Bermuda Green - Turtle

Chapter 2 Turtle

In that same remote part of that glorious ocean the Atlantic, on that same island as beautiful as any of Nefertiti’s jewels, two men in a closed office high above the throngs of tourists below, stared into an open briefcase laid bare upon a table. “This is it” the sullen one said. “This my friend is our wherewithal.” A slow grin slowly stretched across the face of the other like a fetid fungus creeping across some filthy sylvan floor. “How much longer till it’s perfected?” he asked the sullen one, all but drooling. The morose Calvin Litchfield slowly raised his eyes to meet those of his wretched accomplice. The few long strands of black hair that he brushed from one side of his head to the other in order to conceal, or moreover attempt to conceal, his ever-expanding baldness, dangled obtrusively over his forehead, giving him the appearance of a haggard Hitler. Sweat dripped profusely from his ragged forehead, his hands shaking with the excitement of a junkie about to get his fix. “It’s ready now” he grinned sardonically, “Make the arrangements.”

The telephone rang in the lavish Manhattan hotel room just as the sun slipped artfully over the horizon. “Yeah?” answered the brigand attired in the silk Baroni suit. “It’s time” hissed the serpentine voice on the other end. “Prepare the package.”

The suit hung up the phone, thought for a moment, and began to gather his belongings into his canvas sports bag. The time had come a little sooner than he expected, but he was ready nonetheless. His heart beat rapidly as he secretly savoured what was to come. He began to pack what few amenities he had brought with him to the Big Apple, along with what casual wear laid strewn across the room. He thought of the night before and how many more of his vices he would be able to indulge with his windfall once the mission was complete. He gave his hard-bitten face a meticulous final examination in the frameless vanity mirror, and then he casually tucked his well preserved, polished pair of loaded Beretta M1934’s into their custom made black leather ACU holster, and closed the hotel room door on his past.

Turtle was working on his third pint of ice cold St. Pauli Girl draft when he felt the delicate vibration of his cell phone against his thigh. At least he thought it was his phone. How many had he had? He pulled the essential gadget from its denim home, flipped down the mouthpiece, and said a cautious “Hello.” “It’s time Turtleman” said a haunting but polished voice on the other end. “It’s time to fly!” Turtle ordered a fourth, and a shot. This guy, Viper, really scared him, and he wasn’t easily scared.

Outside the heavy Manhattan evening heat leaned heavily on his already sweating brow. “No turning back now”, he thought to himself. He nervously adjusted his faded Levis and hailed a cab. He wondered what Billy and Jake were doing back in Bermuda. Maybe he should confide in them, but it was better for his friends if they didn’t know. Anyway, he could pull this off without involving them, and if he did, it was easy street from here on in. And he would take care of them for a change.

The cab dropped him at the seedy dungeon of a bar in the Bronx where he had spent too much time for his liking while in New York. Inside the clammy smell of stale liquor and cigarette smoke welcomed him with its usual familiarity. The same old cretins that seemed permanently glued to the same old seats stared through empty eyes in their same old manner, while the same old songs played mournfully on the jukebox. The .38 Special tucked into his waistband and hidden by his fatigued leather jacket gave him little comfort here. But Turtle hadn’t known much comfort anyway, since meeting Murphy.

Murphy was descended from the founding fathers of the Pug Uglies, a notorious Irish gang that terrorized the city from the late 1800’s into the new century, and seemed to reflect their combined personalities all in his own. He was bald and beefy, with the forearms of Popeye and a devil of a temper. A single gold hoop decorated the lobe of his left ear, and his ghostly complexion alluded to his Irish roots. He gruntingly acknowledged Turtle’s presence and beckoned him over with a glare and a nod. “Welcome back to my humble abode island boy” he said sneeringly.