Get Strange

By J.C. Bruce

Weird news columnist Alexander Strange's day began when someone poisoned his fried okra. Bad enough, but, worse, it was meant for his dog, Fred. Now he's being framed for the hanging death of a colleague. Who's behind this and why is he in their sights?

When the going gets weird, Strange gets going. He starts by corralling some

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tropic Press LLC
• Release date: Mar 31, 2020
• ISBN: 9781734290356

J.C. Bruce

J.C. Bruce is a journalist and author of The Strange Files series of mystery novels and the monthly Get Smart newsletter.

Book preview

title

Get Strange

Copyright © 2020 J.C. Bruce

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed Attention: Permissions Coordinator, at the address below.

ISBN: 978-1-7347848-1-7 (Hardback)

ISBN: 978-1-7342903-4-9 (Paperback)

ISBN: 978-1-7342903-5-6 (eBook)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019920362

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

Book design by Damonza.com

Website design by Bumpy Flamingo LLC

Printed by Tropic🌀Press in the United States of America.

First printing edition 2020

Tropic🌀Press LLC

P.O. Box 110758

Naples, Florida 34108

www.Tropic.Press

Contents

Books by J.C. Bruce

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Afterword

Author’s Acknowledgements

Books by J.C. Bruce

The Strange Files

Florida Man: A Story from the Files of Alexander Strange

Get Strange

Strange Currents

To Sandy, Kacey, and Logan

THE STRANGE FILES

Giant Crocodile Devours Burglar

By Alexander Strange

Tropic🌀Press

A twenty-foot crocodile as fast as a horse killed a burglar in Belle Meade, Florida, dragging him into a nearby swamp, police reported.

Mary Jo Simmons was alone in her double-wide when she heard glass breaking. The 76-year-old retired school teacher grabbed a Louisville Slugger and whacked the burglar’s hand as he reached through the door’s shattered window.

Screaming, the man backed away from the house, police said, but was caught in the jaws of the gigantic reptile.

Probably should give the croc a medal, sheriff’s Deputy Clayton Jones told a Belle Meade radio station.

Biologists have other concerns. The creature appears to be a cross-breed of a North American crocodile and an imported Nile croc from Africa.

Nile crocodiles are far more vicious than our native species, biologist Annabelle Nott told me. Unfortunately, they’re mating.

The population of native crocodiles, once nearly extinct, has rebounded since they found homes in the warm water circulating in the cooling canals of the Turkey Point nuclear power plant in Homestead.

Could radioactive water alter their genetics?

Uh, we don’t like to talk about that, Nott said.

STRANGE FACT: A crocodile cannot stick out its tongue.

Weirdness knows no boundaries. Keep up at www.TheStrangeFiles.com. Contact Alexander Strange at [e-mail].

CHAPTER 1

The killers boogered-up the first attempt on my life when they poisoned my fried okra. They mistakenly assumed the vegetable would end up on my dinner plate.

Negatory.

I’d rather eat sushi than okra, and I’ll be starving during the Zombie Apocalypse before I eat raw fish. But my dog, Fred, loves okra. Fresh, steamed, deep-fried, he doesn’t care that it has the texture of snot.

I was in the checkout line at a local deli, my small cardboard box of fried okra in my shopping basket, when a statuesque brunette with flawless legs and short shorts reached down to pick up the credit card she’d dropped.

Yes, keen observer of the human condition that I am, I did not fail to notice her as she bent over. It’s a professional obligation, you understand, as a reporter.

I was absorbed in this task of journalistic scrutiny when I felt something nudge my basket, and I reluctantly turned to see a fat middle-aged man in a floral Hawaiian shirt standing behind me.

Must be day for drops, he said. His accent was unusual, maybe Eastern European. He retrieved a set of car keys with a black fob from my basket.

I was annoyed he distracted me from my anthropological study of the species Pulchra femina, but I am nothing if not civil.

No worries, I told him.

I thought no more about it until I returned to the Miss Demeanor, the fishing trawler I live aboard in Goodland, a funky little island town off the southwest coast of Florida. When I poured the okra into Fred’s bowl, I noticed a sheen on its crispy brown surface, as if it had been coated in butter. Hadn’t seen that when I scooped it out of the deli bin.

Fred bounded over—all eight pounds of him—his tail wagging. He stuck his nose into the bowl, shook his head—sending his huge ears flapping—then shuffled backward.

What’s wrong, buddy?

Gerruff.

Since when don’t you like okra? I nudged the bowl towards him, but he backed off several more steps.

Gerrrruffff!

