Sand Pail City

By Daniel Printz

‘Marshall Brickman, mayor of Sand Pail City, can’t escape his past when a newcomer evokes some bitter feelings that could cause the downfall of his political and entrepreneurial empire. During the eighties, Brickman was instrumental in transforming a once sleepy fishing village into a sprawling wonderland of ocean side shopping, restaurants, and golf communities for the retired and affluent. Everything seems to be going fine as he makes preparations to become the new lieutenant governor candidate in the upcoming gubernatorial race. Things begin to unravel fast when Dusty Johnson moves into town, immediately getting the attention of a few locals who can see that the young man bears a strong resemblance to Bill Holly, a fisherman and community leader who was tragically killed when his boat mysteriously caught fire. What results is a snowball of events that inevitably leads to a clash between Brickman, some of the locals, and Brickman’s mafia-like partners who were always suspected of lighting the fire that killed Holly, making it easier to build high-rise condos where the fishermen’s homes once rested. Decorated by the colorful characters that reside among its condos and palmettos, Sand Pail City is also a story of envy, greed, and forgiveness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AUK Authors
• Release date: Jun 10, 2014
• ISBN: 9780983289227

Book preview

Dad...

Chapter One

The Good Mayor

Content would be the best way to describe Mayor Marshall Brickman as he faced Amy, his niece and recent graduate of Florida State’s communications program, with a focus on public relations. After going through numerous candidates (all females) the good mayor decided it was time to throw a little bone of charity to his wife’s side and hired the vivacious young lady to be his PR person.

Okay, let’s hear what you’ve got, she said, all smiles and bronze- skinned, blond, Southern charisma. She wore bifocals, but this only made her more attractive - perhaps too attractive to be taken seriously. The glasses were an attempt, as was the hair, tied in a loose bun, to look more professional, but the poor girl couldn’t hide her sexual allure.

The good mayor cleared his throat as he normally did whenever he said something of importance, or at least something he thought had importance. He was a giant of a man, standing at around six feet, three inches, with a massive, rotund torso. He was an imposing figure even in his breeziest of clothes, which on this day included white pants with a nice, turquoise, collared shirt. He normally walked with his shoulders back and his gut lurching forward. It didn’t take an out-of-towner long to realize that he was a figure of some importance to Sand Pail City. His hair was still as dark as it was when he was a child, although it was thinning on top. This wasn’t a big deal considering that he usually wore a fedora or Panama Jack-style broad-brimmed hat whenever he was milling about in the small Florida coastal town. His face was also pleasant and almost childlike; it was a face that was very expressive, a definite weapon for any politician. On the few occasions he showed anger, people held their breath with apprehension, but when he smiled or laughed, his countenance would have the reverse effect and people couldn’t help but be drawn to him.

To start things off, his voice sounded with some force through the office with its beige carpeting and green colored walls that were covered for the most part by bookcases, trophy and award shelves, and wood paneling that framed the three large windows. His massive, oak desk creaked with his weight as he leaned back against it. The desk, along with his old, leather, swivel chair didn’t match the rest of the office’s décor, but he would never sacrifice comfort for style. I want to start off by saying just how important a day like today is. As a society we need to start showing our compassion and admiration for the poor.

Uh, admiration. Hm. Amy was pensive as she considered this part of the address. How about understanding? We need to show our compassion and understanding for the poor.

Brickman furrowed his brows. No admiration?

No. Admiration isn’t a feeling people normally have for the poor. Amy was sitting in front of him with a pad and pen, taking notes.

Well, I don’t know about that, the mayor replied in his folksy tone. I kinda admire anyone who can put a meal together from the dumpster behind Charlie’s Grill and still keep it down. But hell, that’s probably what he’s been feeding us anyway. Brickman’s easy Southern tone was pleasant to listen to, even to the people from the Northeast who ventured down for the winter months. His one-liners, though stale at times, couldn’t help but evoke a grin.

