The Miracle Strip Read Online Free Page A

back. We stood there like that, him maintaining pressure on my arm until I was almost bent double, and me trying to move.
    â€œI’ll let you go when you calm down,” he said. He didn’t sound angry, just matter-of-fact. Beside us, drops of blood began dotting the grass. His nose was bleeding and inside I felt good.
    Behind us, across the narrow trailer park street, I heard a screen door slam. Then I heard Raydean, my next-door neighbor.
    â€œSon,” she said softly, “if you don’t want to meet your maker right now, today, I suggest you unhand that young woman and take a giant step backward.”
    Raydean stood on her trailer steps aiming a shotgun at Frankie. Raydean had leaned her frizzy gray-haired head along the left side of the gun and was eyeing Frankie down the barrel. Raydean was dressed in her pink flowered housedress, her knee-high nylon hose rolled down to her ankles, her white saggy legs and arms rippling when she moved ever so slightly to keep Frankie in her sights.
    Frankie slowly let go of my arm and I straightened up all the way. Fluffy was standing where I’d left her, growling. Raydean followed Frankie through the sight of the gun.
    â€œSugar,” she called to me sweetly, “you want I should blow his testicles to kingdom come now?”
    Raydean was a sweetheart, but she was also batshit. Raydean was fine as long as she made her trip to the mental-health center every three weeks for an injection of Prolixin. If she missed that appointment, within two weeks she’d be seeing little folks who weren’t there and calling the cops to say that the Flemish were invading the complex. This would soon be followed by Raydean shooting out the window at invisible soldiers, then being carted off by the cops to the state hospital. So I wasn’t real sure if Raydean thought Frankie was Flemish, or if she had an accurate read of the situation.
    Frankie didn’t know any of this, but he still looked plenty nervous.
    â€œHow’s about this, Raydean,” I said, eyeing Frankie and praying he didn’t try to run. “How’s about we let him go this time, but if he ever tries anything like this again, then you can shoot him.”
    Raydean thought for a moment, lowered her gun slightly, and looked at me. “He ain’t one of them Flemish, is he?”
    â€œNah, Raydean,” I answered. “He’s a biker.” This seemed to satisfy her.
    â€œGo on, then, son,” she said.
    Frankie moved slowly to his bike and climbed on. I took a few steps toward him, careful not to aggravate Raydean. The adrenaline rush had gone.
    â€œI’m sorry I lashed out at you,” I began.
    Frankie looked a mess. Blood was still running down his face and had stained his shirt.
    â€œIt’s all right,” he said. “Shit happens. Rambo’s an asshole.” He sighed and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “Denise’s in Room 320 at the Blue Marlin, but don’t call till after six. She needs to sleep.” He turned the key in the bike’s ignition and pressed the electric start button. The Harley roared to life. In an instant he was gone.
    I turned around to Raydean, but she, too, was gone. Fluffy stood in the middle of the driveway, staring after Frankie. She wasn’t smiling.

Five
    They call the beachfront in Panama City the Miracle Strip. In the two years I’d lived there, I hadn’t latched on to what the miracle was. Maybe it was a miracle that any one town could attract so many young rednecks. More likely, the Chamber of Commerce wanted the tourists to think that this particular stretch of beach was the best the Panhandle had to offer. I’d given up trying to figure it. I was now sitting on the far western edge of the Miracle Strip, enjoying a piña colada on the deck that runs across the back of Sharky’s.
    It’s hard to miss Sharky’s Beach Club. It is a faded gray, thatched-hut sort of