Fred’s vocabulary may be limited, but I knew he was unhappy. I picked up the bowl and sniffed. I expected it to smell horrible, and it did. It was okra, after all. But this was different. I couldn’t place it at first, then it hit me:

Almonds. Sort of. But chemically. Somehow.

I’m a mystery junkie, and I recalled that the smell of bitter almonds is the signature of a particularly lethal poison: cyanide. Not sure what bitter is supposed to smell like, but I knew almonds.

Maybe it was my imagination, but I also felt a little lightheaded and nauseous. I remembered cyanide is a gas at higher temperatures. It’s Florida. Temperatures are always high. If Fred’s okra were poisoned, maybe I’d inhaled a whiff.

I set the bowl on the galley counter and fumbled about my small pantry for a box of Ziploc bags. I sealed the bowl inside, then walked onto the deck with Fred for some fresh air. I left my inanimate shipmates, Mona and Spock, inside. Since they didn’t breathe, I knew they’d be OK. Then I pulled my iPhone from a pocket in my cargo shorts.

911: Do you have a problem?

Me: Yes. I think someone poisoned my okra.

911: Did you say okra?

Me: Yes, okra.

911: Are you saying you think someone tried to poison your food?

Me: Not mine, technically. Fred’s.

911: Who’s Fred?

Me: My dog.

911: You have a dog named Fred?

Me: Yes.

911: Strange.

Me: No, that’s me.

911: You’re strange?

Me: In the flesh. Can you send a CSI?

The line died.

No. That’s my name, Alexander Strange. Too late.

I had one more number to dial. I knew this sheriff’s detective. We played poker together from time to time at the dog track, but I dreaded calling him.

Still, cyanide.

Henderson, I said when he answered his cell phone. You sober?

Whaddaya want, Strange?

I think somebody poisoned my okra. When he didn’t respond, I asked, You still there?

Yeah, I’m here. But I could have sworn I heard you say somebody tried to poison you.

Yes. My okra.

Your what?

Okra. You know, green, a vegetable, tastes like buggers.

"Are you sober?"

As a judge.

That got a snort. We both knew judges. In fact, a judge—my uncle in Arizona—owned the trawler where I spent my nights, dry-docked, resting on bricks and oil cans in a weed-covered vacant lot.

Living the dream.

I’m in Everglades City, about to finish up, Henderson said. I’ll meet you there.

I’ll be at Stan’s. I feel a cocktail coming on.

The Miss Demeanor rested between two of Goodland’s best known watering holes: Stan’s Idle Hour and the Little Bar. Stan’s is a sprawling outdoor eatery and drinkery specializing in burgers, booze, and bikers. The Little Bar is famous for its exotic menu.

I descended the ladder propped against the Miss Demeanor’s hull and walked over to Stan’s outdoor bar and grabbed a seat. The bartender had green hair, a nose ring, and gauged ears. Tres chic. I placed my order, and she returned shortly with my drink in one hand—a Cuba Libre, my preferred ethanol delivery system—and a plate of food in the other.

Try some of these, she said. They’re different.

I’m all about free food, so I grabbed one. But given my earlier experience, I took a moment to give it the once-over: No skull and crossbones, no telltale scent of bitter almonds, no expire-by date. I took a bite.

Tastes fishy, I said. What is it?

Grouper balls.

I picked another golf-ball sized piece off the plate and examined it. Grouper balls, huh? Must have been a very big fish.

She rolled her eyes. They’re from the Little Bar. My aunt gave them to me. She works there.

Ah, I said. Sage.

You live over there, right? she said, gesturing to the weedy lot next door.

Home sweet home.

How’d your boat get that hole in its side?

Pirates.

She gave me another eye roll then made her way down the bar offering her grouper balls to other customers.

The notification screen on my iPhone flashed with a new email. Didn’t recognize the sender, but when you write about news of the weird a lot of your emails are from people you don’t know or really don’t want to know.

Mr. Strange, we have a mutual friend who is missing. Please call.

I felt a clunk in my chest. A premature ventricular heartbeat. I get them when I’m stressed. They’re not fatal, just scare the bejesus out of me. Which, of course, is stressful.

I tapped my reply on the small screen’s keyboard:

Who’s that?

But I feared I knew the answer.

It took a couple of minutes to receive his response. Would have been much faster using text messaging, but I rarely give out my cell phone number. Finally, it arrived and we exchanged a flurry of short emails:

I’m in Goodland. Can we meet?

Who are you?

You ask a lot of questions.

Bring some answers. I’m at Stan’s.

As if poisoned okra weren’t bad enough, now this. Some days it just doesn’t pay to get out of your berth. I took a sip of my cocktail. The melting ice was diluting it. I hate it when that happens, but it’s one of the hazards of imbibing outdoors in the subtropics.