He shot a look at the third person in his office, his associate Marcus Butoni, who was sitting toward the back corner, as he typically did, in a rattan chair with soft leather cushions reading the New York Times. Marcus glanced up briefly just to show he was still in the vicinity of the conversation. He was an attractive man in his early forties, though he looked younger. The Florida sun was kind to him as he maintained a healthy tan that went well with his groomed, salon-styled hair and goatee. Originally from New York, Butoni was no stranger to keeping up a good appearance. Okay, okay understanding then, Brickman continued. Understanding and compassion for the poor. There aren’t too many places in this state, hell, in this country, where you won’t find the impoverished.

Okay, Amy said, once again stopping him. The hell can be charming in a different kind of address. One that isn’t so serious. Don’t forget you are talking about poverty.

Brickman sighed a little, showing the first signs of impatience. He rubbed the back of his head, nodding in agreement. Okay, no hell. There aren’t too many places, no hell. Hell out, okay? Good. I can remember one time when this transient approached my car.

Amy interrupted again, and Marshall tried to correct himself as they stumbled on each other’s words. I don’t know about using that word, she managed to say.

Which one? Transient? Yeah.

I was gonna use panhandler, but that doesn’t sound too good either. We used to use bum back before your PC squad locked it up with some other choice words I won’t bother saying.

Could you go with homeless? Or indigent?

Indigent? Marshall gave her a pleasant beam. Now, Amy darling, just because these people are poor it doesn’t mean they can’t have babies. A brief laugh sounded from Marcus’s corner. Brickman grinned at him.

You like that? Amy grinned and looked down briefly.

Uh, I’m not sure that, uh, she stammered.

Hey, Amy, the mayor said with the reassuring voice that had won so many over. I know what it means. I was just messing with you, come on now. You gotta loosen up a little if you’re gonna ride on the Brickman Express.

Ask him to spell it, Marcus called out with his rapid-fire, New York accent.

Hey, we had a deal, Brickman returned. Just twenty words out of you during this meeting and your balance is now around ten. So indigent’s good? He looked down at Amy with expectation.

Well yes, but now I’m thinking it might sound too close to ignorant, and people might not make that distinction because -

Because they are. Ignorant, that is, Marshall said with a grin. How about impoverished?

Brickman pointed at her with a wink. That’s my girl; impoverished works for me. The desk creaked with his shifting. Now this impoverished man who approached my car, a Negro if I remember correctly.

Uh, race may not be relevant, Amy quickly said.

Brickman pinched at his nose, a sign of frustration. Amy glanced back toward Marcus, who was immersed in his paper and didn’t offer any assistance.

Okay, Brickman continued. Impoverished man came to my car. Now he had this look about him. He had strong-looking arms, a strong-looking back, a healthy looking face, no ticks, or lice, or scrapes, or bruises, not a single nasty scab.

Uh ...

Amy, can you let me finish?

Sure. I’ll just give you my notes after. Sorry.

That’s okay. You’re new. Anyway, he looked healthy is what I’m trying to say. So I asked myself, ‘Why is it that in a country such as this, in this great state of Florida, can’t a man as healthy and strong as this be working? Why can’t he put up that next great structure somewhere? Or uh, uh, work on a road? Or pick up trash from our streets and our parks and our beaches?’ There is no reason why a young man in this day and time shouldn’t be working and exerting his strength and efforts for the betterment of all. That’s why I have an idea, a plan that I will go over with my good friend, Governor Ron Mirestone. My plan involves the construction of several small communities all over the state. Communities like any other for people to live in. What people, do you ask? Why, the same people who will be performing the duties I just mentioned. These people will work and exert themselves for the good of society. And in exchange for this, we give them roofs, we clothe them. Each community will have a cafeteria providing healthy meals. Instead of begging and living on the streets, they’ll be working and living in our structures, doing what they can to become a great part of our society.

Marcus proceeded to clap even though he was still focusing on the newspaper in his lap. Amy looked down, annoyed by Marcus’s clapping and also befuddled at the address. She struggled to mill over what was just said by the good mayor.

That was good, Marsh, Marcus said, glancing up from his paper. Too bad Lincoln wasn’t shot a year or two sooner, huh?

