Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 152, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 924 & 925, September/October 2018

Palmetto Springs by Jeremy Herbert

Jeremy Herbert is an AV technician and a freelance writer who covers movies and theme parks for websites such as Bloody Disgusting and Crooked Marquee. He says that his lifelong interest in theme parks has brought him to many tourist-trap motels such as the one featured in this story. He is also a filmmaker and has won awards for his short horror films.

Bernie whipped his tail across the sink, scattered the little shampoos like bowling pins, and made Sherm wonder if he should’ve gone with a smaller alligator. Would’ve been easier to haul from his truck to the hotel room. Easier to cram into the shower. A helluva lot lighter, for one thing.

Bernie’s fat snout bumped open the bathroom door and he hissed.

“Quit whinin’ before I give you something to whine about,” said Sherm with an exhausted wheeze. It was an empty threat, and Bernie knew as much. Another bump, another hiss. His ridge-backed tail smacked Sherm’s ribs. He grunted at what felt like butter knives jabbing his side.

No, Bernie was the perfect size for the plan, Sherm thought, through the pain. Any smaller and he’d only nibble. Any bigger and Sherm’s back would’ve given out. Bernie was the perfect size for portability, and the perfect size for murder.

“C’mon, you big bastard,” Sherm spat. Bernie’s deceptively tiny arms slapped against the doorframe. Sherm pushed. Bernie didn’t need to push back; those tiny arms were nothing but muscle. “All right, that’s it.”

Sherm took two steps back and charged. The bathroom door bounced off Bernie’s snout. He hissed like a gas leak. Sherm didn’t stop until they hit the shower curtain and almost fell straight into the stained plastic tub. Bernie saw a chance and took it before Sherm had any say in the matter.

The alligator lunged out of Sherm’s embrace fast enough to leave tracks. Sherm gritted his teeth until the tail caught up with the rest of Bernie and bashed him in the jaw. He crumpled against the bathroom door like a puppet cut from its strings, his weight slamming it shut. Sherm slumped to the cracked tile floor before regaining any relevant motor functions. He opened his eyes for what felt like the first time and stared at the lone fluorescent light overhead, waiting for divine instruction, until his vision sobered up and dimmed it until the dead mosquitoes crept back in around the edges. Then the sound came back. The bad-engine rattle of a pissed-off alligator.

“Oh!” Sherm said. “Oh!” Bernie flailed and fought at the shower curtain until one of his marble eyes peeked over the lip of the tub and into Sherm’s weaker parts. He scrambled to his feet, slipping on the tiles, until he reached the handle and flung the door open.

The last thing Sherm saw as he shut the door was Bernie’s tail slapping the yellowed soap dish carved out of the wall. He could still hear the plastic struggle as he turned to the sink and took stock of himself.

Sherman “Sherm” Fisk’s arms looked like the angry aftermath of a tic-tac-toe tournament nobody won. He shook his head, but didn’t bother testing for pain; after twenty years working whichever alligator farm was too new to Central Florida to know any better, everything below the neck was mostly scar tissue. Sherm stood as straight as his wiry frame allowed and looked at the mirror, looked himself in the eye. What remained above the neck was starting to look an awful lot like scar tissue, too. Sherm rubbed at a pink patch where Bernie had landed his uppercut and gave up just as fast. “Dumb bastard,” he said, looking at his reflection. “Dumb bastard.”

The rooms at The Palm Springs Hotel were only differentiated by disrepair. Most rooms on the ground floor had only jagged screw holes to prove there were ever door locks. Sherm’s was no exception, and even the door to the neighboring room had the guts hammered out of its handle. Only a few TVs were actually stolen because there’s little aftermarket value for a 1990 Zenith, but the survivors had scars unique to each of them. A missing volume-down button here, a stoved-in screen there. The pool was a swamp. The mattresses smelled like strip clubs. The mini-fridges didn’t even plug into anything. The hotel was too far down the Irlo Bronson Memorial Highway to be of much use to tourists making a pilgrimage for a cartoon mouse. But a room at The Palm Springs ran $30 a night and the owner only took cash.