I took another sip. Please, God, don’t let it be her.

A cloud of cigarette smoke materialized in front of me and I waved it away. I shot a death-stare at the middle-aged blonde on the barstool next to me, but she didn’t disintegrate.

Second-hand smoke won’t hurt you, honey, I promise, she said. She flashed a smile revealing inflamed gums and yellow teeth.

Whatever.

She turned away, directing her attention to the bandstand where a group of women were lying on their backs, legs gyrating in the air, doing the Buzzard Lope, the signature dance of Stan’s Idle Hour.

Come on now, girls, you know what to do with those legs, the emcee urged as the women continued kicking into the air like a flock of drunken vultures.

Green Hair nodded at my watery drink. Refill?

Pacing myself. Supposed to meet some people.

She scanned the dance floor with its collection of wife beaters, cowboy hats, Harley vests, full-body tats, and feathered boas. The usual.

One’s a cop, I said.

Don’t see any polished shoes.

Not much about Stan’s is polished. The bar anchors a small inlet the locals call Buzzards Bay South. That has a fine, piratical ring to it, doesn’t it? Docks line the edge of the cove, creating a sheltered marina for pleasure craft and fishing boats venturing daily into the Gulf of Mexico. From Goodland, it’s a straight shot south to Key West along the Ten Thousand Islands off the southwest coast of Florida. Like Key West, Goodland is where people come to get lost. It’s a tiny refuge for the discontent, the beat-up, scoundrels on the lam, and future victims of the aforementioned scoundrels—a perfect symbiosis.

Green Hair poured another ounce of rum into my diluted drink. On me.

I raised my glass in salute. Cheers. Never look a gift Bacardi in the mouth, that’s my motto.

Greetings, a middle-aged man approaching the bar said to Green Hair in an overloud voice. He wore a white straw hat with a flat rim and top. I think it’s called a boater. Very popular at political conventions. I glanced past the blonde as he mounted the bar stool and noticed the rest of his getup—madras shorts, white belt, knee-high black sox and wingtips: the Full Cleveland. It’s Florida. We get some of that. And who knows, maybe thirty years from now I’ll be sitting on a barstool in my cargo shorts, flip flops, and ball cap and some punk will look at me disdainfully because my fashion sense is so Millennial.

While Green Hair filled Full Cleveland’s drink order, I picked up my iPhone and scrolled through the rest of my email and text messages. It distracted me from Full Cleveland’s annoying chatter.

I have led a most interesting life, he said in an odd, nasal voice, maybe with a hint of Cajun. I have sold tractors. I have sold nuclear reactors. But my best job ever? Selling urinal screens.

Urinal screens? Blondie squeaked.

Yes, yes. Traveled all over this great land of ours, selling urinal screens in every town from Miami to Moline.

I turned away and noticed a squadron of pelicans above the marina. One of the birds circled, spotted something tasty, and dove, prehistoric wings akimbo, splatting into the murky water as if shot from the sky. It emerged with a fish swelling the pouch under its bill. Near it, a blob of what looked like seaweed drifted toward the docks.

In a fury of flapping and splashing, the pelican took off again, then alighted atop my trawler next door, perching on the Miss Demeanor’s roofline, which extends over the bow like the bill of a baseball cap. The bird arched its head and wriggled lunch down its throat. Its feathery neck bulged as the fish descended from beak to gullet. The bird rose to its full height and appraised its surroundings. Proud of itself. Mighty hunter. Then it took an enormous dump on the trawler’s bench seat, splattering Fred, who had been sunbathing there, which set him to yapping.

Magnificent creature, the blabby tourist said, pointing at the bird. The blonde sitting between us lit a Salem and nodded.

Yes, yes, we all evacuate. When we do it, what better opportunity to capture someone’s attention with an advertisement?

He then rattled on—a nonstop diarrheic fire hose of jabber—about his career selling urinal screens, whatever they were. At first I thought they might cover the windows of Porta-Potties to keep the flies out. But then he told the poor woman they are those colorful, perforated plastic mats in the bottom of the pissers in men’s rooms. His job: selling advertising on them—a big hit at truck stops.

We all gotta go, and when you do—bingo!

I marveled at his lack of taste and why he thought it was so clever the advertising message on the heat-sensitive screens only materialized when peed upon. The blonde turned to me and offered a weak smile, like I would rescue her.

You’re on your own.

She shook her head, reached into her purse, and set a ten-dollar bill on the bar. You’ll excuse me, she said to the chatterbox. Maybe you should think about selling tractors again. She slid off the barstool and headed toward the ladies’ room. No magic urinal screens there.