Brickman squinted at him. Lincoln? What’s he got to do with this? I, uh, think what he’s trying to say is, uh, Amy struggled to find mincing words. So let me get this straight. These people, these workers, will be compensated for their labor with housing and food, right? Nothing else? You’re gonna propose this to Governor Mirestone?

Well, I said we’d clothe them too. There was more silence as Brickman looked over at a smiling Marcus, again reading his paper but enjoying the moment.

It, uh, Amy squirmed in her seat, wishing she was down on the nearby shore. It’s a good idea in theory, but isn’t it just a little unorthodox?

Oh, I get it. Money is what this is about.

Well, even prison jobs offer some compensation.

Of course they’ll be paid, Marshall said with humor, as if he hadn’t considered the possibility they wouldn’t be paid. Sure, the state will be paying them. And it’s not like we’ll be forcing them into these camps. Communities, whatever. I won’t use the word camp in the address, I promise. He also wanted to add that food, clothing, and shelter were what the struggling proletariat class worked for anyway. He also wanted to mention the effect his plan would have on the state budget by cutting costs on current state programs aimed at cleaning and maintaining various public operations. But he knew he had already trespassed on potentially dangerous ground for politics and thought that perhaps it was just another great idea among many others that the world wasn’t ready for.

Amy, he said with a beaming grin. I was only kidding. Really? Which part?

All of it. I was just testing you. See how you’d react. Make sure you’d put your foot down even on your own uncle.

She smiled and chuckled. Oh, I was wondering.

Come on now, Marshall said as he reached over and patted her on the shoulder. You gotta loosen up, darling. You’re in Sand Pail City now. With a name like that, you know we got a sense of humor down here.

Yeah, I know. I’m just nervous. First day jitters. She offered a smile.

Why don’t you run along? Get some lunch down at the waterside there. They got plenty of good places to chow down.

Okay. Thanks again for giving me this chance. She smiled as she collected her things, putting her notebook in her attaché case.

You’re family, no thanks necessary. The desk squeaked in relief as Marshall stood up and shook hands with her.

She smiled back at him and at Marcus as she turned to make her way out of the office. Marcus sauntered over and leaned against the desk by Marshall, looking at the door.

That really was your address wasn’t it? Marcus asked.

Brickman sighed. Poverty Awareness Day. Do they have to have a day for everything? How about a Mayor Brickman Day? A day when I don’t have to make any speeches or feel guilty about having dirty thoughts concerning my wife’s family.

Marcus smirked. Your wife’s family means your family. You sick bastard.

Come on now. I take an admiring eyeful like any normal man. Doesn’t mean I would do anything even if she was tap dancing naked on my desk. Except maybe tell her to stop.

There was a snicker from Marcus. Got any more images you wanna give me? Anyway, you take your eyeful. I prefer handfuls.

Marcus, Marshall uttered through the unlit cigar hanging in his mouth. You so much as give her free drinks at that Guido joint of yours, they’re gonna find your gonads in some gator stool.

How dare you talk about my restaurant like that. You try the new veal over there yet?

No, can’t say that I have.

You better quick. That new chef I got is amazing. People are swarming in. Might not be able to get you a seat.

I’ll get this amazing chef of yours to make me a seat, Marshall said, walking over to the large bay window where he had an admiring view of Sand Pail City, a perfect cluster of hotels and high-priced condos tucked away perfectly in a little bay on the Atlantic side of Florida. He took a wistful look at the row of shops and restaurants that ran along Sand Street, parallel to the beach. The view always brought him a surge of affirmation and pride. He knew that if it weren’t for him and his associates, the perfect little place before him would not have been the same. It only took a few years to turn a shabby, unimpressive fishing village into the secret gem of the East Coast, a virtual fairyland for old retirees from the North with plenty of money to spend. The best golfing, shopping, and dining for miles around could all be found in this charming coastal city. It’s good to reward the hard-working achievers of the world with a little paradise before they die, thought Marshall. Yes, the view was indeed a good one.

