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  No matter how much money Rebecca’s bank account accrued, she still wanted to be an actress. The woman could have bought her fame, or course, purchasing a number of directors to hire her, or a film production company, but she prided herself in being humble and headstrong. She wanted to create a name for herself as an actress, all on her own. To reach that goal, she went by the alias Rita Redd, a nobody with just a few acting jobs in commercials on her resume.

  “What’s this guy’s name?” I asked her, fingering the cub’s glossy headshot. He had dark eyes, curly hair, and a close beard.

  “Clifton Monigal.”

  “That’s a rugged name. Where is he from, and what does the cub do?”

  “He’s from Stockton County, Oklahoma, and sells Mustangs.”

  “Horses or cars?” I admired the young man’s broad shoulders, the tiny scar through his left eyebrow, and his rounded face.

  “Horses. He owns three ranches in Colorado and two near Tulsa. He breeds, raises, and sells the equines.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Old enough to fuck me,” she said, giggling and blushing.

  “How rude,” I snapped at her. “Show some manners, Rebecca.”

  She snatched the picture out of my hands. “I know he looks like he’s eighteen, but he’s twenty-eight. Both of us look younger than we are.”

  I rolled my eyes and shook my head. “How did you meet him, and where is this conversation going?”

  “He’s visiting Laura Monigal, his grandmother, in Turtle Bay.”

  “The Laura Monigal?” I asked, stunned, believing that she had been speaking of the wealthy arsonist from Turtle Bay, a sister city to Hurricane Bay.

  Rebecca nodded. “Yes, that Laura Monigal. And stop thinking that she’s an arsonist. The woman deemed herself innocent. She is not a criminal.”

  “Laura only got off because of her money and crooked lawyer, Henrey Henreys. Rumors have spread like wild fire around Turtle Bay that she secretly paid off her jurors. Notice how three of them are driving Bentleys?”

  “Tsk.” She waved a hand in my direction. “I don’t care what that old prune has done. I’m more interested in her cub of a grandson.” She pointed to the picture in my hands. “Look at the little bear eyes on that man, Axle. Don’t they just make you melt?”

  Indeed, they did. Clifton Monigal came across as being strikingly cute, boyish, and a cowboy. How could Rebecca go wrong in an attempt to bed him? Just as I was about to tell her to chase after the young man, her cell phone jingled in her jeweled purse at her right side. She fetched the phone out of the handbag and viewed the incoming number.

  Excited, she glowed and said, “It’s Clifton. I must run, my love. Chat soon.”

  She snatched the headshots off the desk in front of me, including the one in my hand. She waved goodbye to me with the trio in her left hand, flew out of my office, and went on her marry way, leaving me behind.

  Chapter 5: Necessary Invasion

  721-A North Palm Way

  6:57 P.M.

  I decided not to make the drive to Bungalow Sixteen on Hurricane Road and have a strong drink and heated sex with my lover. Instead, I had a necessary invasion to process, without anyone knowing, which included the friends and relatives of Rudy Shower, and the Hurricane Bay Police Department.

  The bungalow at Seven-Twenty-One-A North Palm Way looked like the smallest one I had ever seen in my life. After circling the peach-colored edifice and peering inside its windows, I determined that it had three rooms: kitchen, bathroom, and living room. Since there was no bedroom, I deduced that Rudy slept on his sofa, which looked battered with numerous holes. Once I was aware that the place was empty, I used three tiny, L-shaped rods with the finest points on the rear door’s lock. Then I made my way inside the bungalow.

  I learned rather quickly that Rudy Shower became a connoisseur of Margo Pagino’s work. The living room area was covered in her books. Paperbacks and first edition hardbacks lined one wall, some of which were signed. Posters of the woman’s book covers decorated a second wall. The covers included her most recent bestsellers: Timing is Everything, Fire’s Well, Quick Ties, and Sweet and Sour. There were two pictures on IKEA end tables that drew my attention. Both were of Rudy Shower standing next to Margo Pagino at local book signings. The pair hugged each other and grinned at the camera.