Full Cleveland slid over to the empty seat between us and poked me in the ribs with his elbow. He pointed toward the target of the pelican’s enormous bowel movement. You think dat’s why they call it a poop deck? His accent said New Orleans and I could smell the Old Spice radiating off what I surmised was his freshly shaved face—he’d cut himself under his left ear and it was still seeping.

I didn’t own a urinal and didn’t need any magic screens. And I certainly didn’t want to hear any more from this guy. I debated for a moment whether to mention the blood on his cheek, then decided against it. It would only invite more blabber. I pulled out my wallet. It’s made of translucent blue plastic with a Superman emblem embroidered on the front.

That captured the green-haired bartender’s attention. Cool, she said. Where’d you get it?

Friend of mine.

His name Kent? she asked, playful.

I could be playful, too. "Yeah. We worked together at the Daily Planet."

I always had a thing for Superman. She rested her elbows on the bar and leaned toward me. Wondered what it would be like to be with a Man of Steel.

Lois says he’s faster than a speeding bullet.

She pursed her lips in mock disapproval. "You got any super powers?"

Yeah. I can make rum disappear. I downed the rest of my drink.

My name’s Gabby, by the way, she said. In case you’re wondering.

Hi, Gabby. I’m Alex.

Full Cleveland jumped in: Alexander Strange. Weird news reporter extraordinaire.

I turned to confront him. You? You’re the guy who emailed me?

He shot me with his finger.

Do I look like I need toilet seats?

Urinal screens. He flashed a brief but mirthless smile. We need to talk.

I could see my reflection in his mirrored sunglasses. Unlike Full Cleveland, I needed a shave. I could also see a crowd gathering behind me at the edge of the dock. That’s when the shouting started.

Oh, God!

What the fuck?

"Dios mio!"

I slipped off the barstool and pressed against the semicircle of gawkers. I peered over their heads—an advantage of being vertically gifted—and could see the source of the commotion: A tangle of dark, salt-encrusted hair floated off the edge of the dinghy dock, splayed outward like a jellyfish, just breaking the waterline. Beneath the murky water, I could make out what appeared to be a naked body and the remains of a human face. I say remains because it appeared the crabs and other sea critters had been using it for hors d’oeuvres.

I shouldered my way through the rubberneckers, clambered down the gangway to the floating dock, and shouted: Somebody call 911. Instinctive, but pointless: We were well past the point of medical intervention.

The body shuddered, and then, as if possessed, jolted a foot to my right. A dorsal fin pierced the water’s surface.

Fuck me!

I dropped into a full squat and almost lost my balance, pulled forward by the weight of my messenger bag, which not only held the poisoned okra but my heavy digital camera. I felt a hand grip the back of my T-shirt steadying me. I looked over my shoulder to see Full Cleveland. I handed him the satchel and bent down again.

Waterlogged bodies are heavy. I pulled it two feet out of the drink when the shark struck again. The impact twisted the corpse in a counter-clockwise turn nearly tearing my grip away. I hung on, stupidly—did I want to fall into the marina with a feeding shark?—and nearly lost my balance for a second time. I heaved upward and the body emerged from the bay, first to midsection and then, finally, all of her.

Yes, it was the corpse of a young woman.

And there were three other things I realized, some immediately, some later:

One: I knew her.

Two: Full Cleveland was not an ordinary urinal screen salesman.

Three: I thought I knew all about weird. I had much to learn.

CHAPTER 2

I felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked up and it was Full Cleveland. The green-haired bartender stood beside him holding a tablecloth. Showing uncommon poise, she crouched down and gently draped it over the woman’s naked corpse.

She stood up, took my hand, and said, Come with me, Alex.

She led me up the gangway to an empty table a few yards away from the edge of the dock. Sit here and I’ll bring you something.

Full Cleveland walked over and studied me for a moment, as if I were a curious laboratory specimen. Then he removed his straw hat, wiped his bald head with a handkerchief, and replaced the boater. I’m so sorry, he said. It appears I was too late. You’re going to have your hands full with the police for a while. I’ll call you tomorrow.

Like tomorrow I’d be in a better mood to buy magic toilet screens.

The blare of sirens pierced the air. In a few moments, a uniformed sheriff’s deputy swept past my table and strode down to the floating dock and the body. I guessed what might happen next and it did: the sound of retching.

I looked toward the dock and saw several people pointing in my direction. In a few minutes, the deputy walked over and pulled up a chair.

They say you pulled her out, he said. Couple people said you seemed to know her. That right?

Yes. Her name is…was…Maria Martinez.

The deputy wrote that down in his notebook and looked back at me, expectantly. Like it would be the most normal thing in the world for me to continue talking, telling him about her. But the train from Normal had left the station.