Chapter Two

New Kid In Town

Dusty Johnson was never particularly fond of moving. The lifting, the straining, and the awkward angles of wood and metal that were so eager to tear into flesh all contributed to his dislike for the activity that seemed to dominate his young life thus far, as he moved from one apartment to another. The miles of asphalt that had carried him from Charleston, South Carolina, to his new home were coming to an end as he steered the large Ryder truck off of I-95. With every squeak of the trailer that was towing his Accord, he would glance back, images of the trailer coming loose at sixty-plus miles an hour on the busy Interstate going through his mind. The trailer remained, however, and Dusty tried to relax, taking in the various palms, live oaks, and mangrove trees that greeted him as he made his way toward Sand Pail City.

Pam had arrived at the recently built apartment complex an hour or so before Dusty. She grew impatient driving behind the Ryder truck so she sped past him, leaving Dusty with the fear that his trailer would come loose and wreak havoc on a stranger instead of wreaking havoc on someone he knew.

The apartment was new; the fresh paint smell was obvious in the standard living room. It was one of several apartment buildings that had been built recently on the outskirts of Sand Pail City due to the town’s growth and influx of young people who enjoyed the idea of living by the ocean, even if most of the jobs were either at restaurants or hotels. Dusty had no idea what he would end up doing, another reason for feeling dubious about the move. Pam took in a deep breath as she looked around the empty living room, spotting the kitchen area and sliding doors that led to a small balcony.

Nice place, huh? she asked.

Yeah, it’s okay I guess, Dusty remarked, wanting to ask why she picked a place on the second floor.

We’re gonna have so much fun here, baby, she said as she wrapped her arms around his waist. The whole moving experience had been a tough one for Dusty, who in his twenty-six years had never moved in with a girl. Pam had been his steady girlfriend for the past couple of years, and it was inevitable that such a step would be taken. He feared the steps that remained and often studied Pam, trying to figure out if marriage and children were part of her agenda. And he knew there was an agenda - every girl had one once they found that good, reliable, somewhat solid man they could lean against in order to protect them from a life of solitude and uncertainty.

She must have sensed his discomfort and used the same remedy that girls from past centuries used to placate their men. Dusty was tired from the long journey, but thoughts of breaking in the new pad kept him sane on the road, and now they had a nice cushion of time before her mom arrived.

When they finally got around to carrying the furniture up the stairs, which, to Dusty’s discontent contained two turns, the young man’s frustrations returned. He wasn’t sure if it was exhaustion from the lovemaking or the fact that Pam was of the fair sex that made the process of moving such an ordeal. Her arms would quiver as she held her end of a table or chair. Wait and stop were constant in her vocabulary. Many times, they would have to rest on one of the stair landings for a few moments before she was ready to continue. He decided that the couches could wait until her Mom arrived. He was glad she hadn’t arrived early enough to catch them, certain that if she had, she probably would have made a big deal over the fact that they were frolicking on freshly cleaned carpet.

So which room is yours? Mrs. Blume asked Dusty as she walked through the apartment, glancing from side to side, still wearing her large sunglasses.

Dusty was prepared to chuckle but stopped when Pam shot him a look of warning before responding promptly. This one, she said, pointing to the smaller guest bedroom. Mrs. Blume took off the sunglasses and looked around carefully, as if exploring a crime scene. She sauntered over to the end of the hall, toward the master bedroom.

Cute and charming were the terms she used to describe the place, though she did give the tile work in the bathrooms and kitchen much scrutiny.

Dusty will sleep on the couch tonight so you can take the guest room, Pam said, correcting herself. Her mom gave her a look. She was an old-fashioned lady, raised in the South with the belief that marriage was a prerequisite for sharing a roof with a member of the opposite sex. She was not naive, however, and knew very well that the couple would not be sleeping in separate rooms. She gave Dusty the briefest grin she could manage. She had always been a little wary of the boyfriend who, for some reason, failed to graduate from the University of South Carolina, though he only needed six credits to do so. Maybe the world has changed, maybe they all have finally gone mad, Mrs. Blume sometimes pondered. Men and women were reversing roles. Pam was a perfect example. The whole reason they moved to Sand Pail City was the offer she had to be the new guidance counselor at Willow Reed Middle School. Mrs. Blume could only hope that the school system would eventually increase their employees’ pay, shivering at the thought of a child being born into her daughter’s situation.