  Invading Rudy Shower’s space were the clay figurines of Margo Pagino on two shelves, which were positioned over the forty-two-inch flat-screen inside the living room, all of which looked creepy. The eight creations were twelve inches high, three inches wide, and oddly showed Margo holding her novels in different positions. Each red clay figurine detailed her as a much younger woman. After picking them up one at a time while wearing gloves, I read their titles, which all looked to be written with a toothpick or scalpel before the pieces had been placed in a kiln. The titles included M Sitting, M Standing, M on Belly, M Cradling Tome, M Kneeling, M Lounging, M Praying, M Stretching, and M Bowing.

  I did not see a kiln on the property and guessed that either Rudy Shower had purchased the intricate art pieces at a nearby gallery or created them himself away from North Palm Way. The abode lacked anything remotely interesting except for the figurines. There were no discovered diaries, journals, lists, letters, a computer of any sort, or cellular phone. The entire bungalow was spotless, minimally decorated, and unhelpful in recovering clues to the young man’s murder.

  Although the desire to thieve one of the clay figurines of Margo Pagino ate at me, I didn’t. Instead, I exited the abode empty-handed and without leaving a fingerprint or trace of DNA behind. Before making an exit, though, I snapped off a few pics of the clay figurines with my cell phone; pictures that I could continue investigating outside of Rudy Shower’s residence.

  After climbing into my brand new Mercedes, a recent birthday gift from Rebecca, I drove to Hurricane Road and called Casey on my way.

  To my surprise, the man said, “Are you expecting company?”

  Of course not. Or at least not that I knew of. “Why?”

  “There’s someone here who wants to speak to you.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “He won’t tell me his name, Axle.”

  Intrigued and startled at the same time, I contemplated who it could be and what they wanted. How bizarre.

  Calmly, I told Casey, “I’ll be there in a few minutes. Give him a drink or something.”

  Chapter 6: The Messenger

  Hurricane Road

  Bungalow 16

  7:21 P.M.

  The stranger in Casey’s bungalow stood at six-three and looked like a character out of a circus. The man’s name ended up being Edgar Sign, and he had the longest arms and legs I had ever seen in my life. His handlebar mustache looked wiry and the color of rust, and his feet were covered in oversized clown shows. He wore Daisy Duke denim shorts and showed off hairy, stork-like legs. His eyes were circled in black paint, and his lips were a bright red. Silver daggers hung from each earlobe. A burgundy and velvet top hat sat on his head. Upon my arrival, he relaxed in a big chair shaped like a palm tree. One of his knees crossed over the other. He was strangely interesting.

  Casey had offered him a beverage, but he had declined. He looked at Casey and then at me. He scratched his scruffy cheek with one of his dirty-looking hands.

  “I understand you had a meeting this morning with Margo Pagino. Is this true?”

  What business was of it of his to know of my meetings and with whom? I did partake in a whiskey sour, which Casey had prepared for me since he was a master at mixology. The sip went down smooth with a bit of sweet and sour.

  “I don’t have to answer that question, Mr. Sign.”

  “You should.” Edgar scowled and looked a little bit irritated with me. His eyebrows were crooked and bent.

  “Why should I?”

  “Gentlemen, stop,” Casey chimed in, neutralizing the moment. “Edgar, say what you need to say already. Stop dragging this out.”

 
Edgar nodded, locked his stare on me, and said, “I know for a fact that you had a meeting this morning with Bobby Pagino’s mother. I also know that if you are wise, you won’t be trying to find him. Bobby does not want to be found.”

  “Who are you to Bobby?” I asked, intrigued with the strange man and all his bizarre gusto. What circus had he traveled with? And just how long had his freak show been going to be in town?

  “None of your business,” he said, stood, and pointed at me. “You are a stupid man who doesn’t know what you’re getting into it.”

  “Edgar,” Casey interjected. “Stop with the rudeness. This is Axle’s home. You shouldn’t disrespect him like this.”

  My blood pressure rose. I wanted to punch at the fucker and send his ass packing. I kept my composure together, though, and asked, “Why should I not find Bobby Pagino, Mr. Sign?”