For burnouts, rejects, and the morally dubious like Sherm, it might as well be the Ritz. The hotel earned a nickname among such seedy types, perhaps because of them — Palmetto Springs. Sherm rolled his neck until it protested and walked to the window overlooking the empty side of the hotel. A thick, muddy brown palmetto bug scurried from the broken air conditioner as Sherm rounded the bed. He stopped long enough to watch it disappear under the flowery comforter and shook his head. Only in Florida would they try to make the cockroaches sound tropical too.

Sherm’s view was par for the course. The open flatbed of his rust-adorned pickup extended almost to the smudged glass. Beyond it was a strip of loose gravel just wide enough to count as a road and unkempt marsh on the other side. Wildlife he could only imagine slithered between knotty roots and bubbled under dark water. Home sweet home, Sherm thought.

He stepped out long enough for the heavy heat to calm him down and dry him out. Mr. Juan Carmel would be arriving in a half-hour, or so he promised, and that was more than enough time to visit the vending machine. Sherm shut his flatbed and locked it, then pulled a ratty denim shirt out of the passenger seat. Sweat glued it to him as soon as he pulled it on, but the sleeves fell over his fresh scratches and that was all he needed it to do.

The parking lot for the rest of the hotel sat on its longer side and only had a handful of cars to prove the place wasn’t abandoned. Sherm took special note of each of them, but none struck him as familiar. Maybe it was the heat or maybe it was nerves, but Sherm didn’t much care to think about the other temporary residents of Palmetto Springs. His mind wandered back to the plan. Back to how he was going to kill Mr. Juan Carmel.

Or Mr. John Carmel, Sherm reminded himself. He was only Juan Carmel to everyone he wanted to impress. Said Floridians trusted a Juan more than a John. Sherm didn’t know if that was racist or not, but he sure knew it was chickenshit. Hell, Sherm didn’t know too many pale, redheaded Juans. But John said it was an “image thing.” Sherm asked if hiring a gator-farm handler to scare business away from a gift shop on prime real estate with a few carefully placed animals was an “image thing.” He couldn’t remember what John said back, but it didn’t matter. Sherm smiled as he leaned against the lonely vending machine beside the front office of Palmetto Springs.

It was an old boxy kind of machine, with a Pepsi logo peeling off the front glass. Sherm bent to check if anyone forgot to take theirs and came up empty-handed. Between him and the machine, he had to admit that was funny, trying to play it cheap over pocket change. Once John Carmel, Orlando timeshare magnate, made his entrance and Sherm provided his exit, the alligator-handler-that-could would be a very rich man.

A few pounds on the bank of buttons and a 7UP banged out the bottom. It wasn’t what he’d ordered. He didn’t care. Sherm downed half the can in one tip. It helped that it was about as flat as the Keys. Maybe he’d move there, Sherm thought. But he shook that away.

“Plan before profit,” he said to the dead parking lot. “Plan before profit.”

Mr. John Carmel would walk in with his Don Johnson suit and Krylon tan and smile like he wasn’t stuck between a rock and five hundred thousand dollars. How did we end up here? he would ask with a laugh and a smile.

Sherm grinned like a gator in the sun. We ended up here because you flinched, my friend. He swirled the dregs around the can and paused to watch the road along the front of the hotel. A few cars passed, mostly rentals, mostly tourists. A billboard stood between two untended palms and provided a sun-bleached ad for a gun range. Sherm laughed and finished his drink — who comes to the vacation capital of the world to work on their aim?

He closed the door to his room behind him and fell back onto the bed. A stale cocktail of cleaning solution and cheap perfume slithered out from under the sheet, but Sherm didn’t care. He lost himself in the stucco canyons on the ceiling. Lost himself in just how he ended up in Palmetto Springs.

