Building Miami
j. d. daniels
Little Boy Jones stood at the stern of his fishing boat.  Overalls tight against broad chest.  Legs spread.  White boots gleaming. “Get moving,”   he said.  “Pronto.”

Seventeen-year-old Charley Cooper would never get used to the threat of death that swam through the brackish waters of the glades.

Whirl of helicopter.  Trees rustling.  Birds shooting from limb to limb. 

“Shit!  Look at that boa,” Charley said, holding a crate against his muscle-bound abs.

“Forget the boa,” Little Boy snarled. “Quick.  Get those other crates off that boat. And watch that mangrove root.  It could take the side of your face off.”

Little Boy’s fishing buddy of ten years, Eddie, passed a crate to Charley who stacked it with the others.  Frowning, Charley straightened it.

“Hey, we’re not striving for perfection here.  You hear that sound?  That’s the Feds.  Get moving.”

Charley’s eyes rounded.  “The Feds?  But, I…” He looked at the crates, blanched, then stared wide-eyed at Little Boy.

“Don’t give me that look.  You knew what you were getting into.  Get back at it. You think we would do this if we could make a damn livin` fishin`?”

Charlie’s heart pounded.  What had he done?  His parents would have a shit fit. If he had a record, he could never get into the military. Eddie nudged him with another bag-filled box.  “We’re almost out of here,” he whispered, applying pressure. 

“Don’t turn around,” Little Boy said, “there’s a 'gator coming our way.”

First published: May, 2013
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