Page 5 of Untamed Coast

He belonged to the bottle now, more than to her. She’d been trying so hard for so long, and now she was just lonely and so very tired.

Chapter 4

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Pelican, AK

2017—Marconi Franco

Rose’s Bar & Grill was a legendary venue—the soul of tiny Pelican, Alaska, a haven for fishermen and wanderers of all stripes. Its white facade, adorned with girly pink trim and old-lady latticework, belied the bar’s decades of drunken debauchery.

The bar bore the badges of infamy—with autographed dollar bills plastering the ceiling and neon beer-brand signs adorning the walls. Alaskan Amber, Miller Genuine Draft, Killarney’s Red Lager. There was no tap. The beer served here was in bottles and cans, stored in a grab-it-yourself glass-door refrigerator at the end of the bar.

Rose’s unofficial motto was “Take your pants off, let’s have a party.” Rumor was, when customers stood on the bar to pin their dollar to the ceiling, Rosie would sneak up and yank their pants down. The joint was known for wild parties, weddings, wet T-shirt contests, even wakes. A vintage painting of a naked lady hung in an ornate frame on the back wall. Marco wondered if it was Rosie herself, back in the day.

The bartender, a big man with a big beard and a big belly, sat reading a tattered paperback romance novel, the tan shirtless cover model staring into the distance from atop his white stallion.

The wind outside roared. Marco knew it would be much worse offshore. The earlier small craft advisory had turned into a full gale warning for the entire coast.

Marco pretended to check his cell phone. Dumb move. There was no cell service in the remote boardwalk village, and everyone knew it. Luckily, the glassy-eyed man sitting next to him at the weathered wooden bar didn’t seem to notice.

It was early afternoon, and the storm was raging. There was a puddle on the floor beneath Marco’s barstool where his Grundéns rain jacket had dripped. For now, he had no better place to hide. The two of them were the only customers in Rose’s, and the guy had been talking his ear off for the better part of two Cokes. Marco figured if he couldn’t find a way to escape soon, he’d have to switch to something stronger.

“Ya hear another girl went overboard?” The barfly’s words slurred and bled together. “Third one that’s gone over out there the last couple years. Never found the other two.”

“When did you hear that?” Marco asked. “I picked up a distress call on my SSB last night. Coast Guard said nothing had been reported.”

“Outside of Chichagof—Cap’n reported her missin this mornin. Musta fell oft durin the night.” He took a sip of his drink.

Marco’s hand trembled as he gripped his Diet Coke bottle.

“Purdy rugged coast out there. Nobody round. Jussa lotta bandoned mines an a few fishin boats. Beautiful, though.” The barfly shook his head. “Ain gonna find er. They never do.”

A clap of thunder rattled the structure.

Marco took a sip of his soda, the fizz tickling his nose, then dared another glance at the chatty old drunk.

“Ya said ya hear er on SSB.” The barfly turned slightly toward Marco but stared into his glass. “You one o them radio ham guys?”

“Yeah, she said something about a red metal roof.” Marco put down his bottle. “Any idea where that could be?”

“Radioville.” The barfly looked up from his drink, raised one eyebrow, and gave Marco a wry smile. “Only place with a red metal roof. Most folks ain’t heard of it. It’s jus ruins now. Tiny island off the coast of Chichagof. Cain’t miss it! Beach sparkles like a stripper’s bikini!”

The bartender gave a slight smirk, his eyes never leaving his book.

Barfly took another sip of his bourbon. “Guy named Joe Baxter ran the radio operation there.”

Marco turned his stool.

The man’s cheeks and nose had the rough red texture of a career drinker. He wore a plaid flannel in blues and greens that brought out his eyes. He blinked in slow motion, exposing red veins crisscrossing the whites.

Marco pressed for more. “Radio station? I used to—”

“Guy drank like a fish,” the barfly interrupted. “For years he jus tossed his empties on the rocks. Glass got all groun up by the waves. Now, the whole damn beach is jus differn colors of glass sand from that fella’s dead soldiers.”

Marco didn’t care about the beach. “Yes, but how did he—”

“—ran a radio station all by hisself on that lil island—only contact all them miners had with the outside world.” The old man turned back toward the bar and slowly sipped the rest of his drink.