It was Scooby-Doo bullshit. Was from the minute Carmel hired him. Leave some gators in the underbrush around The World’s Largest Gift Shop and scare off business until the Arab has to sell the place. It was one of eight World’s Largest Gift Shops in the Greater Orlando area, but the only one in the way of Carmel’s next resort. Sherm didn’t know why he even agreed when it was that easy. Well, that’s a lie — money — but it didn’t make much sense — a lot of money — because tourists leave disappointed if they don’t see an alligator — a whole lot of money. But then the Arab — it was an F name — had to take a shotgun to one of the scaly bastards and get himself arrested.

Bernie pulled the shower rod down and derailed Sherm’s train of thought long enough for him to sit up. The alligator in the bathroom was restless. It was mad. It was hungry. Sherm lay back down.

Of course, the Arab getting arrested was the best thing that could’ve happened to Sherm and John Carmel. Hard to keep a store running when the owner’s in prison. Sherm heard an engine die outside and stared at the door until the only sound was the calming white noise of cicadas, mosquitoes, and other tropical pests. Still, Sherm got up and checked the room-temperature mini-fridge to make sure his brand new Dirty Harry hand cannon hadn’t grown legs. Someone at the ranch stole his last pistol within the week and he wasn’t about to let anybody, even himself, sneak off with this one. Satisfied Bernie hadn’t eaten the gun in his absence, Sherm slapped water on his face.

Neither of them expected the wily old son of a bitch to post bail and come knocking on their doors. But the wily old son of a bitch also didn’t expect Carmel to grow a pair and ask Sherm nicely to feed Mr. F-name Arab to the biggest alligator on the ranch.

Sherm pulled at his eyes until his sight blurred sideways. Well, Carmel didn’t specifically mention feeding anyone to anything; he just told Sherm to improvise. Sherm was good at improvising. He smiled at his reflection and his reflection smiled back. That’s why Sherm decided he could blackmail the upstanding Mr. Juan Carmel. He figured five hundred thousand was enough to make him take notice but not enough to make him think it was a bluff. And that’s why John Carmel would have no reason to suspect he’d die in the belly of Bernie the alligator in Room 122 of the Palm Springs Hotel.

I taped the evidence to the inside of the toilet tank, Mr. Carmel. Out of my hands. Out of yours. You don’t even have to give me the money first. Just go on in there and take a peek. Easy does it, see? Sherm definitely heard a car door slam that time. He took a precautionary stride to the minifridge and ducked like he was just sliding some fresh, flat 7UPs in for his business partner and pal. The prickly grip bit into his palm. His finger laid a tense bridge across the trigger guard.

It might be John Carmel come early. But it could be the bounty hunter, Ray Peach, come to learn a little respect.

Footsteps hurried on gravel outside.

Why did Peach care so much anyways? The Arab’s bail bond wasn’t enough to earn the bounty hunter a high-five. Certainly not enough to keep playing the pebble in their shoes, that’s for damn sure. Poking around the ranch. Poking around Carmel’s oh-so-special Gilded Dunes Resort and Clubhouse. And considering the bastard he was looking for was still being digested somewhere, Peach wasn’t going to make anything at all. Sherm nodded without noticing it, his finger sneaking off the guard and toward the trigger. Bounty hunting wasn’t even Peach’s day job. Son of a bitch did dinner theater. The one with the Eliot Ness gangsters or whatever. He played a bad guy every night and twice on Sundays. Sherm had to laugh at that one, playing a bad guy. Sounded like a lot of former coworkers. And he had all their numbers too. Just stupid animals acting like they weren’t. And what the hell kind of name was Ray Peach?

Stage name or not, he wasn’t worth much as a bounty hunter and he was about to be worth a lot less.

John-Juan Carmel opened the door fast enough to almost make Sherm blow a peephole into the next room.

“Damn, man. Knock first.”