  “You may not like what you find.”

  “What does that mean?”

  He rolled his fingers together, nodded, and shared a wide grin with me that broadcasted in flaming fire that he could have been psychotic. “You’ll find out soon. Yes, you will.” After his comments, as if he were on fire, he ran for the door, opened it, and bolted away into the evening.

  Casey and I sat across from each other, shrugged, and showcased semi-opened mouths, awestruck. We stared at each other with clueless looks smeared over our faces.

  “What the fuck was that about?”

  I wanted to laugh, but couldn’t. “I have no idea. I’m totally confused.”

  “As well as I am. Should we be concerned?”

  “He was probably whacked out on meth or something. He’s not the first crazy I’ve had to deal with in my career. A dozen or more cases come to mind on the subject of wackos. Trust me, I’m not going to lose sleep over him.”

  Casey moved up to me, kissed me, started to undress me, and proceeded with some hardcore sex with my body, until both of us became spent and gluey.

  Chapter 7: The Clay Artist

  Hurricane Road

  Bungalow 16

  9:45 P.M.

  Casey snored, sounding like a lion growling. His chest rose and fell in the dim light that secreted from the bathroom and gently filled a portion of the bedroom where he and I slept together. The man’s nipples were hard, and he had a boner between his legs, obviously dreaming an intense sex-tale. Unable to doze off, I watched him sleep and realized that I was pretty lucky to have a beautiful man at my side. Luck was on my side to call him my boyfriend. Great and sweet fit the guy, as well as charming; a certain man who had treated me like a prince.

  He mumbled a few words that I interpreted to the best of my ability: carpet, paintings, fireplace, and seashells. I imagined him decorating again, tucked inside his folded dreams, creating a magazine-perfect place for a couple of freshly married queers to reside in along the wavy Gulf. I didn’t think it uncommon for the man to dream of decorating, narrating his progress. Sometimes he would mumble things from his dreams about hang draperies, adjust ceramic tiles on a floor, or choose crystal-framed mirrors for one of his client’s bathrooms. Oftentimes, I had been awakened to a nudge or two and Casey asking me to unroll a carpet, push a French settee a little to the right, or fill a ceramic bowl with red apples.

  Tonight felt different, though, strangely unfamiliar. Something peculiar and sinful exited his mouth as he slept. I climbed out of bed, unable to sleep, suffering from the worst case of insomnia ever when he said, “Bruno, Let’s take a break. You can blow me.”

  Appalled, I wanted to stir him awake. My heart tumbled down to my stomach and twisted with pain. Every nerve that lined my body began to shudder and offered me a helping of rage. I didn’t question his dreaming. My lover ended up in a distant world of decorating and blowjobs with his intern, Bruno Grigade. The two were hanging draperies one minute and planning to have sex during the next. Shocking? Hell, yes. I thought it extremely shocking to hear at first. But, the truth was simple. I couldn’t get mad at him since it evolved into a dream and nothing more.

  How many nights had I dreamed of sharing heated sex with Rebecca’s studly lovers? Numerous one-night stands were common after I closed my eyes and drifted off to sleep. Frankly, those dreams consisted of throat-clenching blowjobs and hip-ramming sexual acts with her gentleman callers: David Chandle, Luke Bennenova, and Patrick Worldinger, just to name a few. In fact, orgies in bathhouses with naked and gorgeous beach bums were always a treat among my many dreams. Not once had I been faithful to Casey or practiced safe sex during those dirty scenes. Nor was I uncared for while in a state of REM by every Tom, Dick, and Harry.

  I couldn’t wake Casey and alarm him with my anger because I didn’t want to be a hypocrite. Rather, I simply climbed out of bed and allowed him a good time with his naked intern, practicing the most pleasurable actions that can be performed by a team of horny males and maybe even in front of a digital camera.

  After fetching myself a cocktail, which consisted of vodka and grape juice, I snagged my iPad and ended up in the living room. Once there, I snuggled in a reading chair with my legs pulled up and under me. I Googled a variety of tags about the clay figurines that I had stumbled upon. Some links included clay figurines in Turtle Bay, artists of Hurricane Bay, pottery connoisseurs, and a few titles about the pieces of art uncovered in Rudy Shower’s residence.