So, how did you know her? he finally asked.

I took a moment to gather my thoughts. I had assigned Maria to check out a tip I received regarding missing evidence at the Collier County Sheriff’s Office. She believed something was rotten in the department. It made me hesitant to share details of the story to one of the sheriff ’s deputies, so I decided to give him an abridged version of how we met.

She was a freelancer, I said.

He raised his eyebrows.

A freelance writer.

The deputy nodded and scribbled it down. How long did you know her?

"Not very. We met a few months ago in Fort Myers. At a press conference. She was stringing for The Nation. I work for Tropic Press."

Stringing?

Freelance reporting.

Another nod and more note taking.

"And The Nation?"

It’s a magazine.

It is, in fact, America’s oldest continuously published magazine and self-described flagship of the left. I knew this because Maria mentioned it. Ad nauseam.

And this press conference. What was that about?

The big announcement for the Ark II.

Oh yeah. About the lottery to see who gets to go, that one?

Yeah.

His head bobbed up and down. My mom and dad bought lottery tickets.

Good for them. Anyway, that’s where Maria and I met.

The deputy’s cell phone rang, and while he took the call I recalled my first meeting with Maria. Our butts were numb sitting in uncomfortable folding metal chairs waiting for the Rev. Lee Roy Chitango to arrive. Maria’s wavy obsidian hair framed an upturned nose and liquid amber eyes. Her librarian glasses sparkled under the TV floodlights. She wore mismatched socks, pink running shoes, and a short violet-and-white striped dress. Her press cred said The Nation, so I broke the ice with a sure-fire conversation-starter with a liberal.

Here’s a bit of trivia for you: Did you know Thomas Edison, when he lived here, skinned manatees to make belt drives for his phonographs?

Would she laugh? Would she cry? Would she think I was from the Planet Moron?

Slowly, theatrically, she turned to me as she lowered her glasses, and said: Everybody knows this. And if that’s a pickup line, you’re the biggest lame-o in Florida. Then she turned away and pretended to busy herself with her notebook.

The biggest lame-o in Florida? Is there an award for that? Could I get a reality TV show?

You knew that, really?

This earned a brief, disdainful shake of her head. I liked the way her curly black hair shimmered. I liked her voice, too. Sultry with a hint of a Cuban accent.

You must be a Pisces.

She turned to me. Her amber eyes drew into a squint and, I swear, they grew darker, coffee-colored. How do you know this?

This. Not that. Very Latina.

I have a gift. I turned away from her and pretended to fiddle with my own notebook.

No, really, she insisted. She trilled her rrrrs.

I let it ride for a moment, setting the hook, and then returned my gaze to hers.

Your ring.

She raised her left hand to her face and stared at it for a moment. You were looking at my ring, why?

I was checking out her ring, of course, because I was checking her out.

Because I’m a journalist. I saw your birthstone. Isn’t it self-evident?

Oh.

It wasn’t, really. Birthstones are organized by months while signs of the zodiac overlap months. But I knew aquamarine when I saw it—it was my mother’s birthstone. While Maria’s ring looked Dollar Store plain, mom’s birthstone was mounted in a silver band with delicate filigree. She wore it constantly, including the day she drowned in a Texas cave trying to protect an endangered species of spider.

The deputy ended his call and I finished telling him my story. I didn’t bother him with my lame attempt to pick up Maria, but I couldn’t help but reflect on how sitting next to her at that press conference had altered the course of her life. Had we not met, she would be alive and well somewhere, not sprawled naked on a dock with her face devoured and bite marks from a shark on her thigh. My heart ker-thunked and I felt flush.

The deputy finished scribbling and looked up. You feeling OK?

I’ve had better days.

Sure. Look, is there anything else you can tell me about her? he asked.

She lived at a condo in Pelican Bay. I pulled out my phone and gave him the address. It belongs to her aunt who lives in Connecticut. Her mom and another aunt live in Miami. Don’t have contact info for them. Oh, she’s got a cousin you may have heard of…

Before I could continue, he got a call on his shoulder radio. The CSI team had arrived. Stay here while I meet them.

I shook my head.

See the boat over there? I pointed to my trawler. That’s where I’ll be. I got up and began walking back to the dock to retrieve my satchel where Full Cleveland had left it.

Hey, the deputy called after me. Your name is Strange?

Some people think so.

No. That’s your actual last name? Strange, like the movie?

I was Strange long before that.

Blame my mom. She never knew the guy who knocked her up. A one-night stand at a Grateful Dead concert, she told me when I was still in grade school. Imagine a mother doing that. Mom never