“Sorry, Sherman, I’m a bit spotty with my blackmail etiquette.” He could’ve cut himself on his tone, and swallowed hard like he did. Sherm shut the fridge, stood up casual. John didn’t suspect inside was the insurance policy on his ever-untimelier demise.

“There ain’t much of any, John.”

“You alone?”

“Nope, I got my kids in the bathroom and after this we’re fixing to hit that jungle minigolf on I-Drive.” Sherm was smaller than John Carmel, but not in that room. The timeshare king was wearing his Don Johnson suit. It was the color of a banana’s insides. He tried to carry himself with the same golf-course confidence he had around clients. But whenever he talked to Sherm on Sherm’s terms, he was a ghost of himself. Then he smiled.

“How’d we get here, Sherm?” There it was. Sherm grinned like his last lotto number had come up.

“Easy, John. We’re here because you flinched.” Sherm waited for him to steam in his suit. But he didn’t.

“I only flinched because you’re screwing me, prick.” He sank his perfect teeth into the insult. Prick. Like repeating the word for a third-grade spelling bee. Like it was a word he didn’t get to say around Mama. Sherm chuckled.

“You want to pat me down, Mr. Juan Carmel? You want to really play dirty? Go ahead.” Sherm put his arms out, careful not to let the sleeves roll up, and waited.

John’s pinched eyes danced from one place to another on Sherm’s body, everywhere a gun could hide.

“I trust you,” he lied. Sherm covered his disappointment with another smile; he hadn’t even needed to hide his gun.

“Good. Now you know I’m not screwing you. You’re paying me for a product, and I’m giving it to you. That’s all.”

“What’ve you got on me?”

“Enough, John.” There was nothing taped to the inside of the toilet tank. Sherm didn’t have anything, at least nothing that didn’t incriminate him too. But he had John, and John was too new at playing dirty to be anything but paranoid.

“Peach didn’t follow you?”

“I should ask you the same thing — you’re the one who showed up late.” Sherm looked him up and down. “In that suit.”

“Sorry, I just had to make sure.”

“I don’t blame you. But what are friends for?” He didn’t mean John. Lord knows he didn’t mean John. The only reason they could figure for Peach’s persistence was misplaced devotion. He had to know the Arab somehow, not that any motivation like that made sense to a proper businessman like Sherm. “Now you’ll find what you’re looking for in the toilet tank.”

“What? Why?”

“Out of my hands, out of yours. If we had to run, nobody would ever find it. Easy does it, get me?”

“Sure. Yes. Yes, I do.” John didn’t. He was too busy thinking about the Beretta in the back of his belt. He was thinking about the trigger, how heavy it would need to be pulled. If he could pull it fast enough. If he could pull it at all.

“Excuse my cliche, but did you bring the money?” Sherm liked saying that, cliche. He didn’t know if it was French, but it certainly sounded expensive.

“It’s in my car.”

“Good.” Even if he was lying, Sherm could just steal his car and get a few hundred thousand out of that. “You know, perfect.”

“Can I see it now?”

“Be my guest,” Sherm said and gestured to the bathroom. He wondered what the police would think when they found the half-eaten remains of a well-dressed man in the worst hotel in Osceola County.

John sidled around Sherm without making it obvious he was hiding the bulge under the back of his jacket. He smiled one last fake smile at Sherm and twisted the knob.

Bernie blinked. John screamed. Sherm shoved.

The two men struggled against the doorframe in a clumsy dance both were trying to lead.

“You bastard,” one screamed.

“C’mon,” screamed the other. Round and round again. Shoving, punching, slipping.

Sherm burned in his skin. His plan was working, or just an inch to the left of working. If only John would give—

John’s loafers found no traction on the cracked tiles, especially after landing from a knee to the gut, and he fell into the bathroom. Sherm yanked the door closed. It slammed on John’s ankle. Another yank. Another slam. Another yelp. Sherm paused long enough to get a peek inside. Bernie was eying his next meal from the tub. Good. He didn’t starve the ornery monster for nothing.

