"Hey there," I say in my full wattage Big Tex voice. The grill master greeting a new customer. "Welcome to Big Tex's. You hungry?"
"Starving," he says. His voice is warm. The kind of voice that puts people at ease, that makes them lean in and trust. I've heard Stormy describe this voice in horrific detail. This is the voice that said 'no strings attached' in a Waffle House booth. "I've been hearing about this place all the way from Alabama. Folks say your brisket is the best in the Florida Panhandle."
"Well, we do our best. Let me fix you a plate."
I load up a plate for him while wishing I could sprinkle rat poison on it. Brisket, ribs, beans, slaw. I hand it to him. My hands are steady. My face is smiling. Inside I'm running calculations at a speed I didn't know my brain was capable of. Where is Stormy? Where is Sheila? Where the fuck is Mickey?
"This is some operation you've got here," he says, glancing around the lot. "All these bikers. You do this every weekend?"
"Friday and Saturday nights mostly. Special events like today with the charity rally. We're still rebuilding from the hurricane but the parking lot keeps us going."
"Yeah, Hurricane Peter was bad. We felt it all the way up in Alabama too." He takes a bite of brisket. Chews. Nods appreciatively. "Lord, that is good. That is real good barbecue."
"Appreciate it."
He stands and eats. He's in no hurry. He takes another bite, wipes his mouth with a napkin, looks around the lot again with that casual, scanning attention. Then he sets theplate down on the edge of the grill table and his face shifts. Not dramatically. A small adjustment, a gear change, the smile dimming by one degree. More serious and concerned. The face of a man with a problem he needs help with.
"Listen," he says, leaning closer. "I wonder if you might be able to help me. I'm looking for my nephew. My sister's boy. Matthew."
My heart is hammering. I can hear it in my ears. I lean on the grill table, taking a pull off my water bottle.
"Your nephew?"
"Yeah. He's had a rough time. I won't sugarcoat it. The boy's got problems. Drugs, mostly. Some mental health issues on top of it. His mama, my sister, she did the best she could, but the boy's been in and out of trouble since he was a teenager. We found him in a shelter in Tallahassee one time, strung out so bad he couldn't even tell us his name. Broke my sister's heart that boy did."
He shakes his head. The picture of a weary uncle, burdened by family troubles, doing his duty. He's so good at this that if I didn't know exactly who this man is and what he did, I might believe him. That's the terrifying thing. He's completely believable. The concern on his face is perfectly calibrated. The weariness in his voice is exactly right. He's done this before. He's stood in front of strangers and told this story. They've nodded, felt sorry for him and helped him find the boy he was looking for because why wouldn't they? He's the caring uncle. He's the family man doing the hard thing to help his sister and nephew.
"What's he look like?" I ask, taking another drink of water.
"Blonde hair. Real light. Thin, small build. Twenty-five but looks younger. He was on a motorcycle last time we heard from him. A Sportster, black. Stolen, actually, from a friend of the family. The boy doesn't even have a license. My sister's been worried sick. We tracked him heading south during the hurricane but lost contact when the phones went down. We think he might have ended up somewhere along the beach. Maybe looking for day labor type work."
Every word is a lie wrapped in truth. The blonde hair is true. The thin build is true. The Sportster is true. Everything else is a fabrication so polished and so practiced that it slides off his tongue like scripture. He's the deacon. He's the community man. He's the concerned family member searching for a troubled kid, and the story he's built is designed to make anyone who's seen Stormy think oh, that poor family, let me help you find him.
"Can't say I've seen anyone like that," I say. "We get a lot of people through here though. Especially during the rebuild. Volunteers, work crews, drifters. Hard to keep track."
"I understand. I'm not trying to make trouble. I'm just a man looking for his nephew." He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a business card. Hands it to me. RON JACKSON. JACKSON'S SALVAGE AND PARTS. An address in Dale County, Alabama. A phone number. "If you do see him, or hear anything, I'd appreciate a call. His mama's been praying for him every night. I have too."
I take the card and look at it, then slide it into my back pocket alongside another paper with this man's name on it.
"I'll keep an eye out for him," I tell him.
"I appreciate that." He picks up his plate and gives me that church deacon's smile again. "I'm going to be in the areafor a few days. Might stop back in. This brisket is worth the drive."
He walks back to his table. Easy, relaxed, a man enjoying a Saturday afternoon at a barbecue joint. He sits down and continues eating while his eyes continue scanning the lot. I stand at the grill with tongs in my hand and murder in my heart.
I wave Sheila over. She comes, wiping her hands on her apron.
"Blue button-down shirt," I say quietly. "Tan pants. Table by the street."
She doesn't look. She's smarter than that. She keeps her eyes on me.
"That's him. That's the man."
Her face doesn't change. Fifteen years of bartending have given her a poker face that could win tournaments. But I see her hand tighten on the towel she's holding.
"He's asking about Stormy. Using his real name. Calling himself Stormy's uncle. Go find Stormy and get him upstairs. Now. Don't let him come out of the kitchen. Don't let him see the parking lot. Don't let him put eyes on that man."
"Done." She turns and walks toward the kitchen, unhurried, natural, a woman going to check on the food. Nothing unusual. Nothing that would draw attention from a man who is watching the lot with the eyes of a predator.