How much is the rent? the great matriarch asked. Twelve hundred a month, Pam replied.

Mrs. Blume made a responsive face, though she was trying to calculate what twelve hundred times twelve plus expenses would come to. She tried not to look at Dusty as she also threw his maintenance fees into the calculation. She then tried to arrive at a minimum figure he would have to earn in order for her beloved daughter to be somewhat comfortable in this new environment.

Tomorrow’s Sunday, and you know what that means, Mrs. Blume said as she made her way back through the living room.

Church? Pam offered.

Thicker classifieds, her mom returned, glancing at Dusty, though again trying not to be too transparent.

It wasn’t any easier moving furniture with Mrs. Blume’s help. She gave Dusty a look of utter disbelief when he asked her to get an end of the couch with Pam. They still had to rest stair by stair, and she kept making gasping, straining sounds whenever they lifted their side. Dusty was at first scared of the damage this was doing to the thin lady and also wondered about the convenience of Pam’s father having to go to Houston for a meeting on the same weekend.

You know I saw some nice four-story apartment buildings closer to I-95, Mrs. Blume said through exhausted breaths. Why didn’t you get one of those? We could be carrying this up four flights instead of only two.

Mom, Pam said with annoyance.

I’m just saying, you probably should’ve found someone else to help you with this. If I was made for moving things, you’d see me in a bandana and T-shirt with the sleeves cut off.

Dusty couldn’t help but laugh at the image. Pam followed up with a laugh of her own, but her mom only gave them a slight grin that was more out of annoyance than humor. Will you be laughing when you’re applying heat packs to my back tonight?

Dusty actually liked Mrs. Blume and her sarcastic charm. He wasn’t too annoyed when she ended up staying for a couple of nights while he slept on the couch. Pam surreptitiously joined him in the wee hours, but it was more nerve-wracking to Dusty than it was enjoyable. He almost flung Pam to the floor every time he heard the building settle, petrified at the thought of Mrs. Blume catching them in the act. Pam seemed to enjoy it, showing even more fervor than normal, prompting Dusty to cover her mouth a couple of times.

Her mom finally left so Pam could start work without any more distractions, though she did hang around for most of Monday, keeping tabs on Dusty as he sat on the couch, marking the classifieds and wishing she would leave. She finally did, and Dusty settled in the master bedroom. At the first scent of flatulence, Pam turned to him in disgust.

No, if you do that, you’re staying in the guest room.

The bed quivered with his laughter as he buried himself under the covers.

I’m not even kidding, she continued. Why do you think I got a two- bedroom place?

Dusty rolled on his back and looked up at the ceiling, humor dying from his countenance. You think we’re gonna like it here?

She responded, not even looking away from her laptop. Why not? It’s a great place. Lots of stuff to do. Good restaurants. Good shopping. The beach.

Yeah, great. Sounds almost like, I don’t know, Charleston, he responded flatly.

Come on, Dust. Soak it up. Charleston’s great, but we lived there for years. Weren’t you getting sick of it?

He took a deep breath. What am I gonna do here? Most of the jobs are either shady sales or working in a restaurant or doing like, uh, manual labor.

What do you wanna do? Huh? You figure that out yet?

He was silent for a few moments, still looking up at the ceiling’s texture. Let’s see, I was a history major.

Right. And if you took those last two courses, maybe at the community college here, you can finally get that elusive degree and teach or something.

Ugh.

Ugh, ugh, she mocked him. You gotta do something, babe. My back’s barely strong enough to carry furniture; I know it won’t carry you.

As much as he wanted to argue on behalf of his longing to do nothing, he knew she was right. Despite the seemingly depleted Sand Pail City job market, he felt blessed. Pam was the daughter of some family friends, and it was his parents who suggested he take her out when she was home during Christmas break several years back. She was attending a small girl’s college in North Carolina. Dusty wasn’t immediately attracted to her. Though there was nothing physically wrong with the auburn-haired, fair-skinned girl, there was nothing overtly desirable about her either. Nevertheless, she was a solid person, earning her way onto the dean’s list and graduating cum laude. The sex was fine, but at times it was pretty vanilla. Still, he felt fortunate to have her, though the thought of any commitment larger than what they had already made frightened him.