John gave in to the pain and pulled his leg inside to cradle it. Sherm shut the door and dived for the fridge, for his insurance plan. He pulled it out, set the hammer, and aimed. Either John would be gator chow fast or he’d open the door for Sherm to provide 40-something-caliber encouragement. He pinched one eye shut and squinted the other down the barrel. Sherm’s gut soured the way it always did when it knew he was about to pull the trigger before he did. He didn’t hear much in the way of lunch on the other side of the door.

John flung it open, plastic-looking pistol in hand, and leveled it at Sherm.

If he managed to get off a shot, Sherm’s gun swallowed the sound. John’s shoulder burst back and dragged the rest of him with it. He hit the doorframe, streaked it red, and fell facedown.

Shit, Sherm thought. That wasn’t the plan. The gator. The damn alligator. Mr. Juan Carmel wasn’t supposed to have a gun. He’s a white collar, for God’s sake. And that damn alligator.

Bernie blinked again, his sloping head peering over the plastic like he only wanted a decent seat for the show.

“You asshole,” said Sherm. He couldn’t take him with, not that he particularly wanted to. The gator would probably nibble on the body now, but there was probably a bullet lodged in the wall near the shower rod. Hell, it might be rolling around on the sink in the next room over. “Asshole,” he said again, getting up. No stupid animal got the better of Sherman Fisk. Alligators hunt, he reminded himself. It was furious and starving and it didn’t even touch the guy. Stupid animal.

Sherm was considering shooting Bernie too when Ray Peach opened the door from the neighboring room.

“Hey,” he said flat. His shirt was striped with sweat like a big cat, but the rest of him showed no signs of stress. Not even the chunky nine-millimeter in his hand, pointed at Sherm’s head.

“Is that mine?” asked Sherm. He pointed with his free hand and left his revolver at his side.

“Yup,” said Peach before he shot Sherm.

The gator handler held desperately onto his gun, staggered to the sink, and bent back over it like his spine had given up. Then he tensed as best he could for a sloppy retort from the hip.

Sherm’s shot scattered the blinds and spiderwebbed the glass at the front of the room. It took off the right mirror on his pickup.

Peach’s second shot caught Sherm in the neck and put him down.

For a moment, Peach could only smell the gun smoke. Then he knelt over the body, rubbed Sherm’s hand all over the pistol’s grip, and stuffed it into the dead man’s belt.

“His name was Farid,” he corrected for maybe the twentieth time since trying to figure out why his friend would miss his hearing and skip bail, and having to deal with Juan Carmel, time-share magnate, and Sherman Fisk, professional degenerate and amateur asshole.

Peach stood back up and walked out. He had a matinee performance in a little over an hour.

He hadn’t even cleared the shade when the humidity started sucking at any exposed patch of black skin. The remaining dry land on his shirt was sunk by the time he reached his car, parked around the corner from Sherm’s truck and John’s toy. He dropped into the driver’s seat and the long-faded upholstery melted into his back.

He’d killed a man. A bad man by any measure. Peach wondered how that’d settle in his stomach. In that moment, as his ’92 Ford choked to attention, all he felt was hot. Too hot to worry about it. Too hot to wonder. It was almost too hot to remember his lines as he backed out of his parking spot and drove away from the Palm Springs Hotel.

A few more cockroaches skittered out of the drain, but Bernie had already had his fill. He struggled at the smooth wall of the toilet until enough of him cleared the lip and the rest spilled after. Bernie crawled over the bodies of John Carmel and Sherman Fisk. He smelled them, but didn’t bother even to nibble. He wasn’t hungry.

Bernie made his way out of the room, across the gravel, and into the swamp behind Palmetto Springs, where wildlife he could only imagine slithered between knotty roots and bubbled under dark water.