  Three sites were listed with pictures of the M figurines. After clicking through the sites, I learned that the M series had been created by a man named Gregg Hofflander, Margo Pagino’s first husband. The marriage lasted no more than six months. Legal documents stated declared the divorce legal because of irreconcilable differences. Various articles were attached, all of which proclaimed Margo an insane and unfaithful wife to Gregg. Other articles hinted that Margo used to beat Gregg Hofflander, although the man was head over heels in love with her and had always treated her like a princess. I also learned that there were thirty-one figurines in the set. The most valuable was owned by Barbara Tucker-Lance, a real estate mogul in New York City. Barbara purchased M Yawning, the first in the series, for three hundred and twenty thousand dollars.

  Gregg Hofflander could have passed as a handsome man, I perceived. He had salt-and-pepper speckled hair, a goatee, a bronze tan, and squinting, azure-colored eyes. At forty-seven years old, married a second time, an alcoholic, and the father of three children, Zachary, Zoe, and Zammy, Gregg currently lived in Naples where he happily stayed retired and created a new series of figurines, which he called a work in progress and untitled.

  I made a mental note to have a brief but informative chat with the clay artist and learn how and why he was associated with Rudy Shower. Plus, I wanted to see his new clay pieces, since I thought his work appealing.

  Chapter 8: Night Walk

  Hurricane Road

  10:47 P.M.

  Hurricane Road ran north to south next to the Gulf. The bungalows along the sandy beach were sized differently, and most of their inhabitants were in bed. I slipped into a pair of sandals and walked outside, needing some fresh air. Perhaps a little exercise would help me sleep. I made a left on Hurricane Road and started to head south. The wind felt light, warm, and somewhat refreshing. Cicadas were a nuisance, but I had gotten used to them years ago. The moon shined almost full, an odd-shaped pool of dark blue and white.

  Textbooks and word of mouth throughout the centuries described that Blue Torteese, a pirate in 1802, had docked The Sapphire Princess in Hurricane Bay. He’d gone on a rampage, raped two dozen women, seven men, and pillaged the small town for all it was worth. Legends spoke of a terrible hurricane, with eighty-foot-high waves that came looking for Blue Torteese that night. He and over one hundred civilians drowned. Survivors of the cataclysmic storm claimed the island forever haunted by Blue Torteese and his crew.

  His ghost appeared naked on a few occasions throughout the last two centuries. Some claimed the pirate only wore his leather tricorn hat and sported an erection. Others, more men than women, claimed they were “touched” in t
heir sleep by the horny and despicable pirate. Religious bodies were constantly flinging holy water over residential beds by those who said they were “molested” by Blue Torteese while dreaming. Children were always “seeing” the ghost floating on the Gulf like Jesus, grinning from ear to ear with a golden half-smile.

  I didn’t believe in ghosts. Nor had I ever seen an apparition of Blue Torteese visiting Hurricane Bay. The truth of the matter unfolded as simple throughout the eons: Blue Torteese was a pirate and often visited Hurricane Bay. Yes, he did drown the night of July 6, 1802, because of a hurricane. But ghouls, demons, and spirits with erections were not real in Hurricane Bay or any other place in the world. Rather, those scary things were figments of the population’s imaginations. I had taken many midnight walks alone and perceived that those eye-rolling suggestions were bogus, untruths, and crazies talking.

  Although six residents (names undisclosed because of legalities) had attempted to hire me to investigate the reality of Blue Torteese’s spirit, I declined all proposals and claimed the lot of buyers moronic and not worth my time. Many in Hurricane Bay were convinced that my agency just happened to partake in hauntings, supernatural activities, and anything to do with alien encounters, but they were severely wrong. Although business remained slow, HBIA prided itself as actually one of the leading investigative agencies on the Gulf Coast and assisted clients with missing persons, missing money, murders, abductions, cheating husbands, and runaway daughters or sons.