It was an agonizing time for her conservative parents, who weren’t sure if the shaggy, dark-haired young man was right for their accomplished daughter. They were fearful that Dusty was one of those new Generation Y slackers who wasn’t good at committing to anything: family, school, careers, or marriage. They worried over the situation but knew that, for some reason, their daughter had strong feelings for this young man who did contain some degree of charm. Their hope was that the well-disciplined Pam would turn him in the right direction.

Dusty was adopted at a young age by the Johnsons. They were long- time friends with the Blumes - the respective fathers were friends from high school. The Blumes tried to be easy on Dusty, realizing how difficult it must have been when he was an orphan. On the plus side, he was an attractive young man with some smarts, so they did nothing to discourage the union. They felt he made a good-looking pair with their little princess. Pam wasn’t an overwhelming beauty, but she had some fine features. Her hair was lengthy and had a light texture to it. She was tall for a girl and thin; however, her figure was often covered in conservative wear, only occasionally breaking out something more alluring. She was more comfortable with the base foundation make-up and standard clothing, nothing more.

I got a call today about an interview, Dusty offered to make up for the flatulence.

Really? That’s great - where? She was still distracted with her nightly e-mail.

It’s nothing much. Just some landscaping stuff. Some place at, uh, Golden Shores or something.

You mean Golden Lakes? Yeah, I guess.

Wow. That’s supposed to be a pretty ritzy place. Hm.

We went by there. Remember, when mom was here? It’s one of those gated communities.

I’ll talk to the guy. See what it’s about. It’s not much, but it’ll help with things. His voice trailed off, flat and tired with the late hour and the dry subject.

That’ll be nice, thanks, she said automatically, still absorbed in replying to an e-mail letting one of her friends know about her new location. Dusty waited for the typing to stop so perhaps he could get a little sexual release before sleep. It never came, so he drifted off with thoughts of all the horrible jobs in the world going through his head. He found himself with many uneasy feelings concerning his life and where it was heading. He wasn’t sure if it was all anxiety or if some boredom was mixed in as well. At twenty-six, he was getting a feeling of what that next step would be like, and it terrified him.

Chapter Three

Butoni’s

The young couple celebrated their first week in Sand Pail City and the first week of Pam’s new job with a night on the town. They were also celebrating because Dusty had just gotten hired as a maintenance worker for the Golden Lakes private golf community. At least that’s what Pam added in their toast, which was made over an inexpensive bottle of wine at the apartment to help curb any excessive spending that night. Dusty wasn’t sure why they were toasting the fact that he, a near college grad, was working for almost minimum wage for what was sure to be grueling labor. He missed Charleston and his old job - helping his friend John Maston manage his father’s café.

Why don’t you just apply at one of these places? Pam asked as they strolled through the Waterfront Wonderland, an area of fine shops and restaurants nestled along the shore just north of the Point, an elegant condominium complex that sat closer to the water. Its towers looked down on all the tourists who carried shopping bags or sipped fruity drinks that looked like they were made from crayons.

Nah, Dusty said with little life. It’s different when you’re working at a restaurant your friend owns as opposed to one where they don’t know you from anyone else. I’ve done both, believe me.

Okay, cut grass then. Just trying to come up with something.

I could be a trophy boyfriend. Go to the gym, work on my abs, and just be your boy toy.

I’ll have to share you with the apartment managers then. I can’t cover that rent myself.

Dusty took in the cool breeze and the not-so-far-away sounds of the ocean. He was starting to like this strange, new place despite its lack of prospects.

Hey, that place is supposed to be good. Wanna eat there? She pointed toward the lit sign that read butoni’s in cursive.

Because it wasn’t quite snowbird season and because of the late hour, they were able to get a table on the patio, where several overhead fans kept them cool. On the opposite side, in a slightly darkened corner, were several men of various ages who spoke and laughed with drunken enthusiasm; a cornucopia of ashtrays, stained dishes, and glasses sat in front of them. Marcus was in the middle, sitting back against the low brick wall, holding a cigar and talking