria returns we bid Paul Bunyan a fond farewell. He raises an arm and shakes a fist as if to say remember what I told you.
“A nice fellow your bodyguard Paul,” I say opening the passenger door to my baby blue Triumph TR6, the last good model Triumph made by the English Company. The TR7 was a motor disaster and put them out of the car business.
“Where do we go?” I turn and ask as I start the engine of my favorite little sports car.
“I live in Statesboro?”
“My place is much closer. Do you live in a dorm Gloria and what’s your last name?”
“Andrews and yes I live in a dorm with a nosey roommate who thinks she’s Miss America.”
“Is that a fact? Two beauties in the same room I see.”
“Thank you Brent for the compliment and where do you live?”
“I built a little beach house on Tybee Island right after going to work for the paper. It’s not very big but large enough for Adolph and me.”
“Who’s Adolph?” she asks.
“My pit bulldog, you’ll like him, everybody does except strangers who come around when I’m not there.”
We passed Thunderbolt and turned right on Highway 80 crossing over the water to Tybee Island.
***
“Here we are Miss Gloria my adobe hacienda.”
“Ah, it’s lovely,” she says, “a two-story sandstone with two palm trees in a fenced in yard.”
“That’s correct and you win a free night’s lodging at the Brent Cole Sandstone Estate my lovely,” I tell her as I push the garage door remote and drive in.”
“That’s neat,” she says, “having the first floor as a garage.”
“Ah, but it’s much more than a garage, it’s my work area and tool shed where I’m building a twenty foot sailboat.”
As I open my door Adolph is all over me trying to wag what’s left of his cut off tail. He’s all brown, short hair, and muscled up big time.
“This is Gloria; Adolph, she’s our friend. Go over and give the pretty lady some tongue sugar.”
“Hi there Mr. Adolph,” She says, “You handsome hunk of a dog.” They make friends instantly. After he calms down we climb the steps to the living area and Adolph settles back down in his bed.
“I thought you said this was a little beach house. It must be sixty feet long.”
“Seventy five actually, but who’s counting. Would you like a grand tour?”
“Sure, why not?”
I take her to the front and my screened in porch with two cushioned lounges and a telescope, small barbeque grill, and a liquor cabinet.
“What’s the telescope for?” She asks.
“At one time before they built the hotel over by the water I could see the beach and all the lovelies in their bikinis.”
“Pervert!” she said and elbowed me gently.
“Whoa, who was that I saw dressed in little more than a smile dancing around a pole tonight?” I ribbed her right back.
“Let’s get on with the tour.” She smirks with that cute turned up nose.
The master bedroom is adjacent to the front porch so she kicks off her shoes and makes a soft landing on the king size bed. She’s wearing a short white pleaded skirt with white blouse and her long golden hair covers most of the pillow. She is perfectly tanned from a bed I’m sure.
“This is nice,” she says approvingly, “I admire good taste in beds.”
I kick off my shoes, turn out the lights, and join her on the bed. The light from the street gives a romantic glow. The rest of the tour is done in a monologue with the two of us lying side by side on the bed.
“There is a long hall that extends all the way to the kitchen on the other end of the house. Along the way the living room is first, then two smaller bedrooms, a dining room and finally the kitchen.”
“What about the bathroom?” She asks.
“There’s one between each bedroom and a walk in closet likewise.”
She leans over and gives a long endearing kiss to which I willingly reciprocate.
“That was nice,” I say.
“Only nice, Come here and let me make it better.”
She did and it was.
“That one was out of this world.” She smiles this time.
She leans over on one elbow, “What does a poor girl have to wear to bed in this adobe hacienda.
I have a nice soft UGA cotton T-shirt in the middle drawer of that chest.
“Good,” she says sliding across the satin sheets of the king size bed and quickly finds the UGA shirt with the bulldog on it. She takes off the skirt and blouse and finally bra and panties. The T-shirt hangs almost to her knees. I enjoyed every second of the undressing.
“Comfy?” I ask.
“Very,” she says as she slides back across the satin sheets.
It was a night to remember.
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