Mangrove Bayou Read Online Free Page A

keep one of these all the time?”
    “Yes. Even the 9-1-1 forwards. They each have all the staff numbers already programmed in. Don’t use it for any personal calls or I have to kill you.”
    “Wow. You guys are tough down here.”
    “Damn right. Now, I work eight to five Tuesdays through Saturdays….”
    “It’s Monday,” Troy said. “You’re here now.”
    “I get bored. I mean, I’m retired. Took this job to have something to do.”
    “So at the moment you’re off the clock. Not being paid to be here.”
    “Who gives a shit? Here, I’m somebody. Home, I’m Bob’s wife. Bob retired a couple years ago too. Love him to death but he drives me crazy. Anyway, nights and my days off, one of the officers carries the other department cell phone ’case anyone wants to bitch to the Mangrove Bayou po-leece about some fucking disaster.”
    “What kind of fucking disasters do we get around here?”
    Bubba grinned and nodded toward June. “She handles most of ’em. Between her mouth and her scaring the crap outta folks, we actual officers of the law don’t have much to do.”
    “It depends on which island we’re talking about,” June said. “Snake Key folks—we call ’em “Snakers”—keep to themselves. They’re the old Florida folks, crabbers, fishermen, used to be they hunted gators for the skins. Some still poach out of the national park if they can get away with it. ’While back they all got into smuggling marijuana. Them was good times in this town, goddamn. Everyone had a new Cadillac or a jacked-up pick-em-up truck, or a new flats boat with a two-fifty outboard. Don’t think they do much of that anymore ’cause the Coast Guard stops it all farther out. Damn shame.”
    “I believe we in law enforcement are supposed to be sort of opposed to drug smuggling,” Troy said. “I’m almost certain I’ve read that somewhere.”
    “Shit,” June said. “Anyway, Snakers figure if other people let them get away with whatever it is they’re getting away with, then the least they can do is return the favor.”
    “They’re mostly good people,” Bubba said. “I’m related to probably half of ’em. Just don’t expect folks there to get all smiley sappy over you when you come cruising by in your shiny chief’s car and shiny chief’s badge.”
    “Actually, I don’t have a shiny chief’s car. Maybe I need a bigger badge.”
    Bubba chuckled. “That would do it. Chief Redmond wrecked the last chief’s car and the town council never bought another one.”
    June went on. “Airfield Key people are mostly rich Yankees. They call us if the trash truck is late, or the postman, like, for God’s sake, we have anything to do with mail delivery. Let one raccoon stroll out of the swamp and they act like a fucking Sasquatch is going to eat them.”
    “We got a wildlife trapper here in town?” Troy asked. “What do we do with gators and snakes and all that?”
    “Bert Frey has the state trapper license here,” Bubba said. “His number’s in the phone too. Snakes he kills. Gators he skins and also turns the tails into lunch for the tourists.” Bubba grinned. “Bert also owns Bert’s Crab Shack, south end of 7th Street at the water. All other wildlife he takes out Barron Road and dumps someplace in a new home. Or so he claims. Locals don’t eat much at Bert’s.”
    “Breakfast sausage a little…gamey?” Troy asked.
    “Kinda depends on the season.”
    “Very funny,” June said. “Besides the airport and that Indian mound and museum, the rest of Airfield Key is big houses full of bigger egos. We get half our nuisance calls from them.”
    “Don’t forget the yacht club,” Bubba said.
    “Oh, yeah. There’s a yacht club.”
    “I know,” Troy said. “Seen it, from the river and from the other side, when I was using the little boat ramp next to the Guide Club on Snake Key.”
    “Right. Well, the director of public safety,” June’s eye darted to the door and back, “is automatically an